Archive of Our Own

ENCODING

The new hire does not like them.

Which is ridiculous, because who WOULDN'T like the Captain, Captain Red, Captain of the Skeld.

It's prepostorous. Downright ludicrous.

But the new hire onboarded as head of Security, which is appaaaaarently a thing a freighter ship needs, looks at Red like Red, Idk, pissed in their cereal. Or ran over their grand-carrier. Or broke their heart in a MESS-Y break-up that irreversibly damaged them in unfathomable ways.

Or that could just be Purple's face.

"Is there something you need from me?"

Yeah, it's definitely Purple's face.

"Cabin check!" Red glomps Purple, dragging them in against their side, cheek to cheek. "As Captain, I have to check on my crew. Make sure everyone's happy and productive and not dead, all that."

All very impressive things, Red nods, Purple's head nodding along with them. Impressive, important things that the newbie should be appreciative of. Not all bosses are this swell, Red should know, Red's had some of the not-swell ones.

But Purple does not look appropriately appreciative. In fact, Red would say they look inadequately appreciative.

"Mandatory HR training talked about unnecessary physical contact, you know."

Maybe even UNappreciative.

"But that's for the creeps." Red clarifies. Sweet, naive, grumpy Purple, overgeneralizing things. "Not for two new friends—"

"Stop!" Purple shoves them, forcing Red to let go. "You don't have to do all this!"

Red stumbles three steps across the hallway. Their throat closes up.

"But I want to!" Red grins, insistent, why must it be so hard to always be the one who reaches out first?

"Why??" Purple tears at their hair. "I don't even know you!"

I need you to like me, is a pretty pathetic thing to say to someone Red's known for a total of sixteen HQ hours spread across three cycles, even Red knows that, and yet.

"Orange already handled your orientation, but space can be a lonely place." It's big and dark. The stars are so much farther apart when you come see them up close. "So, I thought, hey! This lonely new Crewmate could use a—"

"We're not friends." Purple jabs a finger against Red's chest, a sharp, hot point that spreads like a kitchen fire behind Red's ribs. "MIRA is desperate for bodies for some reason, if they have their poster child doing their recruitment for them, because that's the only reason I can think of for them to hire me."

They smell like cigarette smoke. They shouldn't be smoking on the job. They've been on-ship for three day-cycles as they prep for Industria, and all Purple has done is skulk, glare, and make Red feel like they've already made a huge mistake. They have that face.

"But that doesn't make us friends."

Purple fixes their cap tighter over their head.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Captain. The cameras don't record, they're in black-and-white, and since I still have a job to do even if I don't have the stuff to do that job, some of us have to actually earn their paycheck."

Purple turns their back and starts walking the opposite way. And what little air they leave behind, Red gulps in.

You try to know a person. Unbelievable.

WORKING MEMORY

"Like this?"

The intern is better.

"A little more." Red urges. "That's it."

The intern is way better.

"Not to undermine your Captain-ly expertise, Captain." The intern— their intern— in all their fumbling, well-meaning ignorance attempts to question them. "But are you sure ketchup's gonna make crackers taste like pizza?"

But Red is a forgiving Crewmate. A generous, magnanimous Crewmate.

"I'll overlook you even daring to ask your superior officer that." Red pats at Green's round, chubby, filthy cheek. "But next time, you should know better than to spit in the face of the hand that feeds you."

And because the intern is better, the intern learns quick, nodding furiously, absolutely aghast.

"Of course!" They salute, the precious ketchup from their oh-so few ketchup packets scavenged from various drawers throughout the Skeld spills on their hoodie. Someone needs to teach this kid how to efficiently manage their resources. "What was I thinking, doubting my Captain when they've chosen to impart such crucial wisdom onto someone as lowly and unpaid as myself."

Red allows the intern to wallow for a moment longer, which is a kind consequence compared to the gravity of their transgression.

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeell," Red hems and haws, rubbing at their chin while the intern squirms. "Since you seem to have learned your lesson, I guess I can share one more secret."

The intern sits up on their part of the bench, straight as a pole, one foot jiggling with anticipation, and Red, like a good mentor would, holds the sproutling in suspense, attention ripe for the plucking in the palm of their hand.

"The real secret ingredient," Red whispers, tugging at the stem. "To perfect pizza crackers is—"

"Chili pepper flakes." Purple says, passing behind Green, tray in one hand.

Green gasps, turning away from Red to outright gape at Purple.

"You can get chili pepper flakes?"

"Purple." Red grips at the table. "That is classified information that should not be released to the general public willy-nilly—"

"They're free with the condiments." Purple ignores them, ignores them(!!), pointing at the squeaky trolley in some sad corner of the mess hall. "You used to need an ID scan to take any, but every member of the crew has their ration. Even interns, since they passed the Fair(er)((-ish)) Internship Law, like, three years ago?"

Then, because Purple is evil incarnate, they raise their brow at them.

"Which is something the Captain should know about."

"MIRA Corporate Conglomerate LLC Inc.'s internship policies were constructed waaaaaaaaay before that law was put into place." Red explains because APPARENTLY, unlike some people, Red actually listened during mandatory training. "The government knows we don't have the infrastructure to shift our systems that suddenly. We're grand-progenitored in."

"You mean the government that MIRA's been funding the political campaigns for since 40 years ago?"

"Those lobbying allegations were never proven."

"It was a hung jury, and half of them were outed as former MIRA employees." Purple does that annoying thing they do with their face and their body and their entire sense of self, putting their free hand in their pocket as if Red isn't worth the whole of their attention, their time. "It's ketchup and chili flakes, Captain. I think you can spare a few."

Purple, evil incarnate, evil, evil, evil, pulls their hand out and drops two ketchup packets and three chili flake satchets on Green's tray.

"You can have mine." Purple takes a defiant bite of their own pizza. It doesn't even have pineapple on it, the horror. "And if you ask me, the real secret ingredient is a little garlic powder. Yellow won't mind sharing some with you. It's part of their union agreement."

"Garlic powder." Red is appalled. APPALLED. "Just who do you think you are—"

"Know your rights, kid." Purple yanks on the brim of Green's cap, tray already empty. "Mx. MIRA Poster Model over there won't look out for you."

"You were on a poster, Captain??"

But Purple's already out of earshot and grabbing distance, putting their tray on the return station for Green to clean after meal hours anyway. Like the good little unpaid intern that they are, who should be better than all of this.

"I'm keeping these." Red swipes the unlawful contraband Purple had deposited on their poor, naive, stupid intern's plate. "For evidence."

REHEARSAL

"Mmmmmm, I dunno." Cyan tips their face sideways, practically on their head. The beneficial benefits of hot yoga is perspective, they say, aside from flexibility, muscle tone, and a surprisingly limber bone structure. "The vibes of this are… bad."

"The vibes don't matter." Black puts their face in their palm. "It's structurally unsound."

"Nonsense." Red walks around the behemoth, totally unafraid because there is nothing to be afraid of. "It's just… unconventional. Daring!"

"It's a workplace accident about to happen."

"A reasonable arrangement of cargo does not qualify as a workplace accident, Black."

"It's going to be once someone's trapped under it." The ship hits turbulence, yes, there is turbulence in space; solar winds, and the ship lurches, the inadvisable tower of boxes shifting forward then back.

"See??" Black makes a dramatic gesture at the crates currently doing the shimmy-shammy. "It's going to fall. We need to put them down, or something."

"There's nowhere to put it." Red reasons. Space is a precious resource in, well, space. "Storage has all of our supplies for three weeks, every Crewmate's P.O. box, and the trust balls."

"What about inside?" Cyan makes a gesture at the Storage door. "Maybe we can stack them somewhere else that isn't here?"

"No can do." Red shakes their head, putting their hands into a cross, bzzzzzzzt, WRONG ANSWER. "We aren't authorized to move any of the cargo unless it's to offload it, under the careful supervision of our MIRA-appointed HR representative who is not here."

Not to mention the amount of paperwork it'd take to explain why the cargo is stored anywhere else but their nice, safe, temperature-controlled, humidity-approved Storage room with the one working thermostat. It already gives Red the hives.

"It'll mess with our inventory logs."

"Oh, no," Black, the life of the party, rolls their visor so far back it almost crawls up their scalp. "Not our inventory logs."

"We don't have to like it." Red concedes, like the MIRA Handbook for Novice Captains Novel to Captaining states, try to give them a win now and again, it's all they have. "But protocols are there to keep everyone safe. I'm sure even a geogologist can understand."

"We bump into a space pebble and that thing's coming down."

"You're being dramatic."

"You're being an imbecile."

"What did we say about using kind words."

"I'll show you what kind of words I can use."

"Guys!!" Cyan comes between them, flower crown whipping in the stale, recycled air. "Stop! Stop the fighting! Can't we all just—"

A shadow looms over them.

"… get… alo—"

"HOOOOOOOUGH." Purple comes between them and the aforementioned completely forgotten unconventional tower of boxes about to crush them underflap, bracing the monstrosity with the whole of their not-that-impressive height.

"What are you bozos standing around for? MOVE!"

Black, being the only one in the bunch with a collective braincell count for three, grabs both Cyan and the Captain and books it out of the way, just in time for the top-half of stack to come crashing down.

"Ohmygodthatwasclose." Purple steadies what's left with both hands, wincing at the wibbly-wobbliness of it all. "Are you guys okay?"

"YOU SAVED US." Cyan attempts to hug them, mid-leap, which Black thankfully holds back by the scruff of their tie-dyed shirt, flower crown falling to one side. "You must be an Aries. No, no, a Capricorn, with that cool decisiveness—"

"Cyan, don't." But Black does nod at them. "We're alive. Nice save."

"No prob, Bob." Purple gives a half salute back. "Can someone maybe explain why the shipment was stacked that way, though? Because it was not up to code, I can tell you that much."

"Ask Orange." Black shrugs. "Or the Captain. Something about maximizing our product capacity or whatever."

The Captain. Captain Red. Captain of the Skeld, on their knees on the cold, metal floor because Black has no sense of delicacy.

"Purple," Red heaves themself to their feet, not at all shaking because shaking is not cool. "What the fuck."

Purple looks behind them, then points to themself, like a loser.

"What? Me?"

"Yes! You!!" Red makes large, emphatic movements at the entire mess that was previously their immacutely-managed, efficient, and optimized Storage. "Look at this place! How are we gonna document our inventory now??"

"Inventory— do you hear yourself?!" Purple yells, what's left of the stack shaking in its wake. "You and your employees; who, mind you, you're responsible for, almost got pancaked just because MIRA needed to cram as many of these godforsaken things in here as they can!"

"Don't talk to me about responsibility." Red steps up to plate, up in Purple's stupid, stupid face. "Why do I always find you in places other than Security, hm? We can't all just stone-cold Steve Austin our way through life aurafarming, because some of us have to actually earn their paycheck."

Purple glares at them, visor narrowing.

They let go of the rest of the boxes.

The boxes tumble, squished and crumpled, the pristine edges of them crinkling with the weight of each other. One ends up on Red's foot.

"You're right." Purple says brightly while Red yelps, agonized. "Sidestepping the fact that my rounds are also completely part of my job that you hired me to do, I should take my responsibilities more seriously."

They take the box right next to the one crushing Red's tiny toesies— never wear open-toed sandals in a workplace environment, kids— tossing Black and Cyan a brilliantly stunning shit-eater.

"Come on," Purple adjusts Cyan's flower crown out of their face. "It's not safe to keep all this stuff here. There's room in Security. We can put some of these there and figure out the rest later."

Purple goes ahead of them while the Captain tries and fails to push off the box grinding their foot to mush. Whatever it is they're transporting, it has to be rocks.

"Nice." Black lifts two boxes up.

"Scorpio." Cyan whispers, taking one from Black. "Definitely a Scorpio."

MAINTENANCE

For once, Purple is in Security.

Which is why Red is also passing by Security. Cabin checks.

The click of the mouse and the static of the screens indicate that their obstinate new hire is actually hard at work for once, manning (gender-neutral) the cameras as they should be, for the actual job they were hired to do.

Getting paid to sit on their butt and watch TV all day, Red starts down the hall, some people have all the luck and none of the gratitude.

Something breaks.

Purple even screams emotionally-constipated, a choked-up squeeze that has Red kicking the door down, metal crumpling like aluminum foil. Okay, maybe MIRA does skimp out on them.

"PURPLE!" Red barges in. "We have to get you a better door, I could hear you even if they were closed. Doors should not fold like that, or am I really that ripped—"

"Captain." Purple pants, on the floor, hand to their chest. "Shut up."

"Right, right, priorities." The Security room is dingy. Dark and damp and is that mold on the wall?

But more importantly is Purple, on the floor, sweating as their hand curls inwards like a dying spider. Ew.

"Coffee." Purple explains, trying to get up. "I must have dozed off and the mug fell."

Sure enough, there's a flood of dark roast, or whatever MIRA tries to pass off as dark roast, all over the floor, shards of white ceramic scattered in it, like a pond of fish or a pool of blood from those obviously faked true crime reenactments. Of course Purple takes their coffee black.

"You're such a poser." But Red ushers them out of the room anyway. "Come on, we gotta get that under a tap."

Under the fluorescent lights of Medbay— even the Doctor gets better lights than the rest of them, no fair— the burn is much more evident, the skin of their palm outlined with odd splotches like a dip of paint. Who knew something that bright could show on Purple. The skin is leathery, a starburst that crawls up their arm, disappearing into the sleeve of their uniform.

"Are you sure that was just coffee?" Red asks, holding Purple's hand under the running faucet. "And not the lava samples from Polus?"

"Ha-ha, you're so funny." But the bite is undercut by the twitch of the vein in their temple. "It's not my fault the coffee machine brews it that hot."

"Of course, because nothing is your fault ever."

"I'm serious!" Purple moves and the water splashes over them, lapping up the lip of the sink. "There was a trial for that, when MIRAnald's—"

"It wasn't their fault that some dried-out old bean didn't think their hot coffee would be hot."

"It was brewed at near boiling temperature because MIRAnald's wanted to mask the taste of their rank beans, and it spilled on their lap." Purple argues, a step closer. "They got third-degree burns and MIRAnald's wouldn't pay for the several reconstructive surgeries they needed to, you know, not die from third-degree burns."

The sink is very small.

"You do that a lot, don't you?" Red says, letting the tap run and run and run.

"Do what?"

"Argue." Red turns the faucet off. "When you're hurt."

"And you do that a lot." Purple snatches a towel from the nearby rack.

"Do what?"

"Take their side." Purple pats at the burn. "Every time."

"Don't do that." Red swats at them. "You're gonna trap the heat in. There has to be a cream here somewhere."

Red rummages through the drawers, where's the hot, smart, emotionally-available doctor when you need them, and manages to find some kind of ointment that says on its teeny-tiny label, for insect bites, open wounds, and burns, not applicable for consumption or acutely ripped-off appendages.

How specific.

"Here." Red tosses the thing at Purple. "Don't want you getting an infection and spreading it around everywhere."

But Purple just… stares at them.

"What?" Red touches their cheek. "Is there something on my face? A zit? Please don't tell me it's a zit, I didn't bring any pimple patches on this trip."

Purple keeps looking at them, in a way that makes Red feel… assessed.

"Why… Why do any of this?"

Red shifts from one foot to the other.

"I know you think of me like I'm your enemy." Red takes the tube from Purple and uncaps it. "But I'm just doing my job. It's nothing personal."

They pass the opened tube back to Purple, a bit of the ointment oozing out.

"And someone might say you're kinda my responsibility." Red winks at them, the MIRA-approved one from the posters that make them seem more personable, but all it does is make them look like they got something stuck in their eye. "I wouldn't want anyone to accuse me of slacking on the job."

"Oh my god, that was the pose from the poster." Purple looks at them in abject, crushing wonder. "You were almost cool there for a second, Captain, but you just had to ruin it."

"Hey, what do you mean by almost cool—"

"Oh." Blue walks in. "Captain. Purple. Is there something you two needed?"

The sink is very small. And the space between the sink and the cabinets are not that much bigger, in hindsight. The tips of their shoes press together.

"Hi, Doc." Purple raises their hand, bits of skin peeling off. "Had a little accident."

"I see." They come closer to examine the damage. "So it is. And the Captain?"

"Was helping me out." They say, tipping their head in Red's direction, visor crinkling. "They can be surprisingly reliable when the need arises. Who would have thought."

Red pulls their cap down low over their face, coughing.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm actually super cool, we all knew that." Red wedges out of the corner Purple and Blue had unwittingly backed them into. "Have them checked out, Blue, before they get back to their post. I'm gonna do all the very vital Captain things I was meant to be doing anyway!"

Red stalks off, and Purple turns to Blue.

"Are they always this easy?"

"I'm afraid I don't follow." Blue says, beatifically patient, as they help Purple spread the ointment around with a cotton ball. "Are these—"

"Ah," Purple traces the outline of the scars. "I don't know where I got those from."

STORAGE

"Seriously," Red leans against the doorframe, all cool and sleek and composed. "Why do I keep finding you everywhere but Security?"

"Because this whole ship is understaffed, underfunded, and basically running on fumes." Purple says, flipping the power diverter to Navigation, only for the thing to short-circuit.

"Great." Purple gets on their knees.

"Wha—" Red takes a few steps back. "What are you doing?"

"Checking the wires." Purple pulls out a screwdiver from their jacket, popping the panel open. Every last one hangs limp, the terminals too old and loose to properly hold onto them for long.

"Shouldn't Lime be doing that?"

"They're already in Electrical calibrating the distributor." Purple fiddles with the wires. "It's gonna take them a while."

"You probably shouldn't be touching any of that." Something sparks and the charge shrivels up Red's spine. "You're new. If you get electrocuted, MIRA Insurance won't cover it."

"That's what gloves are for, genius." Purple flexes one hand at them, the black leather of their apparent gloves squeaking, before going back to work.

"I'm serious." There are— sharp, pokey things, and sparky, light-y things in there. "You aren't qualified to be messing with that stuff."

"I have an Engineering degree, Captain." Purple deigns Red worthy of a glance this time. Even from below, Red feels oddly looked-down upon.

"You do?"

"Civil Engineering." Purple rips off a piece of duct tape from a roll beside them with their teeth. "But we had pre-requisite mechanics and electricity courses."

"You don't say." Red sits criss-cross applesauce on the floor next to Purple.

"I feel like, since you hired me, you should know all of this."

"HR does hiring." Red waves a hand in the air dismissively. "They did consult me on who to choose for Security, because apparently that's important."

"And you chose me?"

"I liked your face."

"Wow." Purple wraps more tape around the terminals. "I was wondering where your conceit went. Good thing we found it."

"Would be a shame to lose it." Red agrees, swinging their feet outwards and inwards in opposite directions. "Someone has to have the personality between us."

"If you call the hot air balloon you have for a head a personality." Purple fits the panel back on. There are three out of four screws missing. That shouldn't be a pressing problem. "Then I think I'm good."

Purple flicks the diverter back and it stays in place, humming quietly.

"I should check on Lime." Purple stands back up, pocketing the bits and ends of the tools and supplies they've managed to scrabble together.

"Wait—!" Red clambers up themself. "Going so soon?"

"If all the wires on the ship are shot like this, we're screwed." Purple turns to the electrical panel by the door to O2, taking out another weird machine with metal tubes that they stick inside the sockets.

The arrow does not move. The numbers stay at 0.

"How does Lime make anything work here?" Purple massages their forehead.

"A lot of duct tape." Red has seen the spreadsheets. "We have a budget for it."

"Put an actual working electrical system in your budget next time." Purple pulls the rods out and makes their way towards Weapons. "This place is held together by chewing gum and staple wire."

Red follows.

"And tape. Don't forget tape."

"Maybe Lime was right about the whole God thing." Purple stuffs the rods inside the sockets of Weapons' power source this time. The arrow wiggles. The numbers on the screen flicker.

"Because it's a miracle this ship hasn't fallen completely apart yet."

They wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, the electricity tester beeps.

"Why are you here, anyway?" Purple looks behind them. Yes, Red is still there. "Shouldn't you be doing more important things then shadowing some security guard? Trying to make sure I'm actually doing my job?"

Then, because they can, Purple grins at them, half-lidded.

"Or is it because you like my face?"

But Red continues to stare at them.

"This is the longest conversation we've had. Without any of the, well, arguing and what not."

Huh.

"I guess it is." The tester keeps beeping, steady as a heartbeat. "Captain—"

"BIG DAWG." Lime pops out of the vent. "FINALLY fixed that damn distributor. Saw you've been messing around with those wires, I've been flipping switches the whole time!"

Purple startles, tester rods pulled out of the power source as they collide with the wall. Full of weapons, since they are in Weapons, after all.

The guns and lasers and matchetes come falling down, because of course in a crisis you'd reach for a matchete, clattering to the floor.

One goes off.

It's lightning-quick, a flash then gone, a shot of plasma bursting to life and shaving Purple's hair clean off, right under the chin. It smells. It smells bad.

"Eugh." Purple gags, their singed fringe falling into their face.

"Kid!" Lime crawls towards them, low on their belly. "Susmaryosep, did it get ya??"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." Purple touches their nape, their neck. Nothing hurts. "How about you, Captain—"

But the Captain is gone.

"Figures."

CONSOLIDATION

Red has been busy.

Yes, very, very busy. So busy, in fact, that Orange would have given them a medal— no, a commendation— no, a RAISE, if they knew just how busy and productive and hard at work Red has been.

"Working hard or hardly working?" Red mumbles to themself. "That's good. I'm keeping that. Working hard, working REALLY hard."

"Um, Captain?" Green pokes their two fingers together. "Not to interrupt your extremely relevant personal monologue, but… should we be worried? Because the reactor is shaking a lot."

"Oh!" Red turns their attention to the reactor. Yes, it is shaking a lot. Shakily.

REALLY, REALLY BAD ACTUALLY

"So it is, so it is!"

Their intern, obedient and attentive and a good listener, hops from one foot to another.

"What do we DO. What do we do what do we do WHAT DO WE DO—!" They jump around like a salted worm. "Should we hit the emergency reset override??"

"How do you know about the emergency reset override?"

"We learned about it!" Green keeps hopping. Good range. "In school! For the degree that you need to be Captain!"

"Yes!" Red slaps Green on the back propelling them forward. "The degree you need to be Captain, which I did get and pass and earned through my own merit, yes yes."

And because Red is an excellent teacher, who finds teachable moments in the most mundane of situations, they crouch down beside Green's head, face-planted on the ground, for a much-needed lecture on the practical application of the silly theories aviation and aerospace school has stuffed Green's small country bumpkin mind with.

"Now, listen here," They point at both ends of the room. "On opposite sides of the Reactor, there are two panels. Every Crewmate is scanned at the start of each mission, with your biodata, likes and dislikes, Social Security Number, and of course, your handprints, uploaded into the MIRA-Wide Database, which is very secure and has not had a single breach once in the past month. A new record!"

REALLY, REALLY BAD ACTUALLY

Wow, that gets annoying.

"We use the emergency reset override for, get this, emergencies only." Very necessary information for a young, enterprising intern who knows nothing to know. "Normally, intern handprints wouldn't even WORK with the system, since MIRA doesn't collect your handprints at the start of your internship. But due to some previous workplace accidents, apparently, MIRA has revised its protocols and liability waivers to include you!"

"Ohhhhh, so that's why Blue and Orange had me holed up in Medical for thirteen-hours before onboarding?"

"Exactly." Red nods approvingly. "All those humiliatingly invasive tests and machinery were efforts to make you, dear Intern, a more involved part of the MIRA family. Isn't that great?"

"It IS." Green squeals, rolling on their back. "So, what do they do with my data after the internship?"

"They keep it for future reference."

"Does that mean they'll hire me?"

"Let's fix this reactor!" Red jumps to the call of action. "Green, you go to the West end of the Reactor, while I leisurely pace myself towards the East end."

"Alright-y!" Green gets up and runs while Red watches them. They grow up so fast.

Green reaches the other end of the room, putting their hand to the scanner, and as expected, the panel lights up blue.

Good. As it should.

Not that there was any doubt. When has the two-keypad emergency override ever failed before—

The room stops shaking.

"What are you two doing?" Purple says, from the West scanner, blue glowing from under their bandaged fingers. "Why were you so slow?"

Their hair is short.

They smell like smoke.

"Purps!" Green dashes towards them, leaving the other scanner behind. The gauge on the Reactor blinks ALL GOOD, ALL GOOD, ALL GOOD in neon lights.

"I could hear the Reactor acting up from across the hall." Purple says. "Why didn't you two stop it?"

"The Captain was teaching me how to use the emergency override." Green says, pulling at their hoodie strings. "I made it to the one end, but it seems you got to the other end before the Captain did!"

"Right. The Captain whose whole job is to get us to Industria in one piece."

"Which we will!" Green claps. "I didn't know MIRA collected allllllll my data for such an essential role. Is it true MIRA didn't used to take intern handprints before?"

"They weren't?" Purple scratches at their head. "I— I can't remember? I don't think they took mine during my internship."

"What about you, Captain?" Green turns to Red. "Did they—"

"Your hair's shorter."

ALL GOOD

"Brown cut it for me." Purple shrugs, the tips of their shoulder-length bob cut bouncing. "After the catastrophe in Weapons, which you didn't help clean up, by the way. We almost had a hull breach."

ALL GOOD

"It suits you." Red says, walking out the door. "Green."

Green looks between them. Purple. Red. ALL GOOD. ALL GOOD. ALL GOOD.

"Coming, my Captain!"

"Wait—! You guys were seriously just about to let the Reactor blow up for no reason?!" But both the Captain and their lackey are gone.

"Unbelievable." Purple says to the empty room and the happily humming Reactor. "You try to know a person."

RECALL

They make it to Industria.

In spite of everything, they make it to Industria.

The cargo is received, the slips are signed, and once the permits are released, the Skeld’s one (1) government-mandated docking week is approved while the ship is inspected and general maintenance repairs are done. Red puts in a service ticket for the electrical system.

“No one is dead and the cargo arrived safely, albeit with a few dented boxes, but a little crumpled cardboard never hurt anybody.” Orange says, checking every box on their list. “I think this calls for a celebration! A show of appreciation for everyone’s hard work an dedication!”

“Done and done!” Red agrees. “Pizzas for ten, then! No, eleven! Everyone should get a second slice—”

“Nine is enough.”

“Uh, what?” Red counts quickly on their fingers. “I could have sworn we had ten Crewmates.”

“Purple will not be joining us.” Orange says, smiling.

“Why, are they allergic?” Red asks. “They never seemed to have a problem with the pizza before. It can’t be a gluten thing, then. Is it anchovies? I’m sure Brown and Yellow can adjust the recipe.”

“Mmmm.” Orange hums. “No, not quite. It’s not the pizza.”

“Is it because they’re sick of pizza? That seems impossible but maybe there's something else we can put on the menu—"

"Purple is on leave."

Red blinks at Orange.

"What?"

"Purple submitted a leave request form earlier this morning." Orange says, handing them the accomplished paperwork, signed and sealed with Orange's overcomplicated signature at the bottom. "I've approved it."

Red takes the form.

"Why?"

"Well, per MIRA, in accordance to the Fair(er) Employee Law 2018, we are legally-obliged to provide all salaried employees at least one (1) compensated day off-ship during the docking week after an officially completed mission." Orange goes on. "Since Purple is on payroll, and the documents releasing the cargo to Industria have been logged—"

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I— Tell you what?'

"That Purple wanted to leave." Red says, gripping the form in one hand. "No one thought to run this by me?"

"It was— It's part of their employee benefits, Captain—"

"I don't care!" The form flutters to the floor, ink smeared. "Why would you approve this?"

"They were looking for you!" Orange flinches back. "They needed your signature as their supervising officer or else their pay stub wouldn't be processed, but they couldn't find you! So I signed as your proxy! Which is very much according to procedure!"

"According to procedure." Red grabs the form off the floor, scanning it.

"Where are they going?"

Orange straightens up.

"I am under no legal obligation to tell you."

"They would have put it on the form, wouldn't they?" But the part of the document marked DUE TO: is left irritatingly blank.

"MIRA no longer requires an employee to 'prove' the validity of their leave excuses— I mean, purposes." Orange answers pleasantly. "That is part of the employee's personal privacy, which MIRA takes very seriously. And which you, Captain, as a representative of MIRA and its values, should take seriously, as well."

Red looks at the form.

"I seem to recall that approval of leave requests requires two proxies in place of the supervising officer's." Red taps at the other blank. "Who's the other signatory."

Orange stops.

"As MIRA's HR representative for the Skeld, I am authorized to perform any and all clerical duties required of the ship's commanding officer—"

"I can file a complaint." Red says. "An old combat medic who served in Yeniria isn't on the same rank as a Captain, and you know that, Orange."

Orange stares at the other signature.

RETRIEVAL

No one died during the reactor meltdown at the Henry S. colony. But there is a memorial regardless.

A fence loops all the way around the city. It stretches from eons to eons on end. It won't keep anyone out determined to come in. There shouldn't be anyone who'd want to anyway.

But there is.

Purple stands at the plaque, tarnished and rubbed away by time and the elements, their hair down. It does suit them, the fold and the cut of it, the length of their coat, beaten down and second- third- fourth-hand, the wrap of their scarf. Without a reactor, the planet gets cold. Its sun has died centuries ago.

They look younger, like this.

"Of course, you'd follow." Purple says without turning around.

"Why here?" Red asks, panting, their breath forming clouds as they breathe. "Why here, of all places?"

Purple turns, and between their bandaged fingers, is a flashdrive.

"I found this in my P.O. box." They say. "It said to come here."

The plastic is cracked and crimson. A fishmate keychain hangs on its loop.

"What's in it?"

Purple looks at them, that old, old look that makes Red feel assessed and looked down on and so thoroughly alone.

"I don't think it matters." Purple says, pocketing it. "Why are you here, huh, Captain? What do you want from me?"

Everything, the thought comes, unbidden and sudden, a body dragged through the snow.

"I— I want—" Red puts their hand to their mouth. I want you to come home. I want you to talk to me. I want you to like me. I want you to stop looking at me like—

"I don't know." Red finally says. "I don't know."

I want to know you, and apparently this is one thing Red has yet to know, the way Purple cries and how it breaks a sky open, cleaves it clean in between.

"Well, you know what I want?" Purple says, heaving, their chest moving with the weight of it all. "I want you to figure it out. So I can finally tell you no. So I can finally tell you I can't."

And how do you say, I want to know, too, you can't, you can't, Red rushes at them, the weight of them and all they carry crashing into the flimsy metal chainmail fence, the whole of the city catching them. It rattles.

"I don't know what you want from me." Purple gasps and heaves and chokes, they smell like ice, they smell like smoke, their scar reaches up to the half of their nose. You can't look away from it. You can't. "I don't know what you want and whatever it is you want, I can't give it to you."

Without the constant stream of innovation grinding the planet to its core, leaves have began to grow on the trees again. Somewhere, a bird flies overhead.

"Go." Purple says, wet into the collar of Red's uniform. "You should go. Looking at you makes me too sad."

Red cushions the back of Purple's head with a hand.

"How about coworkers?" Red offers against their shoulder.

Purple clutches at Red's hair, fingers digging into the leathery skin under the curls.

"I don't know if we can do that."

RETENTION

"Captain?" Orange knocks on the wall of Navigation. "A word?"

"Of course!" Red spins in their seat, the window of their game disappearing into the taskbar. No point finishing an obviously rigged Nuzlocke with one Pocket Pal on their save. And who thought to name a MagiKarp Heracles? "What can I do you for?"

Orange's visor twists, but that's just how Orange is. A stickler. Unlike Red, who plays by their own rules.

"Everything's all set up for the trip to Industria." Orange flips through their clipboard. "We're scheduled to drop off 100,000 metric tons of Ore+, as well as several miscellanous co-shipments, at Industria in approximately three weeks, Headquarters Standard Time."

Which is perfect, just perfect. The perfect start of their first official mission as a MIRA-bonafide Practical Logistics Service Personnel. Today, it's Captain, tomorrow, who knows! Maybe Admiral. Or General. Or even– gasp!— an actual handshake from their Progenitor. Can you imagine? The possibilities are infinite.

"There's just one problem."

"What was that?"

"We're missing one very crucial member of our dynamic ten!" Orange says, bubbly and cheerful as they brandish an assortment of manila folders on top of Red's control panel. "We need a head of Security."

"Isn't it just a bunch of rocks?" Red pokes at the folders picking up Cheeto crumbs from the buttons. "What's there to secure?"

Orange almost snaps their pen.

"Just a bunch of— JUST A BUNCH OF—" But Orange is a professional. And having a body in Navigation so close to launch would be un-ideal. "They're the most precious asset on this ship. Alongside the raw materials of the ship itself. And this clipboard."

"Uh-huh. And your point?"

"We need someone to help watch over the cargo." Orange is a professional. A professional. "Man (gender-neutral) the cameras, do rounds, make sure nothing is stolen. Look rough and menacing and broody. Oh, and maybe keep the crew safe, too, if that's not to much too ask. Union laws."

Which is apparently part of the Captain's duties. A Captain's work is never truly done.

Red peruses the resumes presented before them. Security. Secur-ity. The Secure of Ity. An Ity that is Secure.

"Are you done yet?"

"Shhhhhhh." Red picks the folders up. Ugh, there's something sticky on the back of one, leftover Don Dew or cheese from last night's fondue—

"Captain?" Orange tilts their head at them. "Is there something wrong?"

"This one." Red says. "Hire this one."

Orange peers at the file.

"#6B2FBB." Orange confirms. "I'll give them a call."

Written by a human in Ellipsus.