Foston Slacks - Time's Flies

27

Clara stared at Clara. Clara, however, glared at Clara. Foston admired the sparsity and brutalist stylings of the brig's cell, bouncing his bottom upon the harsh, mattressless bunk. The officer with the large nose (Derek, apparently) stared at Daphne and Daphne didn't look at anything. She hadn't been ordered to look at anything.

"Why are you wearing my face?" Clara, on the outside of the brig's cell, resplendent in her sequinned war-skirt and chromium plated stiletto heels (that Clara wanted dearly to steal and squirrel away and wait for just the right break-up to wear), growled through the electrified force-field.

"Why are YOU wearing MY face?" Clara casually ignored the insanely cute stilettos and crossed her arms in defiance.

"I'm asking the questions!" Roared Clara, her nose almost touching the field.

"Technically, seeing as I'm you, you're me and this whole thing is ridiculously idiotic, I can ask the questions too." Clara moved into power-stance number 3 that she'd seen on a 'How to get promoted in an Alpha dog world' video she had illegally downloaded while drunk one night. "Like, where did you get those shoes and do they rub?"

"These are the Shoes of Honour! No greater recognition of valour exists! The Precedent, herself, awarded these to me!" Clara got too close to the electrified force-field, burning her nose.

"Don't you mean 'President'?" Queried Clara to Clara. "Also, go girl President! Woot!"

"Why would I mean 'President'?" Clara seemed genuinely confused at the word.

"Say the word, your Captain-ship, and I'll blow these separatist scum! out of the air-lock!" Derek noticed the hurt look from Foston. "Sorry. Separatist scum."

"Foston. I'm going to need a 'What the hell?!?' explanation." Clara sighed, her eyes watering from the staring contest with Captain Clara. The woman certainly knew how to stare.

"You really want an explanation? I mean, usually you don't, or you get that annoyed little crinkle on that point between your eyebrows. You really want me to? Well ..." Clara held up her hand, cutting him off.

"TL;DR version." She felt her eyes had rested enough and returned to glaring at Captain Clara. She hadn't rested enough.

"Fine." Foston sighed, clearly disappointed. "Basically, on this Earth, religion and science came to an understanding and technological developments went far ahead of almost every other Earth's. The Solar System became colonised in the late Seventeenth century and Mars seceded from the United Conglomeration of Planets, Planetoids, Moons and Other Similar Colonial Whatnots, UCPPMOSCW for short, in the mid-Twentieth century over pizza toppings. Earth and the other colonies ruled that pineapple on pizza was an abomination and Mars, being Mars, thought pineapple on pizza was awesome. War, inevitably, followed."

"Did he even breathe when he said that?" Captain Clara stared, open-mouthed, at Foston, who smiled pleasantly back at her. Clara took Captain Clara looking away as a victory, shooting her arms up in the air and 'Woo-hoo'ing.

"He's had a lot of practice. So, you probably think I'm some Martian agent, or something, with my face altered by plastic surgery to infiltrate your ship (which, I'm assuming, is in space (which is awesome, bee-tee-double-you)) in order to get Earth to fall to the, and I'm air quoting here, not actually saying or believing this, 'pineapple is awesome' side of the argument?" Clara felt light-headed. Foston always made those long monologues seem so easy. She had a new found respect for him. Not a lot. Just a small amount of respect.

"Don't be absurd! No-one's used plastic surgery since the Eighteenth century. We're not barbarians!" Captain Clara scoffed, rubbing her burnt nose when she thought no-one was looking. Clara was looking and took delight in Captain Clara's pain. "No. We use Floatox. It relaxes the muscles in the face allowing us to rearrange it however we wish. The whole of Europe had people with Kylie Minogue's face for a good part of the Nineteen-Eighties. You can imagine the divorce levels. Why am I even explaining this?"

"Because we have very, very trustworthy faces. Especially Clara. Because she looks like you. Because she is, basically, you. From a different Earth." Foston had stood up from the bed, leaning against the force-field and not burning at all. "I'm not helping in the slightest, am I?"

"Can I throw these separatist scum out of the air-lock now, Captain?" Derek looked far too eager to exhaust Clara and Foston into the pitiless vacuum of space.

"Shut up, Derek!" Captain Clara and Clara both shouted at the same time, whipping their heads around in surprise at each other.

"Alright. Assuming you are what you say you are, and, yes, I did understand everything your well-dressed friend said. I'm clever. Assuming that, prove it to me." Captain Clara raised an eyebrow in a rather fetching fashion that Clara decided she would definitely practice in front of a mirror. For emergencies. "On my thirteenth birthday, what did my mother give me?"

"It doesn't work like that. At least, I don't think it does." Clara, too, was clever. Ish. She'd listened to Foston. Occasionally. "Our two timelines are just too radically different. I mean, space travel! Wow! But, if my thirteenth birthday is anything to by, you might have got a card wishing someone called Glynis a speedy recovery."

Captain Clara turned away, bringing her hand to her mouth. Clara wondered if she had, finally gotten through to her snazzily dressed counterpart. She did seem to be a little upset, her shoulders shaking, the stilettos clicking against the floor. For once, Clara thought the toxic relationship with her mother may have borne positive fruit.

Foston, during this time, seemed to gave taken it upon himself to flirt with Daphne, still looking at nothing, like a robot switched off and turned to face the wall so their uncanny, unblinking, weird eyes didn't freak everyone else out. Her steadfast, dead stare didn't seem to stop him from trying. This was odd. Foston hadn't until this very moment, shown any sexual interest in anyone they had met previously, despite his past history and the whole one hundred, thirty-five and-a-half spouses.

"It was 'Gladys'!" Captain Clara turned back to face Clara, her face red with fury. Clara believed she may have miscalculated. "And that birthday made me into the woman I am today!"

"Uptight?" Offered Clara. Not helping matters.

"Resilient! Independent! Indefatigable!" Captain Clara beat her hand upon the electrified force-field, ignoring the searing pain and the smell of burning flesh.

"I don't know what that last word means, but, okay." Clara turned to Foston, whispering over her shoulder. "I thought my mum messed me up, but this is way more messed up than me."

"You are, pretty much, the most messed up person I know." Foston didn't bother to whisper. He rarely cared what other people thought. Captain Clara slammed her fist against the force-field again. "Except for her."

"You seem a little upset. Have you tried therapy?" Clara tried looking sympathetic, but she had never really got the hang of it. It was all a bit hit and miss when she tried to appear it. She hoped this time was a hit. It wasn't.

"Don't patronise me!" Captain Clara seemed about ready to start foaming at the mouth. "Derek! Daphne!"

Derek and Daphne stood to attention, surprising Clara because they both seemed pretty incompetent. They puffed out their chests, both staring at a spot on the wall over Captain Clara's shoulder. Captain Clara twisted her eye-bulgingly angry head towards them.

"Get these two off my ship!" She hooked a thumb at Clara and Foston.

"Can I just say, I didn't say anything about anybody's mother." Foston elbowed Clara out of the way, holding out his hands in imploring fashion.

"No, but you talk too much and breathe too little. It freaks me out." Captain Clara began walking out of the brig. "Prepare the air-lo ..."

The ship rocked to one side, interrupting Captain Clara in the perfect spot to be interrupted, as far Clara felt concerned. A wheezing, groaning sound erupted from hidden speakers, reminding Clara of that one time she'd caught her patents in flagranté. A memory burned into her mind. She realised, however, that it must be an alarm sounding.

"Captain to the CiC. We're under attack." A voice called over the speakers and Captain Clara glared at Clara and Foston as if etching the words 'unfinished business' with her eyes on their foreheads. Without thinking, Clara tried to rub it off.