EVE Fiction

"Thre'aluk," Praezius's voice calls out through speakers throughout the Hamazte, his most-recent harvesting vessel. His voice echoes amongst the hallways, whilst dark-skinned fingers tremble, with a nervous energy he is not certain about. From time to time, his fingers clench to fists, wringing at the wrists, trying to ease this unnatural sense of... something. He doesn't know what it is that he is feeling, at the controls of the new model of vessel, but it is an overwhelming feeling, if he lets his thoughts give in to it. He doesn't.

"Thre'aluk zi mal, vress'ka le Om-bar," speaking into the microphone, and listening to the sound of his voice in the background, down hallways, as an actually functional communications system transfers his voice through the ship, he has to grin, in spite of the nervousness he is feeling. He has been at this for all of several hours. Already.

...but it wasn't until Letty had signaled him through holo that he had begun getting nervous. That was almost an hour ago. It's been twenty four hours since he had thought about that conversation. It wasn't something he very honestly wanted in his life, while he was still getting onto his feet, again. As Letty had said, though, he wasn't meant for being a deckhand. Especially not for someone with consistent amounts of blood to shed. It appears that she has more of an inside knowledge on the matter than he. How quaint.

Now, true, that his own sights are usually focused, and solidly on one goal, or another, so his decisions have usually left him on the outside of most events, but for even his first mate to know more of the corporation he is in, than he, is a little unusual. He wonders what their ideals are, if a nearly peaceful, bubbly and happy woman can know about them. Shaking his head a moment, he reaches a trembling hand to the pages of the book sitting on the console by his side. Flipping the page lightly, he checks its contents, certain that he's read this, before....

"Yae, is nae a goo't'ing tae shoot yer underlins... 'dat kin cause a ree-vol', n'lea' 'de cap'n floatin'n space..... Knew 'da'...."

In truth, he doesn't feel they are out of much, without him in their midst--what good is a strip laser against a missile launcher, after all? Although they might say otherwise, he feels... alone, in this stretch of space. Aside from his newfound friends. Aside from a relatively small number of others whom had been with him... before. Before, he'd been... he's told he was... he's had dreams of it; really, they are only fragments of something he cannot wholly grasp. Things that leave him completely... out of sorts. Addled. Rattled.

Nervous.

A familiar tone whistles in his ear from the headset, and his hand reaches, tapping buttons on the console as he reads. A whispering rattle raises his eyes from the page he's on, and he blinks as a plagioclase asteroid becomes his next target in a long list of the many he seeks to chew apart. Though having done this for several hours, tonight, he berates himself for having familiar urges, precognitive and intuitive reactions in the Hamazte that make performing this neverending task so much easier than having to look up every six minutes, or thereabouts.

When the call reaches the bridge that the ore holds are full, he reaches up the metal-fingered hand, tapping the buttons that will take them to the station they call home.

For now.

Praezius rises from his chair, moving around it and bringing his heavy, thick book with to see about studying more on its intricasies. Maybe find something to stab and eat, as well. He doesn't know, yet.