I've been thinking about Podley lately. You know, the gruff but good-hearted desk chief from Space Precinct. Always holed up in the control room, barking orders at Brogan and Haldane, trying to keep order in the madness that is Demeter City. He’s not exactly built for sandy beaches and sunshine, but what if, somehow—maybe a freak teleportation mishap, or a downed cruiser during a solo mission—Podley ended up stranded on a desert island?
First off, the image alone is hilarious. That big frog-like Creon body of his, sitting under a palm tree with his uniform rumpled, webbed feet half-buried in hot sand, staring out at the ocean with a deeply unimpressed frown. You just know he'd grumble something like, "This is not in my job description."
But the thing about Podley is—beneath that crusty, bureaucratic exterior, he's sharp, level-headed, and deeply resourceful. He’d complain at first, probably muttering to himself about budget cuts, incompetent engineers, and why on Altor they let him go out on a field assignment in the first place. But then, slowly but surely, he'd shift into survival mode.
The uniform jacket would come off, sleeves rolled up. He’d find a big stick and immediately declare it his “Command Baton.” He’d start organizing his surroundings like it was Precinct 88 all over again. I imagine he'd assign zones around the island: one for sleeping, one for food collection, one for “operations”—which is just him sitting on a rock scanning the horizon for a rescue ship with a homemade periscope made from bamboo and broken visor lenses.
He'd keep a daily log, of course. Scribbled on palm fronds, bark, or anything he could find, in that neat, slightly grumpy handwriting of his. “Day Twelve. Still no sign of rescue. Ate something that looked like a Flarn beetle. Regret everything.”
And then there’s his sense of authority. Even if he’s the only one on the island, Podley would still try to maintain order. I bet he’d talk to the local wildlife as though they were rookies under his command. A crab walks past? “You! Patrol the perimeter. And stay out of the food rations.” A seagull swoops down and steals his snack? “I will file a formal complaint with Central Command, bird!”
And yet, underneath it all, I think the solitude would crack something open in him. There’s a quiet loneliness to Podley, always behind that desk while others go out and take risks. On the island, away from constant alerts and reports, he might allow himself to just… stop. Watch the waves. Listen to the wind. Feel something soft in himself that he's not usually allowed to show at work.
Maybe he even finds a moment of peace. Sitting on a rock at sunset, sipping coconut water from a carved-out shell, watching the pink sky ripple across the sea. He might grumble out loud just to keep up appearances—“This is absurd. Ridiculous.”—but secretly, he lets himself smile.
And then, of course, the rescue ship would appear on the horizon. Maybe it’s Brogan and Haldane in a beat-up cruiser, waving like mad, thrilled to find him alive. As they land, Podley would stand, brush off his trousers, and announce, “Took you long enough. Now get me back to my desk.”
But I like to think there’d be a beat—a tiny beat—where he looks back at the island, just once, before boarding. Not with regret, but with quiet recognition. A memory of stillness. Of being alone, but not afraid. Of finding a kind of balance between control and surrender.
Podley on a desert island. It sounds like a silly what-if, but really, it’s a gentle reminder that even the toughest desk chiefs need a break. Even the ones with webbed hands and an endless stack of reports.
He’d survive. Grumble, organise, adapt, and endure.
Because that’s just who he is.
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