The sunlight swoops across West, refracting through the plexiglass and sliding across his face, lighting his eyelashes for a few breaths before it’s gone again. A few seconds of radiating heat, then darkness. Blasting sunshine. Then the black of deep space. Sunlight. Stars. He wishes they hadn’t docked with such a noticeable spin because while the grav controls keep him firmly planted on the deck, the sun keeps rising and setting across the garage door window and for all that he has virtuoso sealegs, even West is starting to feel dizzy.
He’s on gangpipe lookout duty, guarding the metal walkway that connects the slowly Zeester and its current prey, an AstraCorp bulk carrier creatively named Medical-Supply Ship 245. The two ships are slowly precessing in tandem as the Zeester guts the MSS 245. He’s tempted to message Sergeant Collison or Hawksmoor again, keep bugging them, but instead he turns his back to the window and switches his goggles to ‘viewscreen’ to watch some stupid plastic yubes. He’s bored and a tiny bit too hung over for anything else.
Back when he was on watch-duty as a little kid, he always marched proudly: chin up, eyes disdainful, hi-freq gun on his shoulder. What a joke he must have been to the others, with his little fro and his oversized ears and girly eyelashes. Itching for some stupid twist to try to get past him so he could smoke him and everyone would shut up about his marksmanship. And, at the same time, and even more desperately, praying that he’d have to yank the ties and ice half the stinking crew.
Neither of these things ever happened: the captain plans all of their raids neatly and in all the years he’s been lookout, no loose ends have ever found their way to West.
Of course, by the time he turned twelve, West realized lookout is the bitch job and he’d never get any loot.
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