Never tell the truth when a lie will do.

[Markovnikov]

It was raining again on New London. It was always raining.

Monday sat up from his cafe table and stretched his legs, looking up from his book - droplets fell like heavy tears from the dreary sky, splattering on an invisible border like waves against a rocky shore. The projected canopy above him blocked the water, but allowed the fresh breeze to carry in the scent of damp soil. The staccato of the percussive rain, the dull chatter of small talk, and the intermittent clinks of teacups on saucers weighed heavily on his leadened eyelids. In an almost futile gesture, Monday took a sip of a earl grey. Even tepid, the tea was fragrant and refreshing - a vast improvement over the standard stimulant infused acrid ersatz-coffee rations that Monday had grown accustomed to during his long service.

Monday could not help but overhear a spirited debate between two women at a table behind him.
"- but that's the allegory," said a smooth yet almost gratingly soprano voice. "The 6th century pessimists tended to fixate on the concept of anacyclosis with regards to the third century crisis of Bretonian succession-"

"That's insane," said the other voice, more tenor than the first. "It's a show about anthropomorphic magical camels."

"It's all metaphor..." Monday could only make out snippets of the high pitched exasperated explanation, "... when they have an issue with the Prince losing his mane brush to his jealous rivals-"

"Yes, they resolve it through the power of friendship. Because it is a show for children."

Monday snapped back to focus, as a waiter approached him, tray in hand.
"Excuse me sir, I apologize for the wait - your scone is ready." The waiter set a rectangular piece of shortbread next to the teacup, and walked away.

There was no jam or butter, so Monday could do nothing but take a bite plain. It was dry and quite tasteless. Not unlike drywall.

Wetting his parched mouth with an additional sip of tea, he reluctantly took another bite - and gratefully sighed when he could feel a small capsule inside. He used his tongue to move it to the inside of his cheek - and set the rest of the pastry down. With another sip, he stood up to leave.

Perhaps there would be better snacks back on the ship.