Space.
It was a dark, cold, and empty place.
Just like the food locker aboard the small cargo ship Rocinanté. Max Vasser shut the locker door and sighed, though anyone within earshot would more likely have heard instead the rumble of her empty stomach echoing off the hard metal walls of the empty cargo hold.
A dark frown marred the woman's face. How long had it been since her stomach had been rumble-free? She brushed an errant strand of long, brown hair out of her eyes and turned her head towards the sound of marimbas coming from the other corner of the hold area. Her frown deepened. Their situation was grim -- one could almost say desperate -- and growing worse every day they drifted here in orbit with an empty cargo hold, but it was clear the solution wouldn't come from Mr. Caribbean Music over there, so it would be up to her. As usual.
Max picked her way between the big, empty packing crates piled in the center of the hold towards the music. The unmistakable reek of yorna berries punched her in the nose despite the fact that it had been more than three months since they had transported a shipment of that noxious foodstuff to Oo-oo-ah. Their last paying job.
She rounded the last stack of crates and was greeted by blue skies, warm tropical sun, turquoise waves lapping a sandy beach, and the unmistakable tinkling of steel drums, and in the middle of it all, sprawled in a hammock stretched between two palm trees, lay the source of her continual vexation.
West.
He was dressed in white pants, flowery Hawaiian shirt, and big straw hat pulled low over his face. His eyes were closed and an empty margarita glass threatened to slip from the fingers of the limp hand that dangled over the edge of the hammock, but he was clearly awake because the twitching big toe on his shoeless right foot almost kept time with the saucy Latin rhythm.
The rumble of Max's stomach was superceded by the sound of her grinding teeth. How this man had managed to stay in business as long as he had -- or even to stay alive! -- was beyond her capacity to divine. Why she had quit Starfleet to join him in his quixotic crusade across the galaxy to plant the bootprint of justice on the buttocks of evil (and maybe make some money on the side) was an even bigger mystery.
"West."
The only sign that West had heard her was a scrunching of his nose. He readjusted his position in the hammock, but otherwise didn't budge.
Determined not to be ignored, Max punched the wall control beside her, and immediately the tropical paradise around them vanished, replaced by the bare gray metal walls and floor of the *Rocinanté's* cargo hold.
West turned his head slightly and cracked one eye. "Easy, sweetheart," he drawled from underneath the hat's tattered brim. "It cost me a fortune to have these walls covered in video paint. You'll bust the power tap if you treat it that way. Why do you always have to interrupt my siestas anyway?" Ever since this madwoman had joined his formerly one-man operation, she'd done nothing but complain about his lack of discipline and initiative. Sure, in the beginning the sex had been great, but that had quickly given way to the quagmire of veiled disappointment and resentment in which they found themselves trapped now. They had ceased to function as a team, and each was convinced that he or she knew the best way to go about things, and that the other one was a complete moron.
"Your siesta? You're *always* on a siesta! That's the problem!"
West frowned and adjusted his position in the hammock again. Max's foul temper was threatening to spoil his mellow mood. "What the hell's buggin' you, Max?" he grumped. "I know working on a small freighter isn't as exciting as flying a starfighter blowing up Nausicaans for a living, but live with it, will you? You're harshing my buzz."
"We haven't had a new jobs in weeks, West," said Max. "How much credits do you still have in your bank account? Do we even have enough for our next refueling?"
"Relax," admonished West through an expansive yawn. "Something'll turn up for us. That's the way it goes in this business. You've got your boom times and you've got your slack times. Right now it's a slack time, so just relax an' enjoy it. We're stocked up on supplies. Something'll turn up eventually. It always does."
West settled himself deeper into the hammock again and pulled the straw hat lower over his face, obviously satisfied that his pat reassurances had settled the matter.
Max, however, was of a different opinion, and she knew the one thing that would get him off his butt.
"We're out of margarita mix."