On The Night of the 4th

***AKA: Mortimer's Trip 2: Electric Boogaloo.***

"And that is why we throw apples down the river on Midsummer night", the Storyteller concluded.

The children listening to the story looked at her in awe now. She surely knew everything.

"Will you tell us about the 4th of July, too?" asked Jimmy once again, hoping this time he'd get to hear it.

The Storyteller considered for a moment. Then she decided, "Very well then. I shall tell you. For you see. On July the 4th..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Mortimer sat in the mess hall with his closest associates. Senior Science Officer Petros Guantanamo, and Bridge officers Lt. Jeb Reed and Lt. Cass Ette. It was a Tuesday. A normal day, like any other day.

The friends were eating in relative silence, focusing on their food, thinking about their respective upcoming shifts or personal agendas for the day.

Jeb sighed and pushed away his shepherd's pie. "That was better than I expected, Mortimer. Maybe I will try more of the daily specials."

Mortimer nodded. "Good! I've got to get rid of this stigma that the special is just what cooks had extra of or are just trying to pawn off! Especially since I can't help by eating it, now that I'm watching my diet," he replied, as he sipped some pea soup he'd made for himself and then brought to the mess hall.

Cass shook her head. "I still think the specials are more about making things easier for the chefs than having to make something individual for every person," she said. "And while I see the usefulness of that, I still want my honestly very simple BLT." She smiled as she bit into the last triangular quarter of the sandwich.

Now it was Petros who shook his head. "Not very much protein to stand on there," he said, as he pointed at his baked lemon butter tilapia. "This will keep me going all through my night shift."

Cass wrinkled her nose. "Eigh. Fish."

Mortimer chuckled. "Heh. Heheh. Fish in space."

Jeb turned to Mortimer. "Did Petros ever tell you about the time the artificial gravity went out, and the Aquaponics bay created 'flying fish?'"

Petros frowned deeply. "A lot of good fish died. It smelled awful."

"Like your dead baked fish there?" Cass said.

"This is a delicious smell."

"It's a fishy smell."

"But baked!"

"Baked, grilled, breaded, dead, alive, fish still smells like fish."

Petros smiled snootily. "Perhaps to your uncultured nose!"

"It's certainly an acquired one, your nose!" Cass retorted with a sly grin.

"Speaking of grilled!" Jeb interrupted. "Is anyone else excited for the 4th of July?"

Mortimer glanced up from his pea soup. "4th of July?" He glanced at his watch for the date. It was the 26th of June. Just over a week. "Oh my!" The holiday celebrating the Battle of Nimbus Station, the first real victory of the Nexus Force, and the turning point of the war against the Maelstrom, had really snuck up on him. . .

Cass shrugged. "I guess. Not that it will be any more exciting than last year, but it'll be something different. Still, I'm not looking forward to covering other's shifts after they call in hung over."

Jeb blushed a bit. "Oh, never fear. I've learned from last year." He crossed his spark. "No more copious amounts of Yo-Ho-Ho for me."

Cass raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "I'll believe it when I see you standing on the 5th," she chuckled.

Mortimer raised an eyebrow of his own as he turned his attention from his watch to the other younger two officers.  (Petros was also younger than Mortimer, but still 20-some years older than the other two.)  "What sort of party is that?"

"Maxine's party," The two replied. He with some enthusiasm, she with some disdain.

"It's basically a drinking party, with bad karaoke, loud music, and drinking games." Jeb said, grinning.

"It takes place on the main station, right under Commander Quinton's nose. Some say he secretly allows it, but..." Cass contemplated as she chewed.

"Oh, the Commander knows," Petros assured.

"What about fireworks?" Mortimer asked.

All three of the others laughed.

"No, I'm afraid not." Petros said.

"The Red Mythrans situation is too volatile." Cass explained.

"Besides!" Jeb added,  "we handle explosives all year round; that's not anything special." Jeb turned to Mortimer and chuckled again. "Your civvie side is showing."

Mortimer was openly surprised. "A Forth without fireworks???" This was anathema to him!

"Yeaup. 'Fraid so, Doctor." Jeb replied.

The table was silent for a moment as everyone except Mortimer was munching.

"What if I invented inside fireworks?" Mortimer blurted.

"Eh?" "Mmrh?" "Pardon?"

"Fireworks. For inside the station." Mortimer said. "I could bring it to this big bash you're talking about.

Cass gave him a disapproving stare. "Yeah, alcohol and explosives. Arn't you supposed to be smart, Mortimer?"

"Maybe it's not explosive!" Mortimer mused. Then he frowned, even as Cass snorted derisively. "No, it's no good if it's not dangerously explosive."

Petros leaned across the table to Mortimer. "What is this fixation with fireworks, Nathaniel?"

"Please, Petros; 'Doctor' or 'Mortimer'. Or both. Or Uncle."

Petros rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Fine, Uncle. Why are you insistent on fireworks? Have you never had a Fourth without them?"

Mortimer refocused from his floating thoughts back to his frineds. "Well, no. There were a few times without fireworks."

"And you lived, so this will be lik-" Began Jeb, but Mortimer interrupted him.

"But it will be the first time since my nephew came to live with me."

"-Oh."

"Peragrine and I always light some fireworks. Even if it was just the little... Um, what are they called- Aha!" Suddenly, Mortimer arose from his chair. "If you will excuse me, I must create!"

Petros started to get up, a warning finger in the air. "Nath-ah, Mortimer, might I suggest you-"

"Ah yes!" Mortimer pointed at Petros as he pushed his seat in and scooped up his dishes. "FIRST, I will talk with the Captain and obtain permission to create indoor fireworks, THEN I shall create!" With this, he gave a hearty "HUZZAH!" before dashing off with his dish, his labcoat flapping wildly behind him.

~~~~~~

"You want to *what*?" Captain Benedict asked Science Officer Mortimer. Not exasperated, not angry. Just seeking clarity.

"Indoor fireworks," Mortimer repeated. "Or rather, just... SAFE fireworks. For inside the station."

Captain Benedict stared at Mortimer, trying to imagine what 'safe indoor fireworks' would look like. A few ideas came to mind, but none that fit all three criteria.

"Dr, Mortimer, if you create something safe, indoor, that resembles fireworks, I'll be amazed. I assume this is about the upcoming 4th of July?"

"Yes indeed! I've not gone without celebrating it with fireworks for nigh on 20 years, and I'm not going to let a few little things like our current circumstances in this blockade stand in the way!"

"In that case, let me know if you do create something that you feel comfortable with, and maybe I'll talk with the commander about holding an ... actual celebration." Benedict said, poker-faced. "No promises."

Mortimer smiled. "Thank you, Captain. All I ask for is a shot."

"You have it; don't make me regret it."

~~~~~~

Mortimer already had schematics floating in his thoughts. The first one that had sprung to mind in the Mess Hall was what his Nephew had called 'Poppers'. Little wads of cigarette paper consisting of a small amount of gravel or coarse sand impregnated with a minute quantity of silver fulminate high explosive.

"That's... safe....?" Mortimer muttered. But could he make it even more safe? It was an interesting question, worthy of a hypothesis or two.

The other schematic was a step up, both in 'explosion' and 'safety', and he'd thought of it when Cass has understandably become skeptical. Basing it off of a hand-sparkler, It would be a wand, that, when 'lit', would simply cast a holoprojected effect of a normal sparkler. All of the flash with none of the dangerous substance... Still, this idea needed work. Having absolutely none of the dangerous substance pulled Mortimer's mental 'safety' slider too far over for it to be 'fun'.

The final current idea, he'd just thought of as he walked down a long hallway, and it continued off of his previous idea, messing with holograms.  It was somewhat of a staple when buying the biggest and most dangerous fireworks: A Dragon Firework. Mortimer fondly remembered lighting a dragon firework with Peragrine in the neighborhood, and scaring practically everyone living on their street with the swooping purple maelstrom dragon firework (And then having to rent a motel for the night before the cops showed up at the block demanding to know who set off an illegal 'big one'.). A less incendiary version would be amazing to behold inside the station.

Mortimer went straight to his quarters and got right to the drawing board, frantic to get his ideas out of his head before they lost their clarity. In no time at all, he had three basic schematics. But now he needed the materials in said schematics...

Looking back over them, now that they were safely written down, Mortimer could think of a few materials he could procure from requisitions... but some of the more exotic items would certainly raise eyebrows. Especially if he went with holograms as a main trick.  However, other items, like confettii or glitter, he'd have to make himself or...

"Hmmm..."

Walking over to his bedstand, he reached into a drawer and shuffled through various bits and bobs, scraps of paper and writing utensils, and food wrappers. Finally, he pulled out a business card.

"Aha! I knew I didn't throw it away!"

Why wait for requisitions to fill out a partial order, scrounge around for substitutes of what he couldn't get, and possibly ruin the surprise fireworks for everyone, when he could just call on an old friend and get everything delivered right away? Simpler, easier, more efficient, and leading to a better, more high-quality, end result! That is, if these schematics worked as he'd drawn them.

"Fiona Flights, don't fail me now!"

Mortimer hit the intercom in his room.

"Operator," came Cass's voice.

"Cass! This is Mortimer. I would like to make a call out to a civilian number."

"Oh? I don't think you have clearance for that. What's the number, and I'll see if I can get it cleared."

It took some time, but Cass eventually got him connected to Fiona Flights. Mortimer knew that since he didn't have clearance, this was probably being monitored... But Cass already knew about his potential surprise and it wasn't like he could do anything about it!"

"Fiona Flights, this is Fiona speaking."

"Fiona! It's your Uncle Mortimer!"

"Wha- Uncle Wh- Mor- OH!"

"Yes, you remember!"

"Mortimer! The Love Doctor!" she blurted out. "Um. I mean, Yes, I remember you."

Mortimer facepalmed. "I suppose I should tell you-"

"-That this call is monitored and recorded for security and training purposes, yeah, they told me," she muttered. "Sorry 'bout that."

Mortimer sighed and chuckled. "That's alright, I'll just have to 'own it' as my Nephew says."

"Well, I'm sure you called me for a legitimate reason, other than to be called names," Fiona said, redirecting the conversation.

"Ah yes!" Mortimer recollected his thoughts away from snickering colleagues he knew were in his future, and back onto the reason for his call. "I'd like you to deliver me a few things..."

"What sorts of things?" Fiona asked, as the familiar tone grew more professional and businesslike.

"It's all above board, rest assured!"

"Of course."

"Also a few things that I already own."

"...Of course. Let's talk compensation."

"Your usual fee, plus recompense for purchased goods."

"Hmm... I'd usally require compensation for shopping around for these items, but... For you, I'll do it." A hint of teasing snuck into the professionalism. "Now, tell me about these items."

"You're going to need a pen and paper." Mortimer warned. "It's not a long list, but there are specifics."

The two went back and forth setting up the order, taking the better part of an hour, as Mortimer drew up schematics for a fourth idea. His coup de grace. His Finale. A fire-cracker breathing dragon. After finally hanging up, with an estimated delivery time of a mere three days, Mortimer re-evaluated his plans.

"I can complete perhaps two of these more safer ones with what I have," Mortimer reasoned aloud, as he stared at the schematics on the floor, his hands on his hips. "That will give me only three or four days at best to complete the last two most complicated designs before the party."

A familiar panic and nervous energy began to fill him, and he stretched his back, joints popping and cracking. A slight yelp and sigh of relief escaped him as he popped his neck.  He ignored the warning signs.

"I can do this. I can do this!" he reassured himself.

~~~~~

Mortimer awoke to his alarm the next morning at his desk. The synthesized sounds of home. The sound of birds twittering and the yowl of a cat.

"Computer, turn off alarm. I'm awake," he muttered from his desk.

Stiff as a board, he shoved off the desk and immediately felt the fact that he'd spend all night doubled over his plans and smaller component crafting.

Mortimer considered his options. Painkillers and work his shift, or use some of his sick time and work more on the first two parts of his project?

He experimented with his range of motion. Verdict? He had none.

"Painkillers for a certainty!" Mortimer declared. As he acquired some from his bedstand drawer, he also considered the fact that he would need some tea, and the majority of his project wouldn't arrive for three days. He decided he would wait to use his sick time all at once when all of his materials were here and ready for him to use.

"Until then, it's business as usual."

~~~~~~

'Business as usual' consisted of his normal shift of work in the Science branch of the blockade. Sometimes he worked on other ships, but the bulk of his work was in the *Venture Quest'*s Medlab, tending to various scientific endeavors, and on occasion, various ill crewmates.

Mortimer enjoyed his work. He enjoyed his fellow science associates, and was impressed with the many new things he was learning every day. He took a great interest in expanding his doctorate knowledge beyond the mechanical into the biological. He found great pleasure in learning how to more directly help and cure people of what ailed them. He loved to bring a smile to their faces, as it brought one to his.

But of late... it had become somewhat... repetitive. The same people. The same tests. The same charts. The same room. The same patients with their same chronic pains or illnesses, and the same prescriptions...

Which is why he'd leapt at a new challenge. Something to re-ignite his old creativity. Something more like what he and Perry would do! Fireworks! Unorthodox, tricky, dangerous but not dangerous fireworks!

Mortimer found it hard to focus on the mundane work, but he got through it, and each night he would work on the bits of his projects that he could, till he passed out, his bed unslept in.

Eventually, three days passed, and Mortimer finished his tasks early, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the *Aero* and his shipment of items from Fiona Flights, which had sent a message ahead of itself, announcing it's arrival.

With pre-approved clearance, Mortimer watched as the little egg-shaped ship landed in the specified bay, and Fiona stepped out. Mortimer rushed out into the now-pressurized bay along with the usual security forces and loading mechs.

"Fiona!" Mortimer called. "It's good to see you!"

Fiona turned from one of the Security grunts who was already accosting her about the slightly higher mass of the ship than was reported.  "Dr. Mortimer! Good to see you! Anything you can do about these jerks?"

Mortimer nodded and shrugged at the same time, even as the Security Grunt began defending himself.

"Look, all I'm saying is, you had a specific amount cleared for entry, according to the manifest *you* gave us, so I'm just questioning why *you* of all people don't know where the extra mass came from, unless *you're* not the person who sent us this!"

Mortimer dodged the various other people now milling around the ship. Refuling, unloading, security sweeping, securing, and many other things besides. Now at Fiona and the Grunt's side, Mortimer put a friendly hand on the Grunt, and leaned over to glance at the nametag.

"Dooley, is it?" Mortimer remarked casually. "Don't be alarmed, m'boy, Fiona is a fine, upstanding citizen of the Nimbus System. I've simply asked for a few things from home, all cleared with command beforehand as well." He said airily.

"Officer Dooley," replied the grunt. "And while I'm certain everything submitted is here, it's what's not been submitted that I'm concerned with."

Fiona rolled her eyes. "Obviously, there's more than just what's for the good doctor. I have other deliveries to make."

Officer Dooley squinted. "All the same, we're going to check everything. By the book, that's how I do things on my shift."

Mortimer smiled once more at the immovable officer, then glanced back at Fiona, and shrugged weakly. Today, his old man charm would not work, it seemed.

Fiona sighed, but did not get in the way as the grunts filed past her and began rummaging through her ship for Dr. Mortimer's things. While they did so, she talked with Mortimer.

"So, how's life on the blockade treating you?" she asked, looking him up and down.

Mortimer smiled, and straightened his work labcoat. "Fairly well, actually! Though I'm rather surprised by how tiring it can be sometimes. Still, I think I only have myself to blame for that one."

"I was going to say, you look a bit more worn that when I last saw you here." Fiona said, an apologetic smile forming.

Mortimer nodded, chuckling quietly. "Yes, I admit I haven't been quite taking care of myself. I've been up all night preparing for this shipment to come in."

"Preparing?"

"Yes, it's going to be an excellent fireworks display for the Forth of July."

"Oh, yes, I think you explained a bit of that in the phone call."

"Did I?" Mortimer rubbed his chin and looked up at the ceiling. "Perhaps I did."

Fiona glanced back at her ship, and the dour face of Officer Dooley standing outside the ramp. They were almost finished. "Well, if you ever need anything else, you know who to call, Dr. Mortimer."

Mortimer drew his attention back to Fiona. "Yes, I will. Oh!" he looked around, smiling. "I meant to ask you, where is Tuk? How are you two getting along?"

Fiona seemed put off-balance by the question, but only for a moment. "He's not here." She sighed, looking back at the ship.

"Oh? Why's that?" Mortimer asked, a knot of worry beginning to form.

Fiona didn't answer right away, causing Mortimer to continue.

"You two didn't break up, did you?"

"No, no..." She said, her hands going to her pockets. Her frown looking at her boots, kicking up what little dust and dirt there was on the hanger floor.

When she didn't immediately continue, Mortimer did. "Is he dead?"

"What?!"  That caught Fiona's attention, and she looked at Mortimer in surprise.

"Well, if he's not here, and you're not happy about it, he's got to be otherwise indisposed, and I don't know what could be so powerful as to keep you two lovebirds apart, but the first thing I think of is the GREAT BEYOND!" Mortimer exclaimed, gesturing grandly.

This got more than a few passing looks from others in the hanger, but only Fiona continued to stare for more than a moment. Eveyrone else had things to do, and Dr. Mortimer was known, if for nothing else, than for his harmless eccentricity.

When Mortimer saw Fiona's surprised and confused face, he attempted to clarify.

"The Big Sleep? The Final Destination? Death? Grim Reaper? Come now, you're a spacer, you've seen the infinite void and thought about this, haven't you?"

Fiona finally recovered, unsure whether to laugh or groan or sigh again. "Heh, Um, yes, Uncle. I've thought about how my life would end. But no-" Fiona shook her head harshly, and her short red hair threatened to come undone from it's bun. "No, Tuk's not dead. He's at Nexus City. Probably at his apartment, or maybe at the hanger. I dunno."

"Why's he not here with you?"

"He didn't want to come, that's all."

Mortimer clearly knew that wasn't 'all', but his sense of tact stopped him from saying so bluntly. But before he could formulate a proper response, Fiona continued.

"He's not- It's not bad, Uncle. He just isn't in love with the stars- the infinite void, like you said- like I am.  He's a homebody." Some of the previous harshness faded a bit from her countenance. "He's in love with me, but not with what I do. And I don't know how to feel about that."

A slight understanding began to dawn on Mortimer. "Ah. He wants to settle down, and you want to... not settle down?"

"I want to go on more adventures, yeah!" Fiona said, her hair flicking around as she smiled appreciativly at Mortimer. Then she turned back to the window. "This Universe is too big to stay in one place!" She looked out towards the nearest window of the hanger, where some distant planets were slowly coming into view.  "I mean, you're an adventurous type, right, Uncle Mortimer? You're here instead of home on Nimbus Station."

"Not exactly by choice, but I know what you're describing. The need to see more, do more, be more than just one place."

"Adventure!" Fiona cried, moving towards the window.

"Adventure. That's what my nephew craved."

"Your nephew has good taste, then." She said, staring out the window. "This Universe needs to be explored. I was meant to see as much of it as I can before I die. I feel that continual pull into deeper and deeper space. But things keep me from going to far. Things like money... Society... Dangers... Family..." She turned back, only able to glance once at a patiently listening Mortimer. "...Tucker."

Mortimer came over, and took a look outside the window himself. "I'm not an adventurous type."

Fiona looked up. "But you used to be?"

"No."

"...But you're here for your nephew, who is?"

"That's right. I told you as much when I got that ride from you that brought me here."

"So, you don't know the feeling I'm describing, except your nephew's described it to you?"

"Yes. And I suppose I'm Peragrine's 'Tuk'."

Fiona squinted her eyes thoughtfully at a musing Mortimer. "Do you resent your nephew's sense of adventure?"

"No. Definetly not." Mortimer was instantaneous with his answer, but his thoughtful face deepened.

"But...?" Fiona asked.

"...But I do get tired of being the anchor."

Fiona blinked. "So stop being the anchor. That's what you did; you uprooted yourself and are now chasing him all the way here."

Mortimer nodded. "It's an imperfect example, Peragrine and I. But still an example. Here's the difference: With Peragrine, we spent many years in one place. In my place, down in Nimbus Station." He turned to Fiona. "You saw it. All the things we did. That basement is filled with junk. And all that junk represents different adventures. Which, by the way, I won't be surprised if I find some things out of place. I'm very particular about how and where I left things, and so is my cat."

Fiona smiled, and placed a hand over her spark. "On my honor as a Spacer, I didn't not steal nothing."

Mortimer waggled his eyebrows and returned to his train of thought. "If it's adventure you're looking for, it's adventure you'll find. But I find that the greatest adventures are shared."

There was a brief silence as Fiona internalized that. They both stared out of the window.

Mortimer continued.  "The greatest and most memorable adventures I've had were not because of the location, or the danger, or the treasure. It was because I was sharing them with my nephew. Granted, before my nephew came along... I...."

Suddenly, Mortimer groaned, putting a hand to his forehead, where pain was blooming in furious tidal waves.

"Mortimer?" Fiona asked. "Are you-"

He closed his eyes against the suddenly very bright light of the far-off stars and planets. His groan turned into a growl as he doubled over, and in a wave of darkness, he lost consciousness.

Fiona caught the old man, and lowered him to the floor. "Doctor? Doctor! We need a medic here! Mortimer, can you hear me?"

~~~~~

Mortimer was in his room. His room on the station. Not home. The station wasn't home.

He was formulating the Big one. He wanted it to be a big Purple Maelstrom dragon. He wanted to give the folks a good scare. It would also breath fire. Rather, fireworks. A Dragon flying through a firefight. Remote controlled drones dressed up like minature Nexus Force fighters and such would fly around it, shooting fireworks or lasers.

The timing would be tricky. Synchronizing the various incendiaries with the few holograms, light shows, and multiple physical components would require precision.

Did he have that precision? Some nervous energy welled up inside him, but he shoved it down. Of course he did. He was a brilliant scientist.

This finale with the Maelstrom Dragon. Part glitter-filled pinata, part hologram, and part fireworks. The main body was the pinata, streaming small bits of glitter, with the holographic wings, legs and tail. The head would be partially physical, holding and hiding some sort of firebreathing. Maybe holographic fireworks. Maybe a honest to goodness scrap-built flame-thrower he wouldn't tell the Captain about. Then it would fly out the window, and perfectly fade into the mysterious inky black of space. The Pinata would scrunch up like an accordion, blowing glitter everywhere, and collapse into the head, and the packed up head would then drop to the floor, out of sight.

He wasn't sure if the Captain or the Admiral would allow him to do anything outside, hologram or otherwise. If he could, he might do some holographic projectors on the outside of the station, the better to help it transition into black. Or maybe expand the whole idea to swim in and out of the big windows of the observation deck that he intended to use.

To be honest, it was a little frustrating. Here he was, a brilliant scientist, ready to make a brilliant show, brighten some lives, and as always Nexus Force was telling him that it wasn't good.

Too frivolous.

Too dangerous.

Too chaotic.

Well. He'd show them.  He'd get what he wanted, eventually.

He always had.

He turned around. Now he was in his room. Now he was home.

He sat at his small desk. His little blocky laptop had the necessary components strapped, wired, and duct taped all over it.

Now he was sitting down.

Now he was logging into the Nexus Tower Database.

It asked for his credentials. He looked to his right. Pulled out the drawer.

*'Einey, meiny, miney, mo.'*

He shuffled the credentials around, and fished one out.

They weren't his credentials, but they certainly wouldn't be missed. His old Virus would make sure of that.

*'I have my nephew to thank for that.'*

He inputs the credentials of some Sentinel Grunt, and then tosses it into his left desk drawer, with the other used ones.

*'Thank you, PatientPurplishPilot. May your sacrifice in this war forever be remembered.'* He chuckled to himself, as his virus causes the system to forget that these credentials belong to someone now deceased. He only ever used these things once, to avoid suspicion, but his nephew always brought more fresh ones.

Such is war.

As the system logged him in with the limited access of the Sentinel Grunt, a voice from behind him interrupts.

"Uncle?"

Mortimer twists around in his chair, but for some reason, isn't able to look up as his very tall, grown up nephew. "Yes, Nephew?"

"Remind me why you like to keep track of those lost in the war?"

Mortimer thinks about it for a moment, before coming up with a good excuse. "Well, nephew. You know I'm not much of the religious type."

"Yeah?"

"So I understand why you might be confused as to why I'm collecting the names of people who've passed on..."

"Sortof.  Mostly, I just wonder what other reason there would be other than-"

"Consider it my own investigation into faith. Do good people die good deaths? Do bad people die bad ones? Or do good and bad people die random deaths no matter how good or bad they lived?"

There was a pause in which Mortimer attempted to look up, but his back wouldn't twist that way, and the strangness of the lights, and geometry of the room made Mortimer realize he was dreaming.

"Uncle, it's not about how people lived, or died. It's not about works. It's about admitting there's no way we could possibly **do** enough wor-"

"Anyway, Peragrine, you're not really here, and we never had this conversation."

"...I guess not."

Mortimer turned back to his laptop. Now that he realized he was dreaming, he recalled this particular memory. This particular experiment.

This was a time he *hadn't* gotten what he wanted. The Blades of Chaos Schematic. The Paradox Valiant for Shinobis that had been unreleased at the time.

Was it released now? Mortimer couldn't remember.

He looked on either side of the clunky laptop. An Imagination-Infused Knockout Gas sprayer on either side.

He glanced down at his chair. Yes. He was securely fastened with a lap belt.

Twisting around, he checked his bedroom.

He was alone. Peragrine was gone on a mission. The doors were locked. Giblette the cat was away. Windows shuttered. Minimal furniture. Just in case this didn't work.

Paradox files were the worst to hack. The most devious security, and the fact it was all Maelstrom oriented...

Really aggravated his condition.

At the thought of it, some of that *nervous **energy*** began to build up. He made a conscious decision to turn that nervous energy into a giddy one, and let it flow through him. Excitement. Not nervousness.

All the variables. All the danger. The thrill of this upcoming chase. The unknowable chaos of it all... Skill versus skill. The closest he would ever come to doing battle at his age. Hopefully. Matching wits against a worthy opponent in an arena that he was a master of.

He could feel his fingers getting itchy. His hacking hands.

He looked down at his hands, gripping the sides of the armchair.

His claws, scoring the sides of the armchair.

**His 8 digit hands.** Purple and white arcs of chaotic, violent lightning bouncing between his 5 normal digits, and 3 shorter claws. A claw below his thumb. A claw between his pointer and middle finger. And a final claw between his ring and pinky finger.

His Stromling hands, intertwined with his normal hands.

His vision clouds over with lovely lavender, and he grins wide.

"That schematic, and anything else that takes my fancy, is as good as mine." He hears himself say, as he reaches out towards his laptop, and begins interfacing directly with the system.

The Nexus Tower System doesn't stand a chance.

"Catch me if you can, Naomi."

A flash of light, and Mortimer is somewhere else.

It's bright here. He hears a steady beeping.

"Am I still dreaming?" he says.

"He's awake," a voice says. "But I wouldn't tell him too much right now. He's probably going to be very disoriented with the time, alright?"

"I understand," says a tougher, deeper voice... Almost familiar....

"I mean, it's been at least-"

"I know."

Suddenly a grizzled, middle aged man looms into Mortimer's field of view. It takes a moment, but Mortimer realizes it's the face of Rusty Steele.

And then it clicks. This is another memory.

"Hello, Doctor Mortimer. You've been gone awhile," Rusty says.

"I... have?" the memory of Mortimer replies.

"Yeah. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I... Give me a moment."

"It's alright if you can't. I just want to know where I stand with you."

"We were working on Nexus Tower. The propulsion systems. Everything was going fin- wait!"

"The Maelstrom Calvary?" Rusty asked.

Mortimer JOLTED up and in response, multiple monitors and hookups blared alarms at his fast movement and readjustment.

**"ADALAINE!"**

"What the br- Doctor!"

Mortimer looked around wildly.  Suddenly, everything seemed very sharp, and loud.

"Nathaniel, lie back down, for crying out loud." A different, but also male voice said

Moritmer whipped around to the source of the deep tone.

There was Petros Guantanamo, silencing the various monitors and sensors, by his bedside.

Wait, his bedside? Was he still dreaming?

Mortimer slowly laid back against his bed, even as Dr. Guantanamo raised it up a bit so Mortimer could look around.

"Where... am I?"

"Sick bay. What's the last thing you remember?"

Mortimer gently shook his head, suddenly feeling very senile. Extremely disoriented. "Just a moment. I need to reorient myself. Please tell me the year."

Petros glanced back at Mortimer with a single raised eyebrow of worry. "3032 AF. Or in local time, the 6th Year of thedude." Dr. Guantanamo picked up a clipboard from the floor. "So you were having some intense dreams. That might explain these strong readings I was getting."

Something struck a warning bell deep inside Mortimer. "What readings?" He was definitely not dreaming anymore. His head felt like a burning volcano, but instead of dulling his senses, they accentuated everything. The light, the sounds, the sterile smells... But he didn't want to complain, so instead he focused on what would help him. Dr. Guantanamo.

"First, tell me what you last remember, Patient Nathaniel," the doctor said, scribbling on his clipboard.

Mortimer glanced around while he thought about it.

Indeed, he was in sickbay. Right now, it was just him and Petros. That was a relief.

"Well. OH!" With a great sense of relief, Mortimer's memory finally began filling back in, as he reoriented himself to reality. "Fiona, where is she?"

"Is that what you last remember?"

"I was speaking with Fiona, at hanger bay... I don't remember the number."

"That's fine. What were you talking about, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Life. Love. Stuff. Things." Mortimer shook his head. "I was talking about my own life. In those matters." He blinked twice. "In fact, I probably shouldn't be talking to you about this, that was a private conversation, and-"

"Fiona's still aboard the station. She told me about as much concerning your conversation." Dr. Guantanamo assured Mortimer. "She'll be glad to hear you're awake. When you collapsed in convulsions, she thought you were having some sort of seizure, or spark attack."

"Was I?"

"... I'm still not sure."

"Do you have my previous health history?"

"Actually, other than your latest physical when you applied to join the Nexus Force here on the Blockade and a few different unrelated notes for when you got some prescriptions here, no. Which is something I wanted to talk to you about, but before that..."

Dr. Guantanamo finally put the clipboard down and came to Mortimer's bedside. Moritmer could see that Guantanamo's face was more dour than usual. Something was puzzling him. Concerning him, deeply.

"Tell me, Guantanamo. Whatever it is, I can take it."

Dr. Guantanamo took a deep breath. "Have you ever been exposed to Maelstrom before?"

Mortimer blinked twice, and suddenly, he was back there. With the cavalry. Distantly, he heard himself reply 'Yes' to Guantanamo, but he didn't see him, or hear his response.

Instead, he saw the beautiful, terrifying, majestic, skeletal horsemen. Their only warcry, the rattling sound of their mounts and armor. He's lying on his back in the dirt, watching them race by on either side of him. Their ethereal scraps brushing past his face... Slowly, he turns to look directly ahead, knowing what's about to hit him...

There it is. Oh Crux, it's in slow motion, it's *horrible*. A horse has fallen, and it's rider goes flying over Mortimer, but with it's momentum, the skeletal horse's brilliantly white skull slams into Mortimer. He closes his eyes against it, as he hears the sickening **crunch**.

"Nathaniel. Snap out of it."

Mortimer opens his eyes. There's Guantanamo.

"It happened again. Your spark. The monitor couldn't pick it up correctly." Guantanamo pointed to the Spark monitor, as he showed Mortimer a very low, but rapid, rate of frequency.

Guantanamo continued. "It didn't make sense, because your pulse was still going strong... it just wasn't imagination that was pulsing." He turned back to Moritmer, and now Mortimer noticed his concern wasn't just confusion and frustration.

It was **fear.**

"Nathaniel, you have a Chaotic Spark."

....

Mortimer studied Guantanamo. "Have you told anyone else?"

"No. Doctor-Patient confidentiality. But..."

"Having maelstrom about the station is no minor bug to scoot under the rug."

"Yes. Which is why I need your permission to release that particular detail about your care to the Captain."

Mortimer considered a moment. This was going to be an interesting conversation. Hopefully, he could rely on Guantanamo's professionalism to keep him steady. "I want a physical done."

Guantanamo took a moment to understand. "What?"

"A physical. To prove I'm in fine health and ready to return to duty." Mortimer pointed at the Spark Monitor. "Clearly, your machine is working fine now. Let's test it. Or bring any other equipment that you think isn't faulty. I want to see this for myself."

"You don't believe me? *Nathaniel I have the data-"*

"I know, but I want to see it for myself." Here, Mortimer more carefully began unhooking himself from various sensors and sat up on the edge of the bed.

"Nathaniel this-"

"Mortimer, if you please."

"Sir, this is more serious than you're making it to be. There have only been a few other cases such as yours, and most of them end up dead or worse."

"I'm well aware. Which is *why* I want a physical done."

"Mortimer, a physical could be your death, right now. What you need is rest, and perhaps an Imagination Infusion, if that doesn't immediately kill you." Guantanamo sighed in exasperation, using a hand to slick his hair back. "First, we need to identify what causes these Chaotic Pulses. Then we can figure out how a chaotic and imaginative pulse can come from the same person..."

"Ah." So Guantanamo was thinking that far ahead already. "You're not going to turn me in to Paradox or make me some sort of lab rat, are you, Petros?"

Petros stopped his pacing and looked back at Mortimer, hurt that Mortimer would ask such a thing. "Nathaniel, no.  You're my friend." He sighed again. "That's what makes this so difficult. I don't want to get you in trouble, but... you need help. And policy-wise, there's a lot of contradictions here, so I'm just trying to figure out what the right thing to do here is..."

Moritmer lowered his eyes at Petros. "I understand, doctor. *As a Patient*, I want a physical. That can tell us what you- I mean... we. Need to know." As Petros was going to argue against it, Mortimer doubled down, swinging his legs over the bedside. "I promise, I won't push myself too hard. If I feel faint at all, I'll call it off. But I think you'll be surprised, Doctor."  He slid off, and suddenly realized that the floor was very cold, and his legs felt pretty breezy.

"Ah, hospital gown. Lovely." Mortimer cracked a senile grin at Guantanamo. "Excellent taste, sir."

Too tense to smile, Guantanamo's shoulders drooped just a bit to show his appreciation for Moritmer's retained sense of humor. "All right, Mortimer. Uncle. We'll do a light physical. But if I see *any* spark pulse fluctuations, the whole thing is off and I get to tell the captain right away. Deal?"

Mortimer smiled. "I think, policy or no policy, you'll end up telling your Captain your concerns, on or off the record, either way. Casual conversation-like. But feel free to prove me wrong, friend."

Guantanamo frowned, but quickly got to work.

~~~~~

The test was over. Mortimer was resting.

Guantanamo was not.

The test results were... surprisingly good. But they also didn't match up.  His standard Sparkrate didn't match his efforts in jogging or lifting.

That is, until Guantanamo figured in the non-imagination sparkbeats. The chaotic ones.

It seemed that when ever Mortimer began to exert himself, a rush of adrenaline would trigger a chaotic response, and that would resupply his failing Imagination Spark.  These chaotic pulses didn't register on the Spark Monitor, but they did register on a maelstrom detector directly trained on Mortimer at maximum sensitivity.

In other words, one had to be looking to find it.

Guantanamo looked at the Spark Monitor now. Resting, Mortimer's sparkrate looked perfectly normal for his advanced age.  Recently, Mortimer had reported feeling much more tired, much more quickly, and the two of them had attributed this to the fact that his body was used to living close to the Imagination Nexus.  Now, so far out, his body was beginning to deteriorate without it's regenerative effects near him. To help, Mortimer now had a prescription for Imagination-Infused Hiccup tablets, in case he ever needed them. Supposedly, he *had* been using them, and they *had* been helping...

Guantanamo frowned as he went back to the office portion of the medical bay.

Yes, there was something else he needed to check.

Setting down his notes and findings in the office, he ruffled through Mortimer's belongings, feeling dirty.

*'I could simply ask him... But I need to know the truth, and quickly.'* Snatching Mortimer's badge from his coat, Guantanamo stared at it a moment, rationalizing his not-quite to code behaviour. 'S*omething tells me that Mortimer isn't being as forthcoming as he perhaps should be. But I don't have the time or luxury to beat around the bush with him about this. If Maelstrom's involved, it's bigger than just him. Or just me.'*

Pocketing his fellow doctor's credentials, he strode out of the office, locked it behind him, and left the medbay.

"Oh, Doctor!"

Only to run into Miss Fiona.

"Doctor, is Uncle Mortimer okay?"

Dr. Guantanamo regathered his composure, assumed his clinical, professional tone.  "It's still uncertain right now. At the moment, he's unstable. I mean, stable." Guantanamo blinked twice, staring past Fiona as he attempted to figure out how much he was supposed to say. How much was need-to-know for the security of the station, and how much was Doctor-Patient confidentiality?

*'Less is more'* he decided. But now Fiona was speaking.

"Is he awake? Can I speak with him?"

Guantanamo gave it a moment's thought. He checked his watch. "It is visiting hours. However. Mortimer needs rest. Still. . . " He pulled out a notepad, and wrote something down. "Do you know how to use the intercom system?"

Fiona's concerned look turned sarcastic. "I'm a ship's captain, of course I know how to use an intercom system."

"You may visit Uncle Mortimer. If he awakes, let me know right away. Tell him I'm busy finalizing his report, and that I'll show him the data as soon as I can. Won't be long." He handed her a note with his personal intercom number.  "Please don't stress him. I still don't know what caused his... convulsions."

Fiona nodded. "I understand. Thank you, Doctor."

"Don't thank me yet," he replied, before speedwalking off.

~~~~~~

Fiona watched the doctor stalk off.  Were all doctors so terse? Whatever happened to good old fashioned bedside manner? She turned back to the medbay doors, and the note in her hand. Stuffing the note into a pant pocket, since she wasn't wearing her engineer overalls, she walked into the medbay and saw Dr. Mortimer lying peacefully on a medical bed.

As she walked up, Mortimer stirred and opened an eye.

"Miss Fiona?"

"Hi, Uncle."

"Good to see you. Sorry about passing out on you."

"It's okay, doctor. As long as you're ok now."

"Only as find as I ever was," the old man said from his bed. A half-shrug accompanied this.

Fiona raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"It's an old wound, so to speak. Just didn't think it would be so aggressive so soon." Mortimer shrugged again.

"The other doctor said he didn't know what caused you to faint," Fiona said. "But you think you do?"

"He said that, huh?" Mortimer smiled. "Good man."

Fiona gave Mortimer a blank stare. "Mind filling me in?"

"Nosy, this one!" Mortimer said, looking around for someone else to talk to. "Where is the good doctor Guantanamo, anyway?"

"Oh, I was supposed to call him if you woke up. He said he was going to finalize your report and show it to you soon as possible or something?"

Mortimer looked back at Fiona. "He did?" Mortimer scrunched his eyes upward. "He could do that from here. Seems like he has other things to do, I guess."

"I'll just call him now."

"No, that's alright. You wanted to talk to me, first, I think?" Mortimer asked. "Or are you just checking to make sure I'm ok before you leave?"

"Oh." Fiona looked down at her note. "Actually, I wanted to finish that conversation we were having, but I dunno if that's wise."

Mortimer readjusted his position in bed so he wasn't slouching. "No, we can finish that conversation. Where were we?"

"If you say so, doctor." Fiona tilted her eyes up at Mortimer.  "You were talking about how the best adventures are shared, and it doesn't matter if they're out in the big, wild beyond, or just at home."

Mortimer nodded. "And what do you think of that?"

Fiona was now absently fiddling with the paper note. "I think you're wrong."

Mortimer nodded slowly. Almost sagely. "And why's that?"

"I think the adventure is bigger, shared or not shared, if it's out in new places."

Mortimer sighed. "I could be wrong, dear."

Fiona looked up, concern on her face. "I'm supposed to not stress you, Uncle," she blurted.

"Hogwash," Mortimer instinctually replied, turning to look at her with a weary smile. "I'm fine as a fiddle. Just did a physical to prove it. Now Guantanamo's probably going to doctor it and make it look like I'm on the verge of death. Which is more or less true, but that's never stopped me."

Fiona raised yet another dubious eyebrow. "What do you mean by that, Uncle?"

He reached out for her hand, and Fiona gave it without hesitation. He clasped it in both hands, and took a deep breath.

"What I mean is this. Family is precious. Love while you can, because not even love lasts forever."

~~~~~

Guantanamo strode down the corridor, looking for Mortimer's room.

"Room 222. Here it is." He put Mortimer's badge to the door, and the keypad next to it flashed.

"A passcode?" Guantanamo's frown deepened. Why would Mortimer need a passcode as well as a badge?

With hesitation, Guantanamo fished out his own Senior Officer credentials. He wasn't even sure if this would work, but...

"Computer, Senior Officer Petros Guantanamo, requesting security override for Crew Quarters Room 222."

Putting his own badge to the lock, as well as Mortimer's, he waited a moment.

"Please Confirm," The computer voiced from somewhere in the corridor, louder than Petros would have preferred. "Senior Science Officer, Petros G. Guantanamo, requesting security lock override for Crew Quarters Room 222."

"I confirm," Petros said, checking his watch and giving the time and date.

In response, the keypad flashed green, and the door slid open. Guantanamo stepped inside.

"Oh, Uncle..."

Petros quickly closed the door behind him as he observed the haphazard room of his fellow colleague.

Multiple projects were strewn about the floor. A few more delicate ones were on fold-out tables. His main desk was covered in a thick stack of schematics. His bed held a dozen tools scattered around a central tool box. Close at hand were a number of boxes and crates that had just been delivered today.

Petros knew that Mortimer occasional borrowed a tool or bought some surplus outright... But he'd never imagined that an entirely separate workshop existed on the station like this...!

Petros felt extremely out of place. He wasn't supposed to be here.

His attention was pulled to the bedstand, where multiple prescriptions and medications sat. Without touching anything, he observed nothing out of the ordinary.

Next, he pulled out a maelstrom detector from his pocket, and set it to full sensitivity. Then he began walking around the room.

As he did so, he glanced up at the other sensors in the room. None of them appeared to be tampered with, and he didn't have the time, tools, or inclination to further check them.

Going from the bed, to the various projects, his fears were confirmed.

Dr. Mortimer had been... infected? Infused? Diseased. For far longer than just a day or two.

With such minor symptoms as this, he could have been this way even before he boarded. Which seemed to be the most likely case, because Petros wasn't even sure if there was any Maelstrom aboard, in any form.

Petros had to know. Had Mortimer known about this? Is that why he liked to hide in his room more often than not?  Was this contagious?

And most importantly... Did he have this under control, or was it getting worse?

~~~~

Mortimer wasn't making much sense. Feeling like a broken record, Fiona once again asked, "What do you mean, Uncle?"

"My nephew would disagree, probably. He'd say that there is love that lasts forever. But for that to be true..." Mortimer rolled his eyes, contemplating the right words to say. "...I'd have to believe in a possible forever, and that's rather against the second law of thermodynamics."

"Uncle, you're spouting a lot of nonsense. I'm trying to understand, but-"

Mortimer refocused on Fiona, and his eyes were intense. Feverish. "It's like this. Before I met Peragrine, I was a broken man. I was on the verge of insanity. I'd made myself forget about love. My one, true love. I'd lost my company, I'd lost my prestige, my money, my power, my everything. *Nothing lasts*, dear. NOTHING." He shook her hand to emphasize. "The only thing I had left was my little flat in Nimbus Station.  And I was *lucky* to have kept that." Mortimer snarled.

Fiona pulled back a bit, clearly seeing she'd upset Mortimer somehow. Multiple monitors were looking... off? She wasn't a doctor, but some of those readings didn't look healthy.

But now Mortimer was gripping her hand very tightly, and continued to ramble. She didn't want to look frightened, so she stared him down, even as some panic began to build.

"Those were dark days for me, Fiona. I'd been very successful up till that point. I'd gone out and done my own thing for so long that I didn't know anything else. Mind you, I wasn't an adventurer, but I was a brilliant inventor. Brilliant scientist.

"Did you know..." Mortimer began, grinning in a senile fashion as he stared into the bright lights on the ceiling.

"Oh boy." Fiona muttered, realizing she was going to be stuck here awhile.

"Did you know... That I worked on Nexus Tower?"

"Did you now?" she asked, humoring him.

"Yes! I helped build it's repulsion system, to get it off of Crux Prime's Surface. I was the Head Power Distributionist. I made sure that the massive quantities of Pure Imagination didn't overload our delicate systems. Mainly my work was on the Boosters, and the main conduits for Imagination, but I did other things too."

"So you were some big head honcho, you're saying?"

"I like to think so. I was rather wealthy, yes. But I didn't flaunt it around. You wouldn't have heard of me unless you were in the scientific circles. Then you would have heard of me as some affluent, smug jerk who never went to parties, and even fewer awards ceremonies. I was a pretty snooty dude."

"What changed?"

Mortimer paused. "I have my nephew to thank for this. I'd forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

Mortimer looked down from the light, found his hands around Fiona's. Followed her arm up to her face. "I found my Adalaine."

Fiona blinked. "Love. You found love?" Fiona bit back a laugh. "Mortimer, please get to the point, because this is so cliche, that even though it's lovely, I may have to find a barf bag."

He patted her hand. "I'm getting there. Getting there." He turned back to the light, as if that helped him think.

"Adalaine.

She was another scientist. We both ended up as consultants for some thing or another.  She hated my guts at first. I was a total snob, as previously mentioned. We had differing opinions on whatever the project was. That led to some heated debates, even after the project was canned. We would go to coffee and continue to argue the various points of whatever we were thinking about... and over time, it just kind of... blossomed. Our coffee dates turned into dinner dates. We'd talk more and argue less." Mortimer chuckled. "Found *some* common ground... But our arguments became more civil and debate-ive. We enjoyed each other's company.

Obviously, I kept recommending her for whatever projects I was involved in, and she would do the same. Something along the lines of 'he's got a terribly good eye for the big picture' ; 'she'll nit-pick your thing to Crux and back', yada, yada, yada.

Well, one day, we both get an offer we can't refuse. The chance to work on Nexus Tower. We both leap at the chance, of course, and as I said before, I worked on the boosters mainly, while she took care of... other things. Curse my brain, I can't remember exactly what. Anyway, we rarely saw each other during that time, but whenever I wasn't focused on working, I was focusing on her."

"Were you distracted?" Fiona asked.

"Terribly." Mortimer replied. "And when I realized that it was affecting my work, which up until then was what I loved the most... I realized I loved her more. I was in **love**. " Mortimer grinned stupidly as he recalled those distant emotions, those distant irrationalities. "It didn't make quantifiable sense, but for the first time in my life, I didn't mind that it couldn't be solved. It just... was. But I still had to do something about it.

So I went and got an engagement ring, and proposed to her the next chance I got. Which happened to be on my break and in front of her whole team that she was working with.  I think that spot's now the 4th floor of Nexus Tower? Some utilitarian floor that's hardly accessible anymore. But it was very lab-like at the time."

"I bet she *loved* that," Fiona said, imagining the embarrassment.

Mortimer chuckled. "I... Actually don't remember."

Here, Mortimer frowned, and he let go of Fiona, who involuntarily took a step back.

"As I said... nothing lasts forever." Mortrimer said, staring into the middle distance.

"One day, I and my team were checking the outer integrity of some Imagination Tanks on the ground of Crux Prime, when the Sentinel and Assembly defense lines that were defending us on the ground were broken through with this... Unforeseen, freak, mad charge of Maelstrom Cavalry."

Fiona could clearly see that Mortimer was describing the scene exactly as he saw it now. Clearly, he no longer saw the curved walls of the medbay. He was back at the base of a nascent Nexus Tower.

"They were beautiful, Fiona. Terrifying, but beautiful. I'd not seen Maelstrom in person like that before or since. The Skeletal Horses were whiter than bleach. They almost glowed, like angels.  And the ronin that rode them. So silent. Almost peaceful. Without that armor, they would be just like the wind. Silent, invisible, but you still feel it's effect. It's *great* power. With their lances, they tossed and pierced and chaotically re-arranged everything they saw fit. People, machines, each other, papers, everything."

Mortimer's eyes widened like a deer in headlights. "And then. One of these horses collides with me. Me, who'd fallen and tripped. I'd gotten everyone else ahead of me, to get into one of those empty Imagination Tanks for protection, but I was too slow. One of those horses crashed into me... And I knew no more." Mortimer blinked, and came back from his memory, his hands shaking, his mouth dry. He turned to look at Fiona, who stood listening intently.

"Fiona. Don't dismiss love. Don't wait for it to fade away. It's the **best** thing in this Universe. True love is the *greatest* adventure there is. I'm certain of it." Mortimer balled his hands into fists. "And I only got to see the prologue," he finished bitterly.

Fiona glanced down at her hands, and realized she'd absentmindedly shredded the paper note to bits.

"Wait. What happened to Adalaine?" she asked, returning her attention to Mortimer.

Mortimer was now muttering more to himself than to Fiona.

"She's dead." He said, after a moment. "When I recovered, she was dead. Smashed. The maelstrom got to her, but not that Cavalry. It was later, they said. She was doing some..." Mortimer shook his head violently. "I don't want to talk about it."

Intensely interested, Fiona almost urged him to continue, but the sudden change in Mortimer's demeanor jolted her into paying attention to her surroundings. Specifically, the change in sound. Various monitors were indicating irregular readings.

She wasn't exactly a certified doctor, but some of those readings certainty didn't look right.

Glancing back down at Mortimer, she took a mental and physical step back and realized that Mortimer was greatly agitated.

"Alright, doctor. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine."

Mortimer turned to Fiona, and a little clarity seemed to surface in his eyes. "I'm afraid I can't. Not without Peragrine. Not without help." He blinked. "Sorry. I thought I could be tough. Center myself, but it's getting more difficult to do by myself. No help from the Nexus. No help from family."

Fiona patted Mortimer's hand, and noted that he was shaking. Sweaty. Feverish. "Not going to lie, Uncle, you're worrying me."

Mortimer winced. "Didn't mean to do that. Last thing I meant to do. Just meant to make you think about your own problems, not my own."

Fiona nodded. "I promise, I'll think about it."

"Think about what?"

"Me and Tuk."

"Good, good. Then I've done my job." Mortimer seemed content by this, and closed his eyes. Still feverish, but he seemed to be finding some measure of rest. "Don't make my mistakes, is all I'mmm s'h'aying..." he trailed off, falling asleep like the old man he was.

It looked like Mortimer was done talking... and she needed to think. Time to think. She muttered some sort of goodbye to Mortimer, and walked out of the medbay, down the hall. Back to her ship.

*'Well, at least Mortimer's... ok. Maybe I should leave now.'* She considered what else was on her schedule coming up. Very little, actually. She needed to 'deliver' a few more things to various planets before heading back to Crux Prime and Nexus Tower, but all of it could wait a few more days.

*'The good doctor's rather ill, it seems. But I don't know him well enough to tell if it's serious. I'm getting mixed signals from him and the other doctor... What's his name..?'*

"Miss Fiona."

Her attention snapped up. "Oh! Doctor. Good to see you." While she was still thinking about it, she clocked his nametag. "Dr. Guantanamo, good to see you."

"Did Mortimer not wake up?"

Fiona stared a moment, before suddenly gasping. "Oh. Yes, Mortimer woke up. I got to speak with him. He's fine." She patted her pockets. "I'm so sorry, I forgot to call you. But he fell back asleep, and I appear to have lost the no-"

"It's fine," Petros replied, rushing past her.  If Mortimer was alone in the medical bay, there were a thousand things he could do.  Not that he would do any of them, but Petros didn't like to leave things up to chance. Not with maelstrom.

Fiona watched Petros rush back off to the medical bay.

"No, that's certainly not how someone acts when 'it's fine'." She started walking back. Something was about to happen, and she wanted to be there for it. And if not, well maybe she could grill this doctor about what he thought about Mortimer's chances beyond the usual doctor vagaries.

~~~~

Dr. Guantanamo strode into the medbay, and took in the scene.

Everything appeared normal.

Mortimer was resting, the office to the door was still locked... A brief listen to the various machines informed him that, at the moment, all vitals were steady. However a brief glance showed a few lights that indicated attention was needed.

*'That can wait, just a moment more.*' He turned to the office. Unlocking it, he dumped Moritmer's credentials back into Mortimer's belongings.  He stared at it for a moment, before shoving it back underneath various items so it wasn't so obvious that he'd taken it. Even if it had been for a legitimate reason, Petros didn't like this theoretical bending of the rules.

Should he have reported this potential Maelstrom reading to Captain Benedict right away, he once again asked himself.

One side told him yes. It was policy, and by reporting it above his station, the way forward to deal with the issue would no longer be his to deal with. He'd simply follow orders. And he trusted Benedict to make the right choices, so what was the issue?

The issue... The issue was that the Captain would then have the same issue he was having now. To follow policy, and escalate the issue, or deal with it personally?

The most clinical, simplest, easiest way to deal with this... would be to remove the maelstrom from the station. That was protocol. Eject, or cure. And Petros wasn't certain that either was viable. Sending Mortimer away was something that neither he nor the captain would want to do. And... If Mortimer had been this way for an undefined time...

'*More information. That's what this needs. That's what the Captain would need too, if I were to inform him. I still can do that.'*

As Petros evaluated all this, he pulled out a handheld viewing pad, and began downloading the results of Mortimer's Physical test to it.

Looking out of the glass at his patient, he knew his next conversation with him was not going to be fun.

Just then, the medbay doors opened again, and Fiona walked back in.

The two looked at each other, questioning the other's look. Guantanamo spoke first.

"Miss Fiona, how can I help you?"

"I know you doctors don't like to commit to anything, but in your personal opinion, do you think Dr. Mortimer is in danger of dying?" Fiona blurted.

Guantanamo took but a moment to consider the very blunt question. "No."

Slight visible relief eased Fiona's features. "Good. That's good."

There was an awkward pause where the two were wondering what else the other would say.

"Is there anything else, Miss Fiona?" Guantanamo asked, eager to get on with his duties. Which right now, consisted of getting to the bottom of a mysterious disease that was ailing his closest colleague.

Fiona's eyebrows dipped. "Oh, I'm not allowed here?"

"I'm about to discuss with my patient the details of his condition, allowing for the fact that he may be too exhausted to focus on such details, in which case, he would need rest. Not more visitors." Guantanamo was sure to keep his tone even and professional, even if his pointed wording was not.

Thankfully, after a final glance at Mortimer over Guantanamo's shoulder, Fiona seemed to get the message, however irritated she was with the acting doctor. Without a word , she turned around and left, the medbay doors closing behind her.

With a nod to the door, Guantanamo turned around and focused on Mortimer, who was still resting. There were a few things he'd like to set up first, before he woke his patient up, if he could

~~~~

Mortimer lay still, hearing Fiona leave.  He felt clever, having given her a wink that everything was alright. Not that it meant anything. He refrained from a giggle. Guantanamo was still milling around, fiddling with things.

*'Let's see. What will he be doing?'* Mortimer thought to himself. *'He knows I emit chaotic sparkbeats. He went out somewhere, probably to report me to the Captain. Or security.  Certainly, there were a few chaotic readings during my physical, despite my best efforts.... I really am getting weaker. But he didn't stop the physical, like he said he would. Methinks he's just gone and told the necessary people to come and intervene if I... turn.'*

Mortimer paused, his last thought causing a surge of *nervous energy*. In response, a light trill went off in one of the monitors. He heard Guantanamo grunt in surprise.

*'Well, the jig is up. That was fun while it lasted,'*  Mortimer thought to himself, even as he could sense Guantanamo brushing up against the bedside.

"Mortimer? Are you awake?"

Mortimer did his best to fake a slow waking up. As he groggily opened his eyes, Guantanamo seemed to be scrutinizing him very well.

"Good morning, Guantanamo!" Mortimer said between yawns. Real yawns. He didn't need to fake his weariness, that was for sure.

"Afternoon," Guantanamo corrected. "Mortimer, if you don't mind, I'd like to go over these test results with you."

"Mmm? Mortimer turned to see that Guantanamo was showing him a viewing pad with his physical test results on it. "Oh! Lovely. How'd I do?"

"Impossibly." Guantanamo replied.

Mortimer raised his eyesbrows. "Do tell."

So Guantanamo did. Mortimer listened and noted Guantanamo's professional, even tone, and his almost blank, shallow expression. He went over the fact that Mortimer's natural sparkbeat matched a senile old man, unfit for active duty, or any form of strenuous activity beyond perhaps a light jog. This was far worse than what Mortimer's test had resulted in when he'd first applied to join the Blockade forces earlier.  He went over how when Mortimer *did* do something strenuous during the test which was beyond what his normal sparkrate would be able to handle, he'd scanned for the chaotic sparkbeats, and had even read a few **genuine** Maelstrom particles coming off of him in the most intense parts of the test.

"It appears that when you spark would normally fail, causing you to faint or pass out, or have convulsions of some kind... You instead are boosted by these chaotic pulses that insert themselves in between your failing Imagination pulses."

Mortimer made a show of slowly nodding, as if reading this for the first time. "Wouldn't that be impossible?"

"Having both Imaginative and Chaotic pulses in the same spark?" Guantanamo asked.

"Yeah."

Guantanamo sighed, putting the tablet down for a moment.

"Why don't you tell me, Doctor Mortimer?" he said, his tone finally breaking into something.. accusatory.

Mortimer blinked twice, before shrugging. "Alright, I suppose!" he said, ignoring the accusatory tone. "I would cite the unconfirmed reports about Maelstrom Minfigures; Minifigures who supposedly unlocked some form of Maelstrom Spark, instead of an Imagination one, though that would likely be impossible next to a Imagination 'Nexus. There's also the theory popularized by many in the Nexus Force that there is a mix of chaos and imagination inside every minifigure, and that is why it is up to us to defeat the maelstrom instead of the Mythrans, who are purely Imagination, and might be easily corruptible if put into direct contact of the Maelstrom, just as the Nexus was. There's also the much more complicated idea that originates from somewhere called Yorkanton City, in which-"

"Enough, Doctor. Clearly, you've researched this." Guantanamo's facade was breaking badly. Mortimer could see that Guantanamo was very tired, and... sorrowful?

Mortimer was now blinking furiously. "Oh. You know, here and there. Bits and pie-"

"How long have you had this condition, Nathaniel." It was meant as a question, but it came out more as a lament.

And with that, Mortimer knew he either had Guantanamo as a friend, or he was leaving the station. And if he was leaving the station, the only direction he was willing to go was *to the surface*.  All other ways assured him that he would never see his nephew again. With another rush of *terrified*, *nervous* ***energy***, he heard a monitor next to him trill in alarm.

It was time to tell the truth.

"Years." He replied to Guantanamo, who immediatly pulled up a clipboard and began making notes.

"Is it contagious?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"Do you know of anyone else who has this condition?"

"Not as I do."

"Any similar?"

"One. Originated from a distant planet. Name of Evelyne. She might have been a Maelstrom Minifigure, but I never got the details. Very hush-hushed by Nexus Force."

"Noted. Have you ever..." Guantanamo thought about how to phrase his next question.

"Lost control?" Mortimer asked.

"Sure. Have you?"

"Yes."

This caused Guantanamo to pause and look over his clipboard at Mortimer. "Do you feel up to describing the incident?"

Mortimer wanted to say 'yes'... It felt good to talk about it... Too good.

"I will attempt to be succinct. Do not let me ramble on, my good man." Mortimer cautioned.

"Noted."

"It was at my flat in Nimbus Station. I used my abilities to... digitally acquire goods." This got the expected raised eyebrow from Guantanamo, so Mortimer hastily added, "This was before I joined the Nexus Force here, so I did some dodgy things." Guantanamo's eyes flicked back to his clipboard, as if to say 'Noted.'

"This particular experiment, I wanted to see the extent of my... abilities. I was testing the limits... Rashly."

"Chaotically?"

"Indeed. Unfortunately, I did not properly prepare in my haste to do the test... And when I came to, my bedroom was sorely in need of renovations."

"Elaborate. What sort of damage was rendered?"

"Thankfully, only property damage. I had taken enough precautions to remove all members of the house, and any extremely dangerous tools."

"What sort of property damage?"

"Claw marks. Lightning blasts. Maelstrom residue." Mortimer made eye contact with Guantanamo. "Damage equivalent to a Named Class Stromling Invader. Very similar to one that nearly made Nexus Force Passports by the suggested name of 'Timor.'  You can look that up on your own time, if you wish."

Guantanamo looked at Mortimer's eyes, and noted his wide and haunted expression.  "Mortimer. Nathaniel."

Mortimer blinked, relieving only a small portion of that haunted look. "Yes, Guantanamo. Petros."

"You understand that I have to report all of this to the Captain?" Guantanamo asked.

A slight smirk winked into Mortimer's face before fading. "I thought you had, already. That's why you weren't here when I was talking with Fiona."

"No. I went to your room then, to verify my findings."

Mortimer's fading smirk died permanently. "Ah. So you saw all of my less-than-safe fireworks designs."

"I saw your chaotic designs."

The two men stared at each other.

"What will you do, Doctor?" Mortimer asked. Even tone. Professionally icy.

"That depends, Doctor." Guantanamo replied, equally even. Equally icy. He raised his clipboard like the shield it was to him. "In your personal opinion, would you say you could keep this... condition.... Under control?"

Mortimer didn't answer right away, not wanting to sound too anxious. "My personal opinion? Yes. I've kept it well under control for many years. Even recently, I've kept this well under control. You only found out because I was not careful about my triggers when I was talking with Fiona yesterday."

"What *are* your triggers, doctor?"

"My maelstrom-related past. Certain emotions. Creativity. My ***desire*** for creativity. Which my condition often twists into a ***desire*** for... unique creativity."

"Chaotic activity."

Mortimer nodded. "I can usually feel it building, and quell it with some calming breathing. Or agitate it with excitement. Which allows me to use certain abilities. The most notable being extreme creativity and speed. Which I would often use for hacking." Mortimer clamped his mouth shut. *'That's clearly enough. I'm giving too much away.’* he thought, just ask Guantanamo flipped a page of notes and began writing a second one.

"How about in your professional opinion, doctor?" Guantanamo asked.

Mortimer dared to smirk. "Doctor, we both know that you're the more professional one out of the two of us. It's what makes us such a good team."

Guantanamo did not share Mortimer's good humor. "Your rampant un-professionalism certainly makes more sense, knowing this condition of yours. In fact, it explains a lot of things." Guantanamo looked down at his notes. "Your minor schizophrenia, unorthodox solutions, general scatterbrained nature, reclusiveness, jitteriness, and consistent lack of sleep contrasting with unusually high levels of energy for someone your age. Your unnatural ability to push your physical limits, and your brief and bright moments of *high* intellectual genius." Guantanamo looked up from his notes at Mortimer, never once breaking his professional mask.  "It is my professional opinion, doctor, that you are more than a danger to this crew. You are a threat to this blockade. In fact. I may even go as far as to say you are a threat to the Nexus Force at large."

Mortimer's terror was rising with every word now. Guantanamo was pretty much nailing things on the head, though he doubted the whole thing about being a threat *quite* that big and important... Still, he had to fight some small part of him that wanted to take it as some sick *compliment*. Slowly, he swallowed, but his mouth was dry, as Guantanamo looked back down at his notes and continued.

"Seeing as you've had this condition for years, and continued to live a normal life, you clearly have learned to manipulate, conceal, and utilize this condition for your own personal gains."

"No so!" Mortimer cried. "I've-" suddenly, he cut himself off, realizing he didn't want to implicate himself further.

Guantanamo gave him a cursory glance before looking back down at his clipboard, flipping between his to pages of notes. Then he stood up straight.

"It gives me no pleasure to do this, Nathaniel. But you and I both know this is over our heads." He pointed a finger at Mortimer, stopping Mortimer's half-formed justifications and pleas. "You're in over your head. And I'm not going to let you hurt anyone, including yourself."

Mortimer stared at Guantanamo. Logically, Scientifically, darn it, professionally, Mortimer knew Guantanamo was right. He was losing it.

And it was more apparent in this moment, more than ever. He felt his temperature rising. Chaotic thoughts entering his mind, telling him he could stop Guantanamo. He could *bully* him. *Threaten* him. *Keep this all a secret.* No one would know what *really* happened. In fact, these thoughts had their own voice. And it was his own.

***'Just zap him. Call it an accident. He was helping you with the same project that put you in the medbay. He hasn't told anyone else, the fool. Keep it that way!  Reach out, touch him, that's all you have to do!'***

Mortimer felt his hands on the blanket trembling. He didn't need a mirror to feel the energy building up behind his eyes. He knew that if Guantanamo knew to look for it, he would see those ***beautiful*** lavender lightning arcs around his irises.

"You're... Right..." Mortimer managed to whisper, as he fought to hold still. To not *reach out and strangle the **stuck-up-bootlicker!*** "I am... quickly... losing it."

Guantanamo's eyes seemed to soften at Mortimer's admission.  "Good." He turned to leave. "I'm going to go tell the Captain. He'll know what to do." Glancing back at Mortimer, he noticed him trembling, and mistook it for fear.

"Captain Benedict is a good man," Petros Guantanamo assured Mortimer. "I trust that he'll do everything in his power to keep you safe from the Paradox, Mortimer." Suddenly, he frowned again. "But I can't promise anything."

"You...do what you have to... Guantanamo." Mortimer grunted.

Guantanamo nodded, apparently too relieved about Mortimer's acceptance to notice the irregular vitals. He turned to the door.

Which opened to reveal a scowling Fiona, who'd been eavesdropping the whole time.

"You're not going anywhere," she said to Guantanamo.

Guantanamo blinked in true professionally covered-up surprise, before casually reaching out and pressing the intercom system next to the door. "Captain to sickbay, at soonest convenience."

He glanced back at Fiona. "That's how you use an intercom system."

"Why, you little- I knew you were a total-"

"Miss Fio*na*!" Mortimer called, not wanting things to escalate. "I'm *afraid* he's *quite RIGHT!*" he said, closing his eyes against the rising ***tension*** in the room.

***'YES! THE CHANCE FOR CHAOS GROWS! THE POTENTIAL ENERGY GROWS!'*** the raucous voice of his own mind ranted***. 'The Captain would make a fine target for causing more chaos. A leaderless ship becomes disorganized quickly. Many stations wouldn't know what to do, for a time, and that is a time that MOAR chaos could be sown! Perhaps even a takeover of the ship! Perhaps instead of the Venture Quest, it could be... The... The .... What would I call it?'***

Mortimer's sensibilities were reeling. He could sense that Dr. Guantanamo and Fiona were on opposite sides of his bed, attempting to understand why he was spasming, but it was as if he was sinking under a surface of purple ocean. Sinking into his own subconscious. His own **dark** impulses. He fought to rise back above the tide. Break back through the surface to his friends, before something ***else*** emerged from that surface instead.

"They can't meet ***him***. They wouldn't survive...!" Mortimer said to himself.

***'Why, what's wrong with me? I'm you.'***  Mortimer thought.

"No. You're ***you***. I'm me."

*'**But I'm your true self.'***

"No, I'm no-" ***"LIAR!"***

Mortimer whimpered, realizing that he was saying some of this aloud. He didn't know how to stop this. He'd never been able to... not by himself...! Quickly, he felt the surface of his thoughts fall away, as he came face to face with... himself.

***'It's just Me, Myself, and I.'*** Mortimer mused. ***'Now. Me might destroy Myself if I is not veeeeery careful, and vise-versa, so therefore I must be veeeery careful. Or else I'll have Myself's and Me's blood all over I's hands, and I will perish."*** Mortimer grinned. ***'Like it or not, Me and Myself both make up I, and I can't live without Me and Myself.'*** The grin grew wider.  ***"It's just the way fates would have it."***

Suddenly, the grin faltered. "But... I don't believe in fate."

**"What do you believe in?"**

"I believe in... In..."

**"Facts? Facts can be proven wrong. Look it up, it's called scientific theory."**

"Science!"

**"Sciences are always changing, they've been proven wrong and changed hundreds of thousands of times across history. Everything is always in question. It's not science otherwise."**

"Family!"

**"Your family is GONE, Mortimer. Your sister, dead. GONE with Crux. Your parents? Disowned you. Called you a nutcase. Rightfully so. Your *adopted son???* Dead, gone, or worse. *You're never going to see him again...* Somehow, old man, you've *outlived* everyone you've ever known and loved. Arn't you *lucky*?!**

Mortimer felt claustrophobic inside his own body, as the voice- **his voice**- drove these destructive thoughts home like nails into a coffin made of his own skin.

"I believe... what I can see and prove with my own eyes!"

**"Then see this."**

Suddenly, Mortimer opened his eyes on a purple and maroon void. He stood in his labcoat, on apparent nothingness. Before he could question what and where this was, he saw a figure step out from the shadows in front of him.

It was himself.  As a **Stromling**.

Tattered lavender labcoat, ripped in various places, including on the left shoulder, where a very bright pink thread shone like a little thorn. A ripped badge showing only 'Timor'. Clawed hands, crackling with Maelstrom lightning. A hideous grin on a tilted, jilted head. His hair big and voluminous. Glowing, and flowing down, weighing the head to the one side. Ripped corduroy pants, exposed chest cavity. And monstrously callused feet, great for stomping.

But the worst part... were it's eyes. It's fiery red eyes. On the surface, like any other Stromling. Staring. Mindless.

But this one wasn't just staring. Wasn't mindless. This one blinked. And it focused on Mortimer. It focused on itself.

It had a mind. Of it's own. And that mind... was his.

**"This is you, old man. The REAL you. The you that KILLED Adalaine. The you that your parents DISOWNED. The you that you'll NEVER let Peragrine see. The YOU that's going to take over the Universe."**

Mortimer, the old man Mortimer, opened his mouth... but only screams came out.

Both Mortimers began screaming, and they closed their eyes... Suddenly, they were rushed back to the surface of their thoughts, and broke through.

Mortimer realized he was the one screaming, and a moment later, he felt the pain.

Mortimer was getting an Imagination Infusion, and for the first time, it *hurt like the **dickens**.*

Looking down at his left arm, he saw the infusion needle strapped to him, pumping him full of Pure Imagination. He understood what Guantanamo was trying to do.

Closing his eyes, he first welcomed the pain. It told him he was alive, and he was in control. Then he started taking some deep breaths. And with each breath, he shoved that **dark**, sordid, evil, chaotic, no-goodnick, back down below the surface. Far below. Drowned it in this Pure Imagination. This goodness, and light. With each breath, the pain faded, as his chaotic thoughts were pushed away, so as to not fight with his boosted Imagination levels.

Hopefully, it would keep it down long enough to make everyone forget about this incident.

Hopefully.

"There. He's leveling off." Guantanamo's voice said. "Mortimer? Can you understand me?"

Mortimer opened his eyes and took stock of the people in the room. Directly on his left, monitoring him closely was Dr. Guantanamo. Next to him was the Captain.

"Captain. You were fast," Mortimer remarked cheerfully.

"You'd be surprised how much free time Captains actually have, Mortimer." Benedict said, smiling warmly.

Guantanamo interjected with fingers. "How many fingers, Nathaniel?"

"3."

"Good. Now?"

"4. 2. 1. 4, and a thumb."

Guantanamo gave a relieved smile. "Good."

Mortimer turned to see the final person, which was a very concerned Fiona Shepp.  "You gave us all a scare there, Uncle."

"How long was that?" Mortimer asked, turning to all three for an answer."

Captain Benedict shrugged. "I only got here a minute ago. You were writing pretty bad, though." He turned to Guantanamo. "Mind filling me in, if he's stable now?"

Guantanamo scowled at the monitors, but then looked at Mortimer. "You tell me, Nathaniel. Are you stable?"

Mortimer nodded. "An infusion was the right thing to do, Guantanamo. Though I usually do an aerosol application, I... don't know if it would have been effective this time." Mortimer frowned for a moment before refocusing on his Doctor. "But you did the right thing."

Guantanamo stared at Mortimer for a moment longer before nodding. "Alright." Then he turned to the Captain, and Mortimer listened quietly as Guantanamo told the captain **everything**.

The Captain listened, looked at the reports. On occasion, he would interrupt with a short question, and get clarification from either doctor.

After nearly a half-hour of detailed explanation of the events that led up to Guantanamo calling the Captain, he reached a verdict.

Benedict rubbed his clean-shaven chin, and looked between his two ship-doctors. "It seems to me..."

Mortimer took a deep breath, calming his *overactive* nerves.

Guantanamo took a deep breath, to maintain his professional demeanor, no matter what the result was.

Fiona stared at the Captain, uncertain as to what he would do.

Captain Benedict caught Fiona's eye. "Well, first off. Miss Fiona, I want to thank you for whatever minor part you played in this."

Fiona bobbed her head once. "Just taking care of a friend."

"And second, Guantanamo, I want to thank you for handling this extremely well. I think if I was in your shoes, I wouldn't have handled it any differently."

This visibly lifted Guantanamo's spirits. "Thank you, Captain."

"Thirdly, Doctor Mortimer..."

"Yes, Captain?" Mortimer replied.

The Captain eyes twinkled in a way Mortimer had never really seen before. "It seems to me that this condition of yours is all the more reason to keep you detained. Here. On my ship, where I can keep a better eye on you." He grinned. "If you're as dangerous and unstable as all of this, I very well can't send you off anywhere else without a lot of expensive protection and precaution, now can I?" He turned to look at Guantanamo. "And I only have Guantanamo here to spare. Best to keep you here then, where you can receive the best help, and keep the stress to a minimum."

Now he turned to Fiona. "However, since stress doesn't help your chaotic sparkbeats, I do think that the less people that know about this, the easier it will be for Mortimer, don't you all agree?"

Everyone did.

"Excellent. Then this is what I want done," Captain Benedict said, his grin tempering into a serious smile, as he squared his shoulders and places his hands on his hips. "Guantanamo, I want you- no, I order you to destroy any and all public evidence of Mortimer's condition. That's an order, so you're not breaking any policies, just following my orders, okay? Miss Fiona, I'd appreciate it if you *don't* go telling everyone about how our dear Dr. Mortimer accidentally poisoned himself making old-fashioned rockets with gunpowder, and is now laid up in the medical bay for a bit." Here, he winked, and Fiona winked back. "And Dr. Mortimer..."

"Yes, Captain?"

"I haven't forgotten. You were going to make some excellent fireworks for the 4th. Seeing as you're going to be laid up here, can you work with Guantanamo to finish drawing up what you have in mind?  I'm going to use some of my off time to work with the good doctor here to get it finished in time for... the 4th. Not that I know about any big party that might be happening then..." the Captain finished, his eyes wandering around noncommittally.

Mortimer slowly began to grin, glancing at Petros, who returend the look as if to say *'I told you so.'*

"Of course, Captain." Mortimer replied. "I've got the basic sequence down, but my ideas on how to show it vary."

"I can't wait."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the night of the 4th.

Mortimer sat at his desk. His clean and empty desk.

Earlier that day, having been discharged from the medical bay by Guantanamo, they'd gone directly to the Main Orbital Station where the party was underway.

He'd seen the completed show. Captain Benedict and Guantanamo had done a fantastic job of translating his various chaotic, and potentially explosive, ideas into a 100-percent-safe synchronized light and sound show, using the same cues and set-pieces that Mortimer had drawn up... Only none of it was physical.

It was all holograms and trickery. No actual explosions. No actual danger.

Still, everyone loved it. No one had suspected it. It was a great surprise addition to the festivities, so therefore a great success...

After seeing the show to the end, Mortimer made his way out of the party, smiling and chatting along the way, claiming a number of legitimate excuses due him, not all of them untrue.

Now, he sat at his desk, contemplating a single firecracker popper that had been overlooked when someone, probably Guantanamo, had cleared his room of the various dangerous projects, tools, and components that he'd been keeping here.

Guantanamo *had* told him that he'd cleared up his quarters... Mortimer just didn't realize what exactly that meant till now. The room was almost as spotless as when he'd first arrived here.

It was probably for the best. A lot of his projects were nothing more than a **chaotically** creative outlet for him, which is something he *certainly* didn't need right now.

All the same, he wish he knew what Guantanamo had done with them.

"Like my crossbow-slingshot," Mortimer mused. "I've been working on that for a long time." He sighed. "But, it's probably space dust now. Knowing Guantanamo, he probably destroyed it, as per some regulation or policy or whatever."

Yet, here was a little popper, overlooked. He'd found it in his bedside drawer, and had been considering how best to use a single popper...

Mortimer remembered fondly making little poppers with Peragrine just like this one and sharing them with the neighborhood. The street would be covered in poppers, at least, until the streetsweeper came by the next day.  Made for some very musical driving.

Mortimer raised a palm, and **smashed** the popper on the desk. It hurt, but not as much as his heart did.

"Happy 4th, Nephew. Hang in there, I'll find you."

Mortimer pulled out his tablet, and began going through the backlog of Militeregnum's surface scans that he'd been neglecting for the past few days.

"Hang in there, and I'll do the same."

It was the night of the 4th...

~~~~~~~

Nothing happened.