The quiet of the streets coils around his spine. The creak of doors on hinges. The tap, tap, tap of their steps on the course, black ground. Their words, swallowed up in the void without a hint of an echo. They ought to be louder. They ought to be quieter. How he wishes for another voice to come and break this spell.

”Is that so? Forgive me, there’s not much call for high theory in…” The word flits on the tip of his tongue, unsure of its shape. Piracy? Cruiser maintenance? “...the kitchens, yes. Plenty of time to think. Little time for practice.”

The person he walks beside wears a face he knows. He speaks with the right voice. He recites his arguments with a practiced step, lingers over well-worn favorites with tender affection.

Every word is unfamiliar.

”Where did you study this…Art, friend? Just the other day, yes, you were telling me about, what was it, the difference between…turning on and stoking an Engine?” Maybe drawing an analogy to his ovens? It must have been about an oven. What had he been cooking? His eyes shine with the simple curiosity of a novice. “You know so much, it must have been a school like no other.”