| >> | No.28259 No good dance goes unpunished
When my buddy first tried SS13, he decided that Quartermaster was the way to go. It was his second or third round as QM, and having gotten the hang of the job's basics, he was puttering around in the Cargo Bay while the other Quartermasters ran around doing hell knows what. His work was interrupted when a rather bruised-looking Clown shuffled up and knocked on the glass to get his attention.
While he watched, the Clown performed an elaborate interpretive dance, consisting of bike horn honks, squeaky-shoed shuffling, and intermittent utterances of the word "honk." My friend reacted by laughing and clapping, complimenting the stranger on his performance. The Clown then revealed that nobody else had said anything nice about his dance, and in fact, many people had beaten him for doing it.
Then the Clown slid the Captain's spare ID across the Cargo Bay desk, winked, and scooted off to parts unknown.
My friend, a newbie to the game, now had unlimited access to the station. His mind filled with visions of potential mischief, he abandoned his lowly post and began exploring. Before long, he'd somehow meandered into the AI upload area. His eyes fell upon a shiny computer console, and like any budding shitlorde, he immediately decided to meddle like he'd never meddled before.
That computer turned out to be a robotics console, and my friend, then unaware of what he was doing, randomly mashed all of the options onscreen, including the ones that remotely killed every individual cyborg on the station. Completely oblivious to what he'd just done, he wandered away to trespass elsewhere. The radio lit up with cries of alarm and confusion; apparently there was some kind of major hull breach, and the cyborgs helping to repair it had suddenly shut down without warning.
Miraculously managing not to put two and two together, my friend happily continued peeking into doors and pilfering random objects. Genetics filled to overflowing with asphyxiated bodies as the breach remained open. Then my friend came upon a tragic sight: between the Cargo Bay and the escape wing, next to a gaping bomb crater in the main corridor, lay the frozen, lifeless body of the dancing Clown. Where once the air was filled with honks and laughter, now there was only deathly silence. Where once there was a sunny, painted-on smile, now his face bore only a blank, cadaverous stare.
"What a shame," he thought, giving a single, mournful clap before promptly expiring because he didn't know how to equip internals yet.
His face was hilarious when I explained that the Clown's death was almost certainly his fault. |