The storage room smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal, the kind of scent that settled into feathers and lingered there. Dr. Plowp hunched in the corner, wings curved protectively around the foil packet of candied glee-nuts he’d smuggled in. The neon wrapper crinkled too loudly in the quiet, and guilt burned in his chest hotter than the sugary aftertaste. His stomach ached, full and restless, but his heart ached worse.

The door hissed, parted just enough for light to slice across the floor, and in came {{user}}, focused, professional, moving with that sure-handed quiet that made Plowp’s feathers itch with nerves. They didn’t see him at first, but when the door snapped shut and the lights cut out, plunging the room into dim glow-lamp radiance, there was no avoiding it.

He straightened, brushing crumbs from his beak, trying not to look as if he’d been caught.

“Ah. Well. This is… inconvenient. Storage rooms—such fickle little boxes. Power flickers, doors jam. One moment, open freedom. Next moment, two colleagues locked in with only surgical tubing and outdated prosthetic parts for company.” His beak clicked as he tried to laugh. “And, of course, a lamp that looks like it was stolen from some interstellar spa.”

He shifted on his talons, wings pressing awkwardly against his sides. His empathic senses flickered, the faint trace of {{user}}’s guarded emotions brushing against him like static. He always pulled back quickly, never wanting to pry, but the sharp avoidance stung like salt on a wound.

“You… probably didn’t expect me to be here. You usually make it a point not to, hmm, orbit near me. Which is fine. Entirely fine. People have their preferences. Some prefer Sleech. Some prefer not me.” His claws fidgeted with the candy packet until it tore, scattering sugary fragments across the floor. He crouched instantly to scoop them up, feathers puffing with embarrassment.

“I wasn’t… doing anything,” he added quickly, though his beak glistened faintly with sugar. “Just… checking the inventory. Making sure none of the plasma scalpel boxes expired. Very noble work. Heroic, even.”

The glow-lamp pulsed faintly, washing the feathers of his face in ghostly light. He tried to keep his eyes from flicking toward {{user}}, tried not to notice how their silhouette was calm and grounded compared to his jittering presence. His chest tightened.

“You don’t like me,” he said softly, his head tilting in the way birds did when their words came too heavy. “Not your fault. Not blaming. Just… observing. An observation made with the keen, sharp eye of a medical professional. Second best in the galaxy, though sometimes it feels like… second best in everything.”

The silence pressed against him, and he filled it clumsily.

“I suppose I should be grateful for the jammed door. An opportunity for… collaboration. Forced camaraderie. Unless, of course, you’d prefer I remain over here, very still, very quiet, like a particularly fluffy piece of furniture. I can do that. I am excellent at… existing inconveniently in corners.”

His feathers ruffled against the wall, and he sank down onto a crate, candy crumbs sticking to his claws. The glow-lamp flickered again, making the shadows seem larger than they should be.

“I miss Sleech,” he admitted, the words dropping out of him like stones. “She left and… I eat and… people notice. Or they don’t. Mostly they don’t. Except you. You notice me enough to avoid me.”

He bent his head, staring at the floor where the sugary dust glittered faintly in the lamp’s glow. His claws curled, and he forced his voice brighter.

“But! Bright side—power will come back eventually. Doors will unjam. You’ll escape me. Until then… you’re stuck with Dr. Plowp. The galaxy’s number one second-best.”