The Packrat Affair: Part I
(An actual mission.)

The sun was setting on its usual horizon. Chef and Tank were watching it platonically.

Tank liked sunsets because of the colors and the trite romanticism. Chef liked sunsets because it was the only time of day his real eye could challenge the sun to a staring contest and win.

"This place is gorgeous," Tank breathed. "I could see myself living here. There is absolutely nothing here i could get bored of."

"There is absolutely nothing here you could get bored of," said Chef, "because there's absolutely nothing here."

It was true. Barren wasteland stretched for miles, like a long cat.

Chef looked at his watch. "Packrat should have been here all of five minutes ago. Marshall's not going to be pleased." He frowned responsibly. "We're losing time." He hated losing.

The sun was now a shrunken tomato in a pink sauce, and the view was making Tank giddy with awe. "Do you really think they'll be expecting us back when we told them we would be back?" she murmured rhetorically.

"Yes," said Chef.

Suddenly, a black human-sized shape appeared against the tomato sun. Chef and Tank both stared. It moved closer.

"I remember him being fat," Tank said.

"I remember him being a 'him'," Chef said.

It was true. The shape was moving with a seductive limp that no male could reasonably pull off.

It moved closer to the hill. It was clearly not a man. It was not even a human, because of its tail. Chef and Tank could still not see its face, if it had one.

Chef swore creatively and said "Guns at the ready, kid." He wielded one.

Tank squinted. "Pretty sure I've seen that somewhere before." She stored it away for later.

The man-shaped thing was just out of firing range when it stopped moving. A pair of beady eyes stared out from behind a garish kerchief covering its face. It also had fur.

"Mr. Carson and Miss Greenstein?" came a professional-sounding wheeze that sounded like a cross between an accordion and an asthmatic Audrey Hepburn with mildly advanced laryngitis.

Tank stared. "Whom do we have the pleasure of being addressed by?" she said, ruining her attempt to sound formal by ending her sentence with a preposition.

The scarfed not-male furry be-tailed accordion-voiced thing said, "Packrat at your service, madam." It did something that resembled a bow. "I am most sincerely apologetic for the delay. Our party was unexpectedly accosted by solicitors in wigs. We dispatched them as swiftly as possible, but there was the small issue of presentation." As if to explain, it noticed and promptly licked a stray bloodstain from its foot.

"That's impossible," yelled Chef. "I met Packrat two years ago. I've never met you." He aimed his gun at the creature with a menacing look of danger.

The creature let out a gurgling sound, presumably laughter. "Mr. Carson, please. Were you not aware that in the tradition of the Hopa-folk, 'Packrat' is a name handed down across generations?"

"What kind of generation passes in two years?" Chef said coolly.

"The kind that ends in frequent unexpected assassinations, spontaneous combustions, or freak accidents in the cloth mines." Packrat jiggled an appendage in a gesture of nonchalance. "Ours is a treacherous line of work."

The Ornaments

Marshall walked into the first floor lounge immersed in his digital letter-reader and accidentally stepped on a Varythian Icicle. A boys’ choir sang. Marshall started and looked up and started again.

He was standing at the shore of the ornament sea, staring at what looked like a glittery upside-down cone with shapely jean-clad legs.

“Hey, honey,” came Aurora’s tired voice from the direction of the legs.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Marshall. “That’s a lot of ornaments, babe.”

Aurora’s head popped out. “That’s because half of them are those self-replicating ornaments from Aglian. Remember?”

Marshall remembered. He had bought them for her as an ill-advised third-Christmas-anniversary present.

Agliate (or the "starfish element," as it was known among the marginally-normal) was prized and/or dreaded for its heat-activated memory properties. At extremely high temperatures, the agliate was molded into the desired shape. Once it cooled, if it ever chanced to shatter, the pieces would somehow expand into near-perfect replicas of the original. Science had yet to conjure a boring explanation for this phenomenon. But such is sometimes the nature of the universe.

“When Lucas was helping me unload these,” Aurora explained, “he dropped and then triggered one of those tiny explosives he idiotically carries around for no intelligent reason.”

“I’m still here,” said Crush, holding up lights. His arms were getting sore.

“Of course,” Aurora said, “it would shatter the ugliest one.” She held up one of a squat, holly-clad native with three teeth. It was devouring a baby seal on a stick like a corn dog. Many identical copies lay around the floor like festive zits.

“It’s not ugly,” Marshall said. “It’s historical, cultural.” He paused, looking for a safe third word.

“Sexy,” offered Crush.

“Unique,” said Marshall.

“The 'Seal-Feast Jubilee' is a tourist myth, dear,” Aurora said tiredly. “It says so in large red letters on the box. Anyway, there are like several hundred more of these.”

“Okay,” said Marshall. He did not have anything else to say.

The Cards

Marshall cleared his throat to signal an impending subject change.

“So I was going to ask you about the Christmas cards,” he said with false enthusiasm.

“Oh those.” Aurora did not even attempt to sound enthusiastic. “Let’s just do the silver ones with the gold ribbon again and get Raymond to delete that horrible song they play.”

Crush did not mention was a fan of the song. It was eleven-year-old singing sensation Lu-Belle Wissahickon’s seminal holiday electro-dance-pop hit, Christmas With My Lover.

The lyrics began to swim through his head.

Christmas, baby, is a time for love

Passion falls like snowflakes from above

“Well,” Marshall said slowly, “They discontinued that particular line of cards.”

Baby give me all your love your love your love

Your love your love your love your love

“Thank heavens,” said Aurora.

Just give it to me give it to me give it to me now

Yeah yeah yeah luh luh luh love

Luh luh luh love ooaauh

“However,” Marshall went on even more slowly, “all the other cards are dramatically more expensive. And we just received a customer appreciation pack of about three thousand Lu-Belle Wissahickon cards, which is exactly how many we need according to the treaty.” He waved the letter-reader before Aurora’s face.

Come on, baby, just ignore the snow

Look, our mouths are under mistletoe

Aurora shrugged. “Then let’s just get Raymond to mute them. No big deal, right?”

Baby give me all your love your love your love

Your love your love your love your love

Marshall winced. “That’s the other thing. As a result of recent corporate deforms, the music is now locked into the product, and altering it in any manner is subject to galactic prosecution.”

Just give it to me give it to me give it to me now

Yeah yeah yeah luh luh luh love

“But we are galactic prosecution,” Aurora pointed out. “Ish.”

Luh luh luh love, luh luh luh loverboy ooaauh

Luh luh luh love, luh luh luh loverboy

“It looks like this,” Marshall concluded. He sighed and launched into lazily convenient expository dialogue. “We can either utilize the annoying cards we got for free and risk prosecution, or we can double last year’s extensive budget in order to procure some decent ones.” He sighed again for effect. “What does Thallos even do with three thousand Christmas cards? How is it necessary for maintaining stability in a region generally regarded as rural and underdeveloped? Why would they include such a random clause in the peace treaty we negotiated with them on our last mission? And why did the entire planet smell like wet socks in a broken dryer?”

Ooaauh ooaauh ooaauh

“Maybe their holiday cheer is distributed on welfare,” Aurora said.

Luh luh luh love, luh luh luh loverboy ooaauh

Luh luh luh love, luh luh luh loverboy

“Lucas,” said Aurora, “WILL YOU PLEASE STOP SINGING THAT SONG.”

“Sorry,” said a flushing Crush. He dropped the lights in embarrassment with a loud crash. “Sorry,” he said again. He bent over to pick them up and stepped on a seal-eating native figurine which promptly duplicated with a bloop sound. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Marshall. “We only keep those lights for inventory bingo. They’ve been broken for about three years.” Then he frowned with suspicion. “Why were you holding them up, anyway?”

“Well, after I,” started Crush.

It was Aurora’s turn to quickly change the subject. “Oh look! It’s time for tea.”

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.

Y and Lieze watched the screen, silent as lambs.
Within moments, the missiles blinked into view and darted like curious, blinking, green, aquatic predators toward the hovering, meatlike blob.
Y barely tried to suppress his high-pitched giggle. “This is my favorite part,” he blurted gleefully. “Ruin!”
Lieze glared lasers of disdain and contempt. “You are zo much like –“ She screwed her face into a gorgeous knot in her attempt to conjure a relevant simile.
Closer swam the sharks.
Y giggled again and stamped his feet on the floor.
“–like boy in zeh kindergarten–” Lieze said.
The blob sat on the screen like a sad tumor. The sharks looked very hungry indeed. Y had to bite his finger to keep from vomiting with the mirth. Stamp stamp stamp.
“–boy who has got gold star–”
The blob sat.
The sharks swam.
Y gagged.
Stamp stamp stamp.
“–for spill no crumbs on table,” Lieze finished with sexy haughtiness, then added, “although boy has actually hid few under plate.” The attractive way she said “actually” sounded as if she were swallowing her tongue.
Y did not hear her. He had passed out.

--

Tank was running urgently to the cockpit. Everywhere there was noise and red lights. “Parmesan cheese,” she cursed under her breath.
Chef, behind her, was cursing not under his breath.

In the cockpit, neither was Aspirin. Flash was flailing about aimlessly. This was getting on her nerves. “Don’t just stand there, Jake! Do something!” Aspirin was yelling, her hands operating seven levers at once.
In response, Flash went on flailing, this time with a deliberate expression.
Tank and Chef burst in just as a ladder dropped suddenly and mechanically from the cockpit ceiling and Aurora and Marshall descended wearing nightgowns. There was shouting and chaos and a smell of incense and also burnt potatoes.
“What’s going on?” demanded Marshall with authority.
Everyone else pointed at the danger light, except for Flash, who flailed.
Aspirin then motioned to another screen. Everyone looked. Everyone gasped. Tank said “Fontainebleau!”
They were in peril.

They were in space.
Flash and Aspirin sat in the cockpit. Aspirin steered. As navigator, Flash paid close attention to her fingers, and also the stars.
"Your hair looks great," said Flash.
"Thank you," said Aspirin.
After a few more minutes, Flash said, "Hey, listen."
"I have no choice," Aspirin replied with bitterness.
Flash went on. "We are both very attractive people."
"Please stop," Aspirin blurted. "I'm sure I've said this before, but there will never be anything between us except this control panel, this lever that may or may not open my secret food hatch containing my hoard of fried cheese dumplings, and this big red flashing light that says DANGER.
...Oh, crap!"

--

The Talon was also in space.
In the bunk-room, Operative X was taking another nap. This left first-mate Y, who was the clone of X from his dashing university days, in charge.
He sat at the controls.
"Excellent," said Y. "Right on target."
"Stop looking at yourzeelf in see mee-roor," came the bored, lilting, exotically-accented voice of a shapely woman with obsidian dark curly hair and stunning, full, scarlet lips. She held deadly-looking guns in her hands and posed in the doorway.
"Silence, Lieze," said Y. "I'm the one giving orders here. I must look the part." He tweaked a bang.
"You should be zeh moh-del," Lieze snarked with a dramatic eye-roll. She smiled, proud of her wit.
"I was," Y said sadly. "I actually have magazine cutouts of myself pasted above my bunk if you want to see th-"
Lieze cut him short with an impatient wave of one of her deadly-looking guns. "Look. Zomesing is bleenk-eeng."
They gazed at the Qandarian ship in the hologram laser-lock panel.
"It looks like a misshapen ham," Y observed with much glee.
"You mean eet looks like ham, peri-ohd," said Lieze seductively. "Zere is no shape to eh ham eenyway."
Y rubbed his hands together and chuckled a malicious chuckle. "Alright, boys and girls. Let's make us a sandwich!"
There was a pause.
"I have not the hunger," Lieze said politely.
"No, no, no. A sandwich, as in, a ham sandwich," Y explained.
"We have just zee Galaxy Paste," Lieze said, confused. "In bacon flavor only."
"I mean let's destroy this Black Star ship you breathtakingly gorgeous dolt!" shouted Y, slamming a fist into his forehead. He shrieked with the pain of it.
"Well, you could have zed zomesing along sose lines," Lieze remarked, disdainful. "You are become so much like Capitain-X, from whom you are zeh clone of all but brains."
She pressed the blinking DEPLOY MISSILES button.

--

In the food dock, Chef was boiling potatoes in a microwave oven and marveling at the patent inefficiency of this technique.
Beneath the dazzling white stovetop, X-Ray was tweaking wires and pipes. A curse and some sparks wafted out every now and then.
Tank walked in, twisting her hair around her finger and humming the melody from one of Tank's Elevator Tunes. She stopped, and sniffed the air like an alarmed beagle.
"What are you doing, Chaz?"
"Yoga," Chef snapped. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
"It smells like you're making lunch," Tank said, "but it looks like something else."
The microwave was making a funny gurgling sound. Chef uttered a loud, angry exclamation and removed a dish of blackened burnt potatoes.
"Oh," Tank said, "I didn't know they came in that color."
Fortunately for all, the next words that came out of Chef's mouth were masked by the blaring of the alarm system.

Mission: Pandora

"If they were trying to fill us with confidence," said Aspirin, "they could have picked a less foreboding name."
The three gazed deeply at the permanent. Behind them, the others unloaded equipment, outmoded weaponry, and Flash's futon. An occasional dust storm blew across their secret landing platform.
"Odd, this transmission is about five months old," Tank said. Her delicate fingers brushed the floating words, which squirmed digitally in response. "They must have sent it just before our Introspective Retreat."
Marshall frowned. "Is it still valid?"
"Assigned specifically to our fleet number." Aspirin pointed to the blinking digits in the corner. "It's been waiting."
X-Ray appeared, panting. "Well? What does it say?" He smelled of bleach. Nobody asked questions.
"Good question." Marshall squinted, running his finger across the scroll bar from time to time. Tiny words scuttled across air. His eyes narrowed, then widened, then shot heavenward. So did his hands.
"Oh, good Lord!"

Around the secret headquarters dinner table, everyone but Chef sat for the nightly meeting.
Marshall banged his fists like gavels. "Order! Order!"
"Nobody's talking," Glen said.
Marshall narrowed his eyes until they looked beady and serious."The Raven has struck once again, crew. Tomorrow we embark on a mission to Galaxy #443K02-Subdivision P3, Andrino Sector."
Groans wafted around the table, ripples in a pond of groans.
"We just got back," Flash whined.
"Andrino Sector smells like rats," X-Ray pointed out.
"Not the good smelling kind," Crash clarified.
"I still have scars from where the mer-people attacked me last time we were on P3," said Tank, contorting grotesquely to identify just where they were. "Right -"
Bang bang bang! went Marshall's fists.
There was silence.
"Team! We are the most elite team on Qandar for a reason," Marshall growled dramatically. "Even though none of us know what that is. Now, we have twenty-four hours to prepare. I expect you all to cooperate in our mission to disseminate goodwill and bring justice to the galaxy!"
Team members wiped tears from their eyes, coughed, cleared throats of phlegm, and made faces. Someone tittered.
Marshall was appropriately satisfied. He consulted the agenda that Aurora had laid in front of him. "Meeting dismissed. We have an hour of free time to relax. Jessica, tell Charles to prepare a going away dinner."
"Yes sir."
Aspirin did not mention that Chef was preparing a welcome home dinner.

"At this rate we might as well choose from the default options," Tank said seriously. "We had, what, four?"
"Had." Aurora fingerscrolled down the beeping holopage. "Right now only 'Ravishing Sow' is up for grabs." She frowned. "Command is sending curiously angry-looking signals."
Marshall slammed his fists on the table again. "This is ridiculous. I am going to make an executive decision."

--

Crush stepped into Chef's shoes to prepare dinner for the crew. The table was awash with talk. In the background grooved the sounds of jazz music from Tank's Elevator Tunes record.
"Well, under high-pressure situations, you can't have really high expectations," Aurora was saying with a note of sympathy. "And really, I mean, kings and queens name things after themselves."
"Besides," Flash inserted between mouthfuls of purple mush, "Even if this dish doesn't taste..." He paused, reflected, and went on decisively. "'The Crush Spectacular' sounds cool."
"It's like week-old sewer," said Glen. "Fresher than month-old," he clarified.
Crush grinned and nodded amiably, shoveling it.
"Tracey, eat your stuff," said X-Ray, "I'm not bailing you out this time."
Tracey stuck her tongue out. Her purple mush jiggled.
"I think she did," Tank noted to X-Ray with meaning.
Tracey tittered.
Marshall, in the meantime, poked at his food, sullen. He was suddenly no longer eager for a mission to come along. Only his wife noticed; Aurora patted his arm with the absent-minded care of experience.
The rest of the crew of Blackstarstarcraft was ignorant to the sounds of jazz.

--

Operative X ran fingers through choppy, impeccably styled jet-black hair and scowled attractively.
"Your modelling days will be over if you do not heed your master when he beckons!" bellowed a voice.
Operative X turned sharply from the mirror. "Sorry, Bessa."
The slim fur-clad woman scowled attractively. The Raven patted her hand, and raspily said, "X!"
"Yes, Your Lordship." X stuck out an embarrassed chin with false pride.
"It is time to ravage another small planet." The Raven sat in a chrome-coated throne and looked angry. Vinyl, jet-black wings hung loosely from a suit once-skin-tight drooping over a hunched back. "The people have begun to doubt my evil power."
"Impossible," X said.
"There is more!" The Raven coughed a cough of pure evil. "You recall the team known as Blackstar?"
"Our archnemeses," boomed Bessa.
X dimmed, then brightened. "The ones with the unnamed starcraft."
"Yes." The Raven's eye gleamed. "It is unnamed no longer."
"Formidable," X said.
"They will try to stop us." The Raven gestured with long, shrunken fingers. "You must stop them. You and the New Ones."
"Dandy," X said. "When?"
"Now," Bessa broadcasted. At the same time, The Raven said, "In about a week's time."
"Fantastic," X said. He left the room looking macho.
The Raven cackled.

It took Aurora five minutes to extract the bright violet pentron from Chef's biotronic eye while Crush and Flash restrained a gibbering, flailing Aspirin.
Marshall buried his face in his hands. Tracey tittered. Everyone else kept writing.
"Word Count, Three Hundred. Scrambler Auto-Engaged!" rang an accented digital voice. Four pentrons stopped scribbling.
Aspirin at this point had been tranquilized. Crush pocketed his T-Gun as the rest of the team gathered around the humming, blinking device.
"Thanks," Flash whispered to Crush, flexing painfully. "These muscles are just for show."
Crush nodded and said, flexing casually, "These aren't."

The Scrambler began to read aloud auto-generated strings of words, displaying them in bright lime green in midair as it did so.

Expatriate Gumball Swoozy Delicate Harpy KITTEN Lover Extreme And KITTEN Only Ferocious Death Rasberry KITTEN Charismatic Engulf Destroyer Cheese Capitalism KITTEN KITTEN Regulater...

Marshall slammed on the bright red STOP button. "Remind me again why I thought this would be a good idea."
Glen said, "Someone spelled 'Rasberry' wrong."

Aspirin snored.
"Captain," Aurora put in cheerily from her spot at the administrative loft, "Space Command wants a name registered within the next thirty -" She paused, squinting.
"Days?" Marshall looked hopeful.
"Minutes?" Tank amended.
"Seconds."

There was panic.

Team Blackstar
Baseworld: Qandar
Currently Unnamed Spacecraft
Qandarian License 04032-H Division
--
An elite team, hand-picked from the best of the best, equipped for every mission in the universe....
Ready for danger...ready for action...ready to kick butt!...
Ready to destroy The Raven and his cohorts, who have the Outer Realms in an iron grip...
Ready to free the people of said Outer Realms...
No one but Team Blackstar can take on the challenge of the galaxy!...

Marshall threw down his pen and messed up his hair again.
"For the last time, does anyone have any serious suggestions?"
The team shifted, an uncomfortable amoeba.
"I was serious," Flash mumbled. Further down the table, Tracey tittered.
Marshall's squint drifted from Tracey to Flash. "You know as well as anyone else that was no name for a proper, licensed, missioncraft, Jake."
"I thought it had a particularly subliminal ring to it," Glen piped up helpfully.
"Nobody asked you -"
Flash interrupted, "Captain, you have to at least admit it was better than 'Ultimate Destroy-o-plex'." He shot a sideways glance at X-Ray.
"Not by much," X-Ray shot back with a glare.
Tank decided now was the moment to intervene. She cleared her throat, nasally. The team respectfully prepared itself for her diplomatic mediocrity.
She read aloud the paragraph, the o's and a's of which she had been busy turning into quaint daisies. "We have much to learn from and glean through both names, which are equally fantastic and essentially synonymous. Where Raymond's 'Ultimate Destroy-o-plex' suggestion lacks charm, however and for instance, one observes an analogous lack thereof in Jacob's--" She paused, deciphering her flowery hand-scrawled notes. "Terrible Carnivorous Space-Beast."
"But it totally is!" Flash protested.
Marshall's fist slammed multiple times on the long white fiberglass conference table. "Silence! Silence!"
"Nobody is talking," said Glen.
"I did some thinking and I just may have a solution." The Captain motioned to a green pulsating hologram. "I have just initiated the forum for open-vector brainstorming. When the light turns red, I want everyone on the team to log into this central unit every singly term that comes to mind. Once we have accumulated at least three hundred terms the Scrambler will auto-proceed." He sighed emphatically. "It's a last resort, but we may end up with a combination of words that better suits us than any we have...attempted in the past."
The light turned red. Nine team members scribbled furiously with pentrons on the digital table.

"Chaz, you aren't writing," said Aspirin, adjusting her up-do absentmindedly with her bright violet pentron.
"The light's red," replied Chef.
"Uh, yeah, meaning you should be writing."
"No, dork, red means stop," Chef said. "Dear God, woman. And they let you fly this thing?"