The Ballad of Lt. McHoof

The Morrigan crew, now in possession of one (1) very unimpressed sheep, stood in the cold Caledonian night, contemplating their new woolly responsibility with the gravitas of professionals who had absolutely no business owning livestock.

"Right," Caitlin said, swaying slightly. "What the feck do we do with it?"

The sheep, for its part, seemed magnificently unbothered by this existential dilemma and merely chewed thoughtfully on a bit of pub napkin Maltz had dropped earlier.

"We could eat it," Morwen suggested, already rolling up her sleeves in anticipation of a field-dressed feast.

"You could eat it," Caitlin countered, pointing an unsteady finger at her, "but then you’d have to deal with me, and I have historical grievances about that sort of thing."

Morwen growled deep in her throat - the universal Sword Worlder noise for fair enough.

Scarred-Snout, still nursing a drink he had absolutely stolen from the bar on the way out, squinted at the sheep. "It’s a good omen," he declared, despite no clear precedent for why a sheep, in particular, would be an omen of anything except future wool-related mishaps.

Maltz, draped over Quinn like an extremely intoxicated cloak, squinted at the animal. "We could ransom it," he mused. "Find out who it belongs to. Sell it back."

Quinn, whose ethical subroutines were being tested like a fasting monk at an all-you-can-eat buffet, emitted a strangled mechanical noise.

"That is livestock theft," he informed the crew with the primness of someone who still believed rules applied to this crew.

Caitlin shrugged. "You say that like it’s a problem."

"It is a problem."

"It’s only a problem if we get caught," Maltz added sagely.

The sheep, demonstrating a level of intelligence disturbingly close to Quinn’s, used this moment of distraction to headbutt Morwen’s knee and wander off down the street.

"Oi!" Caitlin bellowed. "Come back! We kidnapped you, you ungrateful bastard!"

There was a brief, undignified chase, culminating in Scarred-Snout tackling the sheep with an enthusiasm usually reserved for battlefield engagements. The sheep bleated its displeasure, but Scarred-Snout merely grunted. "You will respect the captain," he told it sternly.

"So," Caitlin said, hands on her hips, surveying the scene. "We’re keeping it."

There was a pause.

"Why are we keeping it?" Quinn asked, though at this point he already knew the answer and hated it.

"Because I like it," Caitlin declared, as though this was the sort of irrefutable logic that ended debates and launched navies.

And so, the Morrigan gained a new, slightly involuntary crewmember. What it would do on the ship was anyone’s guess, but one thing was certain: this was going to be a logistical nightmare, and Quinn was going to hate every second of it.

The sheep, now officially part of the crew, was given one of the Morrigan’s staterooms - which was both a kindness and a logistical horror. It had been named Dougal, because Caitlin said that was a proper name for a Highlander, and Scarred-Snout had agreed because it sounded suitably warlike.

Quinn, who had spent the last half-hour making noises somewhere between a dial-up modem and a distress beacon muffled under a pillow, finally said, “Why does the sheep have a stateroom?”

“Because he’s crew,” Caitlin said. “You can’t just let him wander about the cargo hold like a... like a common animal.”

“He is a common animal,” Quinn replied, with the slightly frayed precision of someone explaining gravity to a cat.

No one was listening.

Maltz had already fashioned a hammock out of spare webbing, explaining it was important to “maximize floor space for important sheep activities.” Dougal was currently eyeing it with deep suspicion.

Morwen was tying a tartan scarf around his neck because “if we’re going to have a sheep, it’s going to look the part.”

Scarred-Snout, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was sizing up Dougal like a drill sergeant inspecting a raw recruit. “Good broad shoulders,” he mused. “He will crush many bones beneath his noble hooves.”

Dougal who had done absolutely nothing to deserve this beyond existing, stood in the middle of the common area wearing a tiny flight jacket. Maltz had even embroidered a name tag for the jacket. It read Lt. Dougal McHoof.

Caitlin, arms crossed and entirely too pleased with herself, was enjoying the moment far more than anyone should. “Ah, look at him, Quinn. A fine upstanding crewman, ready to defend our ship against any and all dangers.”

"He's a sheep," Quinn said, as if repeating this basic fact enough times might cause the universe to realign itself into something more sensible.

"And you're a droid," Caitlin shot back. "And yet, here we all are, boldly making choices."

Scarred-Snout, who had been adjusting Dougal’s tiny aviator goggles, nodded approvingly. "A warrior must be dressed for battle."

“We are not taking the sheep into battle!” Quinn snapped, his photoreceptors flashing.

Maltz, looking deeply hurt, held up a tiny bandolier he'd been working on. “What if he just carries the ammo?”

“No!”

Caitlin, unbothered, leaned down and patted Dougal on the head. “Ignore the grump, lad. He doesn’t understand the old ways.”

Quinn made a sound somewhere between a corrupted data packet and a man watching his dignity die in real time. “We have lost control of this ship.”

Dougal chewed on his sleeve.