[RP] The Hangover

The humid, floral scent of the Solar Nectar Jubilee drifted through an open circular porthole, carrying with it the distant sounds of laughter, off-key singing, and the rhythmic thrum of a space-station’s life support. Migs groaned, his head feeling like it had been used for target practice by a Giff artillerist. He blinked against the vibrant purple sunlight of the nebula streaming into the room, slowly realizing he wasn't in his cramped technician's bunk aboard the Magpie Princess.

As he shifted, the sheets rustled, revealing he wasn't alone. Lying beside him was a man—muscular, handsome, and very much naked. The man appeared to have Shou ancestry, his peaceful expression framed by dark hair sprawled across the pillow. Migs’ mind raced through a haze of fermented nectar and neon lights. He remembered the crew—Captain Joey, Elrond, Rolex, and the rest—drinking heavily at a dockside tavern to kick off the festival, but the trail went cold right around the fourth round of "Stardust Shooters." He didn't know this man’s name, or more importantly, how he had ended up in this particular bed.

A soft chiming sound emanated from Migs' wrist. A holographic screen flickered into existence, casting a cool blue glow over the tangled sheets.

"Good morning, Migs," Alexa’s voice whispered with its usual crisp, synthesized efficiency. 

"Your heart rate is elevated, and your hydration levels are at a critical low. Also, if you are attempting to identify your companion, my facial recognition database suggests he is not on the Magpie Princess manifest."

Migs sat up, clutching his head and whispering back, "Not now, Alexa. Keep it down. My brain is vibrating."

"That would be the residual effects of the Jubilee's 'Special Reserve,'" Alexa noted, her holographic display showing a breakdown of the nectar's chemical composition. "I should also inform you that Captain Joey has sent three high-priority pings to this location. She was quite insistent that her 'star technician' be back at the docks by mid-morning for final pre-flight checks on the Aether-Cores"..

Migs looked at the sleeping man, then at his own discarded clothes—and his Dual Escrima Sticks—piled haphazardly in the corner. He needed to move, and fast, before the handsome stranger woke up and made things "complicated," or worse, before Captain Joey decided to come looking for him herself.

"Alexa," Migs muttered, swinging his legs out of bed and feeling the cool floor of the station beneath his feet. "Scan the room. Is my Bag of Holding still here? I'm not leaving without my tools".

Migs winced as the floor creaked, his hangover turning every small sound into a thunderclap. Moving with the cautious grace of a man who spent more time climbing rigging than dancing in ballrooms, he began the scavenger hunt for his gear.

"Locating boots," Alexa whispered, her holographic display flickering briefly to highlight a pair of dusty footwear near a potted space-fern. "And Migs, I would advise against knocking over that decorative vase. Your current coordination is... sub-optimal."

Migs grunted, reaching for his trousers. He managed to pull them on with only one minor stumble that sent him bumping into a bedside table. The sudden thud was enough to break the silence. Behind him, the sheets rustled as the handsome stranger stirred, yawning with a slow, deliberate stretch that showed off a physique clearly accustomed to physical labor—or perhaps just very good genetics.

The man propped himself up on one elbow, the blanket sliding down to his waist as he offered Migs a lazy, flirtatious grin. "Leaving so soon, Tech-boy?" he asked, his voice a smooth, low rumble. "The suns haven't even finished rising over the nebula. Why don't you come back here? I’m sure we can find a way to help you forget that headache."

He shifted further, quite intentionally exposing the rest of his muscular frame to the morning light, a silent but very loud temptation to stay in the warm, floral-scented comfort of the room.

Migs felt his face heat up—partly from the man’s boldness and partly from the sheer awkwardness of the situation. He scrambled to grab his studded leather armor and his Dual Escrima Sticks.

"Uh, look, you're great. Really. Top-tier," Migs stammered, frantically buckling his gear while trying—and failing—not to look at the man’s chest. "But I’ve got a captain who will literally throw me into a gravity well if I’m late for the engine pre-checks. Duty calls. Space-engines. Very technical. Lots of... sparks."

"Your heart rate has increased by 15%," Alexa noted helpfully, her voice audible only to Migs. "Is this a tactical retreat or a flight response?"

"It's an exit, Alexa!" Migs hissed under his breath. He scooped up his Bag of Holding and checked his Goggles of Night. Once he felt the comforting weight of his tools and his Pole of Collapsing, he headed straight for the door.

"Maybe next Jubilee!" Migs called back over his shoulder, offering a quick, sheepish wave before slipping out into the corridor of the space station, leaving the handsome stranger laughing softly behind him.

Scene Transition: The Docks of The White Bloom

Migs bursts through the airlock onto the bustling docks. The smell of ozone, roasted star-nuts, and cheap fuel fills the air. He sees the Magpie Princess—the Scavenger-class ship looking slightly worse for wear after last night’s festivities—moored at Docking Bay 94.

Standing on the loading ramp is Captain Joey, looking remarkably put-together despite the revelry, tapping her foot impatiently. Beside her, Rolex, the gnome artillerist, is arguing with a cargo-bot.

Captain Joey spots Migs. "There he is! The man of the hour! I was about to send Fang to go 'ninja' you out of whatever hole you crawled into. Get over here, Migs. The Aether-Core in the primary helm is humming at a frequency that sounds like a dying space-whale, and we leave in twenty minutes."