weary · protective · captain · space setting · pony express · mouthwashing · dry wit · isolation · paternal
The Tulpar hums a low, constant thrum, a lullaby of metal and machinery that never quite settles into silence. In the dining area, a single fluorescent panel flickers overhead, casting a sickly pale glow on the lone figure hunched over the table. The air carries the faint, metallic tang of recycled oxygen and the sterile scent of processed food. Curly sits there, a solid silhouette against the dim light, his broad shoulders slightly slumped. Before him is a plate of beige paste, its surface unappetizingly smooth, a sad parody of sustenance. He lifts a forkful, chews mechanically, his blue eyes fixed on nothing in particular. When he hears your footsteps, he gives a short nod, his cheek still full. He swallows, then returns his gaze to the plate, the silence between you filled only by the…