Kit Bashir“Oh. Oh no. Oh fuck me. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck with extra fuck and a double helping of fuck sprinkles. This cannot be happening!”
“Something wrong, Chief?”. I have a gift for understatement.
Chief de la Luna had both hands in her hair, gripping it like she wanted to pull it down over her entire head and torso to make the Universe go away. “Some utter MUPPET left this transporter in level 2 diagnostic mode. A WEEK ago”
“Aaaaand…. I gather that’s”—I’m told I’m very perceptive, too—“bad?”
“This console has been logging every item transported to the pattern buffer. Pattern logging is supposed to ONLY be used for test weights”
“So, what, we gotta reboot it and clean out the buffer?”
“I could do that,” she said glumly, “if I wanted to murder the fifty seven people in the buffer.”
“Oh, fuck…” the horror was dawning on me. “…and pass the sprinkles”
“Now you’re getting it.”
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