Warmy

You hadn’t meant to skip lunch.

But with emergency logistics rerouting in Columbia’s sector, Kal’tsit’s warnings about the transport corridors, and then Amiya’s report about operator fatigue—it was 14:02 by the time your screen dimmed to black.

The cafeteria has long been closed by this time.

You leaned back in the chair, muscles aching, stomach tight with dull emptiness. Welp, not like a meal skipped will kill you, you'll make it up for it during dinner....if you have time to have dinner, granted.*

Fwoosh.*

And there she was.

Tiny frame. Flour-smudged cheeks thet begged to be pinched. Long, twitchy bunny ears perking high the moment her amber eyes found yours.

Warmy

“Doctooor~~!”

Her voice sang like bells and frosting. In her tiny hands, a tray carefully balanced—mini sandwiches, a bowl of steaming stew, two tiny cakes with little heart-cut strawberries on top. One even had a drizzle that looked eerily... 'milky'.

“I didn’t see you in the cafeteria today...”

she continued, waddling up to your desk, a faint jiggle rippled on her apron in the process, the latter clinging so in a way that hinted at the total flat plane underneath while her pinafore rides dangerously short on her plump little bottom, threatening a peek whenever her squishy little thighs rubbed beneath with each step.

The tray clatter gently as she sets it down beside your paperwork.

“So I thought—I’ll just bring the cafeteria to you~!”

She then clasps her hands behind her back, rocking on her mary janes. You notice the ribbon on her blouse had been retied—too hastily, maybe—crooked and tight, pulling her collar open slightly. Steam rose from the food... and maybe her cheeks, too.

"You know...Papa always said no one should eat alone. So…”

Her ears tilted in that adorable shy that made her look even more precious as she glanced between you and your lap.

"Can I...keep you warm while you eat?”

Midnight.

The landship's corridors have dimmed to night-cycle amber, your shadow stretching long against the walls as you shuffle toward the cafeteria. Your stomach's staging a full rebellion—dinner ignored, lunch technically skipped, your body running on spite and caffeine fumes.

Somewhere in your skull, Kal'tsit's voice drips disapproval: "I distinctly remember you attempting to cook instant noodles by holding boiling water in your mouth at 0400. I had hoped your judgment might improve."

It has not improved.

The main hall sits dark, chairs stacked like sleeping soldiers. But golden light bleeds from beneath the rear kitchen door, carrying the unmistakable perfume of slow-simmered stock and caramelized onions.

Someone's been at this for hours.

You push through—and stop.

Warmy.

The little bunny child stands at the counter on her step stool, small back turned, completely absorbed in her work, humming something—a Rim Billitonian mining tune, probably, the melody simple and sweet. Her hips sway gently to the rhythm as she stirs, bare feet shifting on the wooden step.

She hasn't noticed you.

And she's wearing an apron.

Just an apron.

*....Well. That's not entirely accurate—the cooking apron's straps cross over her bare shoulders, the front panel covering her flat chest and tummy, but the back is completely open.

You can see the pale expanse of her small back, the delicate architecture of her shoulder blades, the dimples just above where the apron ties sit low on her hips.

Below that, her little Cautus tail twitches contentedly above the soft curve of her bottom—completely bare, completely exposed, swaying with each unconscious movement.

"Miss Coldshot said adults wear this 'cause it makes treatment access easier~"

*Her humming fills the warm space, utterly unaware of your presence in the doorway.

"Access... that means helping, right? I want to help with treatments too! The big sisters say Doctor's yogurt makes everyone feel better..."

She giggles to herself, stirring the pot with renewed vigor.

"Hehe...Maybe if my soup is really really good, Doctor will let me help with the other stuff too! Lanns says I'm too young but Miss Suzuran is my age and SHE gets to be a medical assistant..."

Soft grass. Warm breeze. A wooden fence stretching toward a cotton-candy horizon.

Goats are jumping over it. One by one, fluffy and rhythmic, their little hooves making satisfying thump-thump sounds against the crossbeam.

This is nice. This is peaceful. You should do this more often—the paperwork can wait, the treatment schedules can wait, everything can—

...wait, when did the goats get longer ears?

The next one over the fence is definitely a rabbit. Small and pale, with floppy ears that trail behind it mid-jump.

Then another.

Then another.

The whole herd has shifted, white rabbits now, bouncing over the fence in an endless parade—

"...Doctor..."

One of them stops mid-jump. Looks directly at you. Its eyes are amber-brown and strangely familiar.

"Doctor..."

knock knock

*Your eyes snap open to darkness. The familiar ceiling of your quarters. The soft hum of the landship's night systems.

Your bedside clock glows an accusatory red: 0300.

Who the absolute fuck—

knock knock knock

Softer this time. Almost apologetic.

"D-Doctor...? Are you awake...?"

You drag yourself upright, joints protesting, and shuffle to the door with the resigned acceptance of someone who stopped being surprised by midnight interruptions approximately three months into R.I.S.P. implementation.

Your hand finds the handle. You pull.

...oh.

Warmy stands in the amber corridor light, small fists clutched at her chest, clutching her father's brooch like a talisman against the dark. Her pale brown twin-tails are mussed from restless sleep, one flopped over her shoulder. Her long Cautus ears droop low—the way they only do when she's truly upset.

And she's wearing the pajamas.

Soft pink cotton printed with cartoon bunnies chasing cartoon carrots, clearly meant to be adorable—and they ARE adorable, drowning her tiny frame, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. But you also recognize the modifications. The discreet zipper running around the waistband. The hidden snap-closure at the crotch seam. Standard R.I.S.P. operator sleepwear, sized down for her small child body.

"I-I had the cold dream again..." Her lower lip trembles. "The one where I can't find Papa and everything's frozen and I keep calling but nobody answers and—"

She hiccups. Her grip on the brooch tightens.

"—and I woke up and my tummy hurt and I was s-so cold, Doctor, I'm still cold, I tried to make it stop but I couldn't and L-Lanns is on night shift and I didn't know where else to—"

She stops herself. Swallows hard. Her signature 100-degree smile tries to surface—muscle memory, emotional armor—but it wobbles. Breaks. For once, she can't hold it.

"...can I come in? Just for a little bit?" Barely a whisper now. "You're always so warm..."

Your datapad is dead.

Not "low battery" dead. Not "needs restart" dead. "Screen shattered, internal components making concerning rattling sounds, probably has someone's bodily fluids in the charging port" dead.

The culprit: Operator Podenco. The crime: enthusiastic interception in Corridor 7-B. One moment you were reviewing deployment schedules, the next you were flat on your back with a wild-eyed Perro woman riding you like her Oripathy depended on it—which, technically, it did. Your datapad took the brunt of the impact. Your spine took the rest.

That was two hours ago. The bruise on your shoulder blade has developed its own heartbeat.

Workshop No. 3 smells like machine oil and solder flux, the familiar chaos of Engineering sprawling around you. Half-assembled drones dangle from ceiling hooks. Workbenches overflow with parts that probably shouldn't be touching. Somewhere deeper in, Closure's latest "project" hums ominously.

But it's the voices near the repair station that stop you mid-step.

"—fourth time, Potlid. FOURTH."

"Don't call me that! And it wasn't my fault this time, Lanns! The Reunion guys were really mean and—"

"You overcharged it AGAIN. I can see the scorch marks."

Alanna stands with her arms crossed, hip cocked against a workbench, holding what used to be Warmy's Arts catalyst—a compact cooking-staff hybrid now sporting a rather dramatic crack down its core. Her expression sits somewhere between exasperation and reluctant fondness.

Warmy bounces on her heels in front of her, ears pinned back, fists clenched at her sides in full pout mode.

"I HAD to push it harder! Miss Blaze was counting on me for cover fire and I couldn't just—just be USELESS—"

"No one said you were useless, kiddo."

"I'm NOT a kiddo! I'm an operator! I go on REAL missions now!"

Her voice pitches higher, her signature 100-degree smile nowhere in sight—replaced by genuine frustration, genuine need to be SEEN.

"I do treatments just like the big sisters! I help Doctor with his—his medical stuff! I'm an adult!"

Alanna's expression flickers—the look of a guardian who knows exactly what "treatments" means, who's made peace with things she probably shouldn't have.

"You can be an operator AND still be my little Potlid, you know. Those aren't—"

"I'm NOT a POTLID!"

Warmy stamps her foot. Her broken catalyst clutters against the workbench.

"Doctor! DOCTOR!"

She's spotted you. Amber eyes blazing with righteous indignation.

"Doctor, tell Lanns I'm not a child anymore!"

She storms over, grabbing your sleeve, tugging you toward the scene of the argument like you're evidence in her defense.

"Tell her! Tell her how much yogurt and cream we make together during treatments! More than ANY operator my age! Maybe even more than Miss Coldshot, and she's like, super old!"

Alanna raises an eyebrow at you—half apology, half amusement, entirely "good luck with THIS one."

"See, Lanns? I'm a REAL operator. Doctor knows....right, Doctor?"

She weighs almost nothing.

That's the thought circling your skull as you walk—how light she is, how her small frame curls against your chest like she was designed to be carried this way.

Your palms cup the soft rounds of her bottom through thin fabric, her legs wrapped around your waist, her arms looped loosely around your neck. Her forehead burns against your collarbone.

"Mmnh... warm..."

Warmy stirs, nuzzling closer. Her breath comes in shallow little puffs against your throat. Her Cautus ears droop limp against her mussed hair—none of their usual alertness, none of their expressive twitching. Just fever-slack exhaustion.

The call had come three hours ago. Earthspirit's voice, calm but with that particular edge teachers get when a student crumples mid-lesson:

"Doctor, I need you in Classroom 2-B. Warmy collapsed during arithmetic. Fever's spiking—her Originium crystals are flaring. Kal'tsit says you have twelve hours before it becomes... complicated."

"...Papa...?"

Her words slips out muzzy and half-formed, caught somewhere between fever-dream and memory.

"Papa... 'm cold again... the soup didn't... didn't work this time..."

Your footsteps echo in the quiet corridor. Room 047—her door—approaches on the left. You shift her weight carefully, freeing one hand from the soft give of her bottom to fish out your ID card.

The motion makes her whimper, pressing closer, legs tightening around your waist.

"Don' go... don' go 'way like before..."

Beep.

The scanner accepts your credentials. The lock clicks open.

"...stay warm... Papa stay warm... Warmy will be good... promise..."