Information

Tronstad Sanghvi has a minion!

Fido the Generic Minion

Tronstad Sanghvi

The

Scribble Experiment #69012
Owner:

Nomi_Barei

Age: 6 years, 2 months, 3 weeks

Born: January 24th, 2018

Adopted: 6 years, 2 months, 3 weeks ago

Adopted: January 24th, 2018

Statistics

Level: 156
Strength: 216
Defense: 207
Speed: 209
Health: 208
HP: 208/208
Intelligence: 379
Books Read: 358
Food Eaten: 357
Job: Exhaust Ventilation Expert

"I was tied up and blasted, with some kind of insane science fiction weapon experiment- and now... I'm .. ugh. Just look at this!?" He gestures expansively, as if the whole world was his example of just how disjointed reality had become for him lately. "And why did he have to zap my dog?" He foreshortens alarmingly to scratch behind the ears of the flat scrawl of a creature at his feet, that was apparently once his actual dog. The scribble wiggles in appreciation.

"And you should see the fakakta hyperdimensional bullshit they did to Nicole. If swear by the broken god and his three legged chicken, if I had tear ducts I would cry and if I had real hands I would bloody kill him for what he did to me." Tronstad's facade of good spirited anger drops while he talks and his voice comes out the other side of that sentence hoarse, and his threats weepy.

The flat neon pink of his body shakes gently as he talks and for a moment, he looks like a rare orchid caught in a gust of wind. I can't tell if he was shaking from emotions or because Nichole Richie has enveloped him in a twinkly cloud of extra dimensional solidarity. I can't focus my eyes on her properly, warmth radiates as she comforts her husband and brings to mind desert mirages.

"Mad science is no joke! Two weeks ago I didn't even believe it was real and now-". Tronstad sobs from within the cloud of his wife. I use the end of my cane to gently nudge the box of tissues across the little table between us, out of habit as I would to my 3D and functionally capable of crying clients.

As if to accept my gesture of sympathy over his lack of practical application for the tissue, he reaches out of the cloud and takes one anyway. Or maybe he only took it out of emotional association, or he wanted something to do with his hands.

"My wife and I, we used to be normal before all this." With his gesticulation, the tissue in his hands becomes a white flag of emphasis. "She had her career as the digital avatar of a famous historical socialite, and I had my teaching job in the city, we were busy, hard working and we, we, we had our lives! And now... We. We're not even in the same dimension as each other!" he trails off in sobs of morose frustration again.

His poorly outlined 2d claws tighten with no visible creasing into neon fists, and the tissue disappears into a physics equation yet to be determined. "She can't access the digital landscape she lived and worked in now any more than you can access the fictional world's inside books at a library, and I get mistaken for grafitti every time I go outside! A student even pasted a flyer on me the other day! The faculty gave me six months six leave because no one could comprehend me, let alone take me seriously and thank the stars I can still use a computer and delivery services are a thing because-" his speech had been speeding up progressively as he spoke and when he finally broke to breathe- however it was he still breathed, he broke down into a panic attack.

Nicole Richie shushes and coos at him from her 4D window in our reality and her cloud opalises. For a moment, there is silence punctuated only by the deep breaths of Tronstad's crisis.

The kettle boils and clicks off as if to fill the lull, and I let them have a moment while I busy myself with tipping Assam leaves into the teapot and setting mugs out on a tray. "I'd hate to be presumptuous but-" I gesture at the tray and manage to make what I'm fairly sure was eye contact with what I'm fairly sure were Mr Sanghvi's eyes in the cloud. The lack of response rather indicated I'd missed the mark with the eyes and the-

"What? Oh, tea? We, yeah, um. I can still drink tea. That would be nice. Don't pour a mug for Nicole though, she- she, just absorbs nutrients and information out of the air now." The sobbing started up again violently on those last few words and the cloud of wife cooed gentley again as if to tell him it wouldn't be for ever. His sobbing, again, slowly began to calm to strained but measured breaths. I wondered briefly if she could only coo now, she seemed to make that noise a lot. It was comforting mind, but probably not all that so for Tronstad considering.

"He takes sugar and oat milk in his tea. Do you have any biscuits?" Her voice was clear as day and right behind me. I span round, knocking my cane off the drawer it was hooked on and it clattered loudly onto the tile floor in front of me- in the space where in that moment I had somehow fully been expecting Ms Richie to be standing.

Tronstad did a breathy half chuckle from his cloud across the room at me, "Well, I lost that bet. Sorry. It gets easier once you know what to expect. You should have seen me the first time-" his voice quavered and he trailed off leaving the sentence unfinished but easy to imagine.

I set out a few stale and synthetic looking indigestion pink iced rings on a plate and-

"You don't happen to have anything a bit nicer, do you?" Ms Richie, oh so politely, asks from over my shoulder. Oh so polite, with and just very slightly passive aggressive undertones. She seemed to be taking this whole dimensional displacement thing rather better than our Tronstad here wasn't she? Definitely one to watch that one. Well, 'watch' might be a bit difficult considering the 4D thing. I thought rather worryingly crosses my mind and isn't assuaged when she replies to it.

"Don't worry, I can't read your mind. Or anything in closed books, or your devices. Sadly. You and all those confidential files on the shelves are safe." Was that a note of humour in her voice?

Thinking better of it I tip the stale iced rings into the bin and fetch the tin of nice biccies Sally brought back from that work trip, from the shelf behind my desk, where Ms Richie had clearly taken a gander it seems.

With tea, milk and the fancy Scottish shortbreads all set up, and Tronstad now no longer crying, I hand Tronstad his NDA to sign and place Ms Richie's on the chair next to him, and settle back down in my chair to watch them and think.This was going to be quite a case load. They clearly had the money if Ms Richie was financing this, and- I'm distracted by

"You can't sign for her." I say to Mr Sanghvi. "Ms Richie, if you can even mark the paper slightly in the appropriate places it will be enough, the room recording will be the witness and verification, of which you'll both get copies when you leave."

The dog, who had been asleep at the foot of the empty chair next to Tronstad, wakes up and drools 2d cartoon droplets of blueish looking paper onto my office floor, which invent their own physics and somehow dissolve leaving behind only increasingly faint outlines.