GOLT: “So what you two are sayin’ to me is that we need to take those exact risks in a ship built like a retired garbage disposal. You realize this thing doesn’t have weapons, right? Or basically any meaningful shields?”

GARREN: “I’d rather take the risk than leave a man to die.”

Golt tiredly ponders for a moment.

GOLT: “Did we not say we wouldn’t do things like this anymore?”

Garren sighs.

GARREN: “This isn’t like before, Golt. This isn’t a job- no one’s responsible for this but us. A man needs our help. He sounded scared- confused. He barely knew how to work his own radio. Signal didn’t even last long before it cut out. If he is involved with something, we don’t ask anything of him and we don’t answer anything he asks.”

Golt thinks for a long period. An anxiety wells in his chest- a denial to move forward with this unexpected mission. It’s irrational, but the fear still lingers like a knife he can’t reach and no one else is willing to remove. He gazes down at his metal fingers nervously tapping the armrest of his chair. Is it truly irrational? He feels searing hot pockmarks across his body. The smokey scent of the Hark’s air is no longer a friendly one. Ears ringing.

Vlex’s voice brings him back to the present.

VLEX: “Golt?”

His eyes return to focus and he glances up towards the others. The Hark smells of home again.

Irrational.

Golt straightens his posture.

GOLT: “When do we go?”

Garren answers without missing a beat.

GARREN: “Now.”

Golt sputters at the absurdity of this.

GOLT: “WHU- NOW?! I barely slept!”

Garren cockily smiles.

GARREN: “We can all sleep on the way, right?”

Golt’s gaze becomes affectionately grim, if such an expression is even possible.

GOLT: “I really hate you, Garren.”