The Tulpar was quiet. It always was. There were no thrusters running in the background. There was no systems beeping and humming. Only the sound of Curly's heavy breathing, the occasional hushed conversation, footsteps.

Swansea sat in the common room, staring at the sunset screen. It didn't move anymore. A still frame. A sad mimicry of an Earthly beauty. His wife always loved the sunset. They shared their first kiss during the sunset. And Swansea would treasure that memory, despite being 15 years divorced.

His wife was the reason he went sober. Why he picked himself up by his bootstraps, went to an AA meeting, bought the book, and went sober. Sure there were a few hitches. A few relapses. But he did it for the greater good. For his wife. For his kids.

He learned to accept, to forgive. To forgive himself, to take accountability for his actions. He learned to look inward. He learned that Alcoholism was a disease rather than a lack of willpower, or bad morals. And all he got was a few stupid coins, and divorce papers.

Swansea groans, and picks himself up, and trudges out of the common room. He walks down the hall to the maintenance room. He tries to ignore Curly's crying. He doesn't feel bad, Curly doomed them all.

As he's opening the door, he hears a choked sob. Not Curly's. It's too alive to be Curly. It's not in the same direction of the medbay either.

So, Swansea opens a different door. He walks to the cockpit. There, amongst the foam, and sparking cables, is her. Her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, hands clutched into her hair, sobbing into her knees.