MIscellaneous

We've been in the midst of a horrific heat wave that seems (*knock on wood*) to have finally broken today. During the heat wave, I was all over the place, both physically and mentally. My house is an impossible building to occupy once the heat and humidity get oppressive, so I escaped to libraries, museums, my granparents' cottage up north, and my friend's air conditioned house as frequently as possible the past week. I was also all over the place mentally. Focusing on anything in that weather is just impossible, but heat-induced delirium can occasionally lead to interesting ideas that may grow into bigger things now that it's cool enough to focus on stuff. In no particular order:

• Childhood friends/brothers who had adventures in a fantasy world return to that world as adults and discover that the world has become corrupted and overgown. Their fantasy world is for all intents and purposes conquered, and those forces threaten to spill over into ours.
• I envisioned this world as being united by a magical forest, mainly because I spend so much time wandering around a nearby forest looking for ideas, but also because I could envision lots of cool ways for the forest to 'conquer' the civilized parts of the world. There's also some nifty potential for the transition between our world and the otherworld to not be distinct, like the kids were just wandering through the woods and wound up in the other world without it being immediately clear where one began and the other ended.

• How come hyper-intelligent, super-advanced civilizations are only ever portrayed as really serious about everything with only one or two exceptions (e.g. Q, the Doctor and the Master). It seems like there would be some trolls (in the internet sense of the word) along the way. Perhaps a little more primitive than the examples above. I mean, if most humans were omnipotent and could run around time and space, I bet they'd fuck around with most of the 'primitive' life they might run across. Maybe it's just a transitional phase or whatever. I'm also thinking about the old mythological gods (through the lens of Clarke's Third Law). They were always sticking their fingers in things (and, in a more literal sense, other appendages...). I want to see more nigh-omnipotent trolls in Sci-Fi and fantasy.
• "Hey! Check it out! The 'intelligent life' on this planet hasn't even calculated the last digit of π yet, and he's one of the 'smart ones'."

• What went wrong with One More Day (the Spiderman arc in which they rewrote history so that he was never married to Mary Jane, never revealed his identity during the Civil War, and Aunt May never took a bullet for him), at a thematic level, was that it took away the notion that being a superhero has consequences, and that you're not the only one that your behavior puts at risk. Could be interesting to play around with heroes who have to live with the consequences of their actions, as well as those who can't handle that responsibility and thus refuse the call.

• Beginning the physical act of drawing, writing etc. reveals details that you can't know until you attempt the actual creation.
• This one occurred to me while at my grandparents' cabin, and I grabbed a stick and started drawing the fire in the dirt.
• I keep coming back to this as an interesting seed for a magic system in a fantasy story, tying magic to artistic expression and figuring out what you learn from different types of creation and how that might affect the magic cast.
• For example, drawing, sculpting anything directly representational requires you to notice and understand and (as a magic spell) alter the physical characteristics of things. Magic based on music or poetry, alternatively, could be something more along the lines of large-scale emotional manipulation.

• "Poetry by Coersion", "Surprised by Lasers"
• Phrases I felt the need to write down in that "Would be a good band name" kinda sense...

• I'm also thinking in the near future (once I stop feeling guilty about how the heat forced me away from 3D work, and/or finish my various personal 3D projects) I'll be taking another stab at a revision of my first posted story The Preacher and the Parasite. I got some partial drafts of a prequel of sorts, describing how the Preacher wound up attached to the Parasite, but I kept hitting various walls, and I've come to the conclusion that part of why so many prequels fall flat is that they're forced to shoehorn in drama that didn't previously exist or being forced to compress a bunch of potentially interesting plot points into a much smaller period of time. I don't think the prequel attempts are a complete waste, however, as they'll work rather well into the various flashback dreams that the Preacher has during the course of the original story.

Waterbug Early Handwritten Drafts

Art school —especially art school with a focus on finding jobs in the entertainment industry— taught me that showing process is extremely important. I don't know if this policy carries over as much to the writing side of things. I doubt you'll sell anywhere near as many of The Chicken-Scratch, Handwritten Rough Drafts of Star Wars as you will The Art of Star Wars. Aborted rough drafts sure aren't as pretty as concept art, but, should anyone want to see my writing process, I'm going to try and document it for the things I post that wind up going through a bunch of revisions.

In the second draft, I was fairly certain that the bedroom scene didn't have any information or great character moments that couldn't be handled later, but I was very interested in including the hallway scene for its world-building details (the signs, Crabby's tubes, zero-G locomotion). I also tried to work a bit more characterization into Robins' political rival and that proved to be a dead-end.

For the third draft, I experimented with writing the scene out in prose, figuring that it would allow me to sprinkle description throughout the scene rather than the huge chunks of scene-setting description that I needed in script form. I also took a stab at present-tense narration inspired by Paolo Bacigalupi's The Windup Girl.

The fourth draft was my attempt at Kurt Vonnegut's fifth rule of short-story writing: "Start as close to the end as possible."

I went back to a script for the fifth draft. I was bouncing back and forth between this draft and the most recent draft on my computer (another good reason for referring to it as "Draft 6-ish"...). When I'd get stuck while typing, I'd switch to handwriting, and that seemed to fairly consistently jostle something so that I could keep pushing forward.

Waterbug (Draft Six-ish)

Most recent draft of Waterbug. (Draft Six-ish because of the four hand-written partial drafts  between the first draft and this one, which I hope to scan and post in the morning)

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Dramatis Personae:

Councilman Robins: Late 30's, prematurely graying. Due to the nature of the politics in Titan City, Robins is a paranoid individual, quick to avoid blame. He angers easily.

Erika Stellane: 13, captain of the Cargo Hauler Waterbug. Feisty, seemingly never serious, manipulative, but in a mostly harmless way. A lack of human contact has left her a bit of an oddball.

Crabby: About 5 Jovian years (late 50's, early 60's, by the Terran Calendar), a Europan, like a large, sapient crab or lobster. Due to his species' inability to handle human language, he mostly stays quiet, but he is fiercely protective of Erika.

Cargo Hauler Waterbug: 27, a Scarab-class light freighter. Scarabs are budget starships that were widely considered flying deathtraps even when new. To accommodate its Europan crew member, large, clear water pipes run throughout the ship with airlocks in the engine room, cockpit, and cargo bay.

INT: Waterbug Engine Room

Councilman Robins climbs down a ladder into the center of the Engine Room. He holds on at the bottom of the ladder to keep himself from floating away in the microgravity. Crabby is clinging to the wall near his airlock, holding a toolbox in one of his seven limbs. The room is dark, except for flashing red warning lights. Alarms are blaring, and the whole ship is shaking. Miscellaneous tools and spare parts float through the room.

Robins: Uhh... Captain? Captain, you down here? (He turns to Crabby) You! Have you seen the captain. Where is that little—

Erika emerges from a hatch in a machine in the aft portion of the engine room and whistles loudly. She is wearing a headlamp which shines a bright white light on Crabby and Robins. Robins turns to face her, shielding his eyes from the bright light with his free hand.

Erika puts seven fingers in front of her mouth, in imitation of Crabby's mouthparts, and flashes a quick series of gestures to him. He opens his toolbox and gently lobs a wrench to her.

Robins pushes off the ladder towards her. She ducks back into the machine and resumes her repairs.

Robins: Captain! Are you sure I can't help—

The ship shudders violently.

            Robins: —help us not die?

Erika pokes her head back out of the machine.

            Erika: Thought I told you to go back to sleep...

She pulls herself back into the machine.

            Robins: (grumbling) I've never been able to sleep through flashing lights and alarms...

Erika: (muttering) A miracle you can sleep at all in Titan City then...

Robins: What was that?

Erika: (shouting) Nothing!

Robins: Look, the ship's clearly falling apart! There's got to be something I can do to make sure—

The ship shudders violently again.

Robins: —I don't have to take an escape pod the rest of the way to Ganymede!

Erika: (muttered) First we'd need escape pods. (She pushes herself out again) 'Sides, everything you're hearing is normal.

Robins: This is normal?

Erika: Yeah... 'cept the alarms... and the warning lights. They're here to tell us that this old air scrubber (she taps the machine with her wrench) may not make the trip, and one person in this little crawlspace is more than enough, so, no, you can't help.

Robins: And if it doesn't make it?

Erika: We inhale all the oxygen in the ship and exhale CO₂ until there's no more oxygen. Then, well, you know... Oh, don't look at me like that. You're some bigshot politician now. You could've flown in style, but you chose the freighter that's almost twice as old as its captain. Was it because you missed me?

Robins: “Missed you?” Letting you get emancipated cost me my legal career!

Erika pulls herself back into the machine.

Erika: (Under her breath) Hiring cheap lawyers. Further evidence my parents provided an unstable environment, your honor...

Robins: I wasn't cheap—

Erika: (under her breath) Probably shoulda been...

Robins: Look, that was a technicality, and you know it! You're only free because of a loophole in Titanic law! One that I intend to close once this election is over—

Erika climbs out of the machine again. She points her wrench at him accusingly.

Erika: And you chartered Waterbug so after the big secret trip to Ganymede you can drag me kicking and screaming back to my parents. Is that it? A big happy photo-op: Prodigal daughter, her parents, tears of joy, and you, with a big, happy smile, all sitting right under an optimistic headline where you promise this is “just the start” and you'll be “personally addressing every colossal 'double-you tee eff' that's ever been perpetrated by the government of Titan City”!

Erika pulls herself back into the machine. This time there are no sounds of her working.

Robins: You? You seriously think I chartered this flying deathtrap for your sake? I know, as a teenager, this is a tough concept for you, but you're not the center of the universe. There's no elaborate scheme in my desk on Titan laying out in exquisite detail how I can return to a four-year-old status quo. I picked your ship because I made a judgment call at the docks. That crustacean over there who can't speak any human language gave me the idea that this would be the ship that would ask the fewest questions. An assumption I was sorely mistaken about, I might add.

Erika climbs out of the machine again.

Erika: You're worried about questions? Just wait'll the bodies of a politician in his bathrobe and a thirteen-year-old girl drift into Ganymede's orbit. What d'ya think Missus Robins will tell the press? Is there a Missus Robins? Will she be sobbing about how she had “no idea” or will she just smugly tell the reporters “Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't suffocate on starship with a waaaaaaaaaaaaaay underage prostitute sooner. He had tons of chances. Can I have my e-book deal now?”

Robins: Leave my wife out of your scenarios you deluded little brat!

Robins leaps toward Erika, arms extended, ready to throttle her. She ducks back into the crawlspace and pulls the access panel shut behind her. Robins pounds on it frantically.

Robins: Maybe I oughtta just leave you in there! You've gotta have EV gear, an air tank, somewhere. When I get to Ganymede, it'll be easy enough to add your name to the hit! Those gangsters'll probably give you to me nice and cheap compared with that jackass I'm running against! Just—

The access panel flies open, sending Robins floating through the engine room. Erika emerges holding a small recording device.

Erika: Had a hunch you were flying cheap to do something shady.

She ducks back into the air scrubber. A moment later, the warning lights and alarms stop. She re-emerges.

Erika: If it's any consolation, next time you fly Waterbug, we'll have all the comforts of home: Working air scrubbers, gravity, lights, food that wasn't vaccuum-packed before I was born, all thanks to the generous sums you're going to pay me not to send this confession to the Titan City Times.

Robins smacks into a wall. Still seething with rage, he prepares to launch himself at Erika again.

Erika: And, of course, Crabby's always happy to make sure suffocation remains an option for you, so keep that in mind before you ever threaten me on my ship again.

Fantasy World-Building Outline

I think world-building is probably my favorite way to be creative. To heck with things like "plot" and "character". There's interesting worlds out there to imagine. What happens if I change... this?

This world's been kicking around my head for a while now, and I didn't really know what to do with it, so when Gamasutra's Story Design Challenge #4 came along as a straight-up world-building challenge, I suddenly knew exactly what to do with the world I didn't know what to do with. Still no ideas for an actual story in this world, but it's been fun nonetheless.

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The World

• This is a world in which magic is a powerful, pervasive energy source. The world is steeped in magic, and all but the lowest castes of society have some faculty with magic.
• However, prolonged use of magic causes mutations related to the spells cast. For example, casting fire-related spells all the time would eventually lead to your hands always being on fire.
• Because of this trait of magic, the most powerful sorcerers cease to be even remotely human and become magical creatures, analogous to dragons or elementals. Similar fates await those who live in prolonged service to powerful sorcerers.
• Magic applies to nature in a similar manner. Evolution has favored magical animals. Solitary animals often have one or two magical tricks to aid hunting or protect them from predation. Social creatures often have their own “sorcerers”, the alphas of the packs that can cast 'spells' on the rest of the pack.
• Magic is a 'sticky' energy source. In places where it was used a lot (e.g. big magical battles or sorcerers surrendering the last of their humanity), there tends to be a residual magical energy, making those places into Places of Power, in which there is simply more magic to draw from, making it easier to cast bigger spells there, until the residual magic gets used up.

Society

• Magic use is common, and a powerful command of it is necessary for any sort of leadership role. Attempting to rule a city-state or lead an army without being a powerful magician is a good way to quickly get deposed by someone more powerful.
• The fact that powerful magic is a necessity to rule and that powerful magic tends to remove a person from human cares like power means that attempts to build empires usually fall apart when their leadership transcends humanity. Thus, city-states and small principalities are usually the largest political units.
• There is little standardization. Non-magical science, social progress and education advance with glacial slowness.
• Each city-state has its own religion, centered around their lead sorcerer as either a god or high priest to a previous leader who is no longer human (and thus, divine).
• The technological stagnation does not, however, prevent monumental architecture. As long as even small city-states are ruled by sorcerers with god complexes, elaborate palaces, fortresses, and wonders are common sights, even in relatively small city-states.
• Division of magic ability has led to a rigid caste system. Though distributions of the castes and mobility from caste-to-caste vary from city to city, the basic hierarchy looks something like this:

• At the top are Sorcerers. These are the aristocracy of the world. They have the raw magical potential and the resources required to learn a wide variety of spells. These are the type most likely to eventually become magic creatures.
• The next level down are Casters. They are less powerful than sorcerers and are unlikely to master more than a handful of spells. They often serve as officers in Sorcerers' armies or bureaucrats.
• Glamours are the artisans. They have one spell they are able to use, or a narrow family of spells. Because this one spell tends to be their livelihood, Glamours tend to become permanently enchanted. For example, many professional thieves and assassins are Glamours, and it is not uncommon to run into a thief who is stuck completely invisible.
• Receivers are the peasants. They are unable to cast magic of their own, but they are highly susceptible to it. This makes them useful as grunt infantry when city-states go to war, as the officers can easily enchant whole platoons.

Sample City-States

• The Tower: Named for the magic academy at its center, the Tower is a very populous city. It is a hub of trade, with merchants bringing magical artifacts from all over the world across the relatively safe lands around the Tower and selling these artifacts for high prices to the scholars of the city-state. Due to the academic nature of the Tower, the city-state's High Sorcerers tend to transcend humanity very quickly, leading to a perpetually unstable political landscape.
• At the heart of the Blacktree Forest sits The Clearing, ruled by the powerful Sorceress known as “The Mother of Trees” or “The Dryad”. She views her subjects with a highly protective, maternal hand, and has been steadily enchanting the surrounding forests to serve as an impenetrable wall full of murderous plants and deadly predators, keeping out invaders from the outside world, but also trade. The forest is ever-so-slowly expanding towards a neighboring city-state. The magic to keep the forest under such tight control is slowly turning the Mother of Trees wooden, like an Ent or Dryad.
• The Giant's Spine is built on the back of a humongous, human-shaped peninsula. Some say an ancient band of sorcerers bound a giant with spells that turned him to stone to found the city; others say a bookish geomancer coerced the earth into this shape so he could say he built the city upon a giant he slew. The Sorcerer Kings of the Giant's Spine have traditionally been savage warriors who used their magic to enhance their abilities to fight up close and personal rather than avoid it. The Arena is central to life on the Spine, and no day of bloodshed is complete without a display of the High Sorcerer's ferocity. When he finishes his slaughter, the whole mountain quakes, as though the king's magic causes the giant himself pain.

Gameplay Idea:

• I picture a game in this world casting the player as an up-and-coming sorcerer attempting to make his or her mark on the world. Perhaps they will attempt to take over one of the city-states. Perhaps they will try to build an empire, or rush to become a powerful magical creature and simply do whatever they want without caring about humanity at all anymore.

Snails

A friend has posted a couple crazy pictures of snails on Facebook, asking her friends to concoct stories for these absurd creatures. Here are my contributions and the images that inspired them:

 The Magician's Motivator (May 7, 2012)

After what seemed like half a decade, the novice was overjoyed. Freshman year was finally over. Packing up a dorm room had never seemed so sweet.

In one of the last couple boxes, he finally had to find a spot for his snail. Sure, some of the other apprentices had ravens or phantasmal rats or other cool pets, but did any of them have the same sentimental value as the snail? Were any of them the constant motivation to do better that his snail was?

He still remembered the day he had made this pet, standing in front of his transmogrification class (still not sure it was an actual word), "They said it couldn't be done, nay, that it shouldn't be done. Yet, here I stand before you, having done it." With a flourish, he yanked the white sheet off the tiny fishbowl, "Coral and Snail, combined as easily as Jerry made himself a Centaur."

The stamping of hooves accompanied the brief applause before their teacher cut it off with a glare. "Mr. Robinson, you've just set a record. Do you have any idea how long it's been since a student needed to repeat Beginning Transmogrification thrice?"

Yet now, two first-years later, he was finally moving on. "We did it, buddy, you were right!" he said, running a finger along the sign on his snail's bowl proudly reminding him, "Don't let your mistakes own you."


The Pixies' Secret Weapon (May 27, 2012)

"Queen Buttercup, Grand Vizier Daffodil, admirals of the First Lillypad Fleet, General Hyacinth of the Second Squirrel Cavalry division, as you all know, reports have been coming in from all theaters, and they're worse than we'd feared.

"Not only do the Big People no longer fear Pixies, not only do they step on our homes and people with impunity, but my spies (highly decorated members of the Seventh Barn Owl Recon Division, every one of them) have given me truly frightening knowledge: The Big People no longer believe in Magic."

Dr. Misty Milkweed Mudpie of the Division of Advanced Sorcery, Glamours, and Tricks pauses to allow his audience to gasp in horror before continuing.

"I don't need to tell you that this is devastating news, but it's no reason to give up hope. A secret division of our agency has been working on this problem for years. Obviously, lips had to remain sealed, lest fear spread among the fae. And on the eve of such terrifying news, I am proud to reveal the first prototype of the new Magic that will keep us in the fight, keep us from having to retreat like the Elves did. Your Highness, generals and admirals, behold the first successful Pixie attempt at using the Magic that the Big People call 'Technology'!"

The doctor snaps his fingers, and a hummingbird swoops down to hover above the branch next to him, carrying a package wrapped in leaves. He pulls out a sharpened twig and slices the leaves apart, keeping one eye facing his patrons the whole time. He is pleased to see that they all lean close with great interest.

And then the Vizier speaks up, "It's just a normal snail. That's less magical than magic." He laughs at the poor invertebrate, lying on its shell.

With a heave, the doctor flips the snail back onto its pseudopod. "Just a snail?" He pulls on a pair of goggles and reaches behind the snail, flipping a switch on the rear of its shell, almost as long as the whole snail. "Prepare to eat those words, Vizier..."

Montage Moments

"Y'ever have one of those moments that feels like you're in a montage?" Danny asked, "Y'know, background music just lines up perfectly with your actions. You look in just the right direction right as the music hits a certain flourish, and you just know, 'This moment must've been directed.' You so rarely have a montage of bad stuff too. Like, the bad stuff's what the director wants to draw out. The bad stuff's conflict; it's story. The montage is good stuff, wrapping up your 'happily afters' or getting ready to beat the bad guys, so you just know, when you feel like a montage, those're the moments where things change for the better."

I have these moments all the time. I was never really sure how or in what manner to preserve the feeling, but monologue of a hypothetical fictional character seemed like a fairly decent storage device. Perhaps I can yank it out some time, or just leave it as a sketch...

Waterbug (First Draft)

Written for the Comic Character Story Design Challenge over at Gamasutra, inspired by a comment I made on this io9 post.

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INT: Waterbug Passenger's Cabin

The passenger's cabin of the Waterbug is pitch-black, except for the stars visible through the tiny window. From the rear of the ship, a loud crash is heard as the ship lurches violently. Councilman Robins unstraps himself and floated out of bed just before the alarms start.

The ship's automated alarm system begins blaring a warning.

Ship: Warning! Air recycler malfunction. Estimated oxygen remaining: One hour, twenty-four minutes.

The councilman quickly pulls on a simple jumpsuit -the microgravity equivalent of a bathrobe- and fumbles to a wall-mounted intercom.

Councilman: Uhh... captain...

The voice from the intercom is that of a young girl, Erika Stellane.

Erika: Everything's fine, counselor. Back to sleep.

Councilman: Flashing lights and blaring alarms keep me awake.

Erika: (muttered) Amazing you can sleep at all on Titan...

Councilman: What? Nevermind. Can I help? Engine room?

Using a series of rungs along the wall, Councilman Robins pulls himself out of his quarters.

Erika: Situation's really under control counselor...

Ship: Please locate the nearest alternative air supply. Warning...

INT: Waterbug Hallway

Councilman Robins pulls himself along the series of rungs, cables, and pipes that enable the passengers and one-child crew of the Waterbug to traverse the ship. A large transparent tube full of slimy green water also runs down the hallway.

Councilman: (muttered) Thank you. I regret that I have one, very minor first act to take care of. I humbly beg your forgiveness.

Ship: Warning! Air recycler malfunction. Estimated oxygen: One hour, eighteen minutes.

Councilman: It won't take long, and then I'll get right on all my campaign promises, but first: Impound the damn Waterbug. I'm sure we'll all agree that it should never fly again...

Ship: Please locate nearest alternative air supply.

Councilman Robins arrives at the door to the engine room. Signs around the door: “Ship's Playground: Swing at your own Peril. Management not responsible for grease stains, or plasma burns,” and, “You break it, I kick you for it in the afterlife... forever.”

INT: Waterbug Engine Room

Erika is floating off to the side of the engine room, near one of the smaller machines. Erika is a skinny, thirteen-year-old girl whose lankiness has only been exacerbated by spending the better part of the past four years in microgravity. She's dressed in a dirty, too-small jumpsuit and a pair of tinted goggles. Her hair is mostly short, brown, and tied up in a bun except for a few long bangs striped with pink dye. A pair of taut tethers attached to her belt hold her in place.

Clutching the wall not far away from her is Rangoon, her Europan first mate, a seven-limbed amphibious creature, like a giant crab.

Erika turns to face her first mate and holds both hands in front of her mouth, seven fingers hanging down like the seven tendrils that make up his mouth. She quickly gestures with her fingers, and the arthropod tosses her a tool.

Councilman: Are you sure I can't help?

Erika: Do you know anything about rerouting antimatter flux containment streams?

Robins stares at her for a moment. A smile cracks on Erika's face.

Councilman: That's meaningless technobabble, isn't it?

Erika: Guilty. Seriously, though, under control. Minor issue with the air scrubbers.

Councilman: So, no problem whatsoever?

Erika: No. No no no.. Eighteen percent chance.

Councilman: Eighteen percent chance... that the air scrubber'll blow?

Erika: That it won't. Don't look at me like that. Do you have any idea just how much traffic happens without functioning life support?

Councilman: Yeah. Unmanned vessels.

Erika: That's not all. There's also derelicts. Just last week, Rangoon and me...

Councilman: 'Rangoon'?

Erika: Crabby learned what 'crabby' meant... and ironically enough got very crabby about it. I should be able to call him Rangoon for a while though. He doesn't like Chinese take-out nearly as much as I do... Anyhoo, when this thing blows, I call dibs on the artificial gill. Those tubes have algae enough to keep Rangoon and me breathing comfortably for days.

Councilman: What about...

Erika: Last I checked, the EV-suits should have O2 enough for about 48 hours, if you ration. Hold your breath for one more day after that, and we'll be on Ganymede before you can make the interplanetary sign for choking!

Councilman: I can't believe this. I paid you to get me to Ganymede safely...

Erika: No. You said, “Quickly and discretely.” No mention of safety. You'd think safety would've been a priority, but I guess not. By Titanic law, I wouldn't be in breach of contract if you arrived belly-up, would I?

Councilman Robins has become visibly angry.

Erika: I know that look! Haven't seen you this angry since you lost my emancipation suit for my folks. Titanic law! Would any other court have emancipated a nine-year-old girl?

Councilman: That was a technicality you little...

A mischievous grin appears on Erika's face as Robins raises his hands, ready to strangle her.

Erika: Now now. Attacking me with Rangoon around will only hasten your asphyxiation...

Ship: Warning! Air recycler malfunction. Estimated breathable air remaining: Fifty-seven minutes. Please locate nearest alternative air supply.

Councilman: Oh God, it just hit me. I'm seriously about to suffocate, aren't I?

Erika nods, in mock reassurance.

Councilman: On a ship that's going to fall apart before I reach Ganymede.

Erika: Most likely...

Councilman: All because those damn mobsters wanted to meet in person to negotiate such a “high-level” hit.

Erika: (in mock surprise)Your opponent? No...

Councilman: I had to do something. Every damn poll...

Erika pulls herself into the machine she was working on. Something clicks, and the alarms die out.

Ship: Air recycler functioning normally.

Erika: Thought so. (She pushes herself back out of the machine, holding a small recording device) Now, if it's any consolation, all the hush money I'm sure you're going to be paying me will make your next trip on Waterbug a much more luxurious affair, complete with gravity, air, food that wasn't vaccuum-packed before I was born...