The dull groan of the Brightburn’s engine gently rocked Captain Eliot Robbins awake. His eyes were stinging, and the more he rubbed them the more they stung.

Galaxy full of fancy fucking technology, and they can’t fix sleep pains. He grumbled internally. After a few short moments of tossing and turning, Robbins was out of bed and clasping together the last few buttons on his shirt.

His morning ritual was a brief one, and pretty soon he was making his way down the gleaming metal corridors of the SV Brightburn, his shoe-clad feet clanging against the cold steel floor. He had decent space legs, and after several decades traveling the cosmos he could barely feel the creaking and juddering of his vessel as it lurched through the great void, and towards the planet of Celaenos.

This mission him and his crew had been assigned sounded simple in practice, but if his years as captain had taught him anything, it was that the Leaning Gale was anything but simple.

Sneaking aboard a Luxury Ship should be easy, but the only reason you’d run a Cruise Liner this far out of Union territory was if you had something to hide.

Best be expecting resistance, and a LOT of it.

The Captain cleared his throat, before pressing his thumb against the holographic panel which linked him to the Brightburn’s intercom.

“Rise and shine, kiddos.” Eliot’s gruff voice blared across the ship “We’ve got ourselves a long day ahead. Now get yer asses to the mess hall; it's breakfast and plannin’ time.”

He dreamed of death.

His body was wooden, an effigy constructed from twigs and bound by strips of plant matter. His own self, his waking body, lay beneath him drowning in blood from a torn throat filled with thorns - blood that slithered and constricted around the twig body, ensnaring it in visceral ichor even as he glared up at himself with hateful eyes. The moon, hanging in the pitch void sky of the featureless backdrop, was a pentagon aglow with dusken hues.

There was a whisper of a voice, a hissing, clattering, dry sound like bone dragged across slate. The perturbations in its intonation made comprehension impossible.

The blood slathered itself over the eyes he did not have, and he suffocated on deafening blindness. He fell, back, back, and lines of impossible color rose from the corners of his mind like bars. All he knew was the writhing form of a tangled worm, a rind of pulp wrapped around a brittle star of bones. It reaches up into his depths with a slender protrusion and Iikka Guiomar rolled straight out of his bunk, his body falling on top of his outreached arm and making him gasp with shock and pain as his head slammed against the floor and the muscles in his wrist stretch unnaturally while his bunk's alarm blared nearby.

Grinding his teeth in a mixture of pain and the existential agony of waking from a poor night's sleep, Iikka untangled himself slowly as the alarm shut off automatically and entered snooze mode, its damage already done and owner painfully awake. Finally managing to sit up, Iikka simply lay still for a few minutes to catch his bearings before finally rising and switching the alarm off before it could go off again.

The nightmares were irregular but always occurred like clockwork just before a job, probably due to incremental increases in stress from pre-job preparations and troubleshooting. Iikka gave himself an extra five minutes as he showered in his small room's all-in-one bathroom niche, taking the opportunity to blank out and think about absolutely nothing while he stared at the metallic gray wall and hot water poured down his back. His one mental break for the next several days now out of the way, Iikka took momentary stock of his appearance in the niche's mirror.

Iikka's face possessed angular edges, having been described as foxish before due in no small part to his prominent cheekbones and the pronounced ridges over his striking, orange eyes. His long, tawny hair had several knots worked into it again - and though he would never tell anybody, he lamented that there still were no hints of gray about it despite his 34th birthday on the near horizon. Due to his slight frame and the features of his face, many people mistook him for being much younger - and consequently, did not take him entirely seriously. Two past mishaps with gray hair dye had him swearing it off entirely, and Iikka felt a sullen swell of dejection as his thoughts drifted almost reflexively to Dakho. Something about the now-deceased Comms Officer's dress, demeanor, and looks had made sure that most people had taken him seriously, and he could usually be relied on to play face if Iikka himself was not fully confident about it.

Of course, he was gone now. Still plenty of work to be done though. Iikka brushed the errant cobweb of reflection out from his mind, conjuring a surge of freshly brewed irritation to replace it. He had ways of making people pay attention, both tedious and messy, and it was about time he stopped relying on somebody else to handle a key aspect of his actual job. Iikka spent the next fifteen seconds reflexively shaving stubble from his jawline before dressing - black business casual pants and a gray jacket over an orange shirt, to compliment his eyes. He then eased back into his bunk and with a flick of his wrist pulled up his holographic work interface to review the details for the job.

Iikka had spent the last two weeks working meticulously to ensure all possible avenues had been covered. There was no question as to whether something would go wrong, but merely what would go wrong. The Leaning Gale was aptly named; the wind was never blowing in quite the direction you thought it was. There was always some extra layers of conspiracy or mercenary interest that you could never anticipate for, and the key to survival was to plan for every contingency. Plan for enough potential failures, and maybe everybody might be able to get in and out without any fuss or violence and get paid. There were some iffy variables of note, two or so known unknowns, but overall Iikka was anticipating minimal operational causticity. More security and general resistance than he was generally comfortable with, but that was a given.

Elliot's voice blared through the room as the Captain summoned everyone to the mess hall. Feeling about as ready as he supposed he could be, Iikka got up, stretched one final time and worked a kink out of his left elbow, and stepped out the door to his room. The transformation that took place as he crossed through the portal was palpable. His lowered eyes, heavy with sleep, widened faintly into a more alert and ingrained leer. His mouth, already somewhat asymmetrically skewed to the left, adopted a faint and seemingly easy smirk, lips faintly parted near to the right ridge to reveal his set teeth. His hands lowered to his hips, hands held steady in a semi-clench akin to a gunslinger standing at the ready, while he drew his shoulders back faintly and craned his neck slightly ahead. The word that might have lept to mind for many who looked at him then would be tense, or perhaps predatory.

He advanced down the hall, heading for the mess hall, and keeping an eye out for the newest member of the crew - Cha’kwaina. Gauging her reaction to his stance would be the best way to determine whether he was on-form or not.

After all. Who better to assess the effectiveness of a stance he had adopted through observation of the members of a Zartarian glut, than a Quinunaki ex-slave who had probably learned to react subconsciously to the same stance through a similar kind of observation?

He did not care whether she flinched reflexively in fear or bristled in anger, so long as she reacted in any way at all that confirmed he was doing it correctly. As he walked directly into the mess hall, he made sure to faintly twitch the corners of both of his eyes. It was impossible for Human eyes to fully capture the motion of nictitating membranes, but they could evoke a flutter of sorts - particularly around the corners - that was superficially similar. Iikka knew it got a reaction out of Zartarians at the very least, if his experiences with them over the years was anything to go by. Now to see if one of their former slaves could tell him whether he was still doing it correctly, after all that time.

Reaver hardly ever dreamed. And if he did? He barely ever remembered them, other than a few odd ones he had as a kid. Any real life dreams he would have had were crushed by the Union long ago. His room was spartan but comfortable, with a desk that held all of his tools, along with his weapons. He had chosen the location specifically near the engine. Of course he gave the reason that he'd be the only one to fix it if there was a problem, but truthfully the hum of it helped him sleep at night.

His eyes slowly opened at the sound of the captain's voice, and he groaned as he rolled over. They weren't in the military anymore, but he still treated them like it. He'd thought being an outlaw would let them sleep in, but that fantasy got dsestroyed a light year ago. Guess some people spent too much time getting ordered and giving orders."Captain knows best I suppose." Reaver muttered aloud, sarcasm with a hint of truth in his voice. He'd complain, but he'd never disrespect the Captain, unless it was a dire situation. He guessed he stil had some soldier left in him as well.

His mind caught up with him, and he realized, or more like remembered, that they had a particularly nasty job today. He grinned at the thought, and got dressed, putting his pistol and knife upon his belt. Tall with wiry muscle, he strode out into the hallway and made his way toward the mess hall, a glint in his eye that hinted he was ready to be up to no good.

A toddler in pink twisted with delight, brandishing a recently unwrapped doll in colorful plastic packaging. The camera panned to an aging face, which brightened with an amazed gasp. Lit along her edges by the ghostly blue light of the monitor, Camden felt herself smile.


Still tangled in her sheets, Camden curled around the tablet in her bunk. Before the Captain decided to crow for the morning, she stole what peace and privacy she could manage in the dark of her cabin. Friendly shadows expanded to fill the room in cool, cozy quietude, except for a twinkling array of colored indicator lights scattered along the walls. The ship’s engines hummed a soothing tune underneath everything, a sound that Camden had come to associate with safety and security.

The video ended, so reluctantly she peeled one limb from the warmth of her covers to navigate the touch screen. She had already flipped through a few pages of photographs and text entries when the Captain finally addressed his crew over the com, filling each room with his gravelly cheer.

Camden switched off her tablet and rolled onto her back, yawning and arching into a stretch with shameless abandon. Afterward, she collapsed back onto the mattress and made herself accept that another day in this life had begun. Now then, time to go be useful.

The ship’s medic was still twisting a tie around her dry, lusterless hair as she appeared from her cabin, pausing to glance down the hall. With a piercing feeling in her heart, she recalled that this would be about the time Dakho would be rolling out of his room, always with something sharp to say to Camden if he passed her by. This morning, there was no one down the empty hall. Just the shadows of Iikka and Reaver leaving from the other end.

It was a lonely feeling. She had never thought about it much until he was gone, but he was just about the only other soul on board who understood the value of a sense of humor.

Camden entered the mess hall and counted the heads as she passed by the cabinets. A prepackaged plate was drawn carelessly from one of the cubbies and given only a cursory examination before she slid it into the kinetic oven.

“Mornin’ lads.” Leaning against the counter, Camden folded her arms and hooked her heel on the surface behind her. “Iikka, you’re looking positively chipper, as usual. Sleep well?” She sent a smirk in Reaver’s direction as well. He looked about as ready for the day’s adventure as she felt.

The oven chimed, and Camden withdrew her breakfast. There was a metallic element to the steam as she inhaled the scent, but nonetheless she flicked a gold and white portion into her mouth.

“Mm, polystyrene eggs.” She sat down with her meal, keeping a comfortable amount of room between herself and the wireframed human. “Just like my grandmother used to make.”

Starting from the left of the door, Master Dakho Choo’s quarters is as follows: a shelving unit containing vials, jars, and souvenirs from across the Leaning Gale (labeled); desk (folds down to change into a bed); locked drawers (she has the key); stereo system bolted on top; closet; bathroom; door. Cha’kwaina opens the closet doors. The smell of the previous owner wafts up into her face. She sneezes. She closes the doors. Then, she opens it again, allowing the smell to whoosh out across her skin. The ship hums beneath her feet. She spreads her toes wide. She didn’t sleep. Hasn’t slept. Her body relied on drugs to put her to sleep for the last six years. Celsorelica decreased her drug dosage so she could speak without slurring, but everything stuttered under the effects of powerful cocktails to keep the Quinunaki metabolic system from adjusting.

That and she feels too much to sleep. The press of clothing on her skin, pulse of blood in her neck, wet hair on her ear after a shower—the shower. She didn’t even wash herself, just stood there, dumbstruck at sting of pain from sucking in water through her nose. She touches the vibrating speakers. She doesn’t know the music. The pleasure boats employed various instrumental accompaniments to increase their customer’s enjoyment. But nothing that rocked. Cha’kwaina hums along. She’s been listening to the same album since she learned how to turn on the stereo four days ago

“Pale shadow of a woman,” she repeats, mimicking the accent in the song. She tries it again, saying it faster, tongue sliding over her empty gums. It’s the language the crew of the Brightburn, Galactic Common, but they slip into Terran Common often enough that she’s been practicing in Master Dahko Choo’s room.

When Captain Elliot summons comes over the on-board communication, she’s elbows deep in Master Dahko Choos’s clothing touching the different fabrics. Some she recognizes—silk, satin, velvet—other’s are rougher and scratches her skin like the sheets and blankets. She pulls back, bringing a sweater with her. When she met Master Dahko Choo, his disease wasted a majority of his body. Seeing, touching, caressing his clothing she realizes he was her height, but wider across the shoulders as most male creatures tend to be. She rubs her cheek along the prickle of the sweater, sighs and folds it down onto the desk. “Next time, maybe.” She takes up her head scarf, wrapping, tucking, pinning, and leaving without looking in the bathroom mirror.

The hall is empty and Cha’kwaina whispers in Quinunkian about courage and small actions and that she will sit at the table with the rest of the crew today because she said she wanted to be a part of the crew—the medic talks as she enters in the galley. Cha’kwaina brushes the line of her scarf drawn across her nose. It has not slipped. It will not slip. She glances at the empty seats. Then, the full seats. And decides that next time she’ll sit at the table. For now, the wall is a pleasant place to lean against. Unobtrusive and out of immediate reach of her reluctant companions.