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Mundy walks into the Mess Hall, looking rather pale. She asks the bartender,
Are you sure there’s no Hjocoa aboard? Not anywhere? Have you double-checked?
On receiving assurances that, indeed, there is no Hjocoa, she walks away to hide her dejection. She mutters to herself,
Hell’s bells…
On the far wall, Eric can be seen digging through the contents being held by shelving. It’s easy to see where he’s been so far by the mess.
If you think that’s bad, our transition got rid of every stash I had in the division. This ship is my last hope.
A pair of boots click against the deck plating and Alia turns the corner, stepping through the open hatchway.
“Finding what you need?”
To Nhaima
That’s a joke, right? What I need is a cool drink of Hjocoa, a full night’s sleep, and the 2nd Light back where it belongs. None of which look likely in the near future.
To Aramond, in ominous tones,
TSN Grant was our last, best hope for a drink. It failed. But, in the Year of the Unknown Leap, it became something greater: our last, best hope… for victory. The year is 2237. The place … wait, we don’t know where the Void we are.
Sorry, can’t hear you. Where is that voiddammed bottle?
Eric noisily rummages through the storage. At times sticking his head into cupboards.
You realise it won’t be that Void-damned bottle, but its this-universe counterpart…
Pauses, as a sudden thought strikes her, then continues,
What if… what if ISN Aramond doesn’t have a stash? What if… pause for effect Kommandant Aramond is a teetotaller?
Matsiyan appears in the doorway wiping his hands with a rag which he sniffs at from a distance, wads up and hurls in the nearest rubbish bin.
It certainly degreases a treat, but it smells awful. Hey Eric, would you mind stashing this back on one of those shelves. Can’t remember which one I got it from. Tosses to Aramond, a metal can with a narrow screwtop, labelled “Solvent”
Although it’s hardly worth it. Barely more than fumes left.
Any chance of a decent cup of tea?Frowns at Matsiyan
Whispers to Nhaima
He’s been drinking tea ever since we’ve been here. Wherever we are, this place is affecting too many people’s drinking habits.
There you are!
Eric pulls himself out of the cupboard, and turns around, presenting an odd sight. The annoyed, yet victorious, grin is nothing new. Neither is him holding a bottle of alcohol. But covering his left eye is a dark-red eyepatch.
Mats, do I even want to know why you’re storing paint thinner in the mess?
“Having an effect on you too, sir. I don’t remember ever seeing you this hard up for a dose of medication. And might it be best to wean yourself back, just in case your counterpart doesn’t partake?” she said softly, her new somewhat leaner face bending over gently to say it into Eric’s ear… before adding, “With respect sir.”
Eric blinks, the look of victory being uncomfortably replaced.
No ranks in the bar. He says quickly before taking a swig of his trophy bottle. Though, this appears ruined for him as well.
…this is orange juice.
Her eyes scanned the mess hall pensively before she waived her black gloved
hand around at the surrounding space.“I suppose if anyone is allowed to say that authoritatively here, that would be you Eric,” she said with a nod, followed by a small smile.
To Aramond
Matsiyan was just insulting your choice of beverage by saying it’s only fit to strip paint. Sighs. Then, to Matsiyan,
I don’t know what’s worse, Matsiyan, your sense of humour or having to explain it.
Hurriedly adds,
And if you don’t want the orange juice, I’m sure it has rarity value, and can be exchanged for something stronger, if something stronger is to be found.
That eyepatch, by the way, very piratical and all. Have you been able to find out the reason for it, as opposed to the bionic eye?
I wonder if they have vodka. Eric glances at the bottle before walking over to the bar.
After a moment, No, tequila won’t do! Do I look like a first-year academy student to you?
He walks back to the group, sighing. The Kommandant lost his eye in the same way I did: fighter malfunction. Only in his version of events, there was some sort of complication that prevented a cybernetic graft.
It also must have taken out a few brain cells. Erik Aramond spells our damn name wrong. Takes a swig of OJ.
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