Home Alone

A spaced-out Alex wandered the corridors of the Dwarf wearing nothing but the boxers he’d been stripped to, and now a pair of Magnum boots which he’d grabbed along with a bottle of bourbon, from his quarters.
It was quite liberating wandering around in just your (under)pants. He had no privacy issues because the others were away, apparently visiting a nearby station or… on a fishing trip without him or something (Holly hadn’t been entirely clear on the subject), meaning that comatose captains, humanoid lizards, oversized shopkeeping rodents, and missing sexpigs, aside, as far as he knew, he was pretty much Home Alone.

The infection, and the drugs he’d been plumbed into, had weakened him, so he’d decided to regain his strength over a couple of days, and then he would attempt to retrieve Bedge for real - not just in a nightmarish hallucinated reality, where the thought of Seymour having to actually expend energy by pushing his own chair caused him to weep. Although, he reflected, it was fairly likely that what he’d actually been crying about was his lack of intimacy with Molly. Sexy Molly. If he'd still been as immoral as he once was, he would've tried to become her dirty little secret. But he was better than that now. Bit arrogant to assume she’d want to engage in such a thing anyway – he caught sight of himself in a reflective monitor in corridor 78g – especially as he currently looked less attractive than the gents' off the canteen, post curry and film night (another reason to get Bedge back, Alex was smegged if he was gonna clean the bogs after Phil had graced them) - but you never knew.
“Meh” he shrugged at himself, and took a long swig of Jim.

Irritatingly, Holly appeared, bleaching out his reflection.
The computer had popped up to remind him that he shouldn’t be drinking - he’d been given strict instructions by the doc to ensure Alex remained dry while on antibiotics and was in fact starting to regret releasing him, apparently.
But had Alex listened? Of course not. Because he’d be fine, the alcohol was only a little bit, just enough to give him a boost. Holly just didn’t understand, that was all.
“Oh turn the music back up.” He’d responded.
Holly grudgingly did as he was told.

…. I major in love, but in all minor keeeys. ‘Cause fallin’ in love is so hard on the kneeees…

He’d decided he might as well fix some stuff up before he left; There was the very real chance that the ‘Bug or Midget, or whatever he took, would crash and be seriously mangled as a result of the EM field, and – assuming he got out all right - there was a strong likelihood he'd be grounded. There may be no other way off planet, (at least, possibly not for a long time – sourcing, rebuilding, traversing dangerous locations and inhabitants willing). So he thought he might as well be helpful before he left, stop Seymour whinging, y’know?
There were a few repairs which had been nagging at him for a while, stuff he’d been putting off, or – more often - been delayed in fixing due to many months of solid, insane ‘adventure’ with no let up (translation: countless tiring pains in the ass with no opportunity for a lie in), which left little free time for pleasant, mundane things like everyday work. So he was catching up on his chores, such as sorting the oil sensor on the coffee dispenser he was approaching - it’d been bleating on at him for what felt like years. Time to shut it up.
“All right” he greeted it with a surly, not especially friendly, nod and put his whiskey and tools on the floor.
“Yes thank you. Would you like some coffee?”
“No.”
“You look like you need some” it told him, having already produced a venti latte, waiting keenly for the man to accept it. He didn’t, he just poured it into the tray and chucked the cup behind him. A skutter who’d been tailing him picked it up. He leaned a hand on the wall for a moment as if to steady himself.
“Are you drunk?” Asked the dispenser, suspicion oozing from its grill.
Crouching to undo some screws beneath the machine’s spill tray, Alex gave a brief glance towards its LED display (which he felt was the equivalent of eyes) wondering of what interest his personal life was to a coffee dispenser.
“No.”
“Liar.”
He yanked at its tray. “I’m not drunk, I’ve been drinking. There’s a difference” he muttered.
“If you say so.”
“I do” he said, standing back up. His lips worked around a Rothman as he started to undo the machine’s upper casing. "Here we go."
It squawked in alarm.
“What are you doing!?”
Alex ignored it, concentrating for a moment.
“This is molestation!”
“I’m not attracted to machines” he sighed, pushing away steamy and obscene images of the reckless night he’d spent on Zecklamon 7 with a certain robot.
The lungless machine coughed dramatically at the smoke floating towards it on Alex’s exhale. Alex rolled his eyes.
“Look,” he tugged the veneer off “you need fixing.” He placed it on the floor, next to his drink. “Stop fussing.”
“No I don’t!” The machine shrieked. “I’m mended! And I’ll thank you to get your filthy hands off me!”
He began poking about inside. "Since when?”
“Since the new guy came and sorted me out.”
Alex was taken aback. Face still safely obscured by the machine's innards he frowned. “What new guy?”
“A man. He said he was from a jungle planet.”
“He… did?”
He checked the oil sensor and ran his finger over the dispensor's recently lubricated motor. Jamie had done a good job.
“He tuned me up, too.” Said the machine, pride unmistakable in its tone. “That’s why I produced a coffee so quickly.”
Alex grunted and peevishly flicked its MCU. “I just thought you'd shat yourself.”
He began reassembling it.

The machine sniggered.
“You don’t like it, do you?”
“Don’t like what?”
“You don’t like that someone else fixed me.”
Alex's expression didn't change. “It don’t bother me. There used to be lots of mechanics and technicians.”
“Ha ha, you’re lying again!”
“Why would I care…” Alex grumbled, reattaching the housing “… about a stupid whiny coffee vendor, like you?”
The machine humphed, affronted. “Well you wouldn’t, I suppose…”
Replacing the tray, Alex nodded.
“… but you might care about a new, possibly more experienced, engineer (one who doesn’t appear to be a lazy self-centred alcoholic I might add – unlike some people I could mention) coming in and efficiently fixing everything that you’ve not bothered with lately.”
It hit a nerve. Alex stared.
"Oh yeah. We talk you know, us dispensers."
“You little-" Alex stopped himself from striking it, in the nick of time.
“Temper temper. Look, you had your chance, it’s not like I hadn’t asked you to fix me a hundred times and now he’s fixed me, and most everything else you'd neglected, if the grapevine’s to be believed.”
“I’ve been busy.”
Alex spat his cig on the floor, stubbed it out with his boot, and kicked it so that it sat, untidy and ugly, beneath the dispenser. The skutter went to sweep it up but with a jerk of his hand Alex stopped it.

As he traipsed off, toolkit and bottle in hand, skutter at his heels like a loyal pup, he flipped the bird towards the coffee dispensor over his shoulder.
“Charming” it muttered, in its plasticy, rounded accent.
A nearby machine sniggered at its rival’s little encounter.
“Who’s your friend? Seems like a nice man.”
“Oh shut up 34-B.”

“HOLLY! TURN IT BACK UP.”

… Sometimes I’m good, but when I’m bad I’m even be-tter…

---

“I’m not an alcoholic, am I?”
Winston Whiskers twitched his nose. “Um… No. No, of course not.”
To be honest, Winston was a little afraid of the brusque man who frequented his bar, and wouldn’t have dared disagree. The long furred, verging-on-the-lanky, human had never actually given him any reason to fear him (in fact, though blunt, he’d always been quite kind), it's just... there was something about him. He was quiet and brooding, and Winston didn’t trust him as far as he could have thrown him. Which was probably about a centimetre.
“There’s nothing wrong with a drink every now and then, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Cheers.”
Winston wondered if the man realised he wasn’t wearing any clothes apart from the blue groin coverings and black foot protectors.
He sighed and wiped up a glass, humans were extremely odd and alien at times. He was glad he’d learned English, or he’d have found them even more bizarre.

Alex, not realising he’d gone over it with poor Winston three times already, was about to launch into a tirade about how Holly didn't understand him, that he was fine, that he was going to get Bedge, when Plisken walked in.

“Pisskin…” slurred Solvay, thinking distantly that Plisken seemed to have lost some age since he last saw him. “I fought… I fought…” he stopped and frowned, and tried again “I thought you was fishing.”
Plisken’s face creased in confusion. “No, I was with Garth but…” he hung his head, sadly “… he’s gone.”
Alex’s face fell. He didn't know what it meant, but it sounded bad. “Gods. I’m sorry to hear that. Come… Come an’avadrink” he beckoned.
With a gentle and stately air, Plisken took a seat at the next stool.
“You know.” Alex told him. “Sometimes you remind me of an- Oooh!”
“What?”
“Why’n’t we go to the Officer’s Club? Always wanted to go there.” He dipped his head a little, offering Plisken an impish smile. “Bet there’re cigars…”
Plisken thought about it. “Holly tells me the others are on an old gas mining station, so-”
“What? Gas? No they’re fishing. Come on.” He stood up, misjudging the floor, and staggered, knocking a glass off the bar. It smashed loudly and several rodentine customers leapt nervously from their seats.
“Sorry, sorry Whinskers” slurred Solvay.
Plisken winced, it was embarrassing.
“Okay, Officer’s Club." He gave him a quick, humourless smile. "You’re right about the cigars, by the way. There's also lovely crystal decanters, and tumblers as thick as your hand - great to drink out of, and if I remember correctly there’re fluffy robes, proper razors, and a hot tub bigger than the one in the gym.” He considered this. “’Course, I’ll have to be careful with my arm…”
Alex squinted at him, thinking Plisken looked kinda dignified but forlorn. “We could do w’all that” Alex told him, part of his mind wondering how Plisken knew the Officer’s Club in such detail.
Plisken eyed him in return.
“Aye, that we could. That we could.”

As the older man assisted the drink-disabled man away from the bar, Winston listened to their fading conversation.

“What can you tell me about Brittany?”
“Ohhh, you know, scary chick. Cold blue eyes. Likes to appear out of nowhere and shit me up.”
“What?”
“Don’ worry ‘bout it... Robes, did'you say..?”

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<Tag Plisken>