In days to come, he would reflect upon the premature nature of that thought. He would ponder it, as a sinner pondered the inexplicable actions of an irritated deity. He would wonder if perhaps, by allowing himself to think it, he had angered the God of Perversity, and Murphy, who is His Prophet. It was the only offense he could think of that might have explained what happened next.
(#000106)
He should never have asked, “What could possibly go wrong?” Or perhaps he should never have asked the universe, “What now?”
Nature hates the people who ask the kind of questions with obviously sadistic answers. Or sadistically obvious answers. It really depended where one stood.
And, right now, Rael stood, covered in noodles. Next to Shayde, also covered in noodles. In front of the chief of security for all of Amalgam Station, who preferred his human-given nickname of “Sherlock”.
“Do go on,” said Sherlock, behind his steepled fingers. “Entertain me. At which point did the -ah- child in the cardboard box, with… a.. cogniscent toy tiger… enter the picture? And what happened to the–” he looked at the preliminary report “–squid in the space suit?”
“He buggered off, the rat,” said Shayde.
“I was not in control of the situation,” pleaded Rael. “I believe there was a reality warping effect in… um… effect.”
“Really,” drawled Sherlock.
It was going to be a very long afternoon.
[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]