Matt leaned toward the microphone. “Explorer’s log, entry 1171. Our mission continues, with no end in sight. The confines of this vessel, which once felt so spacious, are now beginning to be felt. My copilot’s quirks, which were once so harmless, have taken on the aura of chalkboard nails. I remain confident that we will be able to disembark eventually, but I hope our supplies last to that point.”

Kevin looked over, annoyed. “Copilot?” he said. “You think you could upgrade me to ‘roommate’ at least, if I can’t be ‘brother?'”

Turning away, Matt continued. “Supplies, especially toilet paper, must be carefully rationed for the duration of the voyage. Any resupply trip runs a fraught risk of a hostile environment and native life, and even those few we have been able to undertake have proven largely fruitless.”

“Yeah, I’ll just steer the apartment down to the grocery store for you,” Kevin said. “Land on the roof. It’ll be fun.”

Picking up his computer, Matt retreated to the balcony. “The one bright spot has been the establishment, by me, of a hydroponic farm on the recreation deck,” he said. “It is my hope that soon it will be able to feed us and free us from dependence on trading with dangerous, and desperate, and toxic, alien worlds.”

Kevin, who had followed, leaned on the doorframe. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “That sad little cherry tomato plant and that baby jalapeño are the solution to all of our quarantine problems.”

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