“I’m sorry, Mr. Prower, the position’s been filled.”
The door slammed shut. Miles ‘Tails’ Prower stood outside the office of one Professor Qifang Luten, rejection washing over him. He wasn’t normally one to wallow in disappointment, but he really needed this job, and the implications of not getting it decidedly made his shoulders slump and his mood sour. In one conversation, the professor had managed to suck the last bits of serotonin out of his system, and now he was bone dry.
He glanced down at the small bundle of papers in his hand. ‘Application for Intern Position - Department of Robotics and Machining Technology.’ An internship that, objectively, reader, was perfect for our fox boy — there simply was nobody at the Interferon Institute of Technology that could match little Tails in robotics knowledge, barring, of course, the professors themselves (and even that was debatable). And yet… rejected, passed over for a velociraptor with a trust fund and deep pocketed parents.
Begging wasn’t normally his style, either, but circumstances required a little extra effort, this time. Circumstances like the absence of any parents on his end, and a distinct lack of deep pockets.
That’s what happens when your whole home planet gets eaten by Darkseid. But them’s the breaks, reader.
Let’s get the hell out of here.
He turned to go, weaving through the hallways of the Interferon Institute’s robotics building and out onto the main campus. It had been a year now since Govermorne’s unmaking and his subsequent escape to Cevanti, and Tails still hadn’t gotten used to this place. On top of just not having the familiar trappings of the clockwork world, it was also… messier. In many ways. Markov was basically the only civilization left, to hear the locals tell it, so it made sense that it was cramped, everyone packed inside the city walls. It made sense that it was dirty, some areas not kept up well at all. That didn’t mean Tails had to like it.
And he decidedly didn’t. He’d been very lucky to score a spot at the Interferon Institute shortly after his escape pod crashed, riding on their special scholarship for Govermorne refugees. But despite the fact that the refugee crisis was far from over -- plenty of people remained homeless, wandering through the less savory corners of Markov -- the money was about to run out on that deal.
“You were always aware this was only a yearlong support system, Mr. Prower.”
“We simply don’t have the funding to continue the program in any meaningful way.”
“We’d hoped you’d find some way to engage with the community and support yourself by now.”
Oh, yeah, okay -- ‘engage with the community.’ Made a lot of sense for a two-and-a-half foot tall, eight year old two-tailed fox whose entire world had been unmade and whose social skills, as a result, had been decidedly stunted. What exactly did they expect him to… do? The truth was: nothing. They wanted to stop thinking about him. They wanted to forget him, for him to fade away in the background and become someone else’s problem. Specifically, his own problem. And so that was exactly how they’d treated him, and all the other refugees.
Furious feet on autopilot, the fox eventually found himself making his way off campus to one of the Pilots’ Union’s less used hangar bays. He liked to come here sometimes, especially as the Crossroads’ sun drifted below the horizon, to tinker with some of the machinery. He knew that if he’d been caught taking this shit apart and putting it back together that he’d probably be in big trouble, but he didn’t really mind. What could they do to him that would make him feel worse than how the well-off people of Cevanti treated him every day? Throw him in the brig? At least then he’d have a place to stay bigger than his janky dorm room he now couldn’t really afford.
He set his sights on a broken down mech in the corner of the room, one he’d been working on for a few weeks now. The Union, it seemed, had pretty much discarded it, decided it was scrap not worth repairing, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon it so easily. He could still see the potential in every loose gear and rusted-up joint. He grabbed the red wrench he’d been working with the past few weeks off the tool shelf and leapt up onto the mech’s form, diving in and beginning to work.
As he tightened some bolts and clicked through some settings on the barely flickering heads up display, he felt his shoulders begin to rise and his nerves begin to calm. He let out a deep sigh, sinking for just a second into the pilot’s chair, letting himself finally begin to relax. This was his happy place, working on robots and mechs and vehicles and any kind of technology he could get his paws on -- and if Qifang Luten and the others in the robotics department of Interferon couldn’t see that, well, that was their problem, wasn’t it?
To tell the truth, reader, Tails had been much too concerned with the opinions of the academia in the months that had gone by since his escape pod had crashed. He didn’t even really know it, but perhaps the rejection was almost a welcome release from having to worry about the opinions of his ‘betters’ (term used loosely).
Deciding to fully seize this opportunity for relaxation, he kicked his feet up onto the mech’s control panel. His foot nudged a big lever with a huge red orb sitting atop it, and before he could reach to stop it, it had slotted into position and the whirring sounds of the mech trying to start itself up began to chitter away all around him. He scrambled for the lever as fast as he could -- “it’s not ready, I haven’t checked through all the settings yet!” -- when suddenly and calmly, the mech hummed to life.
He froze.
Had he… fixed it?
It was in that moment, as the start-up sounds began to subside to make way for the gentle symphony of the mech just… running, that Miles Prower saw another figure step into the light of the hangar bay.
*CLAP… CLAP… CLAP…*
The newcomer continued to lightly applaud as she looked up at him. Tails squinted, and could barely make out a military-looking uniform adorning the figure of the silhouetted woman.
His eyes went wide. A member of the Pilots’ Union.
Aw, hell.
The door slammed shut. Miles ‘Tails’ Prower stood outside the office of one Professor Qifang Luten, rejection washing over him. He wasn’t normally one to wallow in disappointment, but he really needed this job, and the implications of not getting it decidedly made his shoulders slump and his mood sour. In one conversation, the professor had managed to suck the last bits of serotonin out of his system, and now he was bone dry.
He glanced down at the small bundle of papers in his hand. ‘Application for Intern Position - Department of Robotics and Machining Technology.’ An internship that, objectively, reader, was perfect for our fox boy — there simply was nobody at the Interferon Institute of Technology that could match little Tails in robotics knowledge, barring, of course, the professors themselves (and even that was debatable). And yet… rejected, passed over for a velociraptor with a trust fund and deep pocketed parents.
Begging wasn’t normally his style, either, but circumstances required a little extra effort, this time. Circumstances like the absence of any parents on his end, and a distinct lack of deep pockets.
That’s what happens when your whole home planet gets eaten by Darkseid. But them’s the breaks, reader.
Let’s get the hell out of here.
He turned to go, weaving through the hallways of the Interferon Institute’s robotics building and out onto the main campus. It had been a year now since Govermorne’s unmaking and his subsequent escape to Cevanti, and Tails still hadn’t gotten used to this place. On top of just not having the familiar trappings of the clockwork world, it was also… messier. In many ways. Markov was basically the only civilization left, to hear the locals tell it, so it made sense that it was cramped, everyone packed inside the city walls. It made sense that it was dirty, some areas not kept up well at all. That didn’t mean Tails had to like it.
And he decidedly didn’t. He’d been very lucky to score a spot at the Interferon Institute shortly after his escape pod crashed, riding on their special scholarship for Govermorne refugees. But despite the fact that the refugee crisis was far from over -- plenty of people remained homeless, wandering through the less savory corners of Markov -- the money was about to run out on that deal.
“You were always aware this was only a yearlong support system, Mr. Prower.”
“We simply don’t have the funding to continue the program in any meaningful way.”
“We’d hoped you’d find some way to engage with the community and support yourself by now.”
Oh, yeah, okay -- ‘engage with the community.’ Made a lot of sense for a two-and-a-half foot tall, eight year old two-tailed fox whose entire world had been unmade and whose social skills, as a result, had been decidedly stunted. What exactly did they expect him to… do? The truth was: nothing. They wanted to stop thinking about him. They wanted to forget him, for him to fade away in the background and become someone else’s problem. Specifically, his own problem. And so that was exactly how they’d treated him, and all the other refugees.
Furious feet on autopilot, the fox eventually found himself making his way off campus to one of the Pilots’ Union’s less used hangar bays. He liked to come here sometimes, especially as the Crossroads’ sun drifted below the horizon, to tinker with some of the machinery. He knew that if he’d been caught taking this shit apart and putting it back together that he’d probably be in big trouble, but he didn’t really mind. What could they do to him that would make him feel worse than how the well-off people of Cevanti treated him every day? Throw him in the brig? At least then he’d have a place to stay bigger than his janky dorm room he now couldn’t really afford.
He set his sights on a broken down mech in the corner of the room, one he’d been working on for a few weeks now. The Union, it seemed, had pretty much discarded it, decided it was scrap not worth repairing, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon it so easily. He could still see the potential in every loose gear and rusted-up joint. He grabbed the red wrench he’d been working with the past few weeks off the tool shelf and leapt up onto the mech’s form, diving in and beginning to work.
As he tightened some bolts and clicked through some settings on the barely flickering heads up display, he felt his shoulders begin to rise and his nerves begin to calm. He let out a deep sigh, sinking for just a second into the pilot’s chair, letting himself finally begin to relax. This was his happy place, working on robots and mechs and vehicles and any kind of technology he could get his paws on -- and if Qifang Luten and the others in the robotics department of Interferon couldn’t see that, well, that was their problem, wasn’t it?
To tell the truth, reader, Tails had been much too concerned with the opinions of the academia in the months that had gone by since his escape pod had crashed. He didn’t even really know it, but perhaps the rejection was almost a welcome release from having to worry about the opinions of his ‘betters’ (term used loosely).
Deciding to fully seize this opportunity for relaxation, he kicked his feet up onto the mech’s control panel. His foot nudged a big lever with a huge red orb sitting atop it, and before he could reach to stop it, it had slotted into position and the whirring sounds of the mech trying to start itself up began to chitter away all around him. He scrambled for the lever as fast as he could -- “it’s not ready, I haven’t checked through all the settings yet!” -- when suddenly and calmly, the mech hummed to life.
He froze.
Had he… fixed it?
It was in that moment, as the start-up sounds began to subside to make way for the gentle symphony of the mech just… running, that Miles Prower saw another figure step into the light of the hangar bay.
*CLAP… CLAP… CLAP…*
The newcomer continued to lightly applaud as she looked up at him. Tails squinted, and could barely make out a military-looking uniform adorning the figure of the silhouetted woman.
His eyes went wide. A member of the Pilots’ Union.
Aw, hell.
Quest: Tour of Duty
Miles 'Tails' Prower
Post WC: 1086 (according to Google Docs)
Quest WC: 1086/5000 (according to Google Docs)