Magic tingles through the air like a fizz of champagne bubbles, infusing the sleek bronze cockpit of an old ship with a momentary shimmer as it dips into the Leystream, the stars outside splintering into technicolour facets of dancing, splashing light. 

"Dispatch, this is the courier vessel 5UN-FL0R, enterin’ the—uh, hyperspace. ETA to the Thorne Belt Research Outpost, twenty standard hours."

"Affirmative," comes the reply. "ETA conveyed. Dispatch Out.”

"Pleasure doin’ business with ye,” mumbles the courier through the cigarette perched between his lips, smoke drifting in lazy curls as his practised fingers fly along dashboard panels. He switches his vessel to autopilot before standing and stretching with a crackle, humming absent-mindedly as he wanders from the cockpit to the living quarters of the ship he calls home.

"Well then . . . what shall I do with twenty hours?"

The courier has been known by a few names in his life, though none of them seem to fit quite right anymore. He’s a lean man, with dark shaggy hair, a stubbly beard, amber eyes, and a gravelly highlanders accent. His clothes are stylish but old-fashioned—a brown aviator jacket trimmed with sheep’s wool, a black turtleneck, flared trousers and brown leather shoes.

If the man has a vintage flair about him, the 5UN-FL0R is a space-age fever dream, all sharp angles and warm light. Bronze metal walls vault upwards into a vast triangular window, the glass ceiling streaked with the shifting kaleidoscope of the Leystream beyond. A sunken lounge, filled with vinyl records and implausibly old video games, is tucked between twin staircases leading to a mezzanine bedecked with bookshelves. To the left is a small bar, well stocked with whisky, each bottle distilled in a different galaxy. To the right, a cluster of arcade machines beckon with the promise of colourful distraction. And standing proudly in the centre of the room, its scuffed enamel time-worn but polished, is a stately grand piano. All of this is nestled amongst a lush environment of overgrown parlour palms and messy vines, twining merrily along walls and railings, while the sweet smoke of spiced incense weaves through a tapestry of aftershave, coffee, and old cigarettes.

It’s a handsome ship—but much like its occupant, there’s a tired scruffiness about it. It’s untidy, full of old junk collected over the years. Books, cups, plates, clothes, and scribbled notes litter most surfaces. A set of yellow tartan bagpipes flop haphazardly over the side of a pool table by the bar, and pieces of antique technology are scattered about in various stages of repair. His current favourite is one of the arcade machines, lying open on its side with wires, cables and circuitry splayed out across the floor. ‘Pretty Soldier Sailor Moon’ glitters in cheerful, girlish lettering across its face.

The courier wanders past the piano, running his fingers lightly along the keys, before sitting on the floor in front of the 'Sailor Moon' machine. Picking up a sheet of paper and a pen—which were, conveniently, also on the floor—he begins scribbling various diagrams, placing cables together, flicking switches, swearing, and scribbling some more.

After an hour and a half, he’s bored.

Drifting over to the bar, he corks a bottle of one of his better whiskies and pours himself a glass, lighting another cigarette to accompany it. He takes these with him as he flops down in the sunken lounge to play one of a few-dozen antiquated video game consoles he bought for a song—a literal song, there was karaoke involved—from a trader who had insisted they couldn’t be repaired.

Soon enough, he’s pouring himself another glass of whisky.

For the next several hours, he flits between various activities on his ship. Some of them hold his attention for a good while. Others hold it for a few minutes. A long stretch of time is spent sitting on the mezzanine floor amongst the bookshelves, paper scattered around him, each sheet covered in diagrams of shield patterns and arcane runes. More runes are etched into the metal floor. He chews on the end of a glitter pen, occasionally using it to scribble notes on whichever surface is most convenient.

After a few hours of this, he decides to play the bagpipes. Then he’s watering the plants, murmuring apologies about the bagpipes. Eventually he sits down at the piano, yet another glass of whisky perched atop the lid, and begins to play.

They are old songs. Very old, from the time before the Exodus of Earth. If the trinkets and treasures of his ship weren’t evidence enough of his fascination with human history, his taste in music is an obvious manifestation of it. 

His voice is low and tuneful as he sings of a collection of souvenirs, much like his own, fading away with the sands of time—and then of a fool, alone on a hill, who sits watching as the world spins ‘round him. They’re melancholic songs, and he finds himself drifting away with them until a off-key beeping slices through the reverie.

He stops midway through the melody. The shrill dissonance is emanating from the cockpit. With a grumble he stands up, taking his whisky with him, and pokes his head around the cockpit door. A small red light is flashing on the dashboard.

“Proximity alert?”

That can’t be right.

He glances out the window. The 5UN-FL0R is skimming smoothly through the Leystream, the cosmic seas calm.

"Must be glitchin’ again . . .” He heaves a sigh as he ambles over to the dashboard. “Alright ol’ lass, what’s wrong this time—?”

BANG!

The courier falls to the floor with a hard crash as the whole ship lurches and the lights dip to a deep red. His ears ring as the sweeping siren of immediate danger fills the air, and he lifts himself painfully onto his elbows, trying to catch his bearings.

“What the hell was that?!”