The Sixteenth Day of Dark: 10:00 AM: LOG 0016
"You said something about being a pretty fucking good shot," you mention offhandedly as you pick out the sweeter bits of cereal from your bowl. "Were you just shitting about that, or?"
"I can't shit," Dave answers with a completely straight face. Then, in no direct relation to his comment, he pulls a gun from where it's hidden beneath his right armrest. It's one of the laser ones, which means that reloading it only requires popping off the battery pack and putting on a new one. They're dangerous, quick, and cheap. The gun of choice for criminals and thieves. He clicks the safety off before setting it on the table. "Tell me what you want me to hit."
Not exactly anticipating this development, you shrug. At the sound of buzzing, you look up to find a particularly fat fly circling the light on the table. Perhaps it was the same one as yesterday. It probably feasted on your uncertainty and growing anxiety.
"Got it." In one swift motion, Dave picks up the gun and fires.
As if the world has turned into some stupid cartoon, the fly drops onto the table. (Admittedly, though, it was the size of a nickel. Skaian flies seem to run large. Not that it makes the feat any less impressive, since the fly was moving quickly.
"Impressive." (Don't try to outshoot him.)
"Hmph." Dave smirks. It reminds you of those images of Human western movies. The ones with the hoofbeast wranglers...
The Sixteenth Day of Dark: 1:00 PM: LOG 0017
The banks are always some of the most elaborate places on any planet. Why wouldn't they be? They're run by extremely wealthy assholes with an eye for the most gaudy, extravagant interior and exterior décor. In this one, the walls are embellished with golden, flowery depictions of Skaian flowers. The floors are made of polished and obviously imported marble, seeing as no artificial colonies are home to such stone. Dark wooden panels divide each section, and it's so damned cold that you're ready to light yourself on fire. The least the rich could do would be to install adequate heating for this hellhole.
"My name's Dave Strider, and I'm here to deposit... um..." At this point, there's a pause. Both you and the clerk behind the finely polished glass counter stare at Dave as he fumbles around in his jacket pocket. After a few moments, he pulls out a severely wrinkled piece of paper. "I'm depositing my welfare check. Not that it's much." He snickers.
The clerk behind the counter, a greenish skeletal alien known as a cherub, offers a grunt of disapproval. "By order of the king, all welfare checks have been discontinued."
"Oh, yeah. I know. But this one is before the king did that." The innocent smile from Dave does nothing to warm the heart of the clerk.
Another huff. "Look, I don't make the rules. None of those are being accepted. Now, get out of here and let useful members of society cash their well-earned money."
"Someone's got a thorn up their ass," Dave mutters, gesturing for you to follow.
"That sucks," you say once the two of you are outside of the bank.
Dave shrugs. "I figured as much. The king's been getting pretty hostile towards the Prospitian Movement. He knows what's going down, and he knows how to pick it up. If that makes sense."
"Totally," you lie, nodding.
There's a short lull in the conversation and you and Dave begin to head back home. (Home. You've never called a place that you stayed "home" before.) "So, what? You're fucking screwed for money now, right?"
"Not really," Dave hums. "I do odd jobs and sell art."
(That explains the easel.) "That's neat."
"Mhm."
A silence falls between the two of you. Unlike usual, it's a calm silence. You're not trying to hide from anyone, nor are you trying to keep yourself from making any noise. Instead, it's a simple, conversational break. Considering your job, though, you don't get many of those. Having one is nice. You'd almost forgotten what it was like to talk to another sentient being—to talk to someone instead of something.