Ensign Theridion Grallator - Short Skirt/Long Jacket
Boris Stefanovski
((Hobby Lounge Store))
The chaos and smell of the hobby store was giving him memories of the academy—specifically, the part of the academy that smelled like ambition, burnt plastic, and the faint, lingering regret of someone who’d just glued their uniform to a warp coil. It was the kind of place where the air itself seemed to hum with potential disaster. Glitter floated freely, like radioactive pollen. Glue bottles stood in solemn rows, each one silently daring you to underestimate its bonding power. Somewhere in the distance, a small child was explaining warp field theory to a confused tribble made entirely of pom-poms. The store was less a retail establishment and more a dimensional pocket where creativity and entropy had decided to cohabitate and raise glittery, glue-smeared offspring. Grallator inhaled deeply, and the scent hit him like a nostalgic brick: melted polymer, synthetic optimism, and the unmistakable tang of someone trying to solder with a cheese knife. It reminded him of the Academy’s Crafting Annex, a place where cadets were encouraged to “express themselves” using only recycled starship parts, emotional baggage, and whatever hadn’t been nailed down in Engineering. He remembered the time a fellow cadet had tried to knit a warp core stabilizer cozy and accidentally invented a new form of propulsion. Or the incident with the papier-mâché Klingon that gained sentience and demanded tenure. Yes, this hobby store had that same energy—the kind that whispered, “You probably shouldn’t, but you absolutely will.” And so, standing amidst the chaos, Grallator felt oddly at peace. Because if the universe was going to unravel, it might as well do so in a place with glitter, glue, and a suspiciously large bin labeled “Miscellaneous Nacelles.”
Stapledon: Well okay then.
Store Owner: You know, we carry glitter. And glue and some nacelles.
Grallator: ::He gasped as if the store owner had just revealed a hidden vault of ancient treasures:: Glitter, glue, and nacelles? You speak the sacred triad of starship embellishment! This is no mere store—this is a temple of tactile imagination. A shrine to the gods of over-engineered model kits and emotionally unstable adhesives! ::He leaned dramatically on the counter, eyes gleaming:: I shall take one tube of glitter, three glues of varying commitment levels, and precisely seven nacelles. Not because I need seven—but because I feel seven. And if anyone asks why my model starship has more propulsion units than sense, I shall simply whisper, “Art.” ::Then, to Stapledon, with a conspiratorial grin:: Well okay then? My dear Stapledon, that’s the exact phrase one utters before embarking on a glitter-fueled journey of questionable engineering and undeniable joy. Let’s make something so dazzling it causes minor sensor interference.
Stapledon: What about holospanners?
Store Owner: No. No hologram stuff. Only practical things.
Grallator: ::He blinked, as if the store owner had just declared war on metaphysics:: No hologram stuff? My dear merchant of matter, that’s like saying “no whimsy in the whimsy aisle.” Holospanners are the backbone of speculative tinkering! The very tool one uses when reality feels a bit too... literal. ::He leaned in, mock-serious:: But I respect your commitment to the tangible. There’s something noble about glue that sticks to your fingers for three days and glitter that infiltrates your uniform like a subspace parasite. Practicality has its place. It’s just usually not my place. ::Then, to Stapledon, with a wink:: We’ll make do. After all, the CCC is about crafting with heart, not holograms. Though if a holospanner were to mysteriously appear, I wouldn’t question it. I’d just assume it was a gift from the Spirit of Improvised Engineering. Or a prank from Schrödi. Either way, we proceed—with glue, grit, and gratuitous nacelles.
Stapledon: Well I already have two cats and I was never a very good sewer. Every few stitches on the machine I had to ask the teacher for a multitool and a screwdriver to take apart the machine and fix it. So models with glitter would be best…
Grallator felt a pang of sympathy for Stapledon—the kind of pang that usually accompanied the realization that someone had wandered into a metaphorical swamp wearing emotional flip-flops. She stood there, adrift in a sea of sequins and existential indecision, looking like a woman who’d just been asked to choose between seventeen shades of regret and a spool of thread that might be sentient. He considered saying something comforting, like “Would you like to try hand sewing?” but worried it might sound too much like a threat. After all, hand sewing was one of those activities that sounded quaint and therapeutic until you realized it involved stabbing fabric repeatedly with a tiny spear while muttering ancient curses under your breath. It was less a hobby and more a ritual sacrifice of patience. Still, Grallator reasoned, it was better than letting her drift into the aisle labeled “Advanced Beading Techniques,” which was known to consume souls and occasionally warp time. It was a small gesture, but in the glitter-choked chaos of the hobby shop, it felt like offering a compass to someone lost in a maze built by a caffeinated raccoon with access to craft supplies.
Grallator: ::He turned to Stapledon with the air of someone about to explain the universe using only a thimble and a diagram of a confused badger:: You know, hand sewing is vastly underrated. It’s the sort of activity that makes you feel like you’re achieving something profound while simultaneously questioning the structural integrity of thread. It’s quiet, meditative, and only occasionally results in the creation of a small black hole where your needle was supposed to be. ::He gestured vaguely toward the store shelves:: I suspect this establishment may carry the necessary implements—needles, thread, possibly a spool that hums gently in G-flat when exposed to sarcasm. If not, we shall improvise. I once stitched a ceremonial Bolian sash using dental floss and the vague memory of how knots work. It was a triumph of spirit over technique and was later classified as a minor diplomatic incident. ::He straightened, eyes gleaming with the sort of optimism usually reserved for people about to glue glitter to a warp coil:: So yes, Stapledon. Glitter models are splendid. But hand sewing? That’s where the real chaos lives. And chaos, as we know, is the true engine of creativity. That and cats. Mostly cats.
Store Owner: We do carry some sewing appliances.
Stapledon: Response
Grallator: So. Wanna hand sew a captain uniform for one of your cats or wanna craft a ship with a lot of nacelles that glitter? Before reason catches up and asks what we’re doing with seventeen nacelles and a sewing kit labeled “For Emergency Use Only.”
Stapledon: Response
Grallator: ::to the store owner:: How much for that Necron Monolith?
Store Owner: If you promise to make it with some of that glitter you ordered i’ll give it for free.
Stapledon: Response
Ensign Theridion Grallator
Engineering Officer
USS Chin'toka NCC-97187
C240207TG3