DRABBLE: they were kids that i once knew

[refiningspacetime]

=> BE A MEMBER OF PHERES'S OLD CLADE.
Which one? There's so many!

=> BE THE GOOD SHIP SUNSHADOW’S SECONDARY ENGINE
You cannot be the secondary engine! They’re currently busy, deciding which of the crew’s Trollian handles they’re ‘borrowing’ for tonight.

=> BE THE INDIGO PILE-STAR
He’s busy putting on his face. Try again later?

=> BE THE DRAFT DODGER
You are now the draft dodger.

Dodging the draft was surprisingly easy. (Which, well, duh: you never doubted it.Iphige came up with the plan and they’re a fucking genius.)

Staying alive after, though: that’s pretty much sucked.

=> BE THE IRRITABLE DEBT COLLECTOR

"Come on, kid," you drawl, rubbing at your forehead. There’s a ball of tension forming directly between your eyes, and you recognise it for the omen it is: in about ten, fifteen minutes, you’re going to have the worst fucking headache. “Can you just shut up for a minute and listen?”

"I already talked to IJ! IJ said —"

The little twerp in front of you can’t be more than six, seven sweeps: for all that he’s decked out in one of FLARP’s stupid top-tier uniforms, his cheeks are still round with baby fat, and he’s still big, grub-gray eyes that’re only getting bigger with every passing moment.

Judging by the uniform, you apparently caught him just before he left for the night’s round. Judging by the quaver in his voice and the debris on the ground, you weren’t the first one to stop by. You don’t know if it’s black or pale or just IJ being a raging wastechasm, but you’re about to fucking shank him if he doesn’t stop horning in on your assignments.

"I don’t give a fuck what IJ said," you say irritably. "That bulgemunch is not a part of this conversation. You’ve still got, fuck, at least two perigee’s before we cull your lusus -“

By the time you realise what just slipped out of your dumbass gaper, though, it’s too late. The kid bursts into loud, wretched sobs, the sort that makes your airstem clench in sympathy and immediately sets your head to aching. Oh, fuck your life. Why do you always get the criers?

"I’m so~orry," he wails, hiccuping over his words. At some point in the conversation, Iphige’s lusus climbed out of your bag to see what was going on, and now the kid’s clutching her to his chest like a safety toy. You should probably take her back: at the rate he’s going, she’s either going to suffocate, or drown in blue. She’s not a big turtleduck.  “I’ll pay it back! I promise! Next match - first thing -“

You fucking hate your job. You’re yellow: face paint or no, you’re not that goddamned scary.

(Of course you are. You’re twelve sweeps. You could’ve arrived with a fresh-baked grubloaf and an imperial pardon, and he still would’ve shit his pants. Being an adult sucks.)