A bright flash of light pierced through Swires' eyelids. A brief moment of irritation turned to a minute, then two, then five, and finally he yielded, opening his eyes. Figures, the mechanics fixed the hangar lights. Slowly, he lowered his feet from the bed and was greeted by an oddly heavy clank against the grating underneath. He groaned when he noticed he'd fallen asleep in his boots and jacket, a trail of dried saliva shimmering on the jacket's lapel. "What's the time?", he asked with a voice several levels hoarser and deeper than usual and zombied his way to a water fountain in the wall nearby. A tinny voice, belonging to the hangar's VI, replied clinically; "It is 1:26 A.M., crewman number- Error, missing ID entry." He rolled his eyes into the pale, bony face staring back from the wall mirror and scraped at his stubbly beard with a few fingernails. "Douse main hangar lights, uh... six through twelve and reduce brightness in the control room by fifty percent.", he commanded, fiddling with a tiny fold-out toothbrush kit. "Acknowledged, crewman number- Error, missing ID entry."
A few minutes later, he was sitting in his chair, if one could still call it that, and staring longingly at the visibly mangled and heat-fused chunk of Pilgrim hull. One of the engines' biofuel chambers had exploded; An unstable modification by the previous owner likely gone terribly wrong at a critical moment. Most of the bulkheads were still sealed shut, however a few were cut open when the ship was first salvaged about a month ago. The first crews that went in were dead within a few minutes due to respiratory system failures; Later, they'd all find out the ship's cargo hold was turned into some manner of gigantic laboratory complex, mostly used for morbid cultivation of particularly devastating and horrific biological weapons- Bacteria, viruses, prions, parasites... The previous owner was one hell of a microbiologist, it seemed. Swires snapped from his thoughts and drank his lukewarm soycaf in two gulps before tossing the cup into a small overfilled trashcan on the catwalk. He lit up a cigarette and took a long, satisfying drag from it, but then, the VI spoke. And then, Swires nearly coughed up a damn lung, threw the light cig away and just... ran.
"Crewman number- Error, missing ID entry, your alarm trigger has been sprung. Bulkhead entry LQ6-339 has been unsealed and opened." Before the VI was finished, Swires was already out the hangar door, huffing as he stomped towards the Green Hell in a big old rush. He raced through the Islay corridors, rushed through doors, tapped his foot impatiently in elevators, and finally, he reached it. A small crowd had already gathered in front of the entrance, gawking- Some of the older onlookers begun whispering about the place, the people it used to entertain and the plans hatched within. "Fuckoff, outta my way-", he crowed, shoving his way towards the entrance, and froze once he reached the frame. He looked down to the ground and noticed a thick, undisturbed layer of dust. No footprints. Means whoever opened it up didn't exactly walk in... His eyes narrowed, but eventually his head prevailed. He knew this was his shot and he ran for the bar. Kicking up a cloud, he dove over the counter through an inch-thick sheet of dust which promptly exploded into another choking cloud. Through hacking and coughing, a faint "ding" could be heard resonating once through the old bar. Suddenly, screens began lighting up all over the joint. Tables rose from the floor in a familiar arrangement, joined by pod chairs rising slowly with a mechanical whirr. The Green Hell came alive once more.
"ALRIGHT! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT, BABY!", he screamed, then after a harsh coughing fit smashed his fist against the AC breaker. Immediately, he regret his decision as a proper duststorm kicked up in the bar, sucking up all the debris into wide vents all around the room. About a minute later, the bar looked like a place one wouldn't be offended to sit and have a drink. And have a drink, they would. "Everyone drinks free tonight! Tell your friends, tell everyone- The Green Hell's alive again!", Swires shouted and swiped the bar's tab onto the main screen of the bar. The amount showed a measly 67,000 credits. After everyone turned their heads to Swires to explain how exactly he intends to manage that, another soft 'ding' came from him, and the number leapt instantly to 317,000. His wide grin was only made wider when the curious and hooked crowd rose in uproarious cheering. Oh, hell... It looked like Swires was in for another hangover.
Sucks to be a weight on the wrong side of the brilliance-insanity scale.