The Dead, The Shelled, and Those Still Breathing

[Typrop]

Tarancon Base, 1900 Hours, Omicron Minor System

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Aaaaaand closed.

Notkin leans back, letting his weight press into the door to his ship's airlock. The meeting between suit and metal creates a resounding thump. A hill of small crates and boxes rests in front of him. It's all food, water, drinks other than water, tools, reading material, enough for a few weeks, really. The other day's haul was enough to pay all of this off, with a decent chunk still left. Discussion was minimal, too, the wonders of the modern era shining through as the station administration went and shelled out for at least a few robotic sales clerks. A small mercy, given that the station's population has recently begun to use the nickname "Stiff" for him. Turns out, not being talkative at all, and unwilling to give out even basic information causes rumors to start spreading. All sorts of things get said out in the boonies, particularly when said boonies are dead quiet.

In some respects, it's probably better that they're spread. Way off the mark, like telling someone to read something in a dark room. Still, the attention brought on from speculation and idle chatter are concerning. Who knows, someone might start asking... Questions. Digging, prodding, the works, trying to dredge up an answer and reopen old wounds. Wounds almost forgotten. One of the benefits of mind-numbing tedium, particularly in working in a place of the dead. It sucks, it's heavy, but it helps you forget personal stuff that's heavy. Barring a few instances, anyways.

Leaving's an option, though. Sure, going back home might be a problem, but no one says anywhere else would cause the same kind of flak. Trips to Delta, maybe? Might fetch scrap, though likely not much given the tumult the system is known for. Who cares, even?

Because really, it's boring as hell out here anyways, on top of being dangerous.

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