>>6314399"Christ, couldn't you have recalled him earlier?" Mr. Foster grouses as the elevator climbs further and further upwards towards the sunlight. It's past noon, judging from the yellows and reds of the sky coming down the buildings. "Nearly pulled out my back trying to lift him up."
"Garican hates the ball." Garcian complains when he's in the broken ball for too long; the stasis function hasn't worked ever since you jailbroke his ball. "And Mr. Roster was willing to carry him anyway."
"Groooaaaaah."
"Would be a little more convenient to have him in a ball, mate..."
THE FEAST (Star Fetchers Pilot OST - Bimbob's) https://youtu.be/flkT4n8qPtUThe elevator dings and the smell of sauteeing onions hits you the instant the doors open. You, Mr. Foster, and Mr. Roster instantly scramble to take a seat at the Thai shop hovering nearby. The gas mask duo take a menu and instantly get stunlocked by the sheer multitude of choices.
You, on the other hand, are tired from all that walking and shouting and disappointment and you've been smoking cigarettes all morning. The Cheri-siracha fried rice with Tauros with soup sounds fucking great right about now. You get a large one for Garcian because food disappears into him like a miniature black hole or maybe a pregnant woman.
"Hmm hmm. Hmm." "Mr. Chiew" of Mr. Chiew's Chop Shop nods as he takes the orders. You look up from salivating over the menu items and notice a Nacli sitting innocently on the counter. Instanteously, you remember Garcian on his hands and knees puking like a small dog with an incurable bile disorder after one of your old station chefs tried getting fancy that week. Bad memories.
"Hey, uh, none of that special salt stuff. I've got a Ghost-type here." The Thai-looking owner nods his head and barks a very quick order to his other chef. Instead of the traditional little old Chinese woman perched on a little high chair, there's a little Pawniard sitting on the little high chair, chopping away at a pile of vegetables with all four blade arms. This one is a female by the looks of it — no head crests. The Pawniard turns, nods, and clicks her metal mandibles before going back to work.
<Urhgnh... Pink Fuck Kill Eat Food Famine Where> Garcian groggily awakens with a spew of hazy thoughts directly into your mind. The chef furrows his brow as the runaway garbled thoughts washes over him. The Gardevoir flails for a moment before Mr. Roster lets him go and he almost collapses onto the ground. <Dan? Dan, you there? C'mon, where are you buddy?>
"I'm here." Garican perks up. "I've ordered already. Take a seat."
Garcian partially dematerializes, shaking off the vomit and dirt and God knows what off his coat, then takes a seat with a grin on his face. <Oh hey, I even get a fancy victory meal. Thanks a bunch, Dan!>
