Trip sat by himself at a table in the Griffin’s mess, sipping a hot cup of caf. He was wearing his full armor, save for the helmet, but per ship’s regulations, had stowed the blaster when not on duty. The room was otherwise empty and its spartan furnishings left little for him to observe. Even the viewports were closed, battened down while the mammoth vessel was in hyperspace for the crew’s safety. He sighed, taking another long pull of the steaming liquid. He sensed someone approach from behind him and tensed. “Agent Taskien,” he said, stiffening. She waved a hand at him. She shuddered visibly.