Persian Rug Dreams

   
    “A screaming comes across the sky,” West says, tilting back in the co-pilot’s chair non-chalantly. (Though he’d had solder the metal chair to make it do that.)
        “I know,” Corker whispers, feet up on the Zeester’s console and mashing buttons on an old GameSphere. His piloting station is weirdly decorated with tribal rugs and pots. “Truly, truly spooky.”
         “Sander, you don’t get it.” West’s chair bangs horizontal. “Have you ever heard Robin talk that much? I thought the kid was like mute.”
        “So, guess he’s not.”
        “But I’m pretty sure half of that dream was from Peter Pan or something. Or like, Shakespeare. Why does he talk like that?”
        “Who? Just Vienna it,” Corker says. “She love smommying him. Probs knows-”
        A sudden bang! topples West out of his chair and the Sphere out of Corker’s hands.
        “The heck!”
        “I am a sick man,” and all the sudden Robin himself slithers out of the air duct directly above them. “I think my liver hurts.” He gangle-limbs across pipes and tubes down to them as West scrambles back into his seat.
        “Oh my GOD, Robin!”
        “Time is like the dimensions of space,” Robin replies, boasting a grin like West has never seen on him. He lies down on the old rug and SNUGGLES.
        “Yes, Robin. You are very fast.” Corker pauses. “And bendy. ...are you sick?”
        “In the head,” West mutters sullenly.
        “I have made an important decision today.” He puffs out his pathetic little ribcage, hand on hips: “Coca-Cola. Enjoy.”
        “Um. You want a Coke?”
        Robin worms his way between Corker and the console and presses his hands to Corker’s face, shaking the pilot’s head side to side. “No Robin, no Robin.” Then he poked himself in the sternum. “Robin Coca-Cola.”
        Corker looks up at West, cheeks squashed. “What?”
        “He’s rebranding himself,” West says. “Alright. Coca-Cola. Great. Now scramble.” He detaches Robin from the front of his pilot. “We have important ship-flying business.”
        Robin grabs West’s arm and half climbs him to breathe fervently into his ear: “Who would ever think that so much went on in the soul of a young girl?”
        “Augh!” West jerks back, Robin drops to the deck, giggling. “Okay, okay. So you’re Robin Coca-Cola and you’re a girl now.”
        The kid launches up, nose elevated like a snotty teenaged girl. “People never notice anything.” And then he sashays out of the bridge.
        “That was funny.” Corker says, picking up his Sphere.
        “That was from Catcher in the Rye,” West says, offended. He jabs at a big red button. “Vienna. Get in here.”