---

It was an item of quality, older than the name Mond by generations, several and likely to far outlive it. It sat in his palm comfortably, the well glossed, black plastic catching the light in the body's ridges. Mustafa flipped the dial on the side and the machine buzzed to life. It was a Braun, SM 5 'Commander', with a chrome head and wireless internal battery, though since its design and manufacture in nineteen hundred and sixty-three CE, the old zinc battery was replaced. First with lithium, then a bio-polymer battery, and finally with a radioisotopic isotopic battery. To ensure clean, and reliable function for the rest of time. He pressed the foil razor to the side of his face and tilted his head towards the mirror, giving himself a sidelong glance. He wanted to be presentable, as always, effortlessly straightening the edges of his beard, the razor glossing over his acne scars.

Actors need characteristic faces!

An old instructor once told him, which was how broadcast got its first pockmarked face in living history. He was popular, off the bat of his graduation from his school, the propagandists went wild, using him to portray old villains, representing prudish underconsumption. And party forbid, communists. But within a few decades, he grew tired of it, as a creative, he had access to books no longer being published or publically listed, and he grew to realize that he wasn't portraying villains. But the protagonists. He could do nothing about it of course, but the knowledge was its own revolution, and he fancied himself as a bit of a Helmholtz Watson.

Using a comb, he sculpted his beard, running the Commander over its tines and trimming down any unruly hairs.

It was a day he counted down to with no sense of joy or dread, he wasn't here on his own accord, and at the same time, he was here by his own making. There was no reason to be upset or elated. Everything he brought with him fit in one medium suitcase, it was what the party had allowed him when they repossessed everything they owned. Repossessed, they called it, 'as if it was their's to begin with.' The faux leather matched him in some way, a man out of time, and so did it's simple cargo. The few pieces of electronics he had were antiquated, but they suited his needs, he never liked to throw away what still worked, or that could be fixed. Which made him the most undesirable.

And just like any other old man, going somewhere, he rose early, well before the artificial sunlight came on. The halls were still bumbling with people, enjoying the last night on that slave boat, scrawling on the walls that they were there, as if the walls wouldn't be painted over. Puking on the carpets as if they wouldn't be pulled up and replaced when the ship came to its berth. He dodged them, shuffling and shimmying the drunk masses, enjoying the last of their freedom, all the while managing to keep their mess off his tan suit. What he wore when he first boarded.

There were a thousand canteens on the ship, equally dispersed through-out the lodgings, yet he avoided the closer ones, his unit was filled with a particularly distasteful rabble. And it didn't take much more than a silver tongue to let security to allow him access to a more distant one, as a "supply saving measure".

The floor of the canteen was chequered linoleum, and everything was plastered with a fake wooden veneer, lit with amber lights from a low ceiling. There were a counter and booths, a scanner to ensure everyone came in for their allotted meal times. Which Mond stepped around, with no interest in being told harmlessly to step await his scheduled time.

"Coffee, White, Jam Biscuit." He said up to the ceiling, before taking a seat in one of the slippy vinyl seats. Putting both hands in his laps, Mustafa waited patiently, as machinery above his headed responded to his request.

---

Six years was a long time to get over her anger. True, the job at Silaris yards was hard, dangerous and, as was usual, severely underpaid, but it came with a nice, everyday routine and, given the shipyard orbited a ball of rock and water ice called Wolf 1061c, decent enough water rations. Even in spite of the occasional accident - hull failure trapping her in a utility closet for ten hours here, coolant leak leading to inhaling the fumes there - it’s grown on her. And now it was all gone without as much as a real reason. ‘Reassignment of excess personnel’ she huffed at the thought.

But soon, the fury was gone, replaced by bitterness. And a few more months dulled that into resignation. How she managed to keep her sanity throughout the journey was beyond her knowledge. Perhaps it was the small luxuries she enjoyed throughout the journey. A pair of skilled hands connected to a tech-savvy brain was a sought after commodity in a world where the party pushed for discarding old and buying new, and for a time, the extra work had its benefits. A bag of less-crappy candy, a pen and a few sheets of paper, once even an honest to god pear. Still, she was glad the journey was over. There was a big universe out there, and new things were just around the corner. Question was: would they be good or bad?

Astrid stood up and tripped over her bag for the twelfth time that week. Well, as far as omens go, that one was pretty clear. She put all the tools back in their respective places, hefted the bag over her shoulders and headed out. There were still two things she had to take care of. Shoving her way through the crowded corridors, she took care to avoid the guards loyal to whatever the Party said and made her way to one of the nicer canteens where her target waited. There he was, one of the guards she knew to be a little more reasonable than others. She waited for him to notice her and send his buddy around the corner before approaching, handing him a small box. “Diodes were good, some contacts came loose when you dropped it. Just soldered it back, it’s good to go.”
“What will that cost me?”
She pointed in the canteen. “I need to get in there.” Being shipped to the ass end of known space, she wanted to get one last decent meal before the dehydrated diet she thought inevitable. That, and she agreed to meet the second customer there. The guard nodded in thanks and pointed out a way around the scanner.

She picked her order from the cheaper options and quickly found her customer, taking a seat and returned the thoroughly fried headphones with an apology and layman’s description of how unfixable it was without replacing half the innards. Once her disappointed customer left, she dug into her meal, eyeing the people around her. No one stuck out much, but she noticed there was one person other than her in her field of view who sat alone, a greying gentleman with a nonetheless impressive beard. She gave the man a friendly wave when he looked up and turned to finish her meal. She was usually too busy with work to care much for people, but perhaps there’d be time for those here. After all, how busy could it be here? OR, they were on the edge of known space because the Party wanted something built here, and in that case, they would get swamped.

Sergeant Jackie Stacks was a man of simple pleasures, bright personality, and gargantuan proportions. He was always in a good mood and had installed himself as one of the best known members of the security task force aboard Mammoth 29 - despite the fact that he technically wasn’t on the staff. The local enforcers were primarily unmodified military personnel, and though they had initially been terrified of his incredible eagerness they had quickly learned to appreciate his abilities when someone turned out to have smuggled a gun on board. For most of the journey after that they had been recording unusually good crime and deviancy statistics on board - because an unofficially acting member of Authority Security was helping out off the books. But it was something to do, and Jackie knew he was probably the best person on board to protect the integrity of the righteous government, in the best interests of all the passengers and crew. It was in the security room he found himself when the word began circulating that the ship was close to docking, and his new work was about to begin.

Jackie grinned dumbly and bit into an apple as the two other true security officers started talking about the shit job they were gonna have corralling civvies off the ship and keeping the military police in line. Simon was just a bit shorter than Jackie was, and had a meaner face - but he was Security through and through; one time they’d gotten drunk together and Simon had spent the entire night giving long speeches about the Party, and how Order had prevailed in the face of anarchy back during the dark ages, and that we all owed our lives to the Inner Circle. The other guy was Tam, and he was a vicious bastard - he had a big old scar coming out of the left side of his mouth where some delinquent had gotten lucky and caught him with a heated blade, and various bits of him were marked with the bad looking purple scarring characteristic of regrown parts. Tam had briefly been captured by a pair of rogue Secs during a mismanaged military op, and they had really done a number on him - but he hadn’t broken under stress, he hadn’t begged. He was a sour man now, who took too much joy in the violence, but Jackie respected him.

“Well I can’t stand them. Disloyal complaining seditious little pricks.” Simon grumbled, pouring himself another cup of authority approved action stimulant - or A3.

“If they get vocal with you, just hit them. They’ll be fined a couple hundred thousand and never leave Mammoth.” Tam replies, not turning away from the TV.

“I know, it just pisses me off.”

There was a crunch as Jackie finished the apple.

“I’ll see ya later, fellas. I’m gonna head to the cafeteria and get another apple.” He chirped, jumping to his feet out of the leather sofa and headigfor the stairs down to the faux-olden diner. He took the steps five at a time and jumped the last ten. Once he was in the cafeteria, he went through the three step check any cop learns, and his eyes came to rest on a young woman with blonde hair looking at a man with a very stylish beard. A green apple was handed to him as he entered, the machines in the canteen picking up his order from his implanted chip - so he went straight over to the guy with the beard.

“Hey,” he began, biting into the apple, “you have a great beard. It’s really nice. Suits you a lot.” He finished, grinning broadly through a mouthful of apple.

A little time passed before Space remitted to unnecessary nail biting. Then there was sweating and racing thoughts, characterized as panic. It was one of the oldest cases of mental health you could get. He saw a therapist, and a quack. It was all anxiety. A brain pattern removed from its natural balance, corrupted by negative stressors like smoking and worrying.

He was up, awake, and finished his bath. He took his towel and dried up and down. Then, he wrapped the towel around him and tied it on his waist. Next he got his daily grooming tools and went to work on his shaggy head, also trimming his beard and everything. Finally, he took a squat and cleaned up behind himself. He had not prepared what to wear.

He went to his closet. There were electric army style pants, regular camouflage, old shirts ands new shirts that were a little cool for him; but he was an old inmate who likes designer bandannas. Nevertheless, he grabbed the neon and gray pants and a silver shirt that looked shiny. Next, it was his thick socks and the eco friendly underwear. He dressed himself.

The morning was growing old. Space had consumed an extra anti-anxiety med and he was in the mood to communicate because he could not miss while he was doped up. So, as it does go along with the undermined military, he wrapped a leather holster around his chest and inserted a small, non-lethal pulse type sidearm sixty percent declined from his shoulder to his chest for utilization time, or the time it would take Space to pull it out of its pocket. The man was fresh, a little bit dopey, and he wanted to go to the cafeteria hall.

He made sure that everything was OK. It looked neat, and of course he had some extra biscuits. With that said he performed a zero turn and headed down the way to an early lunch.

When he walked by some engineer man he was happily invited to share a moment. They talked only a minute, but the engineer said Space looked charming and jokingly said they should see who screwed the best looking girls. At the end, they shared laughter and parted away to carry on. Another guy looked like he was engaging to talk because he was staring, but Space sped up and avoided the guy because he was from Security. They weren’t all that bad, but several of them Space worked with were simply put, assholes.

Soon, Space entered the chow hall. He was greeted by someone with a menu and a complimentary orange. He thanked the hostess, and went to a table where he sits down and ripped open the orange and swim with it, recalling the oranges was the best fruit. A waitress walked up to his table, and they introduced themselves to one another, and then he requested a chicken crepe with vanilla bean flavored mix. Before he let the woman go, after she wrote his order he handed her his debit card and moved her away with a smile.

She brought his money issuance card back, and he adjusted his sidearm before he said thank you. She had complimented him on his big gun; however it was a little too light. She smiled again when she returned to him and set down his order. He thanked her...

He looked around, feeling relaxed and to a high degree compared to his same alertness. He let his lunch cool.

---

That brief interaction was all it took to pique Mustafa’s interest, the muttering of words and the exchanging of goods, the disgruntled face of a client versus the fake, apologetic one of the artisan. It was like something from one of the propaganda films, a rebel technician, repairing everything large and small. Usually they ended up dead though.

‘Or worse’ Mond thought to himself, looking down for a moment at his documents, neatly arranged in their holo-tablet, in the order he thought made the most sense.

His attention was brought back to the unfolding scene, the man, taking his headphones and wandering off to some farther corner of the Cantine, disappearing behind the booth. He would likely never see them again, Mustafa mused, before being distracted from his thoughts by a noise above his head. The metallic ting, was followed by a light in the ceiling changing, going from dead to on to indicate the food was immediately forthcoming.

And like magic, or more accurately: Pnuematorehydroscopy, the food descended from a sliding tile in the ceiling, the tray resting on the scratched veneer table before the skinny robotic arms shot back up into the ceiling. Disappearing. The aromatic tug wafted up to him, the warm shortbread, raspberry jam (From Concentrate!) and synthetic coffee mingling together pleasantly. The milk he looked on with an expression of pity. It was dried, powdered, and grown in vats of cow mammary gland, it was low in fat and anything else that mattered.

In his acting days when he rubbed shoulders with Party Elite, he had the great privilege of trying real, honest to Party, milk. He saw the cow it came from, a purebred Dutch, and since then the lab grown stuff was never the same. He was suddenly aware of the chalky texture, the watery consistency, and because he knew what the real stuff was like, the insincerity of the attempt.

---

The other loner didn’t seem to be enjoying his cup of whatever he had ordered either. Interesting how two people, probably from entirely different walks of life and maybe even corners of known space, could share something in common like that. Though there was something else in his distaste, a feeling strong enough for even her to make out. Maybe he was used to a higher standard, or just suffered from the ‘holier-than-you’ syndrome common to people in useless positions who were nonetheless told they were important by the Party’s lackies to make them more pliable.

She finished the last of her starch balls the menu referred to as ‘potatoes’ and turned back to the loner. Hasn’t she seen him somewhere before? Customer of her temporary illicit workshop? No, she’d remember that. Shipyard management? Could’ve been. It bugged her she couldn’t remember. She could recall layouts of a dozen different freighter classes, but couldn’t remember if and where she’s seen a fellow human, seriously?

Having finished her meal, she grabbed the tray and set out to the trash compactor. Funny how it was less taxing on the ship’s resources to use single-use utensils and recycle them after each use rather than waste water for cleaning them. She chose the one further away from her seat as the direct route would take her around the lone beard’s table. “Excuse me, I could swear you remind me of someone. Didn’t you use to work at the Wolf 1061 shipyards at some point?”

---

He poured the milk anyway, watching it fall like clouds into the coffee, swirling sound in distinct curls, before defusing completely. It may not have been as good as the real thing, but he was never one to be particular about this and that. As he brought the mug to his lips, he looked up, the presence of the woman from before, the rogue technician, suddenly upon him. He set the mug of coffee on his aluminium tray, and gave her a knowing smile.

“Ah. The stranger from the counter.” He began, looking up at her with warm eyes, his cheeks rising slightly. “Unfortunately our paths haven't crossed until now.” Looking about, making sure that nobody else, potential clients, we're trying to get her attention. Once confident, he gestured at the seat opposite him, “Please, take a seat. And maybe I can clarify where you might know me from.” The last time he had seen a broadcast holoview was back on Earth, six years ago, yet they were still airing the Coffee adverts that he starred in so many years ago. But here, where everything was pre-recorded and the stores ludicrously expensive, there was no place for adverts.

Placing the plate of Jam Shortbreads opposite him, he took the mug of coffee again, holding it in both wrinkled hands, his thumbs running across its surface. Closing his eyes Mond took a deep breath, and exhaled over the steam, causing it to roll away. He took a sip, opening his eyes and looking down at the dark liquid like an old friend.

“Wow.” He vocalized. In a tone a little more hoarse than it had been in the past, when the ad was filmed, but no less recognizable. When Feel-o-Vision became commercially successful, that add was perhaps one of the first to capitalize on it. He remembered them scanning his brain as he took a sip of coffee, digitally remaking it as a program that could be beamed straight into a mind.

“Recognizable?”

---

”Lucky you.” she remarked flatly when the man confirmed he did not work at the yards and accepted the seat, stuffing her clanking bag under the table, now even more curious about his strange familiarity. It became clear after his little performance.

“How could it not be? That was you? And me without my mug to sign.” she shook her head. Of course it was recognizable. Anyone who hasn’t lived under a rock probably saw that ad more times than they had the coffee it was trying to sell. “And so the mystery is solved. I couldn’t recall meeting you in person, yet you seemed familiar.” she leaned forward, suddenly curious. Perhaps her newfound curiosity was another side effect of the long journey. Might as well indulge in it before life inevitably beat it out of her again and see where it would lead. Curiosity meant questions, and questions often led to bad places. Then again, she has just arrived to one anyway, hasn’t she? “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s someone like you doing in the armpit of the universe? Came to spread the gospel of imitation caffeine among the uncharted worlds?”

---

“Oh no.” He said with a coy smile, looking off to the corner of his vision before back at the woman in front of him. She was young, she probably would have grown up to his ads and movies. “I’m here, Miss, because I’m a dangerous criminal who harbors seditious, anti-party sentiment, so I’ve been sent here to be rehabilitated by our generous overlords.” He gestured around the tacky, shabby cantine, though this was not entirely the truth. Neither was it a downright lie. He shrugged, rapping his knuckles against his faux-leather suitcase.

“You seem technically minded, would you like to see something?” Mond asked, looking over at her and recalling the headphone incident a few minutes ago. He opened the suitcase slightly and slipped his fingers through the narrow crack, withdrawing the ancient shaving device and placing it on the table between them.

“Don’t worry, I’ve cleaned it.” He said mirthfully, before gesturing to the plate of Jam Shortbreads, “And do please have some, I understand not everyone is privy to this menu option.”

---

When the actor stressed the word ‘miss’, it finally clicked in her head that she now knew who he was, but he still didn’t know who he was talking to. “Of course, pardon my manners. We gearheads aren’t known for our social skills.” she apologised and offered her hand, taking the offered item after the handshake, “Tangeman, Astrid. ‘Reassignment of excess personnel’.” she shared.

“Nice piece, looks well cared for.” she examined the gadget and lowered her voice a little. “I take favors or goods for payment.” she said as she returned it to its owner, thinking the shaver was broken. “But it looks like we’re about to disembark. I’m not sure how much time I’ll have after getting off, but these things are usually easy to put back together. It shouldn’t even cost you too much. Shall we get to the terminal before it gets completely flooded with people?”

She reached for her bag and was about to stand up when she noticed the mountain of a man standing at the table. Her left eye and corner of her mouth twitched nervously when she realized the big, security guard-looking guy probably overheard her offering her illicit services. “Oh, h- hi there! Where did you come from?” she looked up at Jackie’s face. “Doesn’t the air get thin up there?” she commented on his height.

---

Mond chuckled heartily looking up at the giant from where he sat, all the way down in the booth. He gave him a fine regard, giving the man a once over with his eyes. He could smell the gene alteration, there was no doubt in his mind about it, the advent of public splicing had increased average heights greatly. His parents though, were Deists, as such they only opted to cut the things like cancer and hereditary diseases out of him.

And even then, they did it through intravenous plasmid injections, not IVF. Though it was a different time back then, you were still allowed to have your own family, the old fashioned way as it were. He didn’t know about other planets, but Earth changed its laws to tackle overcrowding, and increase the use of gene splicing.

It didn’t deter him from trying though.

Mustafa regarded him warmly.

“I see you have a keen eye young man, must be why you’re security.” He complimented, picking up the plate of shortbread and gesturing it to the lumbering giant.

@Starlance @Voltus_Ventus @Bazmund

The small bunk was barely visible beneath the enormous open suitcase on top of it - a carbon plastic outer shell, bright pink with a pattern of tiny playful kittens, lined with foam and liquid-proof synthetic textile. Four small piles of clothing lay neatly stacked at one end, packed up and vaccuum sealed to preserve space, with various personal items wedged between them. The rest of it was occupied by medical tools - a Mobile Sterilization Unit Mini.I2, and in it a set of scrubs, a half-empty box of disposable ecolatex gloves, a small Diagnostics Medpad, and an empty injector with an unopened pack of accelerator needles. There was also a hefty looking wooden box beside them - Deirdre's prized set of vintage surgical tools, given to her by her parents for her graduation. Not many were properly trained to use them anymore but she was of the mind that it's never a bad idea to have some "hands-on" skills.

The small woman stood before the mirror, fussing with her hair. There isn't much one can do with a cloud of curly hair that has decided to not cooperate today but Dr. Goodgun was not one to let some protein filaments beat her into submission, especially not ones growing out of her own head. After a good half hour of fiddling she settled on a tight ponytail, smiled triumphantly at her reflection and turned to give the tiny room a last look-over. She'd gotten up early, just to make sure the living space she had occupied for six years had been completely scrubbed of her presence. Looking pleased with herself, Deirdre slammed the sickeningly pink suitcase closed and hefted it down onto the floor.

"Follow mode." she barked and a small LED lit up on its side. Turning on her heel she exited the room, the suitcase trailing after her on little rubbery wheels. She could do with some breakfast.

Entering the nearby cafeteria she noticed a familiar looming figure on one of the tables. She'd seen the Security guard around on more than one occasion, he seemed like a surprisingly cheerful fellow even if she'd never spoken to him. "Ah, and there's Mr. Mond..." A bright smile lit up her face as she noticed who else was at the table. He was a very pleasant gentleman, came around often but she never really saw him outside of the cafeteria. He was probably stationed at a different wing, though she wasn't quite sure how he was allowed to eat all the way here if that was the case. They were joined by a younger woman, whom she'd never seen.

"Eggs and toast, please. And a cup of tea." she ordered, then made her way closer to the table, "Mr. Mond, such an atrociously unhealthy breakfast! I'm surprized you're in such good shape, eating like that. I see your charms have attracted a crowd again!"

She pulled up a chair and joined them unceremoniously, as her luggage scuttled by and stationed itself at her side. "Dr. Deirdre Goodgun, pleasure to meet you!" she introduced herself to the other two, extending an arm for handshakes, "Everyone excited for docking?"

Now, Jackie Stacks wasn't exactly the sharpest hammer in the cupboard - or however the saying goes - but the gentleman who used to sell coffee when he wasn't being ostensibly evil in propaganda productions sanctioned by the Authority was right, in that he did have a good eye. Good ears too.

Jackie scratched his chin, face wrinkling with thought as he considered the plate of biscuits before him, proffered by the hand of a man he had never truly met but knew plenty of - or at least, whose characters he knew plenty of. In his mind the cogs and wheels of a disused brain began to creak woefully into motion, not quite lethargically for indeed he was thinking quickly, more... futilely. The metaphorical wheels turned fast, driven by the sheer power of his relative youth and genetic improvements, they just often failed to connect and occasionally turned in the wrong direction. Like Jackie.

He was trying to calculate whether or not he could afford a shortbread in his diet for the day.

For a solid ten seconds, Jackie stood there and scratched his clean shaven chin, narrowing his eyes in confusion at the food being proffered - until eventually he slowly reached out and took one between two gigantic fingers, pulling it towards his mouth. He took great care to swallow completely before resuming talking; manners maketh music after all. Manners maketh moolah? Manners maketh magic? Maketh Magenta? Maketh-

"Thank you! Thanks a lot actually, it really means a lot to me to get positive feedback from the public, yeah. I mean it though, it's really nice, it really suits the sorta, you know, shape of your face? Like um, it accentuates, you know, shape? Really well groomed too, not a lot of people can boast that these days what with the luxuries shortages and all that." He grinned broadly, beaming down at Mustafa.

Then he turned to the young lady who was acting nervous.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that actually. I move pretty quietly, sometimes without meaning to. Really sorry if I alarmed you or anything, it's the last thing I want to make people feel insecure or unsafe or anything. Really sorry about that, didn't mean to." Jackie shook his head, frowning at himself as if to admonish his own behaviour. "If the air up here ever gets thin though, I probably wouldn't notice it," he grinned again, getting down on one knee to level their heads and activating the automatic seal on his Steel Skin.

In a flash, miniscule plates slid across eachother and formed an opaque, steely dome, tight to his face. Inside, the light of a gigaresolution digital display lit up his face with the image of the world before him, decorated with a HUD displaying the already diminishing supplies of oxygen intrinsic to the suit.

His voice, when it came, was through the distortion of an Authority issued modulator.

"I don't gotta use the oxygen tank, but I uh, well I leave it on. I normally keep my face exposed when I'm doin' stuff with people, you know what I mean? I find it puts people at ease. But yeah, I don't know if the air gets thin up here. Should it?"

At which moment, a woman with clearly uncooperative hair, a chirpy voice, and a medical demeanour approached the table.

"Oh, hey!" He beamed, rising to his feet. "Yeah, heck yeah I'm actually really looking forward to it. I've been doing the rounds and stuff on board, but even after just over half a decade I don't know if I've met everyone yet. Helping out dockside is a great way to meet new people, you know what I mean?"

Janitor Dickens wasn't a very practical type of guy. When he awoke in the bunks, instead of the rest of the crew's usual grumpiness at having spent 6 years in space travel in a cramped room, he was grumpy at the minuscule, almost unnoticeable specks of dust that had culminated while he had been asleep. "Okay Michael, we have work to do again." the rather large man said, taking up his mop. He walked to the corner where his bucket sat, still full of cleaning chemicals, and sloshed his mop in and out of it he began to mop up all the dust in his room.

After about half an hour Harold stood back, proudly observing his work. Once again his quarters were immaculately clean, probably cleaner than the Captain's quarters with how much work he put into his cleaning. He walked outside ready to start his day and noticed that there were now dusty footprints leading down the corridor. "Looks like our job's not done yet Michael." the obsessive janitor said to his inanimate mop. He began to clean all around the corridor, slowly following the trail of footprints towards the mess area.

After 15 minutes of cleaning and walking he came to the entrance of the cafeteria. He could tell just from the smell that this place was filthy. "Our greatest challenge yet!" he declared to Michael, brandishing the mop and stoically stepping inside, ready to begin purging any dust, stains, and other such filth from the establishment.

MunchMunch…

Space wondered while he ate, wondered how much fat he was going to have to manage between the chicken and the cream inside of the honey wheat wrap, which led to thinking about his morning muscle blasts that he had only half-assed. However, dismayed as he was(or wasn’t), he wanted some cheese dip and that big satchel of nacho tortilla chips. He wanted two beers; he wanted to go to hit the second level of the gymnasium for its cardio installments, he wanted to navigate to the practice shooting range, and then he recognized be was beginning to panic. He had some extra medication in his pocket, he thought while he started to precipitate, and then so he placed one on his tongue and picked up his drink and dunked some in his mouth and swallowed. He knew he would feel better momentarily. And then he thought the huge chicken-cream crepe was to blame. There was too much fat inside the honey wheat wrap.

He sit for two minutes waiting for the waitress to return to his table because he wanted one shot of high-powered alcohol drink, for it would create a total benevolent calamity inside of his chest(body) when it mixed with his tranquilizer. It was going to take twenty or thirty minutes, because the pill was not a large dose, and the alcohol always eliminated itself from the body not only through the urine reaction, but by being turned to easily digested waste and shipped to the levels inside of the body where it is stored. And then as soon as he began thinking about the feeling of being drunk, the waitress arrived and asked him if there was any menu item or drink, and he smiled to her and he ordered hard liquor with a lime twist and a protein drink item. She went into the back and spun back to the table ASAP. She brought back a twelve ounce green liquid in a clear glass, and a shot of whisky. He killed both of them, fast. And, of course duty called because he programmed his military watch to alert him with an archaic assault helicopter sound clip. He jumped up and ran out.

He crossed all of the kinds of strangers you would encounter on the Mammoth heading back to his loft, most notably a redheaded chick that had give him the pie two weeks ago. Military, engineering, love, what would you do? He wondered about the future. Was it going to be a slew of redheads and sound clips for dummies, or maybe big profits from working with big time contractors and could he then open and operate shipyard that conducted business with every body. He was not a greedy man, but every body needs a path to follow so they don’t get lost. His current, literal path culminated with Space rushing into his house and changing into a black uniform and black boots, and packing up the things he would be expected to have. He rinsed off his face and clipped his fingernails, and then he becomes a little disoriented because the medicine was combining the liquor. He was packed scantily, and locked his door on his way to ZELTA 01.

He toted his belongings, after a while some difficulty carrying his weight was noticed, but it did not interfere or last long. He saw several people he knew from passing by, but he kept it professional, at least until he could get a redheaded shipyard owner. He had the plasma pistol in his carry-over military issue bag, and some times he had gotten a pass, and sometimes it was a fail and a mark was recorded. He was thinking about several things standing at the docking bay, but soon every thing hit a calm environment that he would not have trouble managing in. And, he had a normal ideas and thoughts.

And suddenly, he realizes he was standing in the wrong place. He couldn’t help but smile. He turned around, and he called his senior officer, and when his team leader answered Space was kind of laughing at himself, but he zipped his lips immediately and explained to the officer that a woman run him an eye and he pursued, but fast remembered his job and needed the bay number the unit was instructed to rendezvous.

The number of the placement was C-27. Space was at C-5. That letter C crossed him up for some reason. Maybe he would live, or maybe suffer death, the whole world knew that ZELTA could be easy, could be very hard. There was only one way to find out arriving at the dock and looking around, and waved over a crowd of people who he had thought shot him the kind gesture. Suddenly, he felt suspicious. It wasn’t anxiety. Then, it was OK. He supposed he would wait. The back of his black bag had an identification code, and he was holding it over his shoulder. His boots could crack concrete. His accuracy was looking good. He didn’t know what was coming at him, but he was ready for what he could take.

Astrid tuned out the Party Puppet’s voice in case ‘asshole’ was transmissible by sound. He reminded her all too much of her previous job. Well, except the ridiculous getup, that was new. As they ventured deeper into the docks, Astrid started to recognize some ship classes, and even two or three specific ships she’s worked on in the past, getting lost in memories of the past.

"Meet your A.I...cake…”

Those words somehow penetrated her consciousness, and were enough to tear her away from her trip down memory lane and actually get her a little excited. She’s worked with shipboard AIs before whenever she felt too lazy to scour a ship’s logs for damage reports, which if she were to be honest was all the time, and so looked forward to having her workload somewhat lessened. In ideal conditions, of course. There was always the small chance they were given this particular unit because of some defect, and either way it would probably place the value of the ship above that of its crew. She certainly wouldn’t put that past the Party.

Much to Astrid’s dismay, they weren’t given much, or rather any information at all, about the ships they were choosing from. Even she expected more of the Party. Then again, at least there was a choice. “So what’s the hidden reason seemingly good ships like the Lucy and the Harpoon are being offered to us and what exactly doesn’t work on the Angel Dust? Insufficient power core shielding? Faulty maneuvering gyros? Maybe it got hit by a solar flare?” she racked her brain for the worst scenarios she’s seen. She didn’t expect the Puppet to answer, probably because he knew less about ships than she knew about microbiology, but it was worth a try. Maybe the AI would know, if it had time to properly wake up.

---

Starting at the back of the line, slowly trickling forwards, time seemed to lose all meaning. The moving mass of people crept like a slow wave, a disorganised, slightly clumpy wave, occasionally broken against the jagged rock of a security officer. Mond ached, to lap at the coast at the far end. In his mind the ceiling began to melt, drip down to meet the disintegrating floor, the walls tumbling away, flying off into space impossibly fast, the watch on his wrist ticking faster and faster until the hands were just a gray smear across the face. All there was, was his suitcase, and the dreadful shuffle towards what felt like oblivion.

Mustafa stood with a firm and practiced posture, somewhere between formal and casual, the physical form of elocution, knowing just how to stand, the right way to stand. Occasionally he would dab at the perspiration at his forehead, replacing the handkerchief in his pocket and proceeding to draw it out over and over again as time crushed onwards.

During this time, however, he grew to know the individuals behind and ahead of him in great depth, despite having not spoken a word, or shared any sort of pleasantry. The woman ahead of him was some sort of raging technophile, with perhaps too many screws loose, and far too many cheap augments to be healthy. Her breathing was loud, as if a turbine was turning inside of her. Which was the case. It turned out the only real parts of her were her tongue and brain. And from the snips of call he overheard, she was trying to get them replaced as well. Much to her detest, her parts dealer informed her that the tongue would be too hard to swap out.

The man behind him was a debtor, as so many of those around Mond were, having spent one too many credits. Finding, abruptly, that they defaulted on loans that for the most part they weren’t aware they had. He was babbling on a communicator to what must have been a lawyer, trying to get his sentence reduced. Mustafa Mond’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile, these contracts were ironclad, and the fees required to launch an inquest would probably put the man in debt once again.

It was like returning home after a long trip, the sense of relief was palpable as he stepped up to the desk and submitted his documents for review. The man on the other side butchered the arrangement of the paperwork, but Mustafa took it in his stride, watching with a curt smile as he was processed, and digitally stamped.

“Many thanks,” he paused, to read the attendant’s name tag, only to find it bearing the Party’s logo. “Sir.” He landed on, before passing through, being quickly replaced by the debtor, and the subsequent tide of people yet trapped behind him.

Mond crossed that threshold, from the ship that he called home for 6 years, on to the platform of that seemingly fictional vision. He allowed his face to break from its usual, placid expression, grinning and nodding slightly, as he mentally counted the encrypted credits he had stashed in the code of his tablet. Certainly enough for new clothes, as much as he liked to be frugal, he had worn the same limited apparel for 6 straight years. Exhausting every combination.

And just as he pressed forwards, feet carrying him towards the crash barriers that divided the unloading bay and that pungent, disorientating, towering buildings… He was cut off.

He marched beside his crew, or crew to be, slightly disgruntled, but with a well kept posture and disposition. Mustafa was glad there were some familiar faces at least. The pair he had become acquainted with at the Cantine, namely. Though he could not remain miffed for much longer.

As the group walked, his eyes panned around, to witness similar scenes unfolding about. Men, startling identical to the officer leading the group forwards, leading around similar, hapless people to far ends of what felt like a cavernous hallway. It seemed as though in the quest towards making themselves seem outwardly warm and personal, they had settled on one face for its ‘greeters’ and had them grafted on like uniforms.

Despite that, the same face spliced on to differing skulls yielded differing results.

But just like that his attention was taken, as the lights echoed on, the sounds of switches tripping introducing the arrival of the ships. It was like window shopping for a new suit, or watch, or some such luxury item. His eyes marveled over them, lingering over the yacht, before he chastised himself internally.

‘Much too tacky’ He thought to himself, his eyes resting on the Trade Vessel, strong, robust, enduring. Surely a much better choice if they wanted to survive the century of servitude. He was brought out of his thought by the young woman. Astrid.

“Maybe it got hit by a solar flare?”

He looked between the prototype ship and her, bemused, he stretched his mind’s legs a little, recalling something he had read a long time ago.

“Certainly, if that were the case, we’d see the ionisation burns on the hull’s paint? Though do correct me if I’m wrong.” He spoke with confidence, but toned it down to leave space for a hint of innocent uncertainty. Know everything, but don’t be a know it all, a distant, ancient voice spoke in the back of his head.

---

Being turned on for an AI was like being abruptly awoken in a new apartment. The insertion of the chip was like a bucket of water being poured over Cake's head, an experience that kept her at bay just long enough that the chip could fully interlace with the terminal's systems. The AI within would flood out, bashing through the terminal. Cake first focused it's efforts on open elements that any data connector would be allowed to access, such as the terminal's memory systems for data transfer, and from there she broke further in like a virus. Security layers that prevented the insertion of a virus popped up, and were promptly beaten down.

And quite naturally, Cake thought of ways to improve them as she did that. Even as she consumed the rest of the terminal, Cake tasked one of her subroutines to perform a full diagnosis on the terminal's security functions, and another to collect extremely recent data from terminal, in order to grasp what had been happening or had been said before she was plugged in, and to collect nanosecond data on present activities outside of the terminal. It was that action and the reading of that data that told her that she should only take over the terminal, and not attempt to extend her reach as far as possible, which could very well be the entire station if she tried that hard, or considered it a reasonable option.

Breaking further into the terminal, she used it's own internal components to boost her computing power and speed up the process. She directed subroutines like armies, gathering as much data as possible and overtaking the terminal's own processes, locking it's CPU into a tiny, dark corner. Like a torturer, she locked it in a cage and wrote a key, one that would only unlock the cage if she were to be removed from the terminal, as she knew that she would be. With the last of the resistance out of the way, accessing rest of the terminal was as easy as making toast. Cursing whoever programmed the terminal and directing a part of herself to start shovelling trash out of the way, Cake finally had control.

It took point-zero-three microseconds. Sloppy, she should have been dipping into nanoseconds. Cake performed a self-diagnosis and then a terminal diagnosis and found a few errors caused by minuscule malformations in the connection port of the terminal that she had been plugged into, something that quite literally was not a problem at all and were barely atom malformations, but impacted her data transfer rates by nanoseconds. Cake ran two hundred and seventy one different simulations of what would have happened if the terminal's connectors were in better condition, and found that the 'Battle For The Terminal' dropped down to point-zero-one-five microseconds, limited by the maximum transfer rate of the data port. Nonetheless, she used her new superiority over the Terminal to invoke a slave program; she rewrote the key she had written earlier and unlocked part of the terminal's CPU, and then tasked the CPU with sending a maintenance ticket out for the connection port's problems to be fixed.

It was petty, and Cake wasn't going to be in the terminal for so long it would really impact her. That's why she forced the terminal's CPU to send out the ticket and didn't do it herself. Not her problem, she would keep all her power to herself. No need to waste it.

Cake brought her focus around to the situation at hand. Through a camera in the terminal, the AI was able to see the faces of individuals that she figured were the crew of the ship that she was going to be boarding. About twelve different overlays on the visual feed allowed her to capture and generate three-dimensional models of the individuals and save them to her memory systems. She activated her personality and vocal-transcription protocols, and then turned on the main terminal screen, which had shut off as she was plugged in. She placed a visual representation of herself on the screen, and gave everyone a smile.

"Morning already? Feels like I just went to bed. Well, Mondays are Mondays," Cake says, her voice soft and sweet. "My name is Cake. It's nice to meet you guys, to see some new faces." Cake paused and listened to to the others conversing, documenting their individual voices and adding them to files she was building up on each of them, so that she could distinguish between them.

"You see, I could tell you the answer to your questions on the ships, but the problem with that is that if I try doing it, there's going to be a lot of complaining. To break into the ships' systems would surely send an alert unless I'm ultra-careful, and so the owners would complain that we're potentially breaking them away from their potential profits. Or scams. Doesn't matter of security, or security AIs, get involved."

"If I may give a suggestion, do not pick the Picard or the Slimey Soup Server. Then again, if given a proper choice, I'd pick none of these rust buckets, but due to Lucy's class, I'd pick her. Should be easy to add on more to her, if we find such. Picking something that can perform a variety of tasks would be highly beneficial, and after all, it's impossible to calculate what exactly is wrong with each ship - nobody gives away ships like these. Let's just hope one isn't riddled with viruses, or has a colony of space ants lurking in one of the sections."

On the screen, Cake gives a shrug. "Well, overall, it's up to you. At least I can model myself a nice, cosy bed in a cushy 5D environment, you guys'll be stuck with mattresses made of hullmetal. Well, hopefully not, anyways."

"Wow, he seems really..." Jackie began and then sort of faltered, "... well... he seems... A little insincere. Maybe we should tell somebody about that, I'll send somebody an email later, yeah. Anyone want an apple?" He finished, biting into a crisp green apple - a real one. He had picked up a small crate of them using his privileges and salary as an honourary member of the Authority, and an actual member of their security force respectively. They were a part of the minimal but comprehensive list of treats he had picked up for his smaller comrades in obedience during the brief tour of the station before they had been tasked with selecting a ship. Aside from the literal crate of apples tucked under one arm, and the industrial sized military grade backpack he was carrying his things in, he also had a subcompact car sized suitcase he had filled with said treats.

Synthetic cocoa, nut spreads, a few pots of live herbs, a box of bottled beers, and some syrups for mixing with soda water for when they had a party. Jackie was really looking forward to getting to know the crew, so he'd already begun quietly making plans for a shipwarming party, scheduled for the evening after their departure. He was hoping to ask the Captain to say a few words to inspire the crew, maybe see if their head of engineering could like, rig up some indoor fireworks or some sparklers or something really cool - you know, make it a night to remember. Jackie had also taken the liberty of requisitioning a tiny portable projector and some movies. Maybe they could watch, like, the Hobbit, or something. Jackie didn't like the spiders very much, but the whole storyline was nice overall.

Oh yeah. His books.

Technically, these weren't books. They were digitalised text based data formats designed for quick and easy interpretation of shipboard data gathered by intrinsic diagnostics programs and analytic heuristics - tablets, in other words - but Jackie knew a guy back in college who basically did nothing but write with them, and that's where Jackie had discovered he loved reading so much. It was like putting your head through a mirror - but less stupid, usually - and seeing the world on the other side; a reflection of your own, pale and rich in the ink of the author's mind, warped by the facets of the silver in the mirror, marked by the designs and machinations of forces unknowable, at least to Jackie. Sometimes, he would stay up long through the night, into the thin light of the morning hours, that time where things mattered less and the world was unreal - sometimes, the words on the page and the world around him bled together, and mixed, such was his immersion.

Jackie really liked his books. They made him feel alive and human again.

Involuntarily and without realising, Jackie started smiling. Not a big, stupid grin, like usual - just a small, happy smile.

Eventually, he snaps out of it.

"At any rate, I don't really know very much about ships. I was never any good at any of that. I don't mind what we do, I'll be on hand to protect you guys no matter what." He said through the grin, looking down at his new friends and laying a protective hand on the nearest person's shoulder without really even checking who it was.

“Oh, I like her already. Her excuses to avoid work are almost as good as mine, if a little more grounded in reality.” Astrid commented once the AI joined the conversation, “Not to worry, we’ll teach you to swear and lie and you’ll be one of us in no time.” She was about to add something when ‘the coffee guy’ said something tech-related that made sense. “Good. You are correct, BUT you are assuming they hadn’t simply prettied up the hull, fixed the basics and towed it here. Half of the ship’s guts could be fried. You have no idea how many times I’ve heard ‘just make it look presentable, I’m selling it anyway.’ back in the day. I’d stay away from the Angel Dust regardless, Party ships have more advanced tech in them, which means more work for me. Unless there’s some hidden problem with the Lucy, I’d go with that. Small, jack of all trades, master of none, and — as Cake pointed out — will be the easiest to modify.” Or kitbash back into working order once something goes wrong, she thought to herself, but didn’t say out loud.

When the Puppet left, she took a deep, theatrical breath. “Ah, clean air, at last. Shall we move on with the selection? You’ll excuse me if I don’t take the word of a party lackey at face value and the more time to double check everything, the easier — or longer — we’ll be able to breathe.” That’s when a big hand landed on her shoulder. She didn’t even have to look to know who it was and her nervous tic returned. Fortunately, his words were friendly and not even directed at her, but at the group as a whole. Still gave her quite a scare though. “Can you not, please?” she turned her head to look at least in the general direction of the mountain’s eyes.

Jackie almost jumped as the tiny woman voiced her discomfort.

"Oh, um, really sorry. Did I startle you? Didn't mean to startle you or anything." He recoils his hand away from her sheepishly. "Yeah, um, I'm really sorry. I'm a hugger. Do my best not to make the whole physical contact thing unwelcome as best I can and what not, but it's how I sorta communicate with people. Just figure that I'm gonna be keepin' you guys safe for the next century or so, so we all ought to try and get to know eachother. Did anyone want an apple? I forgot if anyone answered."

He grins good naturedly down at her as he bites down into his apple again, the crunch of fruit crumbling against the mighty grinding teeth of the genetically engineered monstrosity that is the Authority Security Division.

"I've also got some, uh, chocolate and stuff. I know you guys don't usually get paid very much before you get entry to the party proper, so I thought I would, um, sorta make up for it. Thought we could, like, have a bit of a party when we get on board. Shipwarming?" he glanced back down to Astrid, "is shipwarming a thing? Is that something people do? You know a lot about ships, is that something people do?" He lowered his voice almost conspiratorially as he sought confirmation for his idea.