A Prologue

A wiry man, if indeed he is a man, though he is, indeed, a 'he', steps into a room. He is wiry in the same way that muscle is wiry, all tendon and bone, with enough fat to make him look healthy, as opposed to not. The room, like the man, is also wiry. The room is wiry in a similar manner, bony and taught, with mechanisms and chords spread thin just visible, underneath the floor. It, too, had a a sense of healthy fat, furnished just more than enough to say that the room was a place to be in, rather than a place that needed to be healed. On closer, inspection, however, this is not the case. There are wounds there, burns, scars, just visible, if only you know where to look. The man paces this room, after a time, his hawkish nose seaming to lead him in his trance, as the engines fire into life around him.

Ah, the engines. Engines imply a vessel, a device made for travel. And so it would seem as the room vibrates to the churning of the rotor, though if we are to make note of the room by its inhabitant, than this vessel must also be wondering aimlessly.

After an age, the man steps to a pillar of import at the center of the room. He seems to have come to a decision, or perhaps has just accepted one. It is hard to tell. He raises an arm, shaking the sleeve down a bit, and reaches forth, to the console.