pip's original fiction

"Fix that, wouldja?"

Simon sighed, set down his wrench, and wiggled out from under the control panel he'd been adjusting. "There's only so much I can do without the cranal, unless you'd rather take a turn?"

Dr Evans frowned, then shook his head. "Oh, no, I know. I was talking about your infernal clock. I don't even know why you want to have a chiming clock in here - half the time you can't hear it, and the rest of the time, you complain when it interrupts you - but I'm right tired of it chiming fourteen unless you switch it completely to the military's timeset."

"I refuse to kowtow to their horrendous ideas of a Cledoni minute. I am a scientist, and as such, I will stick with the SI minute until the day I die." He smirked as he dropped back to lay on the floor. "Besides, SI fits perfectly to make a 26 hour day. Much easier to do that than to rejigger the length of a second in perfect keeping with the 60-60-24 plan."

"Trust me, it's not the SI I have a problem with," Evans grumbled. "How we're supposed to get any science done when we can't even agree on the length of a second ... Do they not remember the story from before the Space Age? The meters and yards debate crashing one of the early shuttles?"

Simon shrugged and laced his fingers behind his head. "If it wasn't an insult from another planet - sorry, another country, back then - I'm sure the military has long since forgotten it. You know how they are."

"Too right." Evans turned back to his simulations, and Simon suppressed another sigh as he slid under the panel once more. If Central would just send them another shipment of cranal wires, Cledoni would be back on top of their game, not begging for the scraps of food worth far more than some measly wires. Still, it was his job to find a way around the shortages in Engineering, and sighing was only irritating the minions.

"So what is it about the clock that bugs you?" he asked, considering the relative merits of copper and silver replacement wires.

"The fourteen!" Evans exclaimed, and a sudden absence of computer noises descended over the room. Simon braced himself for the inevitable poke in the ribs as footsteps left the simulation controls for his area. "It's a twenty-six hour day, Dr Zola. Split in halves, that's a thirteen hour clock, but your damn thing chimes fourteen at lunch break."

Simon swatted vaguely at the invading hand with a charged screwdriver. "Are you saying it's lunch break already and you didn't tell me?"

Evans hesitated. "Oh. Yeah. It is. But come on, boss, fix the damn clock! I know you're not superstitious about the number 13, so what's the deal?"

The screwdriver buzzed as he sparked a connection with the spare silver wire. It wouldn't hold as long, but it might be strong enough to make up for it. At the very least, it wouldn't cause as much peripheral damage as the copper. "I never hear the clock when I'm under here doing repairs. Check the readout, Evans, see if that looks stable or we need a mix."

"It's not in the danger zone, but I'd mix it anyway for longevity." He kicked at Simon's feet. "I still have to hear the stupid thing."

"Yes, and it gets your attention at lunch break, doesn't it? Even if you do fail to mention it to me." He kicks wildly, smirking in triumph as he connects with an ankle he can't see. "Set me up a portable monitor. If it holds in safe, we shouldn't need to mix, but I'd rather catch a blowout before it happens."

The room was quiet as he slid his tools out from under the console one by one and squirmed behind them. Looming over Evans's shoulder, he added a couple more systems to the portable monitor, then slipped it onto his wrist beside his communicator. "I heard a rumor there's cake today."

"It's hardly a rumor when you're dating one of the cooks," Evans muttered loudly, then froze, glaring at his boss. "You dirty sneak! Jacob's superstitious!"

Simon flushed. "Well, just in case he comes in here on his day off...."

Once upon a time, in the land of Disney-France, there was a prince who couldn't love, or something equally as horrendous. An evil witch, who may or may not have been portrayed as evil, cursed the poor prince instead of helping him find a soulmate. There was a flower, see, and a furry outfit - complete with ears!

Don't correct me. I'm not interested in the actual plot of Beauty and the Beast. If I wanted to know the real story, I'd see if it's on Netflix streaming. No, my interest lies in the film's pottery.

I don't care about your interests. I'm the one telling the story. Now, sit back, close your eyes, and imagine Mrs Potts and her son Chip. No tea service is complete with only one cup, now. Even if you are a reclusive sexual deviant with talking candelabras.

I'd tell you you'll learn about furries when you're older, but I'd really rather believe you won't. Get your mind back on that tiny teacup, Chip. A sweet thing with a minor imperfection, wouldn't you say?

You'd say wrong. That's just what he wants you to think. Behind the delicately patterned china hides the heart of a cold-blooded murderer.

Cold-tea-d murder just doesn't sound the same. Besides, he had blood when he was human, which is when the murderous tendencies took hold. Now pay attention, because this is very important - you have a younger brother, don't you? Do you want to be brutally smashed to death, shattered on a cold concrete floor, just because you might have mouthed off to an evil witch and gotten your family turned into a tea service? You were having a bad day!

Okay, Billy was having a bad day.

No, Billy wasn't a very clever name for a teacup. That's because he was a boy, you idiot. He wasn't born a teacup. That would have been an awkward pregnancy.

Oh, laugh at the narrator all you want, little one. Isabelle isn't a very clever name for a teacup, either.