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[indent][indent]Rex rolled over in his bunk at the wall muffled screaming that awoke him far too early. “I think I’d take a rooster over PTSD screams any day.” He grabbed his pillow and cushioned it over his head, burying his face into the soft sheets. Sleep sank her dirty little fingers into the back of his head again. Yet, the growing hum and chatter tickled those digits away, and he eventually opened his eyes to the roof of his room. He rammed the ball of his palms into his eyes, his vision bleary before straightening up. Never one to put his birthday suit into the closet, he let the blankets fall off his nude form as he stood. There were only a few biting seconds of the air chill before he quickly slid on his undergarments and took stock of his cabin. Lucky still snoozed. How the bird could sleep through this noise was beyond Rex. He let him have his rest—the gorgeous parrot needed his beauty rest.

As Rex dressed, the smells of breakfast hit his nose like a barrage of asteroids would hit a freighter. He almost gagged. In all these years, he thought he’d get used to the smell of cooking meat. It still bugged him. He glanced down at his hands, long fingers extended from strong palms and tanned skin.  He brought them to his shoulder and down midway to his back. The slick and shiny texture of his skin felt new and old at the same time. He pulled a bright orange shirt on that had a blue Alliance logo on it. It was distressed and not meant to be praise. It was just a shirt. They’d be in the black, there was no reason for him to wear his finery. He slid on khaki-colored pants and tucked them into his worn black calf-high boots with fashionable straps. Anyone with a keen eye would note that they were worth a lot of credits. The jewelry went on, again. Large bracelets around his wrists, a clatter of rings on his fingers, and a necklace that he tucked under his shirt. A quick pass through his dark hair with his hand, and it looked perfectly mussed. He checked his beard in the mirror, it was still tight. No need to trim this morning. He slid his tinted glasses on, not fully awake and not wanting to hear the comments of his sleep addled eyes. Rex pulled himself out of his bunk.

The smells from the galley had shifted a little bit, but the tang of meat still permeated the air. Yet, his stomach made a weird noise of contempt—partly from its emptiness and partly from his disgust. He’d probably swing by when everyone had finished and scrounge something to eat when there wasn’t anyone to judge him. He hated having to explain his vegetarianism. “Once you see how the sausage is made. You don’t want that sausage,” is how he’d respond. The looks would be puzzling, but he knew what he meant.  Instead, he thought he’d make his way to the cargo bay and work his way back. Super-secret cargo from Badger sat on the back of his mind like a fat kid on one end of a seesaw. No matter how he fought, he couldn’t budge it. 

Rex tapped the framing in the hallway as he passed it, counting each one before he pivoted, took the ladder, and passed through the door to the cargo bay. He figured Cal Junior had the manifest, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make sure everything was “secured.” He’d been to enough brothels between the Core and Border worlds that he could smell illicit substances in space. Of course, that was if they were packaged poorly. If everything was in order, he’d get nothing from his perusing. But a complicit cat took naps in sealed airlocks. Curious ones found the vents and escaped being jettisoned into space. Rex was never going to be caught on his back foot [i]ever fucking[/i] again.

He started whistling a song that he’d learned as a child to play on the violin to his mother. His lips couldn’t do the same justice as strings, but they tried—nonetheless. [/indent][/indent]