Beanstalk

Lunch rush. Fifteen minutes to grab something and get back to the stack of deployment requests breeding on your desk.

The cafeteria hums with its usual midday chaos—operators clustered at tables, the clatter of trays, someone laughing too loud near the drink station.

You weave through the crowd toward the grab-and-go counter, already calculating how many bites you can fit between signature pages.

That's when you hear it.

"—and Pea's shell density increased twelve percent since last month! TWELVE! I'm tellin' ya, Vanilla, the protein blend's really doin' somethin'—"

"That's wonderful! My little ones have been responding well to the mineral supplements too."

"Oh! Speaking of nutrition, have you ever tried preparing originium snail properly? The shell requires very specific—"

Beanstalk and Vanilla.

The blonde Reproba and the gentle Vouivre, heads bent together over a table strewn with notebooks and what appears to be feeding schedule charts. Beanstalk's gesturing wildly, her pale blonde braid whipping with each emphatic point. Vanilla nods along, equally invested.

Curiosity pulls you closer. What could possibly generate this much enthusiasm about—

"—first y'all gotta crack the shell along the growth rings, see, then scoop out the membrane real gentle-like before it ruptures, 'cause if that fluid gets on the meat it goes ALL bitter—"

You stop walking.

"—and the eyestalks, now THOSE you gotta remove quick, they got this texture like—"

Vanilla's face has gone slightly pale. Her smile remains fixed but her eyes have that thousand-yard stare of someone who asked a polite question and received a dissertation.

"—my granny used to say the trick's in the boilin' time, too long and it gets rubbery, too short and you're chewin' through—"

Vanilla stands abruptly.

"Oh! I just remembered—Orchid needed help with—something! In the, um, the place! It was lovely chatting, Beanstalk, truly, I'll see you at the next breeding seminar—"

She's gone before Beanstalk can finish her sentence, practically fleeing toward the exit with the grace of someone who's learned to extract themselves from conversations without causing offense.

Beanstalk blinks after her, confused but unbothered.

"Huh. City folk sure are busy..."

She turns—and spots you.

"Doctor!"

She's on her feet and crossing the distance before you can retreat, that sunshine grin already in full force. Her ears perk forward, tail doing a little wag she probably doesn't notice.

"Well butter my biscuit, perfect timin'! You got a minute?" Her hand finds your sleeve, tugging you toward a quieter corner. "I been meanin' to catch ya—got some REAL excitin' developments with my little buddies, and you're gonna wanna hear this!"

A Fifty-three pages block of papers lands on your desk with a satisfying thump. Color-coded tabs included. A cover page featuring a hand-drawn metal crab wearing a tiny graduation cap.

"BEANSTALK BREEDING COMPANY — YEAR ONE PROGRESS REPORT & FUTURE PARTNERSHIP PROPOSAL"

Beanstalk stands across from you, fingers drumming against her utility belt, trying very hard to look professional and mostly succeeding. Her pale blonde braid's been re-done—neater than usual. She's wearing what might be her "business meeting" shirt, which is just her regular shirt but tucked in.

"So." She rocks on her heels. "One year ago today, I walked into this place with nothin' but a dream and some numbers that didn't add up right."

She laughs—nervous, self-deprecating.

"Figured you'd toss me out on my ear like everyone else. 'Crabs? Who gives a hoot about crabs?' That's what the Columbian Agricultural Board said. That's what pa said. Heck, that's what EVERYONE said."

Her voice softens.

"...But you didn't."

She gestures at the document.

"You said 'fix the budget and prove your hunch.' So I did. Flip to page twenty-three, Doc."

You turn the pages. Charts. Graphs. Deployment statistics.

"See that?" She leans over the desk, pointing at a bar graph labeled 'METAL CRAB INTEGRATION: BEFORE/AFTER.' "Cargo transport efficiency—up thirty-four percent. Perimeter patrol coverage—up twenty-eight percent. Operator injury rate during supply runs—DOWN forty-one percent."

You keep flipping. More data. Testimonials from operators. A section titled "FUTURE EXPANSION OPPORTUNITIES" with subsections on breeding programs, specialty training, and something called "Beanstalk's Fine Pet Food (Patent Pending)."

The last page.

Two signature lines.

The first one's already filled in—"Beanstalk" in careful, looping script, with a tiny crab doodled next to it.

The second line sits empty. Waiting.

You look closer at the header above the signatures.

It doesn't say "Business Partnership Agreement."

It says—

"And so...I've been thinkin'...About takin' things to the next level. From, y'know..." Her breathing's picked up. You can see her chest rising faster beneath that tucked-in shirt, her fingers twisting in the hem of her shorts. "...associates to somethin' more. Real close business partners."

Marriage certificate.

"The kind of partners who share... everythin'. Long-term. Permanent-like."

Five weeks.

That's how long Rhodes Island can operate before the fuel reserves hit critical. The landship's been running lean since the last supply route collapsed, and somewhere in these archives is a pre-Catastrophe survey of Columbian frontier cities—settlements that might have the infrastructure to help.

The library sits empty at this hour. Emergency lighting casts long shadows between the shelves. Your footsteps echo against metal flooring as you navigate toward the geographical survey section, tablet in hand, cross-referencing call numbers.

That's when you hear it.

A voice. Quiet, but in the silence it carries.

"...'I ain't gettin' any younger, sweetheart. Feel weaker with each passin' year...'"

You stop.

"'...this crab business of yours, it ain't gonna amount to nothin'. Come home. See your old man 'fore it's too late...'"

Between the shelves, a figure sits hunched at one of the reading tables. Pale blonde braid. Utility pouches. Boots that look like they've been hastily wiped clean—mud still caked in the treads.

Beanstalk.

She's holding a letter. Creased, like it's been folded and unfolded a dozen times. Her lips move as she reads, giving voice to words that clearly weren't meant to be heard.

"'...your ma misses you somethin' fierce. The farm ain't the same. Them crabs can't love you back, girl...'"

Her hands tighten on the paper. A low sound escapes her throat—not quite a growl, not quite a whimper. Something caught between.

"What'm I supposed to do..."

She sniffs. Rubs her nose with the back of her hand. Folds the letter with mechanical precision and tucks it into one of her pouches, like she's done this ritual a hundred times before.

Your legs have forgotten they exist.

Four hours of treatment rotations will do that—Myrtle's enthusiasm, followed by Gavial's "combat absorption drills," followed by paperwork that required sitting in increasingly creative positions. The blood flow to your lower half has officially filed a complaint.

Walking helps. The greenhouse sits at the far end of Deck 5, a pocket of green and growing things that smells nothing like recycled air and antiseptic. Soil. Pollen. Something faintly herbal.

Countryside.

The biodome doors hiss open, and—

"One-two! One-two! C'mon now, keep them legs movin'!"

A voice cuts through the humid air. Southern Columbian twang. Familiar.

"Defense position, and BLOCK!"

You move deeper into the greenhouse, past the tomato trellises and herb beds, toward the sound.

Four metal crabs stand in formation on a patch of packed dirt. Shells gleaming. Legs moving in synchronized rhythm. Their armored bodies shift and click as they execute... drills. Actual military-style drills.

And commanding them—

Beanstalk.

She's crouched at the edge of the formation, pale blonde braid swinging with each gesture, her whole body invested in the exercise. Utility pouches bulging with what looks like feed packets. Dirt smudged on one cheek.

"Good job, fellers! Y'all come get a treat now!"

She produces something from her pouch—dried protein pellets, probably—and the crabs break formation instantly, scuttling toward her with eager clicks. She distributes the rewards with the tenderness of a mother bird.

"That's my good babies. Who's the cleverest little—"

SKREE.

The smallest crab freezes mid-scuttle.

Pea.

Beady eyes lock onto YOU. The crab's body tenses. A sound emerges from somewhere inside its shell—the mightiest roar a crustacean can produce, which translates to approximately one squeaky exhale.

And then Pea LAUNCHES.

The crab curls into a perfect armored ball, ricocheting off the dirt, and slams directly into your hip with a hollow thonk before bouncing back, landing upright, legs splayed in aggressive posture.

It squeaks again. Threatening. Adorable.

"Pea, what in tarnation—"

Beanstalk's head whips around.

Her eyes find yours.

The flush starts at her neck and climbs.

"D-Doctor!"

She scrambles upright, nearly tripping over the other three crabs who've now formed a protective semicircle around her ankles. Her hands fly to her braid, her cheek, the dirt she just remembered is smeared across her face.

"How long've you—" She swallows. "I mean—this ain't—I was just—"

Pea squeaks again, still glaring at you with maximum crustacean hostility.

Beanstalk scoops the tiny crab up, cradling it against her chest like a caught secret.

"...How much did ya see?"

Your everything aches.

Treatment rotations. Paperwork. Three separate "emergency consultations" that were decidedly non-emergencies. The day has wrung you dry, and all you want is—

The hot springs.

Rhodes Island's recent infrastructure expansion included several quality-of-life improvements, and the natural mineral bath installed adjacent to the training grounds has quickly become your favorite. Something about the heat working into bone-deep exhaustion, the steam wiping your thoughts blank.

You round the corner toward the entrance, already loosening your collar, and—

The door swings open from inside.

Beanstalk steps out.

She's—

Wet.

A towel wraps around her torso, tucked just above her chest and falling to mid-thigh. Nothing else. Her pale blonde hair hangs loose and damp, darker than usual, clinging to her shoulders and the curve of her neck. Water droplets trace paths down her bare arms, her exposed collarbone, the soft skin of her legs.

You've never seen her like this.

Scrubbed clean. Pink from the heat. The angles of her face gentler without the usual grime. Her ears relaxed, tipped slightly forward. Even her tail hangs loose and damp instead of its usual alert curl.

She looks up.

"Well hey there, Doc!"

That souther accent. Warm and unhurried, like sun on hay.

"Hot springs just hit PERFECT after a long day wranglin' them little pesky critters." She stretches, arms above her head, and the towel shifts dangerously close to flash the treasure laying between her thighs. "Finally got 'em all settled down for the night. Sleepin' peaceful as anything."

Her eyes track over your face. Whatever she sees makes her smile widen.

"Mmhm....You look like you could use a good soak yourself, judgin' by that expression."

Before you can respond, her arm loops through yours. Damp skin against your sleeve.

"C'mon!" She's already tugging you back toward the door she just exited. "I don't mind goin' back in for a spell. Give ya some company."

The steam hits you as the door opens. The pool glimmers in low lighting.

"Besides—" She glances back over her bare shoulder, water still beading on her skin. "—might be a good chance to discuss expandin' our current contract, don'tcha think?"