[h3]Mark A. Lopez[/h3]

Mark stepped in last, carbine raised as he gave the apartment a slow sweep. Nothing jumped out, hissed, screamed, or tried to make a meal out of him.

“Clear enough,” he muttered, though he didn’t sound completely convinced.

He lingered for another second, watching Velia casually make tea like they hadn’t just broken into the creepiest model home in the galaxy. Ren was testing water, the place had lights, pressure, fresh food, clean floors and absolutely no one else in it.

Mark stared at the nearby couch, it looked comfortable.

After a moment, he shrugged.

“Ah, fuck it. Might as well.”

He slung his carbine across his chest, stepped forward, and vaulted over the back of the couch with a tired grunt. He landed heavily into the cushions, sank in, and let himself slump for the first time since they touched down.

Then he lifted both armored boots onto a nearby stool.

“Yeah,” he said, looking around the spotless apartment he stretched his arms out and set his hands onto the back of his head, “This definitely beats guarding a dirty shuttle.”

He glanced toward the kitchen.

“You find any beer in there? Maybe cigars? If this place is gonna be haunted, least it could be hospitable...”