A human kid sneaks into unlocked Havenworlder quarters and leaves little hand-made gifts behind, carefully folded pieces of origami neatly secured to the tops of colorful bookmarks. -- Anon Guest
[AN: This is dangerous for an assortment of reasons and I will be going into a lot of them here]
A serial invader had finally been caught in Passthrough Station. The shocking part was that they were aged seven. Therefore, the first thing out of Security's mouth was, "You're old enough to know better!" Followed shortly by, "What the flying flakk?"
The seven-year-old Wyn Techie had huddled up like a pill-bug in hir chair. "...w's tryin'a do somethin' nice," ze mumbled into hir knees. "It's only flimsy. It's harmless."
Officer Ru audibly winced, trying not to let their anger rise. "Flimsy is still a porous substance. You folded everything by hand, didn't you?"
"Uhm," said Wyn. "Yeah? So? They're cleared for transit, aren't they?"
This was going to be a long, long wait for hir responsible guardian. "Transit does not mean contact. Especially physical contact with Deathworlder skin acids." It had to be time for the slideshow. Ru activated a display screen showing some Havenworlder injuries. Burns. Blisters. Eroding skin. "Level four Havenworlders aren't prepared for second-hand contact with Deathworlder fluids. Any Deathworlder fluids. Some of your victims are still in intensive care from contact with Deathworlder bacteria. There's a reason why their habitats are locked. There's a reason for the airlocks, for the livesuits, for the separation. It's not for you. It's for them."
Pictures of Havenworlders in ICU drawers. Lists of medical procedures that saved their lives. Lists of injuries they would have to deal with, perhaps for the rest of their lives.
"How?" said Wyn. "I ran them through the cleanser... I just wanted to give them something nice."
"An industrial cleanser, or a domestic one?"
"Aren't they the same?"
Oof. Oof. Ru fought the urge to scream. Specific ignorance had to perish, and as soon as possible. "No. Domestic cleansers are calibrated to let you keep certain biota that would hurt you if they were gone. Industrial ones get rid of everything. They're the complete sterilisation necessary to make something safe for the really delicate Havenworlders."
"I didn't wanna hurt anyone..."
"And yet you found cracks in the systems designed to protect those people. You barged in and did what you wanted, and thought yourself free of consequences. Like a Deregger."
"I thought it'd be okay..."
"So do they." There was an extensive and compound medical bill included in the damages. "Why did you think it was okay to circumvent security like that?"
"Santa does it?"
The illogic was almost perfect. Ru was not going to be the one who shattered a child's belief in thankless benevolence. "You are not Santa. Santa and their elves follow proper protocol."
"Oh."
Oh. After all of that, all ze had to say about hir mistakes was oh. Truly, this road to perdition was paved with the best of intentions. "I'm going to recommend you take a Havenworlder Safety Course, and then work with Security and Medical to repair at least some of your damages. Your free time is going to evaporate, kiddo."
Wyn took a deep breath and sighed out, "I know. That's fair."
Finally, the parental turned up. He had had to beg off his repair work just to get here. He was out of breath and tear-streaked and red of face. Halfway between thank-the-powers-you're-okay and I'm-going-to-flakking-kill-you.
"I'm sorry," said Wyn.
Pruf Techie wailed in pure exasperation, "You're old enough to know better! What the flying flakk?"
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / Kotenko]
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