Platform 62

Guests

I'm standing at the edge of the corridor, thumbing through my mission list. This station was built on the back of my labor. Without me it would fall apart at the seams. It was a heavy burden to bear, but I wore it well. I affix the clasp of my uniform tight across my chest and begin my push through the morning shift, knowing that an Alquerien sea steak sandwich is awaiting me in the mess.

I clasp the handle of my weapon and slide my fingers into the familiar texture of the ergonomic grip. With a twist it snaps to life and the light sequence confirms it's ready to get to work. I follow the feed hose beneath the handle and connect the lead into the output port of the pack, then sling it over my shoulder.

Strapped head to toe and feeling the part of a warrior donned for battle, I walk into the corridor as the doors seal with a hiss behind me. The light overhead flickers and my ship mates run past in a rush to their stations. That's when I see him. That I feel the dread slide from the top of my neck, first hot and then cold, moving down to my extremities and leaving my hands balmy. The girth of his shoulders is three times the width of my own. The scars on his bulbous arms conjure images of a battle-worn veteran; a man who towered above his enemies, plucking their lives away like daisies from a field.

In what feels like slow motion, I see him approach the entrance and pray he continues on ahead without entering the side door. I'm not prepared to handle this level of challenge as the first of the day. He looks at me and my deer-in-the-headlights stare with piercing, fearless eyes, then grins as he wraps his hand around the frame of the door, threatening to enter.

The man in charge of platform 62, my superior officer, approaches the scene from the opposite direction. He takes in the moment between me and the giant, then looks up to the strobing ceiling above.

The grinning mass of evil ducks his head into the room, a single word printed above the frame in the bold font that covers the station: LAVATORY.

The platform officer turns to me, "Dale, after you're done spraying down the bathroom, get to work on replacing this light, would you? Oh, and..." he motions with his neck towards the door on the opposite side, "the shipment of toilets designed for our Trulloge guests was delayed from the factory strike on Deltron 5."

He puts his hand on my shoulder and leans in close, "be sure to clean up after the big guy. You've seen how much these Trulloges can eat."