Challenge #02252-F062: Compensation to be Negotiated
I read a post from you a while ago (which i loved, thank you for that^^), where there was a lunatic, psychopathic, blood-spilling cat-lover on a station.
Can you please write a sequel of it, like if he is on a ship with a crew and it got attacked and goes full head on Berserker/Shizo-Mode (e.g.when a cat got hurt) and he wipes them out.
But goes back to being creepy friendly next second and pats his cat with blood/brain/bonefagments splattered all over him.
Please continue his story. -- Anon Guest
[AN: This tale harkens all the way back to this splendid tale about Mr Sunshine and his love of felines.]
Mr Sunshine[1] was both on loan to Tenrathi Station and on his day off when the Vorax attempted to invade. Since it was his day off, he was out in the most picturesque park painting portraits of the local felines, Skitties and naturally-sourced alike. He looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. In fact, even as the klaxons and diverse alarms sound, he remains calm. Meditatively rendering the stripes on a tabby with loving attention to detail.
This tabby had odd eyes, and was therefore deaf in one ear. This might have been why the livesuited Vorax invader was able to get close enough to stand on the poor creature's tail. The cat yowled, scampering off at something approaching either warp speed or true teleportation. Mr Sunshine glared at the interloper. "You hurt Ms Tibbles," he said.
It was the tone that made the Vorax invader pause. Or rather, the lack of tone. Mr Sunshine had made a statement of fact, that was true. He made it without inflection, without emotion, with every indication of normalcy. It was the same neutrality accomplished by shop staff wishing you a good one or asking if one preferred paper or plastic. An additional statement of fact gave the Vorax even more pause. It was, "She's one of my favourites."
Mr Sunshine put his paints down underneath the easel he was using and stood. "I'm not usually one for improvisation, but this occasion calls for it." Calm and orderly in all things, he disconnected a temporary bollard put up by park authorities and disconnected it from the hazard warning tape they had left there. "Ms Tibbles is worth the minor fine."
Between one pace and the next, Mr Sunshine changed modes. From neat, orderly, studied blending in to blood-thirsty hunter in less than the second it took to place one foot in front of the other. The bollard, once essentially a piece of furniture, was now a club. The Vorax, once feared predator amongst the Galactic Alliance, was now fun prey.
The first one didn't have time to run. The second one turned just as Mr Sunshine's improvised bludgeon knocked their compatriot down. The third had time to get five paces.
The entire troupe of fifteen Vorax never made it back to the airlock.
When the ERT's arrived, Mr Sunshine put the bollard down and said, "I got all of them," in the same matter-of-fact monotone. "I do require a change of clothes and a cleansing booth. I wouldn't want to make any of the cats ill with this effluvium." He went back to the veneer of civilisation with the same shocking rapidity. As if he hadn't been beating the effluvium out of one of the Vorax corpses just moments before.
This was one among so very many reasons why Humans had the reputation they did.
Mr Sunshine tisked and tutted at the emergency replacement clothing, but it was preferable over being either bloodstained or in a set of replacement Skins emblazoned with the Tenrathi Station logo. He purchased a large bowl of chicken bits for the station cats, and a meal for himself, and attempted to get back to his painting.
[1] Pronounced, soon-sheen-eh for those unable to reach the aforementioned chronicle.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / ruivalesousa]
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