Chapter Text
“Hello, welcome to the UES Mars branch, Port 0618. What type of delivery would you like to send...”
Tracy’s eyes finally meet the mask opposing her, her unlovingly scripted train of thought crashing into a cacophony of flame.
“—Boss?” She sits up straight as soon as her question is given a silent answer by the invisible eyes drilling a hole into her brain.
“Oh my god— I’m sorry, we don’t see your face around here often—”
“Tracy. Just who I was hoping to see on shift today. Come to my office as soon as you can.”
Just who he was hoping to see?
Tracy has never heard anything that positive come out of her boss’s mouth before, especially not about her. So... Why... Tracy’s thoughts are once again silenced, this time by the sound of a thick metal door slamming shut behind her. She turns to face the door, feeling a chunk of spit struggle to slide down her throat. Despite gulping it down, the dread of the conversation that awaits her remains.
Turning back around, she once again faces the lobby of the post office. Unfortunately, as always, it’s a slow day. Nobody has anything interesting to send through the Mars branch.
She has nothing better to do than to go see what her boss wants of her. Tracy hits the button combination for the Boss' door, stuck within her head as she considers and reconsiders and rereconsiders and maybe even rerereconsiders the reasons her boss might want to talk with her. Has he finally had enough of her thinly-veiled distaste towards the UES and their practices? Should she have clarified that her intents to kill male patrons sending vulgar items to female recipients were only jokes? He doesn’t expect her to lie, right?
Before she can see any sentence in her head resemble an answer instead of another question, the door slides into the ceiling with a considerably less dramatic creaking sound. A part of her hoped that the old door’s systems would suddenly rust away, enabling the door to slam down on her as her body crossed the border between the rest of her life and the Boss’ office...
But it didn’t. It all turned out fine. She made it through, unharmed. Yippee?
“Miss Tracy Newkirk, our longest serving employee here at Port 0618.” She cannot hide her grimace at that terribly true fact, proceeding further into the Boss' office and taking the seat opposing him. Her eyes attempt to recreate a fraction of what she felt when he looked at her earlier, trying to drill a similar hole into his mask... All that produces is the feeling of her eyes shrinking into her skull when the Boss tilts his head in confusion.
“Sorry, Boss, just trying to... Read your expression.”
He sighs. “You can cut the shit, Cadet.”
Cut the shit? Cadet?! WHAT?! Scared into the mentality of a fawning prey animal, Tracy leans back in her seat. Her muscles tell her face to feign a smile, but nothing moves. “You’ve worked here a long, long time. And I’d like to think your work ethic reflects who you are outside of the office.” Her icebox of frozen dinners and currently unmade bed would love to have a word, but her mouth refuses to move. Tracy’s boss stands upright from his seat and walks around his desk.
“I’m certain you’re aware about the situation going down on Petrichor V.”
Now her lips begin to thaw, reciting words almost as scripted as her opening speech. “The mysterious disappearance of the UES Contact Light?”
“Precisely,” he adds, a disgustingly affirming tone oozing out of his voice. Tracy wishes she could block out his words. She can’t. They’re her future.
“Weren’t UE- Excuse me, our troops sent off months ago to take care of that?” Set off to start a pointless war on a pointless planet because some pointless company lost a bunch of pointless paper and plastic. Tracy’s voice struggles to feign interest.
“They’ve failed. In those months, we have not seen a ship emerge from the planet’s orbit, and no survivors have come forward with proof that they’ve in fact endured the reportedly harsh environments there.” Ah, great. So there’s pointless bodies being produced by the pointless war the pointless company has pointlessly waged over pointless artificial commodities. Her face, finally flexing, sculpts itself into one of annoyance.
“That’s… Awful, Boss,” She prays that he can’t tell her truths from lies, “But where does this involve us? We’re UES, sure, but we’re only Mars. Good troops are from higher-gravity planets, like Venus or—”
—Her boss’ hand slams onto the top of his desk, causing Tracy to once again sit at attention with the eyes of a deer in spaceship headlights. “We don’t have the OPTION of hiring the best of the best anymore, Tracy. And, tell me if I have the wrong gal, but...”
No. There’s no way. Her coworker, Tink, there’s no way he snitched on her about—
“Weren't you the employee who man-handled a thirty pound organic shipment back into its containment on top of tranquilizing the damn thing? Entirely unassisted? Or was Ferguson trying to sell me a bridge?”
Someone's getting blocked on all her accounts tonight. Her boss crosses his arms in front of his chest, his eyeless mask casting a shadowy spotlight across Tracy's entire face and torso. Only her shoulders bare the light of the room, though they'll soon bare the weight of that pointless company, too. Tracy sighs, knowing she can’t run or lie her way out of this one.
“Yes, sir. That was me, and I know that—”
—Now both her boss’ hands slam onto the top of the desk, and for once she can see the slightest hint of... Excitement behind his helmet. What’s there to be happy about?! “TRACY!!”
“WHAT?!” She yells in confused reply. “THIRTY POUNDS?!” Her boss continues, “YOU KNOW HOW LARGE THAT IS, RIGHT?!”
“I KNOW,” she responds, “IT’S THE—”
“THE LARGEST ORGANIC SHIPMENT WE AT 0618 HAVE EVER SHIPPED!!” And there’s his daily sentence finisher. Not even letting her feel the pride of saying it herself… Gah, at least she got to brag about it to Ferguson. Maybe she won’t block him. Her boss rises up to his full height, crossing his arms behind his back the way UES ship captains do on video. Tracy mentally readies herself for the shipload of horseshit he’s about to say next.
“So… Cadet Tracy Newkirk, training for her first Petrichor V excursion. How does that sound?”
That’s enough reminiscing. Tracy stares into the deep void of her locker and then down onto the disgustingly glittery glasstic alloy of her UES-issued commando helmet. Despite its fragile appearance, this thing is apparently going to protect her sweet face from all kinds of hell and high water. She stares back up into the locker, gazing at her darkened reflection, and furthermore at the red bandana tied in a firm knot on her head. The corporation let her keep it so they can recognize her body in the case Petrichor V’s environment gets to her skin before her clothes.
Pshh. Like they’d ever find her body.