Francis.

[DatSamTho]

The ship shuddered as it left the atmosphere, the acceleration pushing him against the wall. He forced his eyes closed. It was over. It was over. Why? Why like this? He didn't want it to end. He wanted to do something- anything to go back, thrash about in the blanket he lay in. It would not do anything, nothing would anymore.

 

He was tired. Too tired. Too hungry.

 

Hunger. . . his stomach cramped. Food. The passage included food, it's going to take a month. He clambered up holding onto the wall, the blanket sloughing off his sweaty skin. A few steps. His current domicile was a small, a red cargo container, with the blanket and a small pillow as its only functional decoration and furniture.

 

The room was not a room, it was the cargo section of a small space ship. Two other containers were unsealed, with a dozen or so sealed ones, along with crates and other containers of legitimate cargo.

 

Yes, he was illegitimate cargo at this moment, not a human, just cargo, along with the people in the other two containers. Murmurs of quiet conversation came from them. He was the only person alone in his container, and he payed a premium, same as the others, most likely. All he had was not enough, and an indeterminate debt, along with the implication of the possibility of being spaced at any point had to cover the rest. Only now did he realise how much he hated smugglers.

 

An opened crate sat inbetween the occupied containers. A few liquid rations, and fewer bottles of water. The smuggler would give them more later, probably. Rationing, saving as much money as possible. At least he they would.

 

He took a ration, he didn't want to be greedy. Sitting down on the crumpled blanket pile he slurped it down greedly. It was over fast, he'd take another one, but. . . the others might need it more.

 

Biesel. Biesel was the destination. He tried to focus, thinking on what he knew about it. He visited it once, at seventeen years old, before it seceded. But it was different now, wasn't it? It must be so much different, a corporate Republic now. Does that make it some hellscape? He let out a short, sickly resemblence of a laugh. It cannot be worse than Visegrad, worse than Sol.

 

He curled up in the blanket. And what after? Xanu? Living with his relatives there? Pretending all of. . . this never happened? Or living out his life in a tent city with the other refugees?

 

. . . refugee. He hated the word. No- he hated being associated with the word. He hated so many things at this point. He hated the corporations, he hated Sol, he hated Szalai, he hated the bitterness at the back of his throat. He swallowed. It made him tired.

 

He needed to think rationally. The next step. . . Biesel. And after that? He didn't have any documents. . . new ones, he'd have to get something new. Among the hundreds of thousands- maybe millions of refugees. . . it couldn't be that hard.

 

Frank. Francis. He liked the name.

Francis would do.