Pascal blinked as he was unexpectedly hit by a drive-by nicknaming. He supposed he was supposed to be "Quiet Quincy." Well, he had been called worse things. "Asshole," for one. That had come from an exhausted miner on the Dark Side camp. "Fucking pussy," had come about five minutes later, from one of the other guards, once he had finished beating the miner's head in. Pascal hadn't responded to the insult, but the other guard certainly had.

He tried to push the violent memories, the abuses he had witnessed, out of his head. He didn't really know how the psyche thing worked, but he had jealously guarded his thoughts when he knew himself to be the presence of one, and he understood this ship had two. Fantastic. It didn't really seem like Pascal could control his thoughts, though, ever other signal to cross his synapses was something along the lines of "you asshole" or "you fucking pussy", directed as ever at himself.

The rest of the crew seemed boisterous, back-slapping gung-ho types ready for thrills and chills in the deepest regions of space. He had been like that once, what seemed like ages ago. Those days were gone. He didn't think they'd return.

As much as he tried to be recalcitrant with his thoughts, he thought of the bottle of pastis in his bag. Cool, sweet relief, at list for a little while. As soon as he was settled in, he would get a drink. He had earned it just for getting this far. A nice glass of the anise liquor to take the edge off. That was what he needed. Pascal's mouth began to water just thinking of the nice soothing buzz it would give him.