Slow was the going; halfway through, Russel's lethargic pace was put on hold as

exhaustion took hold of his body. Stooping over to catch his residually delicious breath,
Russel's stomach flattened aAs the last of the obese moth's girth settled down, only half of
him had made it out of the airlock. Continuing forward was simply not an option; similarly,
retreating proved an impossibility. Stuck yet again, Russel's antennae twitched as he accepted
his fate. "Well, this is embarrassing. How, uh… how does one get rescued from a rescue ship,
exactly?"
"Beats me, bud…" Allegro leaned back against a wall panel, lifted a loose-fitting
helmet from his shaggy cornsilk hair and rubbed his temples, shooting the moth a jester's
smile. "Guess we'll just have to figure that out as soon as we land, huh? But hey, while you're
there, how about something to eat?" Russel wriggled in anticipation just hearing the phrase,
nodding so vigorously as to dislodge his visor, exposing the moth's beaming, autumnal visage
and exposing him to even more of the characteristic scent associated with takeout from
Galacta-Gourmet, a sprawling chain of fast food restaurants that stretched from the core
gainst the floor, a telling consequence the moth knew would soon become permanent. With
that magical aroma wafting about the place, this permanence was imminent. As Allegro
whooped encouragement (while keeping a wise distance away from the wrecking ball moth),
Russel's empty stomach urged him forwards. Iron-willed and butter-bellied, the tummied titan
resumed his stomping.
Russel's determined progress once again came to an abrupt stop, just as his helmet
passed through the doorway. By t stammered, scratching the nape of his neck with a hoof.
"Thought you were --" The bovid stopped himself, realizing he'd just been talking directly to
Russel's backside. Coughing in an attempt to expel the embarrassment from his body, he
began a long, awkward shuffle around the moth to address him properly.
"L-Like I was saying… sorry for sitting on you! You looked a bit like one of our cargo
crates… I was wondering where you'd gone off to! Figured you snuck out of the hatch or
something." The cow extended a hand, which Russel grasped with hestiance. Beneath his
assistant's nano-weave shirt, reassuring muscles strained and flexed with the effort expended;
after a time, Russel was back on his feet, leaning against the he time he registered the all-too
familiar sensation of his shoulders squishing against the doorframe, it was too late; Russel's
momentum-driven lard failed to stop in time, turning a pickle into a predicament as more and
more moth fat funneled into the comparatively narrow entryway. Allegro's cheering turned to
incredulous gasping, inaudible over the doorframe's whining.