*BE STIFF*

August 23rd 2207

"I don’t particularly have anything against Monday.

Sure, it may not be the best day to plan a surprise party for someone, or go out on a walk, or even find anything good on TV.

But it’s a day in a long set of other twenty-four hour time lapses that eventually make up life spans. So there’s that. If anything, I’d say that’s a rather positive thing to note for such a pariah of the bunch.

I for one prefer Wednesday, because if all else is looking down, then at least you can say: ’Well hey, it’s only the middle of the week, you never know...’

Optimism.

Good for both the soul and the lungs.

That last part might not be true.

We have a pretty relaxed setup for the week, which is always a nice way to close out the month.

First: We’re off to visit our friend Mepps for payment on our last little escapade into Topaz.

Second: Apparently we need to buy a new water filter.

Which, I’ll be honest, is completely my fault.

Last time I try making a dishwasher lasagna.

Thanks, internet.

Lastly: A quick stop for fuel at whatever discount station is within distance. Although, the rumors are true, they really do substitute half of the necessary components with just water.

Hence all the stopping about and constant risk of spontaneous combustion.

But hey, you get what you pay for.

All in all a pretty laid back schedule if I do say so myself.

Besides, it’s pretty tame compared to the usual things we tend to get involved in.

Side effects of unconventional employment.

And there’s a few plus sides here and there.

Infact, most of the time we get into a tight spot or something, we only seem to get shot at by one person, rather than a whole set.

And for me, that’s somewhat of a win.

Plain truth is that this job isn’t always very safe, and not the most practical when it comes to making a living.

But at the end of the day, someone has to make everybody feel at least a little bit better about being in poverty.

Infact, I’d say it’s worse than poverty.

It’s space poverty.

Subtract ramshackle tenement buildings and add clunky ships that look like they’re just about ready to fall out of whatever their definition of flight happens to be.

There it is, space poverty.

Now, even though there was an episode of Doctor Who that promptly stated there’s no need to throw the word "space" in front of things, a small burst of entertainment always pops up whenever I hear someone say they’re wearing "space pants" at a "space restaurant"

I always get the biggest kick out that.

Everyone else finds it childish and unnecessary, but I for one think it’s hilarious.

Besides, there’s so much more to go along with in this form of existence.

Like early music demos and shiny digital clocks.

A million imperfections that make living absolutely fantastic when you really think about it."

He leaves his seat at the dingy desk rather abruptly, quickly closing the laptop as a small look of content forms on his face.

Willows.

A strange human that found solace in keeping his distance from all living things.

Someone who would seek happiness by disappearing completely.

A ghost in the mirror.

A jellyfish in the ocean.

A bug in the ground.

A connoisseur of pancakes and bad movies.

The tired man stares blankly at the mirror for a short while, and carries on with an exhausted look that always seemed to be plastered on.

He squeezes through a cotton-poly blend t-shirt, and goes on to rummage through his wardrobe, which is really just a renovated broom closet, and oddly enough, a reminder that his "bedroom" is actually a refurbished janitors office.

He plucks a plain but passable white dress shirt from a plastic hanger.

It’s a nice shirt with a subtle yet fashionable pinstripe pattern.

The stripes are a faded light-blue that almost blend in with the garment’s overall bright appearance.

Dark blue jeans with a nice fit around the ankles, and a pair of cream Converse sneakers to top off the look.

Willows laces with precision as not to end up retying the shoes later on in the day.

He tops off each knot with a firm but relaxed tug.

The floor is still ice-cold, meaning someone has yet to turn on the central heating. They may be in poverty (They can’t even afford napkins) but the ship came with a very useful heating system.

Buying off of the recently deceased isn’t always a bad option.

Unless you’re buying the clothes of someone who’s passed away.

That’s it’s own kind of wrong.

On par with the invention of edible chocolate toothpaste.

Out the door and into the dimly-lit hallway.

There isn’t many walkways on board Vilify, and most of them tend to lead to dead ends.

It’s nice to take in most things many people often overlook, and a hallway just so happens to be one of them.

He saunters along quietly, passing by a few rooms along the way.

Most of the crew were still sleeping, or at least trying to.

Constant humming from aftermarket engines tend to be somewhat noisier than most, and in this case, blocking the wonderful process that is being asleep for longer than twenty minutes at a time.

Past the crackling water heater, and beyond the living room, is the kitchen, and a few inches from Willow’s face is an arm that’s leveled out just below his throat.

The arm in question belongs to the ship’s first mate,

Nora Schaffer.

A young woman of about 27, who’s standing somewhat lazily against the wall.

She smiles and offers the most basic of morning pleasantries.

"Good morning."

Willows instantly slides into his usual, eccentric tone of voice, with sporadic hand gestures to illustrate his genuinely good mood.

"Why, good morning miss, may I interest you in some stale bagels and sour orange juice?"

He says, in a whimsical and sleepy tone.

Nora responds in a similar manner.

"Only if there’s a promise of some really bad coffee."

Willows laughs and Nora gives out an equally amused chuckle

"Well, I can only offer so much..." Willows replies.

Nora puts on a face of fake sadness, and goes further into her offbeat early-hour joke. "Well then I suppose I’ll just have to starve, Tell my story to confused schoolchildren, yeah?

Oh, and make sure to add a bunch of unnecessary twists and analogies."

They laugh and end their irreverent morning greetings.

The two begin walking down the hallway together, with warm smiles forming as they slowly make their way toward the front of the ship.

"You know, for a second there, you actually had me really worried." Says Willows.

Nora shuts a random panel on the wall, which inadvertently switches off a light somewhere else in the ship.

"Well, it was either that or pull out the accents...pretty sure you wouldn’t want that." Willows ponders why there’s so many dim lights in the hallway before noting her affinity for spot-on fake dialects.

"And who’s to say I don’t like your accent game?"

Nora looks into one of the rooms as they walk.

"I dunno, those pirates we met in Hemley, that gas station attendant--"

Before she can finish, Willows cuts back in and interrupts her.

"That mattress store girl in Halvenstrom--side note, who still calls themselves pirates?...weird."

"That Sakolian guy did. Remember? He even gave a full-on rant about being a pirate..." Nora says, before they round a corner. "...you know, the funny looking guy with the wobbly arm. He’s alright, just needed some sense knocked into him."

Willows gives the floor a decently long stare before changing the subject. "So, did you and Kimble figure out that problem with the cargo bay?"

Nora’s expression suddenly turns into a frown. "Okay, you said nothing too rash, I got that part, but when you have about ten or so Paynaks running around in there, it’s kinda difficult finding a way to deal with that sort of mess without doing something a little bit more on the creative side.

Willows replies with a trace of slight irritation in his voice.

"We have enough holes in this boat Nora, the last thing we need right now is to spend a day patching up new ones with duct tape and sheet metal, let alone pay for it, I mean, is a bag full of bars of soap too much of a challenge?"

Nora grins. "Yeah, it can be, especially when you only have two people dealing with a whole pack of space rats---wait, hold up, that sounds mean, is it mean to call them space rats?"

Willows shakes his head and squints his eyes.

"Nah."

Nora shrugs before going on with the conversation.

"Anyway, It’s all good , Kimble and I managed to get them all with trap cans. Pretty sure we left them back on Meolpa."

Willows, notices a stain on his shoes, revealed by the fluorescent lights overhead. "Did you leave it open?"

Nora rolls her eyes. "No, we left it sealed shut on a hot day."

His eyes widen a bit when he hears this.

She laughs and turns on the kitchen light.

"We left the top open and I’m sure they’re off doing mischievous Paynaks stuff. Happy now captain?"

"Oh no, none of that, come on now, I thought we went over that one." He says, while starting the coffee pot.

Nora grabs an orange out of the bowl on the table

"Oh come on now, you can’t run a ship and not take a title. It’s practically avoiding half the responsibility or somethi--"

A deep Cockney voice suddenly cuts through Nora’s sentence.

"Willows and responsibilities...That’s a thought isn’t it?"

The voice belongs to Kimble Grey. A tall man of about 42 with a grizzled attitude and a few noticeable scars here and there. He’s wearing an old UFM jacket and a shoulder holster with a Model-A 9mm pistol. His boots are old and dusted, with the memories of dozens of planets lining the well-aged footwear.

Willows greets the tall man as he walks into the kitchen.

"Have you been following us Kim?, no, wait, lemme guess, it was the coffee, huh? always gets everyone up and ready. I hear it’s good enough to cure depression. No promises though, infact, you didn’t hear it from me."

Kimble pours some of the black drink into a stained aluminum mug.

Nora takes about half a sip of her cup before giving her thoughts on the coffee.

"Ian, I’m saying this as a friend...this tastes terrible."

Willows smiles and adds sugar to his drink.

"Why, that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me."

Kimble opens a cupboard and adds copious amounts of cream and sugar to the dark liquid.

Willows looks on with a smiling laugh.

"Like your sugar with coffee and cream?"

Kimble grins and sets the spoon back on the table.

"Nope, but I do like a bagel without ants in it."

Willows retorts while accidentally spilling some of the caffeine infused drink on the counter.

"And if I were king of the ants I’d do everything I can to change that, sadly enough I’m no such man...and I don’t think ants have kings either...I’ll get back to you on that one."

Nora looks up from her cup and away from her phone.

"And here I thought he ruled the ant empire...can’t trust anyone these days."

They were the three most responsible people in the tin can called Vilify.

Or, as the Department Of Aeronautic Transportation called it; Freighter CLS 6-3.

The vessel is occupied by seven crew members who often have trouble keeping the ship in the air.

But somehow, with the three of them, it was manageable.

Kimble breaks the awkward silence and asks the question anyone with two thumbs and a heartbeat would dread.

"So, what’s the plan boss?"

Willows sets down his coffee and looks toward the ceiling. "Well, one, I’m not "boss" two--well, I don’t really have a two... Though, we do have a meeting with Mepps today, regarding our payment for the Lake Job..."

Nora interrupts him before sipping her drink.

"I hate that guy...one of those ’high-end’ businessmen. We all know he probably sells crack to kids, the least he can do is be honest about it." Willows gets the conversation back on track while making another pot of coffee.

"I’m sure the crack rocks are at least shaped like robots or dinosaurs or something...keep the kids entertained. Besides, we gotta see him for payment so we can top off on fuel--and, hey, if we’re lucky, someone will find a twenty or something and we’ll be able to afford dinner."

Nora sets down her cup.

"And they say dreaming big is bad for you...optimism, my friend. Gotta love it."

Willows goes toward the fridge again, opening and closing it all in one simple motion, as if he knew nothing was in there and was just playing part of his routine.

The three of them all sit around on their phones, conversation is pretty much over at the moment, and they were still waiting for the other half of the crew to wake up and join in on the unflinching hate toward the stale bagels and old Bran muffins they received as payment for finding Moira Fitzgerald’s husband a few months back.