All in a Pickle

764 words
Written for "The Writer's Cramp" 
Like the characters? Read more in "The Great Adventure" 
Prompt: It’s time for a challenge. Gather round for a story or poem that is sour or sweet, sliced or whole, but it must be about PICKLES! Pickled watermelon, pickled cucumbers, pickled pig’s feet, pickled beets -- what else can you toss in and pickle? I suppose you could find YOURSELF in a really, bad pickle. All stories are fair game as long as they’ve got a pickle!

Melachen restlessly drifted across the brig, back and forth. "This is a real pickle," he complained. They'd seized his luggage and pushed him into the brig along with the North Quarter Guide. It seemed wrong somehow. He'd recently received an okay for his transfer from the South Quarter dorms to the North at the military school he attended and on his moving day a drill had begun.

"At least it was a pickle," his Guide, an android who looked just like a human, said from the corner of the room. Melachen looked over, his brows drawing together.

"Was a pickle?" Had it found a way out?

"Yes," the Guide poked at something on the ground with the toe of its foot. Melachen walked over and squatted down on the ground to see a shriveled little cucumber thing. It smelled sort of like dill and rot. His nose crinkled and he stood, moving away.

"Right, it was, now it's a gross pickle. Come away from there. It isn't going to get us out of here." Melachen kicked moodily at the bars that held them. The dark brushed bars looked like they belonged on a movie set, or in a nightclub. It was more that they were fairly new. South Quarter had won an all new brig in the last war competition.

"Maybe it could," the Guide said thoughtfully. "We could plant it in front of the door, then call for someone. If we lure them in they might slip on it then you can grab their weapon while I take the keys. After that we lock them in the cell and seek out your luggage."

Melachen stared at the Guide, "That sounds unlikely."

"It has a forty-nine point seven percent chance of working according to my sources. Do you have a better idea?" The Guide stared at him.

"Not really," Melachen shrugged. It was better than no plan at all. "Hey," he called out loudly, rattling the bars, "this Guide is malfunctioning. Hey!"

"What the hell's going on in there," it was Zeek-ium, one of the big burly guys who had caught them. It was just an amazing feat all things considered. Melachen shook his head. The drill should never have been taking place at this time. New students were coming in and would have no clue what to do.

"There's something wrong with this Guide," Melachen reiterated as Zeek-ium came into view, "it's hurt or something."

"He," the Guide said, holding the mushy pickle in the air.

"What?" Melachen had expected the pickle to already be on the floor and the Guide to be acting injured or something. Besides, since when did Guides have a sex?

"I identify myself as being of the male persuasion," the Guide replied, holding out the pickle to Zeek-ium. "I am in need of immediate maintenance."

"The Hell?" Hell appeared to be Zeek-ium's swear word of the day.

"There is a ninety-one point two nine percent chance I will explode if I go untreated," the Guide informed him. Melachen couldn't help being impressed. He hadn't thought Guides could lie.

"Aw, Hell," Zeek-ium pulled out his key and put it in the lock, evidently unwilling to take a chance with a glitchy Guide. "You stay there," he commanded pointing his pellet stunner in Melachen's direction. Melachen put his hands up in the air.

"No problem, I'll stay right here, just do something about it... him I mean."

Zeek-ium waved the gun toward the door, "Come on then."

"I have a name," the Guide replied.

"Good for you, now get out here so we can get you to a mech," Zeek-ium replied.

"No."

Melachen stared at the Guide. What was it thinking? All it needed to do was get Zeek-ium to turn his back on one of them and... Zeek-ium turned to face the Guide full on, putting his back to Melachen.

"Look, I don't know what the hell your problem is," he began. Melachen jumped on him, slamming him into the ground with enough force to knock the gun out of his hand. It skittered across the floor. The Guide dropped the pickle and ran for the gun. Melachen grabbed the keys and moved away as his Guide held the gun on Zeek-ium.

"My name is Dusty," the Guide said waving the gun at Zeek-ium as they both backed out of the cell. "Remember it." Zeek-ium groaned but he wasn't off the floor before the Guide and Melachen had left the room. Everything had gone exactly not according to plan, but they were out and that made Melachen very happy.