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The perpetual artificial sunset, splintered with spider web-like cracks from an axe, has long lost its visual appeal, yet Jimmy sometimes takes pause to glance at it. Occasionally, he finds himself entranced by the orange and red hues, the burning shades calling out, begging to set him aflame like the captain before him.
On that very special day - the last day - it speaks to him directly, further attempting to immortalize him.
“Let us celebrate,” it whispers, its voice sounding a lot like Polle’s. “You deserve it, for all you’ve done.”
He doesn’t know why the tone is so cold, as if trying to place the blame entirely on his shoulders, but that kind of accusatory bullshit is easy to ignore. It always has been. Despite the sour implications behind the words, the overall message can’t be denied:
A celebration is in order.
The memory of the last party on this ship leaves a bitter, foul taste in his mouth like stomach bile. Though it had been just a formality of Pony Express, Jimmy could honestly say he enjoyed setting it all up for his friend. It was a stupid reason - he saw no purpose in forcing those sorts of formalities upon the crew - but he still tried to make the best of it with the rest of them. However, that harsh bomb of reality dropped by Curly in the middle of the celebration set off everything, putting into motion the events that brought them to this very moment. Everything had stemmed from that one cruel reminder of their insignificance.
Ironic, also, how Curly was the only one the company had been willing to support in the transition period - and now look at him. He’s no longer their golden pony, lying in agony in an infirmary bed because no one had the heart to finish what the explosion started. Jimmy’s had to pick up the slack since the captain’s incapacitation, and what has that earned him? Certainly not praise from his skeleton crew, nor a letter from the higher-ups promising to help his career. It’s almost absurd to think, at this stage, that he’d receive anything as recognition. In this quiet spot in space, he’s forgotten, forced to die slowly and painfully with no one even knowing about it!
It’s like he tried to tell Curly - they could’ve burned out like stars, brightly and beautifully. The Tulpar could’ve been the Titanic in space, bringing a fresh and unavoidable tragedy written about for decades to come.
And maybe it’s not too late.
Maybe what this eerily denouncing voice in his head is proposing can save them, after all.
“A party, just for Captain Jimmy. A real one,” it says. “One last hurrah for the hero.”
He undoubtedly deserves it, but does he have enough time and resources? By their very nature, parties need guests first and foremost, and then there’s decorations and food…
“Jimmmmmy…” A low groan snaps Jimmy to attention. Tearing his eyes away from the screen, he follows the sound to the corner of the lounge.
Ah. There’s the first guest, then.
Daisuke’s face hasn’t changed since Jimmy last saw him: flesh split in half, parts of his skull warped from the axe’s trauma, and one of his eyes a milky white. There’s deep red tracks down his cheekbones, looking almost like tears - but despite looking so utterly unhappy, the kid’s tone is as relaxed and jolly as ever.
“Hey, sorry! Did I spook you? Just playing around.” He tries to meet his captain’s gaze, but the iris-intact eye keeps straying lazily off to the side. “You looking for partygoers? ‘Cause I’m a party king, dude! So, can I come? Pleeeeeease?”
That always-irritating youthful edge to his voice, not to mention the immature way of drawing out words, violently grinds into Jimmy’s nerves. Instead of answering directly, Jimmy bends down to start hoisting the kid up onto his back. Daisuke’s arms, ridden with electrical burns and rust-filled lacerations, droop over Jimmy’s shoulders. His entire mangled body goes limp to make himself that much harder to carry.
There’s a childish air in his tone as he speaks unprompted again. “Do you like parties, Cap?”
Jimmy grunts. “...Not really.”
Well, to be more precise, he’s never had a reason to like them. Sure, he’d had a few thrown for him in his lifetime; his childhood and adolescence brought some lackluster birthdays, complete with no friends and cake as bland as the actual event, but they’ve never felt real. He’s never felt… worthy. A voice in the back of his mind always sits like a nagging bitch in his ear, taking every chance to remind him he doesn’t deserve whatever he’s trying to celebrate.
Over the years, that voice of doubt only grew louder and more vicious - less of an insecurity, more of a predator waiting in the shadows. It gnawed at him like hunger, bringing a deep sensation akin to grief regarding what he’s constantly been denied.
Daisuke’s voice returns him to reality again. “Hey, right next to you! Thanks! I feel important.”
Blinking in confusion, Jimmy notes that he did, in fact, seat the kid beside him - but, that hadn’t really been a conscious choice. He’ll have to be more deliberate with the rest of the guests. Curly will have to have the best seat - apart from Jimmy’s, of course.
Without another word, Jimmy turns to grab his next guest, eager to fill the table.
In that cold room, the old man’s face looks sunken in and even more wrinkled than usual, a gaping hole across one of his eyes matching another dead-center on his forehead. There’s stains all over his face and shirt, the stench of copper mixed with mint permeating the air. Pathetically slumped in the chair he’s been left in, he tries to ignore Jimmy as the younger man approaches. Swansea’s always had a history of being difficult, and clearly he intends to continue that even now.
“Don’t touch me, asshole,” he hisses. “I don’t want your filthy hands on me.”
Grimacing, Jimmy tries to grab at Swansea and pull him out of the chair, but his damp clothes stick to the seat. He doesn’t even struggle as he’s yanked around, instead just huffing in annoyance and going as limp as Daisuke had.
“You think you can just come in here and tell me what to do - like you’ve earned the right to be my captain? You’re nothing but a fraud, Jimbo.” Swansea’s bloodied lips are curled to a smirk, but his voice is void of humor and his stare deadly serious.
Jimmy bites back a retort, instead gripping the legs of the chair and giving a shove, beginning their long journey back to the lounge.
Swansea’s voice is almost as grating at the chair’s legs screeching against the floor. “You’re throwin’ yourself a party, eh? That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard. What makes you so goddamn special? Did you forget you’re the one who fucked us all over completely?”
“...Shut up,” Jimmy mutters. His efforts, while flawed, were done for a particular reason, and he’s tried his damndest to fix what he can. Isn’t that what life’s all about, anyway - becoming a better person than you were yesterday? Even the tiniest of steps are progress, and Jimmy’s not about to let the man who ruined his entire sobriety streak for mouthwash make him doubt himself.
Besides… there’s really no choice here. Jimmy’s efforts have to matter.
It has to all mean something, so he has to throw this party for himself - because the alternative would be unthinkable. If it’s all been for nothing, if he hasn’t done enough to salvage what he can of this mess, still attempting to paint himself and Curly as heroes and the rest of the crew as courageous casualties…
If all his efforts had been in vain…
No. They’re not. He shakes his head clear of any hesitation. It’s just Swansea, trying to get a rise out of him like he always does.
“Almost got me there,” Jimmy sneers.
Swansea chuckles, his face melting into a detached sort of amusement. “Almost,” he agrees.
Including the nurse is a last-minute decision - one Jimmy literally stumbles into. On the way to grab Curly, he trips over her, cursing under his breath.
“Sorry, Jim,” she mumbles through stained lips. Wilted against the partition near the medical cot, her head’s turned towards Jimmy, and she looks as meek and pathetic as ever. Her uniform is as messy as the others’, its mixture of dark splotches only showcasing childlike sloppiness. “Will you… let me come to the party, too?”
Jimmy does deserve as many people at his party as possible, especially after just dealing with Swansea’s attitude. While Anya hasn’t really done anything to earn being there, he’s not exactly spoiled for choice here. He’ll have to settle.
Crouching, he reaches to get her on his back like Daisuke, but she shakes her head.
“You can’t carry me,” she murmurs, her arms crossed over her middle and her sad, glazed-over eyes trailing downwards. “I’m too heavy.”
He doesn’t follow her gaze; instead, he just grabs her legs and drags, because that’s the best he can do.
“Thank you,” she breathes, her tone gentle. “I knew I could count on you to help me.”
There’s only one chair left, next to Jimmy, and he decides she can sit there. She didn’t do enough to help Curly, to do her job correctly, but there’s no sense in getting angry now; he shouldn’t bring down the mood at his own party.
With his guests now positioned in their chairs, Jimmy next decides to focus on the atmosphere. The lounge hasn’t changed much in months, its foamy and chaotic state only growing worse as time slowly dragged on. It’ll be good for bringing up morale, at least for himself, if he adds a bit more color to this dark, red eyesore of a room.
They still have the banners and balloons from the last party, and though it pains Jimmy to use assets not meant for him, he’ll have to deal with it. At least they can be repurposed for something more meaningful, something significant - not a shallow corporate-issued celebration with crappy cake and fake-ass platitudes.
The crew watches him decorate the lounge. They can’t get out of their seats to help him, but that doesn’t stop them from commenting on his work - much to his chagrin.
“Little more to the left, Jimbo,” the old drunk crows as Jimmy hangs up a banner above their heads. “And for fuck’s sake, pop some of those green balloons. They’re an eyesore.”
“I think they help balance some of the red,” Anya comments thoughtfully. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing well, Jim. It doesn’t look easy to do alone.” She’s right - it’s painstakingly slow to set up all this shit by himself, the four of them having divided up the work last time.
“Yeah, for sure!” Daisuke cheers. “But man, I’m getting bored. Are we about ready to get this thing started?”
Jimmy nods. “There’s just one more thing to do.”
“Well hurry it up!” Swansea grouses. “You know we don’t have all day!”
Isn’t that the truth? Jimmy knows his judgment is rapidly approaching, can feel it looming heavily over his head like a storm cloud. If he continues wasting time, he won’t get much time to relish in his reward.
But this isn’t a waste of time - far from it.
“This is important,” he promises, hurrying back to the infirmary.
The captain still lies pathetically on the cot, gasping against pain despite the pills Jimmy keeps feeding him. Ungrateful as always for everything his friend does, he writhes as though trying to escape the only person on this ship that cares enough to help him.
That thin medical gown smells rancid, coated with God-knows-how-old dried vomit and blood - not to mention the raw, reddened meat peeking out of any holes in the papery material. The only proof that it’s Curly at all is his eye - that fucking wide, bloodshot blue eye that has never stopped staring.
Jimmy cocks a smirk. “Not wearing anything fancy to the party, eh?”
Strange that it didn’t occur to him until now that he’s not properly dressed himself - fucking coveralls and a long-sleeve shirt are not really fitting for the celebration and subsequent judgment - but his room’s blocked by foam, so he finds himself once again without options.
“Guess I’ll follow your lead - everyone always accused me of that, anyway.”
The ex-captain can’t even blink as Jimmy lifts him - gently, because he’d never want to hurt Curly for no reason. Moans escape his bared bloody teeth, the viscera of his chest under the gown rising and falling rapidly in panic.
“Relax. It’s just me,” he assures his friend. “I’m gonna take care of things. First, we’ll have one last hurrah, and it’ll be genuine. Nothing like our company’s bullshit, I promise. Just everyone having a good time, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
With this celebration, they can all be together one last time, Curly won’t suffer anymore, and Jimmy will finally be given what he’s always craved.
Everyone wins.
After settling Curly down on top of the table, Jimmy seats himself at the head chair.
His throat tightens as he looks around the room, meaningfully gazing at each of his crew members. Memories of their time together on this unforgettable trip flow through him, an ache pulling at his chest. The nostalgia is bitter in his mouth, tainted slightly sweet by the smiles he sees around the table.
Goodbyes have never been difficult for him - it’s usually so easy to cut and run when he’s ready to leave - but here, he finds himself frozen, snared between what he wants to do and what he has to. There’s only one ending here, one last chapter for the Tulpar’s story; Jimmy’s the one left penning it, and he won’t make anymore mistakes.
He did his best, trying to fix what he could along the way. Yes, things kept unraveling, but he hopes they know he tried.
And in the end, isn’t that all that anyone could ask of a captain? Of a man?
“Hear, hear! Captain Jimmy!”
The cheers are invigorating, reminding Jimmy of why he set this whole party up in the first place and giving him the strength to see it through to the end.
“Speech! Give us a speech!”
Time’s almost run out on them, but there’s one last element Jimmy hasn’t forgotten. It wouldn’t be a satisfactory party without cake, now would it?
He grips the knife, squeezing it so tightly his hand shakes. Lost for a moment as he watches the way the blade reflects the cracked sunset’s light, he absentmindedly lets the tip glide across his fingertips. Blood bubbles up in thin lines, trickling down to his palm, but it doesn’t hurt.
Nothing hurts.
Curly stares up at him from the table’s surface, that eye never leaving him. If Jimmy looks really, really closely, he can see a glimpse of reverence underneath the fear.
Even now, unable to speak, Curly believes in him. In his final hour, Jimmy feels the satiation of a job well done, of a party ending on an exceptionally high note.
Nothing left to do now but eat cake with his friend.
And then, an afterparty to die for.