A Very Blackstar Christmas

The Tree

Aurora was decorating the tree in the first floor sitting area.

It was a turgid, code-7 imitation nylon and pseudo-antiporylate affair boasting “artificial chain-link inhibitors for maximum organic character,” which was more than enough bombast to sway Tank’s indulgent purchasing tendencies. It was dark green and shaped like an inverted cone. It defied gravity and good taste.

While Crush held lights in place against the wall, Glen, Tracey, Aspirin, and X-Ray were helpfully standing around.

“I appreciate you guys helpfully standing around,” said Aurora. She emphasized specific words with a dangerously cheery edge that was not unlike the surprisingly sharp blades of plastic safety scissors.

“We’d love to engage,” Aspirin said. “Once we figure out how to approach without destroying something, be it your decorations or ourselves.”

It was true. The floor was a dazzling carpet of delicate ornaments, fragile souvenirs from distant galaxies, and small plastic explosives that had fallen from Crush’s pockets. “I can’t help,” said Crush. “I only have two hands. Also, I’m using them.”

“I’d love to help you,” X-Ray sighed, “but Jess has a point.”

Glen said, “This is what some might call a Catch-22.” Nobody cared.

Aurora glared with impatience. “If that is the case then you certainly could go and make yourselves useful somewhere else instead of gaping like those pathetic fish in restaurant tanks who have nothing to do but flounder aimlessly about until they inevitably die horrible deaths at the incompetent hands of amateur chef’s assistants by drowning in a subpar garlic butter sautée.”

Tracey tittered. X-Ray, however, was offended. “We’re not gaping. We’re waiting for directives.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Aspirin. “I’m here to scoff.”

“You could leave or carefully clear a path,” Aurora said with all the kind, slow rage of a frustrated kindergarten teacher at three o’clock on a Monday afternoon. “How do you think Lucas and I got here?”

“Ooh, let me guess: the normal way.” Aspirin snarked. “After which you guys created this deadly carpet where there once was floor. Next question?”

“Jessica,” said Aurora brightly, “I’m sure there’s a loose washer somewhere in the cockpit just dying to be sassed. Why don’t you run along and make its day?” She smiled the deadly smile of an angry woman, the smile of an angry woman with authority. “Oh yeah, and that’s an order.”

For a moment, Aspirin gaped, like a pathetic fish in a restaurant tank. Then she snapped her mouth shut, made an obscene gesture with her foot, and marched off.

Glen said, “Jessica’s having a kind of an off day.”

“Wow,” X-Ray said. “She hasn’t pulled out the foot thing since she lost the airwhale race.”

Glen said, “Was that the time hers started giving birth in midair? And then the babies started falling? And then Jake’s airwhale ate them?”

“Yes.” X-Ray relished the memory.

Tracey said, “Her behavior suggests some deep-seated relation to an earlier conflict she had with Chaz this morning.”

Everyone stared at Tracey. Aurora dropped the Varythian Icicle she was hanging. It smashed into a thousand pieces with the ethereal sound of a prepubescent boys’ choir.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard her say words,” yelled Crush with awe.

The Cookies

Tank was skipping into the second floor lounge with a plate of fresh, delicious-smelling cookies. “So Chaz just finished the first batch and I just finished arranging them in the shape of a holiday mermaid,” she chortled. “This half is peppermint-cinnamon and this half is hot-cocoa-and-gingerbread and they smell sososo good.”

Flash looked up from reading a watercolor picture book about androids. “Let me try one.”

“Ah ah,” said Tank. She tut-tutted like a fat grandmother. “Chaz hasn’t had one yet and we all know how seriously he takes ‘Chef’s dibs.’ Remember how many times he’s food-poisoned himself?” She shuddered, remembering one incident involving cheese.

“But if he made the cookies,” Flash said, “why hasn’t he eaten any yet?” He contorted his face into an attractive look of profound bafflement.

“Oh,” Tank replied breezily, “He took off as soon as I removed them from the oven. He’s been too busy fighting with Jessica or sulking about fighting with Jessica.” She sighed. “They’re so cute when they’re mad! He refuses to eat and she refuses not to. See.”

Tank turned the plate halfway around to show Flash.

A number of peppermint-cinnamon cookies, each with one deliberate, spiteful bite-mark, indicated that Aspirin did not take ‘Chef’s dibs’ seriously.

“Wait,” whined Flash. “If she’s eaten them, why can’t I?”

Tank giggled. “Because you aren’t an angsty pseudo-girlfriend with a blatant disregard for team custom. Have you seen Chaz around? I want him to try one so bad because I want to try one with a clear conscience.” She had vanished before Flash could answer.

Flash sniffed the air sadly with the sad sniff of a starving beagle, then returned with depression to perusing his picture book.

Tank was humming one of her elevator tunes when she bumped into an ecstatic X-Ray and the meticulous cookie mermaid became a formless pile. “Gorgonzola,” she exclaimed.

But X-Ray was not in the mood for compassion.

“The pills are working!” X-Ray cackled. Then he was gone.

Tank did not know what pills X-Ray was talking about, nor was she quite sure she agreed with him. She whipped her hair back and forth, sat down, and began rearranging the cookies.

This time, she thought, I shall make a narwhal.