A/V Division Technician (and former JMC First Technician) Albert Sproggins looked up at one of the other techs. He was cradling what looked like a large tin box and an old-fashioned slide projector, primarily because that's what they were, so Albert got up from his report and helped him with the weight.
"Thanks, Al."
"No trouble, Mike. What've we got here then?"
Mike ran his fingers through what remained of his hair and sucked in air through his teeth. "You're not gonna like it, Al. It's a No-Drool."
Albert went pale. "Oh, sod."
"No, Morning Glory, actually - oh, right, that's a British thing, sorry. Uh. Yeah. Apparently we're all supposed to watch this thing."
"On a scale of one to the planet leave videos from 'Yperdrive," Albert said slowly, the letter H entirely vanishing from proceedings, "how bad's it going to get?"
"Alien sex is dangerous sex," Mike quoted.
"Oh, smeggin' 'ell. Why haven't you put this in the bunker with the rest of the poxy things?"
"Because it's worse. You smell that kinda musty smell? Someone's got their hands on three-million-year-old developing fluid."
Albert's mouth fell open. "Christ on a bloody bike. From 'ome?"
"You know anywhere else that's got it?"
"Nobody likes a smartarse."
"Look, I need you to go get everyone while I set the projector up. We've got to know whether or not this thing is dangerous."
"Why me?"
"C'mon, man, I don't want everyone to hate me."
Albert sighed theatrically as he wandered off. "You don't drink tea, you great prannock, they already do."
---
The assembled Technicians sat, lounged, perched, and in one case flapped (quite how a sword-billed hummingbird called Eric had become an A/V Technician nobody was entirely sure, but he was the only person who knew how to fix the photocopier) as they awaited the display. Newer members of that merry band were excited by Albert getting out his not-very-secret stash of cakes; upon seeing them stacked on the nice plate with only a couple of chips in it, veteran technicians went a bit pale. Mike sat down next to one of the editing team and wordlessly handed her a stuffed rabbit to cling to.
Albert "Right. Everyone. Standard No-Drool review protocols are in effect. No phones, no recording, no running, no diving, no piddling in the shallow end. Also, since Jazminder's with us today, nobody else eats the iced buns in the pink wrappers, they're gluten-free and they've got Tru-Blood in them. Also, for those who don't know my 'ome continuum, this is a Timeslide. We can enter the photograph, but why you'd want to is beyond me. Okay, think that's everything, sick buckets are up by Dave's workbench in the usual spot. Eric, get the lights, will you, mate? Mike, you're on projection duty."
The house lights dimmed, courtesy of Eric perching on a handy crank, and the slide projector fired up.
A slightly grainy image of a gangly black woman filled the projection screen. "Hello. My name is Antrilovorasilendar, known in this place as the Notary. Today, we will be discussing why feminine hygiene products are necessary with object lessons in what happens when substandard or insufficient supplies are available. The projector provided is a transmat device keyed to my voice, so you will be accompanying me for key segments where audience participation is key to understanding the issues that need to be addressed. Next slide."
The slide changed and a far less pleasant vista was suddenly, for lack of a better word, on display. The Notary looked seriously ill, and there was all manner of stains on the floor of the shot.
"First," the Notary said hesitantly, her eyes glassy, her rail-thin body covered in nothing save for a prodigious and angry rash, "we shall be discussing in detail the symptoms and causes of toxic shock syndrome, using myself as a, as a test bed..."
---
Seven hours later, the A/V Division emerged from the lecture, brows soaked with sweat and clothes stained with... stains.
"I want my mum," said Jazminder.
"I think we all do," Albert replied.
"Well you can't have her, she's mine."
"Ow," someone else piped up from the floor.
Mike made his way to the front of the crowd, pausing briefly to smash his head against the wall. "I think we should go see Medical. Uh. Polly from Editing isn't looking so good. Everyone else? Bleepka. Go get. And send the bill to the Nightshade."
Albert paused, a lone figure amidst the stampede. "Why the Nightshade?"
"Because we can tell her exactly what happened and whose fault this is."
"Mike?"
"Yes Al?"
"D'you think we'll ever be able to feel love again?"
"Doubt it."
"Thought so."