Time.<br/><br/>Time was a strange kind of social currency one would trade off for respect and trust.<br/><br/>It didn't matter<span style="font-style: italic">where</span>the digits or numbers or numerals fit into your particular sphere of life. It didn't matter whether you were talking age or dealing in craftsman's experience, it didn't matter if you were tallying off years of service to any given master or chalking the hours passed since you met your One-And-Only-Deeply-Beloved.<span style="font-style: italic">Time</span>. It was a maddening coinage where you could exchange a few verbal sums for a whole candy-store selection of reputations.<br/><br/>Any living critter capable of free-thought was prone to tarring certain bundles of numbers with the same brush, the same 'truths' were taught throughout the breadth and width of the galaxy. Example: a long time in service inevitably meant expertise, youth equaled easy meat and old age â€“BIG ASS NUMBERS-- universally screamed sickly and soon to be pushing up the daises.<br/><br/>This cheat wasn't always so black and white. The undeniable siren call of suggestion could sway your trade away from the desired outcome at any given moment. Problem was, people weren't that easy! Most wouldn't take your word without some form of unspoken back-up, visual evidence that furthered your numbers argument and ushered them down either the 'good version' path or 'the bad version' alley. Eg, you give them an old age, what you were<span style="font-style: italic">wearing</span>could turn you into a lonely, ol' drunk or an experienced, pleasant old boy.<br/><br/>And that was the truth of it! Time was a bizarre social currency that could be traded off for different respects.<br/><br/>Gypsy had already been lying about his age for eighty-something years, now he had a whole new value of numerals to gamble with.<br/><br/>Four years, seven months, twelve days and.... abooouutt eight hours.<br/><br/>Suck on that!<br/><br/>Sometimes he'd round that up (to 15 years) or roughly down (â€œWhat!? You just got here too!? Gods be with us!â€) but that's how long he'd been stuck on this godforsaken rock...<br/>Four, seven, twelve eight, but who's counting!<br/><span style="font-style: italic">'Having said that...'</span><br/>Gypsy rolled over on his patch, the movement was awkward and irritable like an REM sleeper avoiding whatever monstrosities plagued their dreams.<br/><span style="font-style: italic">'... what if drunk me was messing with me?!'</span><br/>The small demi-monster had temporarily staked his claim out on a primitive looking wooden hut, not his design of course, hours of slaving away and building would ruin his nails, but whilst master was away the toms come out to play.<br/><span style="font-style: italic">'Shit me... he'd.... he'd do that! He'd totally do that too! That drunk fiend is EXACTLY the kind of monster that would do that! Rapscallion!'</span><br/>Like mold, mildew or other  gruesome unwanted pests, he'd crept in through the gap in the door, got a feel of his surroundings and took them over. The room was small, dark with little or nothing in the way of furniture, furs and skins of various critters slung across the floor, a fire pit dug out in the middle, now little more than a charred rubble. Not that it mattered, a break from the sun was a welcome change of pace any day!<br/><br/>Gypsy's eyebrows almost kissed in the middle as he pondered the ethics of his drunken self, like Dr Jekyll might do Mr Hyde. He was splayed out like a cat on it's side, bambi-long legs crossed loosely at the calves,  top set of arms folded like an angry eight year old girl and the third, the spare component that fit neat and snug into the pit of his left arm, didn't have a brother to entertain it (â€œlost it in the war,â€, â€œTerrible barbers shop accident-- have you ever heard of the old earth story; Sweeney Todd?â€ , â€œCannibals. About twelve of them! And I had to watch them eat it-- DAS MY ARM, MAAAYUN!â€) it hung loosely, distractedly playing with the small, very human pluff of pale belly hair under his shirt.<br/><br/>Since the day he'd arrived he'd been marking each day. Occasionally selling the date off to strangers, but on the whole keeping time, keeping that strange currency in good supply.<br/><br/>Somewhere deep in the wilderness there was planted a chalk tally on well hidden rock. Not to be tampered with. Nossir. Come spring he could scarcely reach it for plants and had to wait until he'd<span style="font-style: italic">turned</span>for his outer skin to scale up and squeeze through the nettles scratching off all the days he'd missed. Not usually without one of the little venus fly trap looking devils nipping at the tender flesh of his underbelly and leaving him reeling off every curse in every language his mind could conjure. His transformations were not the pretty wonder of nature his mothers were. They were more â€¦ fleshy, hardly an area of outstanding natural beauty more a WARNING: DISASTER ZONE that left whole leaves of midriff muscle raw and exposed.<br/>Hell, get that stung and you'd know about it for weeks. It'd remind you...<br/><br/>At any rate, time wasn't the only thing Gypsy was hoarding.<br/>No he was far to ambitious for that. Since the day they'd dropped him off, '<span style="font-style: italic">Four, seven, twelve, eight.</span>' he'd been taste testing local plants theorizing thus;<span style="font-style: italic">'One of these fackers've gotta give me a buzz..' </span>. If he could develop some kind of booze or narcotic that didn't kill you outright, a planet with nothing to do but sit and think about everything you'd lost would snatch it up in a heartbeat!<br/><br/>Talk about your ace in the hole!<br/><br/>As a result he'd fallen ill more times than he could count (and he had the advantage in fingers over anyone out here!), hallucinated and nearly threw himself off a cliff and lost almost three years to a whacking great gap in his memory, on stormy evenings, if the wind blew too hard he swore he could hear it whistle right through! Or at least he<span style="font-style: italic">assumed</span>three years... if those tally's on the wall could be trusted...<br/><br/>A chilling wave of paranoia swept up the length of his spine and set his hair on end. The thought was a kick in the gut and forced a pained groan up from the bottom of his throat. Time was the only stable thing left!? How DARE he mess with it!<span style="font-style: italic"> 'Dammit you drunken fool! What have you done!?'</span><br/><br/>It was all too much.<br/><br/>â€œI'm going for a walk!â€ he announced, swinging upright, raking fingers through his hair, gritting his spiny teeth like forks rattling in a drawer. The noise was almost a crack of lightening against the starkly silent room.<br/><br/>'<span style="font-style: italic">Who the are you chatting to? There's no one here...</span>' an internal voice purred with curious amusement.<br/><br/>â€œQuiet you!â€ He snorted casually in reply, hooked his jacket up from the floor with the tip of one slender finger and slunk out of the god forsaken hut, metaphorical tail between his legs (it was CLEARLY exuding TERRIBLE vibes!) and  looked out to distract himself from such heinous ideas.<br/><br/>Time! How could he be cheated out of time! By himself no less! What a vile, vile creature!