Cormac is a funny man. He looks something like this:
Or maybe this:
Or even this:
But no matter. What’s truly important is that it’s the angriest that Cormac has been in years.
He doesn’t have the desire nor the nerves to read once again the message that was sent to him nary a few hours ago. He’s tired, he feels like there’s an incessant little bastard of a boy repeatedly hitting a hammer into the back of his skull, and he’s gonna concentrate on flying this damn ship.
The view outside his window would be nice enough if not for the fact that his eyes cannot seem to focus and work together for more than five seconds.
Compulsively, upon a habit built for years and years, he looks down and checks his watch.
His watch. Perhaps it is the only thing of any quality he owns. A man of spartan habits, he gives one allowance and one allowance only and that is for Irving. The very person who gave him this watch. Cormac could never possibly refuse Irving anything.