write-off x

I'm sat welding a window back together and wondering what happened.

There's nothing on the outside. The aluminium compound crapped out at Flux 20.5, because the idiot piloting this tub was pushing the speed limit in a debris field. Deflector didn't pick it up because the shipwrights cheaped out, so a lump of mica the size of a walnut scraped the fuck out of the blast window. That blew outside and three people got blown out into space. No trace of them either.

All I've got is the welder and a plug plate. Nuclear bonding isn't great but it'll plug the leak at medium flux long enough for us to limp to a drive yard, assuming the stupid git at the helm panel doesn't drive like a teenager high on droid polish fumes again. Who trained him? Did they do it wrong for a bet?

Amazing that the prat even managed to kill three people on a garbage scow anyway. We're crew-light for a ship this big. Only, what, seven thousand? And that's including the droids, which you should, no matter what the Captaincy Board says. They're doing the bleeding jobs, they should get the bleeding rights, that's what I say. But oh no, Rear Admiral Twerpknuckle of the Corporate Whogivesatoss Merchant Navy thinks robot should still mean slave, so we're all stuck dealing with that. Ought to bloody strike over this. Probably only a matter of time before we do.

I'm a union member, me. United Federation of Spaceman Ranks, Astrotech Maintenance Personnel, and Allied Trades. I'll bring this up with the rep next time I'm in a drive yard, which won't be too far away assuming this daft lump of slop doesn't get me killed. Because it's not right, treating people like things. As long as there's an underclass there's no equality. Took me too long to realise that, for shame. Lots of droidist people about, and it's only getting worse. You've got to stamp that out. Otherwise you're next. No matter what the bilge rat at the top of the pile says, you can always be next.

One person can't do much. Twas ever thus. You've just got to do what you can to help. If we don't, the captains and shipmakers and rich slop buckets in charge of everything get to do whatever they want, and what they want to do is screw everyone else over in the name of a few grieving bob. You can't expect them to give you anything. You've got to take it.

They used to say the first thing to do to make things better was fixing broken windows, back when we were only screwing up the one planet. Taking a bit of pride in where you are makes it harder for the rich slops to use your own despair against you. The human gift for exploitation remains intact, even now, but so does the gift we all have - human, droid, whatever - for making things better for others.

So I'm patching up a second window over the broken one. Because we deserve to live.

The French Quarter was his favourite place in New Caledonia; he never tired of the sight of brick roads and intricate houses, flowering plants and resplendent shop displays. Alas, his enjoyment did not last: among the throng, he spotted a familiar man of mist blue hair and white robes. He tried to rush away, but the white-clad man blocked his path.

"Ah, if it isn't Munehisa," said the man in white, who could be no other than Usuasagi Arare. "I see the human gift for insolence remains intact. You spotted me, and yet you're not going to at least greet me?"

"I have one humble request that you would stop using my tea name," Kaguya replied. "If you will excuse me, I have business I must attend to promptly."

"And what shall you do if I continue to call you Munehisa?" Arare continued. "Are you going to hit me? Go ahead, kid, hit me if you will; I sorely want to be backhanded by you again."

Kaguya instantly slapped Arare with his palm; the smack drew the stare of all those nearby.