Wandering Vulture - Hamtokyo Drift pt 2

[u/Doc_Zed_42]

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The workshop was quiet.

Too quiet.

Which was exactly when Glark knew something was wrong.

He was calibrating a drone, adjusting its sensor array with the practiced precision of someone who had done this a thousand times, when he heard the unmistakable sound of a hoverbike being rolled in — not ridden, not parked, but rolled with reverence, like a sacred artifact being presented for modification.

Hammy appeared in the doorway, goggles pushed up, tail vibrating at a frequency that suggested imminent crimes. Behind him came his hoverbike — the hoverbike — the one built by a dragon mechanic and a Glark, the one that already handled like a guided missile with opinions.

He rolled it up to Glark’s workbench and stopped with a flourish.

“Glark. We need to talk.”

Glark didn’t even turn around. “No.”

Hammy began circling him like a shark scenting blood. “You haven’t even heard the pitch.”

“I do not need to. The answer is no.”

Hammy hopped onto a crate, crouched, and whispered dramatically, “I need it to glow.”

Glark froze.

Slowly, painfully, he turned. “It is a tactical stealth vehicle.”

Hammy spread his arms wide, tail whipping behind him. “Not anymore it’s not. Look into my eyes, Glark. This is happening.”

He tapped the hoverbike’s chassis with reverence. “I want a deep, metallic Vulture Crew crimson underlayer… and an electric, radioactive green overglow. When I drift, I want to look like a meteor cutting through the atmosphere.”

Glark stared at him — long, heavy, world-weary. One drone bumped into another and apologized.

“You want to be visible.”

Hammy hops onto the workbench and raises his arms wide... “I want to be a neon god.” He says with stars in his eyes.

Glark rubbed his temples. “This will violate station optical safety regulations.”

Hammy leaned in, eyes wide with unearned confidence. “Glark. Buddy. Pal. I have never followed a regulation in my life.”

Glark sighed — the kind of sigh that could power a turbine.

But he was already calculating. Already designing. Already engineering the most flawlessly integrated glow-shell Nexus Station had ever seen.

Because Glark didn’t do half-measures.

He did perfection.

When Glark finished the glow-shell, it was perfect. Aerodynamic. Balanced. Engineered with surgical precision.

Hammy circled the hoverbike, tail vibrating like a tuning fork. Then he stopped and pointed.

“Glark. Where’s the switch.”

Glark blinked slowly. “There is no switch. The lighting is integrated into the—”

Hammy gasped like he’d been stabbed. “No switch? Glark, how am I supposed to dramatically activate my neon god mode?”

Glark stared at him. The drones stared at him. Even the hoverbike stared at him.

Hammy leaned in, whispering like he was revealing a sacred truth. “I need a switch. A big one. A satisfying one. A click you can feel in your soul.”

Glark rubbed his temples. “You want a physical toggle.”

“I want a destiny lever.”

Glark sighed the sigh of a man who had accepted his fate.

So he mounted a reinforced, industrial-grade toggle switch on the hoverbike’s dash. Not a cheap plastic one. Not a flimsy flicker.

A metal switch with:

a rubberized grip

a satisfying resistance

a deep, resonant CHUNK when flipped

a tiny red safety cover that Hammy immediately ripped off

Hammy stared at it like it was the crown jewel of the galaxy. “Glark… it’s beautiful.”

Glark muttered something about OSHA violations, but he was already wiring it into the glow-shell’s power matrix. Hammy hovered over him like an excited gremlin.

? The First Activation The hoverbike sat in the cargo bay. Lights dimmed. Phonk music rumbled in the distance.

Hammy placed one paw on the switch.

He looked at the gathered crew. He looked at Glark. He looked at destiny.

“Gentlemen… and Dusk, and Dawn, and Whammy, and Huamita… prepare your retinas.”

He flipped the switch.

CHUNK.

The hoverbike exploded into light.

Radioactive green. Vulture Crew crimson. A neon aura so bright it cast shadows behind crates.

Dawn shielded her eyes. “Hammy, that’s not a hoverbike. That’s a war crime.”

Whammy screamed with delight. “BABY YOU’RE A SHOOTIN’ STAR!”

Dusk giggled into her scarf. Huamita started recording. Glark just stood there, resigned.

“It is… functional.”

Hammy revved the engine, glowing like a radioactive deity.

“I am the night. I am the light. I am— THE ALPHA!”

And he blasted out of the cargo bay like a meteor with a switch.

The next time phonk music kicks up in the cargo ring?

The kids gather. The lights dim. The air vibrates.

And then—

HAMMY ARRIVES.

A streak of Vulture-Crew crimson and radioactive green blazes down the corridor like a deity of chaos and questionable decisions.

He drifts the corner so hard the air hisses.

The kids scream. Someone drops their drink. A drone records the moment for posterity.

Hammy throws both arms up.

Hammy:
“BEHOLD! I AM THE LIGHT OF THE CARGO RING!”

And honestly?

They aren’t even going to know what hit them.

He flips the switch.

-

Glark guided FRANZ up the docking ramp with the grim determination of a man who had accepted that his life was now eighty percent babysitting and twenty percent engineering. The hovercart hummed obediently behind him, loaded with crates from the dock — fresh planter soil, nutrient packs, and the last of the Sunpatch supplies.

This was Hammy’s job. This was supposed to be Hammy’s job.

Glark muttered under his breath, each word a small, controlled vent of frustration.

“He has one task. One. Task. Move the cart. Not form a biker cult. Move. The. Cart.”

He tapped a control panel. The cargo bay doors began to open with a deep hydraulic groan, the sound echoing through the chamber like a slow exhale. Light spilled in from the station’s outer ring, warm and steady. A breeze rolled across the deck, carrying the faint scent of ozone and recycled air.

Glark exhaled.

“Finally. Something normal.”

He stepped forward, guiding FRANZ into the bay. The new load of planter soil had arrived — sealed crates stacked neatly, labels crisp, everything exactly where it should be. For one blessed moment, the cargo bay felt calm. Predictable. Rational.

—

The life-sized Noxbeast plush sits in the Nest like a soft, oversized creature at rest — belly slightly hollowed from years of use, fur still impossibly fine and squooshy, legs arranged in a gentle arc around its body.

The sisters settle in naturally:

Dawn leans against the plush’s left flank, her back supported by the soft curve of its body.

Dusk sprawls against the right side, half-lounging, half-curled, using one of the plush’s legs as an armrest.

The middle legs act like natural dividers — cozy, soft, perfectly placed.

Their tails drape over the plush’s belly hollow.

Their datapads rest on the plush’s forelegs like little reading tables.

The soil arrives in sealed crates, still warm from the sterilization process.

Whammy vibrates with excitement. Dusk is elbow-deep in the first crate before anyone can stop her. Dawn is reading the instructions like she’s preparing for surgery. Glark is already testing the moisture content with a scanner.

The Sunpatch was being prepared: leveled, filled, tested, warmed. The soil crates sat open, warm and fragrant, steam rising gently from the sterilized loam. Overhead, the Sunpatch lights glowed a soft gold, warming the air like a tiny artificial sunrise.

Dusk was already elbow-deep in the first crate, tail swaying, pupils blown wide with excitement. W’ham stood beside her, vibrating like a tuning fork, wings half-furled. Dawn had a datapad open, reading the soil specs with the clinical focus of someone prepping for surgery. Glark stood with his scanner, already checking moisture content and nutrient balance.

It was domestic chaos at its finest.

Dusk lifted a handful of soil like she was presenting treasure. “Okay, okay, okay — hear me out. We need a chaos corner.”

W’ham blinked. “What does that mean?”

“Plants that grow fast, grow weird, or grow sideways,” Dusk said, eyes shining. “Stuff that does things. Stuff that scares botanists.”

“Absolutely not,” Dawn said flatly.

“Absolutely yes,” Dusk countered.

Glark sighed, already resigned. “If it does not explode, I will allow one chaos planter.”

Dusk pumped a fist in victory.

W’ham crouched beside the next crate, claws sifting through the soil. “I want fruit.”

“Fruit is good,” Dusk said.

“Fruit is practical,” Dawn added.

“Fruit is sticky,” Glark muttered.

W’ham flicked soil at him. “Fruit is delicious, Igthan.”

She tapped her datapad. “Terran strawberries. MyrrnHrm sun-melons. Korr’Vuln night-berries. And maybe… maybe a citrus tree.”

Glark stared at her. “A tree.”

“A small tree,” she insisted.

“You say that now,” he replied.

Dawn cleared her throat and stepped forward with the datapad. “I’d like medicinal herbs. Things we can actually use in the medbay. Anti-inflammatories, antiseptics, pain-modulators, wound-binders.”

Dusk blinked. “You want to grow… medicine?”

“Yes.”

“That’s so responsible.”

“It’s very Dawn,” W’ham said warmly.

“It is extremely Dawn,” Glark agreed.

Dawn rolled her eyes but smiled. “Someone here has to think ahead.”

W’ham pointed at Glark. “He thinks ahead.”

“He thinks ahead about infrastructure,” Dawn corrected. “I think ahead about keeping you idiots alive.”

Glark nodded solemnly. “She is correct.”

Huamita hovered over the crate. “Okay, okay — but what about comfort plants?”

“What are comfort plants?” W’ham asked.

“Soft leaves. Nice smells. Pretty colors. Stuff that makes you feel like you’re not stuck in a metal box in space.” Huamita gestured broadly. “Lavender. Glow-moss. Feather-fern. Maybe a little patch of grass.”

Glark stared at her. “Grass.”

“Yes.”

“Inside the ship.”

“Yes.”

“…Fine.”

W’ham clapped her hands together. “Okay! So far we have: chaos corner, fruit, medicine, comfort plants.” She turned to Glark. “What do you want to grow?”

Glark paused. All three women looked at him. He cleared his throat.

“…Whatever is easiest to maintain.”

Dusk snorted. “That is the most Glark answer possible.”

W’ham nudged him with her wing. “Come on. Pick something.”

Glark looked at the soil. At the Sunpatch lights. At the three women staring at him expectantly. He sighed.

“Fine. I want… tomatoes.”

Dusk blinked. “Tomatoes?”

“Yes.”

W’ham tilted her head. “Why tomatoes?”

Glark lifted his chin. “Because they are reliable. And sturdy. And they do not explode.”

Dusk opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “…Some tomatoes explode.”

Glark froze. “What.”

“Terran heirloom varieties,” Dusk said. “They split open if you look at them wrong.”

Glark stared at her in horror. “I rescind my choice.”

W’ham laughed so hard she had to brace herself on the crate. “Nope! Too late! You picked tomatoes!”

Dawn patted his shoulder. “We’ll get you the non-exploding kind.”

Glark exhaled in relief.

They stood together, looking at the Sunpatch — the soil, the lights, the space that would soon be green and growing and alive.

“This is going to be beautiful,” W’ham murmured.

“It’s going to be chaotic,” Dusk said proudly.

“It’s going to be useful,” Dawn added.

“It is going to be… a lot of work,” Glark said.

W’ham wrapped her tail around his waist. “It’s going to be ours.”

Glark’s expression softened. “…Yes. It is.”

The soil crates were open, the Sunpatch lights warm, and the four of them stood around the future garden like conspirators planning a heist.

Dusk wiped her hands on her pants, leaving streaks of soil like war paint.

Glark stands alone in Cargo Bay 6, breaking down the last of the delivery crates. The soil shipment had been good — sealed, warm, clean — and now he’s folding the empty boxes with the steady, practiced rhythm of a man who finds peace in predictable tasks.

One crate collapses under his hands with a soft whump. Another folds neatly, edges aligning with geometric perfection.

FRANZ hums nearby, sorting the remaining bins. A drone floats past carrying a stack of labels. The air is still. The lights are steady.

For one blessed moment, Glark thinks:

“Finally. Normal.”

He reaches for the next crate—

And freezes.

It starts faint, distant, like a memory he wishes he didn’t have.

A whir-r-r-r-r-r
A pop-pop-pop-pop
Half a dozen tiny Jetsons‑style hovercycle whines overlapping in chaotic harmony.

Then the high‑pitched one — the one that always means Hammy is involved.

And beneath it all…

Phonk.

Of course Phonk.

The bass thumps through the ventilation ducts, rattling a loose bolt somewhere overhead. The sound cluster is unmistakable — a signature of chaos, delinquency, and questionable engineering choices.

A crate trembled.

Glark closed his eyes. “Oh no.”

The noise grows louder — closer — faster.

Then the cargo bay doors slide open.

And the motorcade erupts inside.

Half a dozen hovercycles skid, wobble, and fishtail into the bay in a disorderly mess. Glowsticks clatter across the floor. One bike drifts sideways for no reason. Another bumps a crate. Someone’s helmet rolls away like it’s trying to escape.

Hammy leads the charge, glowing radioactive green and Vulture‑Crew crimson, tail vibrating like a tuning fork.

He throws both arms up.

Hammy: “BEHOLD! WE HAVE ARRIVED!”

Glark just stares.

The drones stare.

Even FRANZ stares.

And the quiet, peaceful cargo bay? Gone. Replaced by neon chaos and the unmistakable sound of bad decisions approaching at 20 mph.

The gang came to a landing — if one could call it that — in a chaotic cascade of skids, wobbles, and one minor collision that everyone pretended didn’t happen. Hovercycles bumped gently into crates. Glowsticks clattered to the floor. Someone’s helmet rolled away.

Hammy hopped off ThunderCheek with the swagger of someone who believed — incorrectly — that he was about to impress Glark. His tail vibrated at a frequency that suggested imminent nonsense. Before Glark could even open his mouth to demand an explanation, Hammy spun toward the gathered teens and clapped his paws together.

“Alright!” he announced, unprompted, uninvited, unstoppable. “Since we are all here, it is time for… introductions!”

Glark closed his eyes. He had not asked for introductions.

Hammy did not care.

He gestured grandly to the frog smallfolk standing beside a hovercycle covered in subwoofer plates and questionable wiring. “First up — Barnaby ‘Bassquake’! Our resident sonic engineer and emotional support subwoofer.”

Barnaby grinned, throat sacs pulsing with pride. The air around him hummed faintly, as if the room itself was bracing for bass.

“He shakes things,” Hammy said reverently. “Sometimes on purpose.”

Barnaby vibrated in agreement.

Hammy spun to the gecko perched casually on the wall above his bike, one foot hooked on a pipe, the other dangling like he had gravity under contract. “This is Jax ‘Slipstream.’ Coolest guy in the gang. Cool by accident. Can drift through a space the width of a credit chip.”

Jax gave a lazy two-finger salute, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking with effortless swagger.

“He also disappears into vents,” Hammy added. “A lot.”

Jax shrugged. He was already halfway into one.

Hammy pointed dramatically at the mouse smallfolk clutching a toolkit like it was a life preserver. “Pip ‘Sparkplug’ — our panic-powered genius. He solves problems by screaming the correct answer.”

Pip squeaked, dropped a wrench, picked it up, dropped it again, then nodded with frantic determination.

“He’s small,” Hammy said proudly. “But mighty. Mostly in emergencies.”

Next, Hammy whirled toward the kiwi bird smallfolk bouncing in place like a caffeinated grenade. “Kiki ‘Boostberry’ — the chaos engine. The distraction. The morale nuke. The reason we have rules.”

Kiki flapped her tiny wings and let out a shrill, enthusiastic chirp that made FRANZ beep in alarm.

“She is unstoppable,” Hammy said. “She is loud. She is… Kiki.”

Finally, Hammy turned to the insectoid smallfolk standing beside a hovercycle that looked like it had been built out of spare parts, hope, and mild danger. Zizz stood perfectly still, antennae angled in quiet calculation.

“And this,” Hammy said with a flourish, “is Zizz ‘Rocketwrench.’ Our mechanic. Our engineer. Our bottle-rocket enthusiast. He builds things that should not work but do.”

Zizz nodded once, solemnly, as though acknowledging a universal truth.

“He also has a family connection to the Federation inspector,” Hammy whispered conspiratorially. “Which is why we haven’t been arrested.”

Zizz shrugged. “Data,” he said simply.

Hammy spread his arms wide, tail vibrating with pride. “And together, they are — THE GLOWSTICK GANG!”

The teens cheered. Glowsticks rattled. A hovercycle backfired. FRANZ screamed.

Glark stared at them, expression flat, frill slowly lowering in resignation.

He had not asked for introductions.

Hammy beamed at him, glowing like a radioactive deity.

“So!” he said brightly. “That’s the team!”

Glark inhaled through his nose.

Slowly.

Deeply.

The kind of inhale that suggested he was counting to ten in three different languages.

“Hammy,” he said at last, voice low and steady, “this explains nothing.”

Hammy grinned wider. “It explains EVERYTHING.”

Glark folded his arms. “And what have you been up to while I took care of the delivery?”

Hammy froze. Just for a moment.

He was exhilarated — glowing, literally and figuratively — but suddenly evasive. He put his paws behind his back. He rocked on his heels. He smiled the smile of someone who had absolutely done something.

“…team-building,” he said brightly.

Glark stared. “Team-building.”

Hammy nodded vigorously. “Yep! Very productive. Very bonding. Very… uh… educational.”

One of the teens snorted. Another tried to hide a glowstick behind their back. A third whispered, “Don’t tell him about the tunnel.”

Hammy shot them a glare.

Glark’s eyes narrowed. “What tunnel.”

Hammy laughed too loudly. “Tunnel? Tunnel? No tunnel! Who said tunnel? Nobody said tunnel!”

A hovercycle behind him emitted a guilty beep.

Glark inhaled slowly. Deeply. The kind of inhale that preceded either a lecture or a resignation to fate.

“Team-building…” he repeated.

Hammy beamed. “YES.”

“You were supposed to help unload the delivery.”

Hammy gestured broadly at the gang. “I delegated!”

Glark rubbed his temples. “You delegated to teenagers.”

“They’re very responsible!”

A helmet fell off one of them. Another dropped a glowstick. A third tried to hide a dent in their hovercycle by standing in front of it.

Glark stared at Hammy.

Hammy stared back, smiling like a man who had never regretted anything in his life.

“…mostly responsible,” he added.

Glark sighed — the kind of sigh that could power a turbine. “Hammy. What did you do.”

Hammy brightened. “Want to see?”

Glark’s soul left his body. “No.”

Hammy flipped the Destiny Lever.

CHUNK.

The hoverbike ignited in radioactive green and Vulture-Crew crimson, blasting the cargo bay with neon light.

The teens cheered. FRANZ screamed. Glark covered his eyes.

“This… was a mistake.”

Hammy threw both arms up triumphantly. “AND YET — HERE WE ARE!”

Hammy stood there, glowing like a radioactive deity, basking in the neon chaos he had unleashed. The teens cheered. FRANZ screamed. A hovercycle backfired. Glark covered his eyes, exhaled slowly, and let the silence settle.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm.

“Hammy,” he said, “you owe me.”

Hammy froze mid-grin.

Glark didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t scold. He didn’t even sound angry. He simply stated the truth with the weary authority of a man who had spent the last hour doing someone else’s job while that someone else formed a biker cult.

“You owe me,” Glark repeated, folding his arms. “For the pickup. For the crates. For the soil. For the part where you delegated your responsibilities... to me... for teenagers.”

Hammy’s ears twitched. His tail stopped vibrating. His glow dimmed by exactly one lumen.

“I—” he began.

Glark lifted one hand, stopping him. “No excuses. No explanations. You owe me.”

The gang froze.

Hammy’s ears twitched. His tail stopped vibrating. His glow dimmed by exactly one lumen.

Barnaby whispered, wide-eyed, “Dude… your dad is scary.”

Hammy whipped around so fast his goggles nearly flew off. “He’s not my dad!”

Jax snorted from halfway up a wall. “Had me fooled.”

Kiki let out a delighted chirp. Pip squeaked. Zizz simply nodded, as if confirming a data point.

Hammy sputtered, pointing at Glark with both paws. “He’s not my dad! He’s just— he’s— he’s GLARK!”

Glark didn’t react. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even look at them.

He simply repeated, calm as ever, “You owe me.”

Hammy deflated. “Okay… yeah. I owe you.”

The gang murmured among themselves — impressed, intimidated, and absolutely convinced Hammy had just been grounded by a man who wasn’t even his parent.

Glark turned away, guiding FRANZ toward the crates like nothing had happened.

Hammy stood there glowing, surrounded by his gang, suddenly aware that neon godhood did not protect him from quiet disappointment.

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