Brinus was having a nicotine fit as Rage became him.
Both Simmie and Tangent looked on as his anger was brewing and boiling within him. There was a calm before the storm, something that could be felt in the very air itself. His hands clenched and let go, clenched and let go, and so on. He looked at Simmie, who had seen his upset and displeasure many times. He knew how to deal with the explosion and the aftermath. It was Tangent that made him stop. She didn’t say anything, didn’t do much at all, but her look of anticipation was telling enough that she didn’t understand. Humans were very complicated beings, and Lapori seemed to wear their hearts on their sleeves. At least, that’s what Tangent had explained once she learned a phrase to express their temperament.
Brinus turned his back to his family. “I’m going out.” He said calmly, like a cold fusion reaction ready to ignite. It took effort and much of his might to not slam or hit the door to their quarters.
Walking aimlessly, he found himself in a part of the ship he seldom explored. It was a kind of trash and recycling, an outdated cargo hold that was too small and unshielded to be used for proper cargo. It lacked security measures and proper surveillance. He saw it as an opportunity to be raw and saw a chair someone had discarded. It was a fin chair, and it only needed a quick tightening to make it useful again. To replicate a new one at its size would be costly. Hence, it was placed in this hold for possible repurposing. It had, however, found a purpose as Brinus hoisted it over his head and slammed it down with all his might into the metal flooring. It mangled and broke, now being small enough to be placed in the replicator to be properly recycled. He did the same with a lamp, smashing it into dozens of pieces of glass and ceramic. It was a nice one, but beauty was of no effect on his mood. His rage didn’t cease at that; there was an old microwave cooker for those who did their homemade recipes, and a flimsy card table was also a victim of his storming behavior.
Behind everything, he yanked on a frame to something, and it gave way. It was the frame of a painting. It was digitally printed on canvas and manually fastened to the frame. Someone left it there for someone to find and bring home to decorate a barren wall. Without looking, he sent his fist through it, rupturing the canvas so that it would never be whole again and forever splaying the image it held.
He paused just long enough to see what the paint was. He smoothed out the tears to put the image back together. It was a rendition of the Victory. The ship was painted to look shiny and new, like it had never seen a hard day in its career.
He stared at it.
It would have been a wonderful gift for Simmie and an honorable addition to their quarters. It was their home, not just their quarters, but the whole ship itself was a giant organism that he inhabited with dignity and respect. He had destroyed the spirit that was captured when it was at its finest. He checked the signature in the corner and read “Satherway.” He didn’t recognize the name, so he pulled out his triquarter to look it up online. The name was an easy search. Thomas Satherway was the dreamer equivalent of the designer Howard John Jones. On his wiki, he was the designer of the victory.
In the ship’s early days of design, it was boxy, utilitarian, and basic. It was his artist friend, Satherway, who said there was no sex in the design. “Spoken like a true Frenchman,” Brinus muttered.
In an absolute disagreement, the two parted ways, but not before he had painted his streamlined and curvy rendition of the ship over the initial concept. He was responsible for its sleekness, and the Navy chose his artistic style over Howard’s. The wiki ended with Howard and Thomas never speaking again. The painting Brinus had was a reprint of the original painted concept.
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He regretted punching a hole through it now. He carefully folded the canvas back into place and found it wasn’t too broken. He could ask someone to restore it.
He sat it down and noticed his fingerprints had been burned into the wooden frame. It was peculiar to him. He thought he would have little to no effect on things that weren’t metal. Wood was very fragile. Somewhat rare to find on a starship.
He sat the painting aside and went to the cargo bay’s equipment replicator. He swiped his ID to gain access to it and tried asking. “Gimme uh… 15 by 15-inch plank of wood… 1 inch thick?” He had never requested this before. Usually, it was food or replacement game controllers. The replicator hummed and buzzed with activity, and in a moment, it produced a piece of wood just as it was asked.
Brinus saw a blank canvas of his own. He didn’t know what he was doing or, if he did, what to make. The only thing he could think of was his family: Simmie and Tangent.
He very lightly stroked his fingers across the wood, making basic shapes of two heads. He found quickly that the more he pressed, the darker the wood burned. Some parts were not quite right, but he let it go. Some parts were better than others. With his skills and the control he had of his magic, he was able to draw and paint by himself by burning it into the wood. He didn’t know how, but through some manipulation of physics, he was able to unburn parts of the wood, lightening up previously dark parts and giving him relief from his mistakes.
He worked at it, the head and shoulders of Simmie and Tangent next to each other, smiling and being pure. In a way, in a very strange way to him, he was having fun. It was his thing, not like some game he needed to play with someone else or some work he’d have to do for someone else; no, this was his. His dexterity expanded into using both hands as he sat on the previously destroyed chair’s bottom section. It was like finger painting but with energy, heat, and a tight sense of control. He grabbed some small metal pieces of the microwave he had thrown and broke, and etched thin lines into his art. The smell of the burned wood was relaxing and refreshing, unlike metal, which often stank depending on the composition and alloy. He was enjoying himself, and he was having real fun.
He stopped when his heart told him to stop. He knew going any further would likely mess up the piece. Sometimes, just enough simplicity leaves space for the viewer to fill in the blanks with their imagination. He sat on his new stool with his wood-burned art and stared at it. He had immortalized his love for Simmie and Tangent in a way that transcended photographs or videos. Some things were meant to be burned into existence where they would forever remain. No device to read and display a collection of ones and zeros, just a humble piece of the universe, just a piece of wood. He wanted to practice, get better at it, and develop the skill. His heart wants it, and the heart wants what it wants.
Brinus took his stool made from a broken chair that he would call his wood-burning stool, he took his pieces of metal from the broken microwave that he would call his wood-burning tools, and lastly, he took the painting of the Victory that he called home. He would get it fixed and restored as soon as he could, just like he does every day on the job. He loved his ship. From all the patchy welding jobs that somehow work to keep things running to the sign that was jokingly made that says ‘WARNING: Core may explode at any time.’
Simmie and Tangent were sitting quietly at the table when Brinus walked through the door.
Simmie was worried. “Where did you go? What’s all this?”
Brinus smiled but also held back his complete roundabout of moods. He felt on the edge of tears, and he didn’t know why. “I found some stuff.” He rolled in the stool and laid the metal pieces on its seat. He flipped the painting around and showed his family the punched painting of the Victory. “I think we can get this fixed.” He said somberly. “Also, I made this.” He handed the piece of wood to Simmie, and Tangent hopped closer to see for herself.
On it were their portraits in pretty good detail. Below their faces, it read Simmie and Tangent. Above everything, in quite elaborate writing, it read ‘my family.’