"The medics can't find a reason for the aches," the pilot states in a wearied voice. "Not a medical one, anyway. They're not sure if the lack of sleep is causing it, or vic versa..."
He takes a lengthy drag of his newest cigarette, following it with a long sip from a canteen in arm's reach. He lifts his hand to his head, pulling back his hair with deliberate sluggishness. It is clear the movement pains him, albeit very slightly. Frustration effects a bit of a shake from his shoulder.
"I can feel the ship around me," he continues in a lucid tone. "It'll catch me by surprise. Walking around, I suddenly find myself trying to activate thrusters that don't exist to move me where I want to go. It's causing a problem, but not one the medics acknowledge or know how to treat."
The pilot pauses, as he often does, to consider his own thought before voicing it. On-screen, an athlete is driven to the ground by another, stronger competitor. The cheering crowd can be heard, like a rushing wave in the distance.
"I've been roaming more often. The aches stop once the neural jacks are in. Lately, I'm not even performing tasks handed down by my CEO. I'm jumping between systems looking for fights I never find. I'm fine for a day or so after that... then it starts again."
"I shut off my IGS feed, against better judgement... I can't take that sound anymore. Just the same complaints out of a hundred different mouths. Everyone thinks they have all the answers. Everyone thinks they're special. If anything got solved by talking, talking would have solved something by now..."
He finishes off his cigarette and extinguishes it against the mound of others, the ashes flaring up for an instant before dying out. He gets to his feet and staggers to his bed, slowly shoving the still-sleeping slaver hound to one side. "Lets try this again," he mumbles in a defeated voice, the camera feed shutting off as the two animals fall into a heap and the holoscreen shuts off.
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