Jimmy

Jimmy walked the corridor of the Tulpar, the ship groaning faintly around him like an old dog dying slow. Fluorescent lights flickered in half-working intervals overhead, casting twitching shadows down the peeling walls. He muttered curses under his breath, low and sharp, chewing each word like a bitter seed.

"Where the hell are you…?"

His boots scuffed against the warped floor plating, the rubber soles catching on a curl of metal from some unseen impact point. The air smelled like copper and plastic—burnt wiring and recycled breath. He rubbed at his eyes, pushing his fingers hard into the sockets, trying to force some clarity into the edges of his vision. It was hard to tell anymore if the dark smudges under his eyes were shadows or bruises from inside.

He swore he saw Polle.

Just for a second. Not a mascot suit—not a poster, not some dusty morale hologram flickering on one of the busted monitors—but Polle. The little smiling horse thing. Trotting across the hallway like it had somewhere important to be. Taunting him.

Jimmy pressed a palm to the bulkhead, steadying himself.

"I know you're here," he growled. “You don’t just vanish.”

He turned the corner. Nothing but silence, the sound of the vents clicking like tiny teeth behind the walls. A camera mounted in the ceiling gave a dying flicker, catching the sweat on his face and the wild in his eyes.

He would find it. He’d take responsibility.

That’s what he said, right?

That’s what a good captain would do. That’s what Curly would’ve done—if he hadn’t failed everyone. If he hadn’t been too soft, too slow. Jimmy clenched his jaw.

"I'm not running away this time," he muttered. “Not this time.”

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the door to the crew commons. Maybe it was in there. Maybe they were all in there. Polle. Anya. Daisuke. Even Curly, bandaged and silent in the medbay, where Jimmy left him—still breathing, for now.

Jimmy blinked again. For a second, he could've sworn he saw a flash of movement just beyond the frosted glass of the commons door. A tail. A flick of an ear. A cartoon silhouette burned into the periphery.

He grinned.

"Gotcha."

The door hissed open.

He managed to find a few food packs. Vacuum-sealed, slightly crumpled, but intact. A miracle. Maybe someone stashed them before everything went to hell. Maybe the ship was just coughing up its final offerings, like a dying animal letting you pick meat from between its ribs.

Jimmy sat with them spread out across a crate in the dim hallway outside the crew quarters—like a feast laid out for a king. Six packs total. Enough to matter. Not enough for everyone.

He licked his lips, counted them again. Six.

It was a luxury.

It was a curse.

Now he had to decide.

“Okay,” he said aloud, his voice thin, echoing slightly down the corridor. “Distribution protocol. Captain’s duty.”

He stared at the packs like they might speak, like they’d volunteer their destinies.

Option one: share with everyone. Even the ones who hadn’t helped. Even the ones who looked at him like he was a mistake on legs. Even Anya, who still hadn’t apologized. Even Curly, who’d just laid there—lazy, quiet, pitiful.

No. That was stupid.

Option two: no one gets anything. He’d hide them. Eat them slowly. Ration it out over the days, the weeks—however long was left. He could do it. He deserved to do it. He was the one doing all the thinking, all the moving. Everyone else was just… waiting.

Option three: favorites. Swansea? Maybe. He wasn’t so bad. A little smug. But useful. Daisuke? He was still limping from the vent—Jimmy winced just thinking about it—but he tried. He tried hard. That counted for something.

And Anya…

He frowned. Looked at the packs again. Turned one over in his hands.

“Who deserves to be under my responsibility…” he muttered, almost mockingly. Like he was quoting someone else. Something someone had said once. Or maybe something he imagined.

The food pack crinkled in his hands.

Responsibility. That word again. Heavy like a chain. Or a crown.

He glanced down the corridor, where the lights flickered like eyes blinking.

“Yeah,” he whispered, smile twisting at the edges. “Let’s see who earns it.”

Jimmy stared at the door, dazed, the metal surface cold and matte under the flickering overhead light. It was smeared with something—maybe grease, maybe old blood, maybe just a trick of the shadows. The label above it read CREW QUARTERS in peeling red letters. The kind of sign that looked like it had been screaming for years but no one ever listened.

His hand hovered near the control pad, trembling. The air felt heavier here. Denser. Like it remembered what had happened behind those walls.

All the bedrooms were unlocked. Couldn’t lock them even if he wanted to. Ship systems had degraded just enough to keep things interesting like that.

He blinked. His tongue was dry against the roof of his mouth. He hadn’t had water in… how long? A day? Two?

No, not water. He needed supplies.

Something.

Anything.

He ran through the list in his head like a game show contestant about to buzz in—medical kits, protein bars, clean socks, whatever pills Curly might’ve stashed in the vents or under his mattress. Jimmy wouldn’t feel bad. Not anymore. Not for this.

It’s not like they were using it.

He stared a moment longer, his eyes bloodshot and unblinking. One of the bedroom doors down the hall was slightly ajar, like it was waiting for him.

Swansea’s? Daisuke’s? Curly’s?

Jimmy scratched at the stubble on his chin, fingers catching the edge of the scar by his lip.

"Guess we’ll see who had the good stuff," he muttered, then chuckled—dry and joyless, more a cough than a laugh. “Captain’s privileges.”

He stepped forward.