A person in a tu-tu (ballerina's skirt) whacked, lightly, one of the sexy women with a fly swatter. A hand launched at the thing attacking back, grabbed it, and got up from the stool. Shuffled and placed it on an imaginery table. It fell on the floor.
A transition-trainer between old world and new world military actors picked it up and lightly whacked a boy in a uniform. "OW!" The trainer chin-tapped a shoulder walkie. "I found him." The boy's mouth hung open and drool dripped from a numbed bottom lip.
Eyes asked why.
"Because you let that one into your head." The trainer took a modified TV remote out of khakis. Pointed at a dozen or so things in the data center. Most everything shut down but for the grease smoke. The trainer whacked the Alice's Restaurant type waitress bent over the fry pan on the behind with the palmed remote. "Battery's dying." Trainer looked around at the human audience of two. "That one's so the Fire people can test the fabric and heat."
"That's a lie?"
Grunts hacked out something like or what needs to be said.
"That's the gunner in the next action."
"O'er there o'
Ssssssh
The boy's emotional brain winced pain to the eyes and the crying started again. In the tu-tu tribed up. "Why cry?"
Blubbering, snot fest, reaching for breath, cantankerous sounds. The tribal translator stood from kneeling forehead to forehead. "Was that this boy's Jennifer?"
"These are not the badly phrased or called frankensteins."
Those had been mowed down and had body parts and organs thieved. And promptly been evacuated. Months of days and hours and minutes and seconds before.
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