#tw vomiting

On shaking legs, Tanner deposited his tray and turned back towards Brynna, who had followed him the whole way. Before he could manage another awkward smile, she wrapped him in a crushing hug. 

“I knew you’d get out of here eventually.” She beamed, releasing him with another harsh crack between the shoulder blades. He managed a weak chuckle. His skin was the pallor of sour milk, and his stomach curdled. 

“Didn’t think it’d be today.” He mumbled around the nausea. 

“Well, there’s a first for everything,” she shrugged, “I guess this is it. You’re finally getting out of here-”

Another buzzer; the ten minute warning. Brynna was already halfway towards the exit by the time Tanner blinked out of his stupor.

“Don’t be a stranger!” She waved over her shoulder. And that was that. She’d find someone new, anyway - she was confident like that. Tanner nodded because he couldn’t think of anything else to do with his body. Then he left. 

The office he’d been called to was located on the sixth floor of the facility, east side. He opted for the stairwell to save himself the crowded service elevators, but found himself still stuck in the thrum of movement. Workers descended towards the access tunnels, and administrators climbed alongside him. Instructors barked names somewhere below as the facility startled itself into another shift of organised routine. His legs burned by the time he got to the top, though it was a far sight better losing his breath over some steps rather than in a packed lift, or the trams that took them towards the Scrap sites. Once at the top, he allowed himself a moment to steady his heaving; his undershirt prickled with sweat and his hair poked at his face uncomfortably. Noting the Security Officers patrolling the carpeted floor, he suddenly felt inferior; small and unkempt compared to manicured uniforms and well-tailored hair. He was never allowed outside shoes on carpet, so walking on his toes was the next best option as he fixed his hair to steady his shaking hands. Some blond strands came loose with the pulling, and he brushed his hands on his fading uniform; down his chest where he smiled at the feeling of being flat. The scars were ugly, and they took slightly too-much tissue, but he was finally flat. He could finally breathe alongside the panic that threatened every breath.

He passed through sliding glass doors that heralded his arrival at the Sentry offices. There was a large, rounded desk to his left with disinterested clerks in neatly pressed uniforms. Sheepishly, he stepped towards the desk, not daring himself to touch the glass top lest he leave smudged fingerprints, so played with his sweating hands instead, letting his nails graze over the ridges and bumps of ageing scars. The man behind it made eye contact screaming with the phrase 'you're already wasting my time’ and Tanner just about stumbled through his name-

“Office eighty-five. Down the corridor on the left, it’ll be on the right hand side.” He spoke robotically, before turning back to whatever was on the screen. Tanner blurted his thanks before stepping towards the corridor, wiping his calloused palms on his overalls as he felt the soles of his battered boots melt into the plush carpet beneath him. Around the corner at the far end, a troupe of Sentrys marched directly towards him; helmets tucked under arms and flight suits pressed and adorned with insignia's and flags Tanner didn’t have the capacity to recognise before he was pressing himself back into the hollow wall to let them pass. He’d never seen them so close before! However, they didn’t even look down at him as they passed, instead maintained their conversation as though he were just another fly on the wall: 

“...whatever happened to Mike-Delta was unfortunate, but we can’t let it affect us. That was a one-off scenario and in no-way an indictment on our processes.”

“He lost his mind, Cap!” Was the hissed response. 

“We signed the wavers…” The apparent Captain waved his hand as they retreated, leaving nothing but the scent of ozone in their wake. 

Swallowing thickly, Tanner reached the door to office eighty-five. He knocked politely and waited, staring at the perfectly dusted baseboards and freshly painted walls judging by the smell. 

“Yeah, come in.” A voice on the other side beckoned, and so he did. He kept towards the back of the office that teemed with more decorations than Tanner was used to, or would ever think to cover an office in. 

“Hi, I got a summons to-.”

“You all do.” The man interrupted him, muttering something about files as he pulled up a script on his computer terminal, before announcing his success with a dignified grunt. 

“Congratulations.” There was a pause as he clicked briefly onto a different tab. “Recruit three-zero, one-zero, nine-nine, zero-one, Kilo-Charlie.”

He clicked back to the previous tab: “You have been recognised for your hard work. We would like to reward you with a prestigious role within the H.U.S.C and the opportunity to broaden your horizons with space travel!” His expression came across as sarcastic as opposed to genuine.

“You have been selected for the Sentry program. A role which includes earning your pilots license and a higher pay package, and lets not forget your chance to see the galaxy and beyond. Explore our universe and get paid to do it. Meet new races, and challenge yourself with learning new skills and languages. With the H.U.S.C no day will be the same. So what are we waiting for? The paperwork is ready, all it needs is for you to say yes.”

The man tore his eyes away from the terminal with a bored expression. 

“Any questions?”

Yeah, what the fuck? Fennec wanted to say. 

“I- I didn’t.” His brain opted for instead. 

“Didn’t what? Sign up for this? Nobody ever does. But nobody ever looks sick at the idea of becoming a Sentry.” He said, resting his elbows on the desk and clasping claw-like fingers together. He was the exact product of a man left to waste in a corporate setting; skin sallow and sagging, eyes squinting with the absence of spectacles. His posture was hunched and mouth permanently downturned into an approximation of a frown. 

“Please- there’s a mistake. In the agreement-”

“In the agreement you signed yourself to the H.U.S.C. The H.U.S.C reserves the jurisdiction to change assignments depending on availability and demand. Yes, your agreement was to remain in the Scrapyard until further notice. Here, Tanner, is the further notice.”

“You cant-” Tanner breathed.

Call my family! He wanted to scream, but knew that would do a fat lot of good. 

“We have, Tanner. The H.U.S.C thanks you for your service. Now, it’s time for you to enjoy your new assignment filled with ample opportunities.”

Tanner's thoughts floundered like a fish out of water, before deciding on:

“What even is a Sentry?” 

“Hang on.” The Officer said, once again clicking through pages on his computer terminal. One might think he’d memorised the script by now. 

“Uh… here. As you may know, being a Sentry is one of the highest prestige's on the Universal Employment Track at the H.U.S.C. You will grow and develop your skills as a pilot, navigator and communications expert, as well as take up arms as you will be the first line of defence for our Freighters as they transport valuable goods between planets. Everyone is an Astronaut, but not everyone can become a Sentry.  All training will be provided as soon as you arrive at the training station orbiting Hephaestus Eight. After that six-month intensive, you will transfer to the Relay Station near Arepo to join your designated Freighter as it heads towards its destination. You will then follow it back, and you will receive your following assignment during the return. You will have full benefits - which, as a side-note will go towards your existing medical debt accrued from your treatment with us - and a grandiose graduation ceremony in which your pilots license will be awarded, and you will get to march among your new like-minded peers. Doesn’t that sound exciting? Your family will be very proud, I’m sure.” 

Tanner's head swam. 

“How many fatalities have there been?” He asked. He wasn’t scared of death; he was trying to dredge up a foothold to keep him firmly on the ground. 

“You have several injuries listed here from just three years as a H.U.S.C Scrapper - even more from your time before. While we aim for minimal injuries, I’m sure you can agree there are, what we call, occupational hazards.” The Officer explained, scrolling absently through his profile on the terminal, stubbly chin in-hand as the perfect picture of boredom. 

“They- they weren't my fault!” Tanner spluttered, shoving his scarred hands into his pockets. Unfortunately, his outburst heralded the presence of an Enforcement Officer; nearly seven feet of muscle that stared daggers in his direction. He wasn’t human, judging by the rumble from its chest. Tanner deflated immediately. 

“They were sustained to your body. You’ve already got two scars, what's a few more?” The Officer said, and handed the paperwork over. “Sign here, please.” 

“But-”

“And here.”

“Hang on-”

“Oh and don’t forget to date it.”

“Wait.” Tanner ground out, not even reaching for the offered pen. Instead, he stared at the paperwork, the words ‘Sentry Candidate, Mandatory/Immediate Transfer’ swimming in front of him. 

“There has to be a mistake.” His mouth was dry as the fabric they passed off as sheets. The Officer pushed the pen further in his direction.

“I wasn’t even eligible. There was an agreement-”

“You are now.” The Officer said, indifferent. Frustration pooled in Tanner’s chest. 

“No!” Tanner barked out an incredulous laugh, “No, I wasn’t. I was classified as a Scrapper. My file-”

“Has been amended, kid. Just sign the damn paperwork.” Stop putting off the inevitable. “I got a hundred other guys wishing they were you right now.”

“Then let them have it.” Tanner sneered, crossing his arms; resolute in his stance. The Officer huffed and flopped back in his chair; Tanner could practically hear the way his hunched spine crunched into the new position. He groaned and rolled his head to try and pry the kink from his neck. 

“Look, Tanner. Your name only gets you so much protection from the H.U.S.C, and recently your file has been overwritten with amendments-”

“By who.” Tanner interrupted. The Enforcer snarled behind him. The human's shoulders rounded in on themselves; the Officer continued to be more agitated at the boy than fearful of the bulk of a creature hidden behind body armour and shaded helmet. 

“Executive personnel.” The Officer said quickly. 

“Executive personnel," aped Tanner.,“they don’t have the jurisdiction to amend individual contracts.” 

He would know, he’d heard it enough across the dinner table as his father tried to inveigle his way into relevancy. 

“They do if instructed.” Huffed the Officer. 

“Instructed by who?” 

“You're asking a few-too-many questions, Tanner.” The Officer sighed, “I’d be careful.”

“I’m supposed to be a Scrapper.” Uttered Tanner. 

The older man finally looked him in the eye. “Why settle for such a lesser position? A promotion is literally being handed to you on a silver platter, but you want to rot in the bowels of decrepit ships and criminality. Hah. You rich kids are a strange breed. Anyone else would be grateful for the opportunity. Whatever. The instruction came straight from the Directorate. Other than that, I truly cannot give you a reason. I just need you to sign the paperwork.” 

“Then they're wasting their time, the Directorate doesn’t even know who I am.” Tanner lied.  

“They know exactly who you are.” The Officer said, turning the terminal monitor around: 

TANNER, LYRA (FENNEC) RECRUITMENT CODE: 30-10-99-01-KC FAMILY CLASSIFICATION: LEGACY

Beneath his title, highlighted in amber: 

SPECIAL HANDLING PROTOCOLS APPLY

His stomach tightened. The Officer rotated the monitor back without further comment, as though his file was supposed to answer more questions than it created. 

“I was told-” Fennec stubbornly began,

“I know what you were told. But your family name photographs well," he continued his scrolling, "you’ve featured in twenty-two local campaigns over the last three years, which were initially successful, but the numbers have stagnated. It’s time for you to do something else.”

Fennec’s whole world swam in and out of focus, “I never agreed to-” 

“You wanted to stay a Scrapper, right?” The Officer folded his hands over his flat stomach. “As far as I can see, Tanner, that position has been sustained with photographs. Graduation records, commendations, maintenance certifications…  you name it, the record was made and recruitment numbers damn near quadrupled in some places. For years, applicants have seen the son of Anthony Tanner beginning at the bottom: working scrapyards; wearing overalls instead of executive suits.” 

Tanner swallowed down the bile that collected in his throat. 

“You weren’t doing it for publicity, no, but that’s why it worked, I guess. But now, recruitment numbers have dipped significantly, so someone wants you up there with the big boys.” The Officer gestured loosely to the grey ceiling.

“So I’m going back to the military. Come on, I’ve done my time. I’ve kept my head down. I nearly got crushed to death twice and still kept my mouth shut.” His battered hands found the scar beneath his jaw, barely hidden by the spackling of facial hair.

“I kept my head down.”

“And now you’re being rewarded for it," said the Officer, tapping the small stack of papers once more, “we need more planets, Tanner, simple as. You were told you would stay a Scrapper so long as we didn’t need you elsewhere. Now, we need you elsewhere.” 

The pen was pushed towards him. In his hesitation, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. The Enforcement Officer looked down at him behind the domed helmet, and tightened his grip. The mirrored visor stared back at him, reflecting a pale, exhausted young man with grease still caught beneath his fingernails. He looked ill. Tanner then realised his options with a dull sense of clarity, and finally took hold of the pen. The signature was more compliance than permission he never had the agency to give in the first place. The Officer collected the papers immediately.

“Excellent. That wasn’t hard, was it?” 

Tanner didn’t remember standing, or leaving the office; only that he was walking. Then stumbling. Carpets be damned, his footsteps dragged and slammed heavily against the floor; echoing through the polished administrative corridors. Somewhere behind him, the rough static of a robotic cleaner began to power up. Ahead, the reception desk came slowly into focus. His stomach lurched as he approached it. Without thinking, he reached for the waste paper bin. 

The sound of him retching shattered the pristine office-quiet of the office block. He remained doubled over the bin for several seconds after there was no more bile left to bring up; breathing hard with one hand gripping the rim until his knuckles turned white. When he finally straightened, his eyes were bloodshot and watering. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, lifted the bin with both hands, and placed it carefully on top of the administrator's perfectly organised desk. They stared at him in horrified silence as he turned to walk away. 

He wondered how they would make a recruitment poster out of that kind of display.