It's funny--I never lost a man, not a fucking one, when I was running blockades for the Confeds. Did that all ten years of the war, and a couple before the Declaration when things were still cold. Running freight for the Gens, though, I always end up flushing two or three of you out with the fucking trash.
You can't ever pull as much drive power as those fucking tanks do and not brown out the transfer buses, especially once that old piece of shit gets up past one-tenth Cee. That always gets one or two of you, and there's always an accident or something, crates jostling around cracking those damn cheap plex tanks. Fucking Gens won't ever pay to do that shit right.
Fucking Gens. Can't work for anybody else cause they're the only ones that ship intersystem, can't get off the ship cause of the Quarantine, can't fight back cause they'd blow you out the sky if you loaded anything more potent than a mining rig on your own damn boat.
Fucking Gens.
It was the goddamned catwalk that went this time, the support brace breaking clean in two because the fucking inertial compensator went haywire during braking (fucking during, can you believe it?) on approach to the transfer station.
I don't know why the hell I carried you all the way up to the medical bay.
Maybe it was because you were still breathing when I found you. It wasn't your looks, god fucking knows, rows and rows of your same damn face staring me down every run. It ain't like the Gens are gonna pay for you now, they're just gonna write you off as spoilage and look at me funny for not flushing you. It was just you, a broken tank, and a puddle of that fucking synthetic amnio messing up my goddamned cargo floor.
Medical unit says you check out fine, but you're not waking up. Do you even? Do you ever?
You and me, we're the fucking same, you know? We're both what the Gens made us.
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