Injustice is alive and well here in this backwater we’ve found ourselves on. Nevermind the fact that the captain turned on his first officer. Nevermind that he lost control of his mental faculties in the face of danger. No, no. Pray, don’t pay any attention to silly little details such as that. Clearly, if someone behaves in such a manner I am to assume that they are in fine working condition and ready to tend to delicate matters regarding the upkeep of an entire bloody rogue trader dynasty—if you can even presume to use the term with this laughable excuse for a fleet. At least, that’s the lesson Draque imparted upon me when he revoked my shore leave. Needless to say, Diary, I am more than a little put out.
I accomplished my duties on Ratgut in relatively short order. A valiant attempt was made at acquiring real provisions, but it seems this provincial hinterland lacks anything of the sort. Still, I made do with what was available. With much trepidation for my palate’s future, I placed a bulk order of the local export—something which, when viewed with a generous eye—might resemble food. Miss Victrix accompanied me on this particular mission. Knowing her lack of interest in commercial endeavors, I can only presume she meant to keep an eye on me and ensure I came to no harm while planetside. Thoroughly charming girl. Little does she know that I dabbled in the underbelly of society while at university. Naturally, I grew out of that phase, but I don’t believe I flatter myself when I say one never really forgets those skills. Still, it was an appreciated gesture.
It seems everyone on the ship is off enjoying themselves at the moment—even dour Miss Lilyth has gotten into the spirit of consumerism. Honestly, Diary, I’m at a loss. I thought my performance would have at least earned a modicum of respect from the man—I negotiated contracts as an artist paints a masterpiece—and yet here I sit. Meanwhile Burne and Goat, Miss Victrix, and Triox are carousing planetside. B & G continue to send me pictures. While well-meaning it only serves to pour salt in a fresh wound. And, much as I hate to admit it, I’m bored. Terribly bored, in point of fact.
One can only organize a wardrobe by hue and material so many times before it becomes a dull affair, Diary.