Of Menaces, Hopes and Icky Space Food: Part One

A massive merchant carrier was docking at Virtupets Space Station Dock 17B, one of the more commonly used ones. It was perfectly on time, the docking was processed by the book, and the station dockhands, bored and looking forward to the end of their shift, followed the procedures nearly without thinking. Hence their surprise when the crew got off the carrier and hurried, wide-eyed and on slightly wobbly legs, towards the nearest canteen.

     "Hey man, something the matter?" a dockhand asked, catching one of the last crewmembers by the sleeve.

     "I... not really, no..." The crewman stared at him pathetically for a moment. "It's a bit stupid really. Stuff kept... happening on our way here. Nothing major... nothing bad... just kinda..." he flailed a bit. "Just kinda like there was someone there that shouldn't've been there."

     He tore himself off and hurried after his mates. The dockhand shot a glance at his partner.

     "Well, I've read this story," he said glumly. "Bets on who turns into a sludgy alien monster first?"

     "Some kid snuck aboard, is my guess," said his partner with a grunt. "Or a couple of Meepits or something. Where's this one come from again?"

     "Roo Island, as I recall," said the first dockhand.

     "Yeah, my money is on a kid snuck aboard. Happens all the time. Their idea of planetside security is putting up a sign at the shuttle station saying "DO NOT SNEAK ABOARD, PLEASE AND THANK YOU, BOUNCE ON, SMILEY FACE". What's the cargo, the boss is ordering springy toys again?"

     "Says classified," said the first dockhand, peering at papers.

     "Yep, springy toys."

     They strode off, having done their jobs; checking the ship for trespassers and unloading the cargo was the crew's duty. Which was all the better for the team of Meepits that had, in fact, snuck aboard and eavesdropped on the entire conversation.

     "That's sergeant material right there," admired Bloody Mary, the leader of the gang. "Nice to see an actual critical thinker for a change."

     "If that's a habit for them, we'll have trouble with this mission," said Justice, the second-in-command and overall brainpower, not that you could get away with saying that to Bloody Mary's face.

     The leader shot her a look. "What are the odds?"

     "Well," said Justice, "this being a highly advanced space station, they only employ the best of the best, the ones equipped both mentally and physically to deal with tasks on a daily basis that the functioning of this station depends on. You'd have to have the brains of a professor to even be considered becoming a janitor here."

     The gang met that with thoughtful stares.

     "So mops, like, work differently up here?" asked Bob Squeaky, a stocky, grumpy Meepit who made up in tactical skills for what he lacked in tact. "Hover and beep at you?"

     "Possibly," said Justice. "The janitors aren't even called janitors. They're specialists of cleansing procedures."

     The gang nodded. That sounded just like the sort of advanced space station lingo that an advanced space station would use to scare off hopeful kids who dream about getting their foot in the door – which was a bad idea with Virtupets sliding doors and the several-ton hydraulics they employed anyway – and start from humble beginnings only to somehow acquire a grizzled mentor, a cool sword and a cool cape along the way and fight all the aliens.

     They hadn't actually intended to come to the station, but then again, they rarely intended to go anywhere. They were a small group of carefree vagabonds, going where the road and/or the nearby vehicle with good hideouts took them. It was a good way to see places and make sure that your menu remained varied.

     They had no actual experience with space food so far, though. They'd only heard that it involved a whole lot of tubes and very little flavor. But they were willing to give it a try all the same.

     The Meepits craned their necks curiously at this new world, which was quite a bit blander than what they were used to. Grey riveted walls, occasional rows of lights running along the bottom side of the wall to show evacuation routes, crates here and there, but mostly just empty, utilitarian, uncomfortable space. They hid behind a nearby lonely crate.

     "Alright, they crew went thataway," Bloody Mary said smartly, pointing thataway. "They were also talking about hitting the canteen as soon as they got in for half of the trip. Which is to say, the half they didn't spend looking around and shivering. I thought 'em interplanetary cargo vessels were supposed to have tougher crews. Ergo, canteen is thataway."

     "Can't argue with that," Bob Squeaky conceded. "Is there some sort of special knowledge needed for space stations?"

     Heads turned towards Justice, who was long since regarded as the indisputable source of all knowledge. The female furrowed her brow.

     "Well, they usually use keycards to open doors. Can get problematic, since keycard readers are all the way up to Neopet height. They also have motion sensors and cameras and speakers and stuff. Staying concealed might get problematic."

     "What happens when they catch us?" Bloody Mary asked. The usual answer to that was 'we bite until they can't remember why they ever had the stupid idea' but they were aware that this was new territory with new and possibly weird rules.

     "Well, they got robots," Justice said grimly. "Biting wouldn't be of use if they send robots to catch us. And then we might land in a steel box where we get kept as either prisoners or test subjects, whichever they're currently low on, I guess."

     The team fell silent, wondering for the first time in a very long time if they'd maybe landed in something that was a bit over their heads.

     For Meepits, it's a feeling that sometimes happens like some people get nightmares, and it passes as quickly as it comes.

     "Well, suggestions?" Bloody Mary asked brightly.

     "Basically, we should find a host," said Justice.

     "Don't like those much, but they can be useful," the leader said gruffly. "Alright, let me have a quick think and make some executive decisions."

     Decisions were executed after some fifteen minutes of careful stalking behind crates when a young brown Usul was coming down the hallway. He was carrying a mop, a bucket, and a sulkily reluctant expression, none of which looked very high-tech; in fact, the latter was the sort of expression known to every teenager ever.

     "Psst! Hey kid!"

     Aptly recognizing this as the classical line that could be followed either by awesome things or deeply shady things but in either case, definitely not boring things, the Usul stopped and looked around. His eyes fell on the small dark blue Meepit on the crate by the wall, and as he looked, more meepitheads popped up alongside the first one.

     He came over and squatted down.

     "You," said Bloody Mary, "look exactly like the sort of promising young man who is extremely upset because he came here with all these great huge hopes and dreams and wanting to make something of himself, but somehow still hasn't found his mentor."

     The Usul's eyes widened. "How did you know?"

     "I'm a mentor, I know stuff," Bloody Mary said coolly.

     "You're a mentor?"

     "We all are," Justice said, picking up his best Wise Female voice – which wasn't hard, since she sounded disconcertingly motherly as it was. "Think of us as a package deal."

     "But but," the Usul began, looking around and then at the gang again, "how can you – all of you – be a mentor? Mentors are like, really old and wise and with a beard and cloak, or short and kinda funny."

     "Well, we didn't really fit the tall and bearded bill," Bob Squeaky grumbled, "but you might wanna be careful about who you call funny here."

     The Usul didn't look entirely convinced. "Can you, like, prove that you're a mentor? Mentors? A collective multi-mentor? Whichever?"

     "I like that last one," Bob Squeaky said approvingly to a chorus of affirmations.

     "We're one and multi and one in multi all at the same time anyway, so it doesn't really matter," Santa chirped cheerfully.

     This was met with heavy silence full of consideration, like Santa's comments often did. It wasn't that she made no sense – she often made sense in completely unexpected ways – she just had the habit of chucking her sense at you every which way so it took a bit of time before you fumbled to catch it and turned it the right side up.

     "Exactly," Bloody Mary said, figuring it was a fitting thing to say.

     "What does that mean?" the Usul asked, now with a bit more awe in his voice.

     "See, if you understood that, you wouldn't need a mentor," Justice said. "What's your name and where can a multi-mentor get some food here?"

     The Usul's name turned out to be Tim, which he volunteered was a 'totally lame name' and the Meepits had to admit that it wasn't really heroic material.

     "No, no, it's a perfectly good name, it's just short is all," said Bloody Mary, self-evidently settling on the Usul's shoulder for the sake of best view. Everyone else crowded into the bucket Tim was carrying, which turned out to be empty.

     "You suppose his career problems might have something to do with him not doing the work he's supposed to do in the first place?" Justice muttered disapprovingly.

     "That's why we're his mentors," said Bob Squeaky, clambering to the top of the bucket. "We just need to run everything we tell him past Santa's mentor translator. Look, kid, heroes' names are given. King Altador the Hunter? Was not born with a bow and arrow. Heck, I bet he was born named Albert and once he got powerful enough, he covered that up. First thing any hero worth his salt does is acquire a name to the effect of Thog the Foe-Cleaver and smack everyone who starts up with 'but wasn't you young Benny from the next village?'"

     "That sounds more like villain material to me," said Bloody Mary, furrowing his brow.

     "Same thing. Where are you gonna get with your villaining when you're named Herbert? No, first thing you do, even before the minions and volcano hideout, is adopt the name Dark Master of the Forbidden Arts. Else nobody will take you seriously. Alright, that's enough lessons from me right now, get your mentors here some grub."

To be continued...