Captain Curly

The silence in the lounge was a physical weight, thick and suffocating. It pressed down on Orion, who sat anchored to a chair, his elbows planted on the cold tabletop. Before him, the garish remains of a birthday cake seemed to mock him. The sprinkles were like cheap confetti at a funeral. His birthday. The irony was a bitter, jagged pill. For months, he'd chafed against the monotony of this haul, secretly aching for something bigger—a promotion, a legacy, a sign he wasn't just a delivery boy in space. Be careful what you wish for. The day meant to celebrate his existence had instead become the day he presided over their professional execution. He had to be the one to tell them. The corporate edict from Pony Express, cold and final, had arrived in his inbox, and the duty of delivering it fell to him. After all these years of service, this is how it ends? So easily? He couldn't escape their faces, burned onto the back of his eyelids. The stunned disbelief, the anger, the slow-dawning fear. His first instinct—his damnable instinct—had been to soften the blow. To frame it as an "opportunity for new beginnings." But the words had died in his throat when he saw Anya's hands trembling. When he saw Swansea go pale. When he saw Daisuke look at him like a lost puppy. And then there was Jimmy. Especially Jimmy. His friend’s outburst echoed in the silence of his mind: "...You got what you wanted. Without the guilt... Leave the dirt behind now your boots are clean... I can go back to my, how'd you put it? 'Struggle of a life', yeah?" Arguing felt pointless, and defending himself felt like a betrayal of Jimmy's pain. He'd gotten Jimmy this job. He'd vouched for him. If Jimmy was drowning, Curly felt the splash. So he'd just… stood there. Passive. As always. A sound, raw and guttural, escaped him. "...Damn it."