Howard stepped off the passenger ship and into the space port terminal and was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer number of sensations hitting him. People shouting, advertisements flashing, and a number of industrial smells that he couldn’t quite discern as alluring or disgusting, attacked him from every angle. He walked in a sort of daze, trying to find the exit. Many of the signs in the terminal had conflicting or confusing markers to guide him. He walked past the same pretzel stand at least twice before managing to make his way out of the concourse he was in, and was accosted no less than three times by roaming automated kiosks if he would like to tip 20% of his flight’s total worth. At one point he attempted to ask a terminal worker for assistance, who got him through at least a few hundred meters of progress, but they too also wanted him to tip for their service and immediately began to irate when he couldn’t.

He then tried to get the attention of what appeared to be an Armada sailor, one of the Confederacy's finest agents of peace, and was blown off entirely, to Howard’s great frustration. Eventually he did manage to find an exit, finding himself standing in front of a long line of autocabs waiting to pick up passengers. He was accosted by the cabs as he walked past, their mechanical pre-recorded voices asking him where he wanted to go, though they quickly lost interest when he wasn’t able to quickly produce his line of credit.

With no real idea of what to do, or where to go beyond the few vague directions the man he sat next to provided, he could do nothing other than just start walking. He walked past the seemingly endless sea of cabs for a while, then cleared the perimeter of the space port. He quickly found himself in increasingly narrow and narrower streets, each one taking odd twists and turns. It seemed to him that Shangri-La was one giant city street that twisted in and out of itself constantly. Every centimeter of space used. Apartments on top of businesses, businesses on top of houses, business on top of other businesses. And then there were the people! Humans, Skep, Fluorescents! Many of the major factions in the Confederacy seemed to have business on Shangri-La, and seeing them all in one place was a treat for him. An endless parade of lives, intertwining and leaving in the same breath.

He walked for some time without a direction in mind, taking in all the new bizarre sights. But his stomach could only tolerate his antics for so long. Eventually, that gnawing hunger began pawing at the walls of his stomach, growling with impatience at him. It was time to eat, and soon. That brought another realization, that though he was fine not using his family fortune to get a cab, not having money for food was an entirely different story. Suddenly the homeless residents lurking just out of sight in the numerous allies began to stick out more to him the longer he went without eating. Should he beg for food? He could hear his father’s voice berating him, which he shook off. No, he was a resourceful young man, he’d find another way. However, it’d been a few hours since his landing, so he needed to be resourceful rather quickly.

He tried to recall what his father had always said about jobs, that if everyone would just speak confidently, and use a firm handshake, they’d finally be able to make some money and make a decent living. Having no other ideas, Howard attempted to do just that. He walked a bit farther until he found himself surrounded by restaurants he was more used to, with covered patios, cloth tablecloths, and a man waiting out front to check in guests. Howard straightened his waistcoat, marched right up to the employee, and spoke confidently.

“Pardon me, sir?”

The man looked over at Howard, noting his stained formal wear and general uncleanness. “Welcome sir,” he replied with a forced polite smile. “Do you have a reservation?”

“No, I’m looking for a job.” Howard replied. “I’ve just arrived here, and I haven’t eaten anything in almost a day. I figured I could work and get some food.”

The man’s smile vanished, his false politeness gone. “If you want free food, go get it from the trash. Lazy bum.”

“Oh. No, you misunderstand. I’m a hard worker! Willing to earn my keep. ”

The man looked at him with deep ire. “Have you submitted a resume online?”

“Uh, no, in fact I’m not really sure I even have one. But I can learn quickly!”

“Get lost, or I’m going to call over security.”

Howard raised a finger to protest, but noticed a rather threatening looking Skep, with large, spikey mandibles, scuttling their way. He rightly assumed that to be the security in question, and quickly turned around and back down the street in a sprint. He rounded a corner and stopped, looking back behind him to see he’d been followed. Sure he was safe, he leaned back against a building and slid down to the ground, feeling a tad embarrassed. His stomach growled greedily. He sighed, and climbed to his feet and went back out onto the street. Surely he’d just encountered a bit of bad luck. Gathering himself he once again set out in search for good, honest work.

Yet it was the same at every other place he tried. He tried retail stores, restaurants, at every turn he wasn’t so much as able to get his foot in the door before thrown back out onto the street. He almost managed to convince the owner of a high end clothing store to give him a chance, but quickly lost the opportunity whenever he was asked to provide three references and wasn’t able to. In fact at every location where he got to talk to a manager for more than a few minutes asked for the same thing. Three references. Why three references specifically? There didn’t appear to be a real reason. Everyone simply said it was the norm, but Howard suspected there to be some tradition he wasn’t aware of surrounding the whole thing. There was no other logical explanation. Beside that, he was denied for a litany of other reasons. No work history, no certifications, no forums. Forums of what? He wasn’t sure. Often he was simply denied access to even speaking to anyone for not using whatever virtual application they stated they had posted somewhere, but that he had no way of accessing.

After a long day of walking all across the endless sprawl of a city, he was exhausted and defeated. He flopped himself onto a side street clutching at his stomach which whimpered to be fed. To try and quell his hunger he popped a dinner mint he’d swiped while passing by an outdoor restaurant, and slowly let it dissolve in his mouth. At least he had some flavor to work with. While sucking the mint, he glanced down the alley to his right and saw a large metal door open suddenly. A man dressed in a chef's smock sauntered out, hauling two heavy trash bags, which he hurled into a dumpster by the door. Howard eyed the dumpster for a moment, then slowly climbed to his feet and walked deeper into the alley to stand next to it. He stared at it for a moment, unsure if he was really about to do what he thought he needed to. Swallowing his pride he threw open the lid to the dumpster and was hit in the face with a horrific, sickly sweet smell. He let go of the lid and let it slam shut, stumbling backwards and bumping his shoulder into the concrete wall behind him roughly. He cursed at himself, then glanced at the dumpster wearily. Was he really that desperate?

“You get used to the smell,” A gruff voice said from behind.

Howard glanced over his aching shoulder, and realized what he thought was a modest pile of garbage was actually a man. He was on the shorter side, but quite wide shouldered, if not a bit underfed. He was dressed in a strange, soiled looking military uniform of some kind draped in a ratty cloak, and had a big angry red nose. His hair was silver, with some streaks of brown peeking through the tangled mess atop his head, and his eyes were ringed and bloodshot. Howard also realized he reeked of booze and filth, rivaling the smell of the dumpster.

“How long does that take?” Howard asked hesitantly.

“Depends on how hungry you are,” the drunk replied, and moved past him to open the dumpster himself. He seemed entirely unphased by the rotting garbage at the bottom. He dug around for a moment, then pulled out one of the fresh bags that’d just been dumped and pawed through its contents. He pulled out what seemed to be a fistfull of spaghetti, and smelled it. Satisfied, he crammed it down his mouth and swallowed. Howard watched with a mix of disgust and fascination.

“May I have some?” He asked timidly. The drunk paused his slurping and glanced at the young man.

“No,” he replied plainly. Howard sighed, he knew he shouldn’t have asked. Shangri-La was turning out to not be the friendliest place in the galaxy.

The drunk noticed the young man’s shoulders drop with disappointment, and gave him a long look. “I can show you how to look,” he said with a sigh.

Howard perked up slightly, nodding in agreement. Whatever would get him a meal sooner rather than later would do. The drunk pulled him up to the dumpster, and opened a few trash bags and showed the young man what he looked for when dumpster diving. As it turned out, it involved more logistics than he’d have imagined. The true key was knowing when the restaurants around got their shipments of fresh ingredients, which were typically on the same day of the week. If one could time their dumpster diving to the day of, or the day right after the fresh food arrived, it would ensure a higher chance of getting non expired food thrown away. So much of the food at the restaurants was thrown out, or simply leftover from someone’s plate that was still good. Long as one didn’t mind the idea of eating after someone, the dumpsters were a veritable goldmine for food.

The true idol of the whole process though, was wrapped food, anything covered in plastic. Plastic, as the drunk would tell Howard, was his god. Grocery stores in particular had a habit of throwing out food that was still potentially good, due to the expiration date being the day of. Most of the items thrown out that were still in plastic were excellent finds, as their freshness couldn’t be more assured. Still, he also advised Howard on how to perform the smell test, to avoid spoiled food. Anything that smells sickly, almost sweet, was to be avoided. Meat should have hardly any smell at all. If it had any sort of pungent scent, it was to be tossed immediately.

When all was said and done, Howard had managed to find quite the haul. An armful of wrapped sandwiches, a half eaten loaf of bread, and even a bit of still packaged salad. He was surprised at how happy the mere sight of some plain food brought him comfort, never having to think so hard about where he got a meal from. He sat alongside the drunk, and dined on his bounty greedily, making his food disappear so quickly that it could have been a magic trick.

“You got a hell of an appetite, Garcon,” the drunk chuckled.

“I can eat an entire loaf’s worth of grilled cheese.” Howard replied while wiping some crumbs off his face.

“With your small frame, that’d be a site.” He replied around a mouthful of cheese.

“What’s a ‘garcon’?” Howard asked, his own mouth quite stuffed with food.

“It means waiter.”

“A waiter? Why?”

“Cause you look like one.” He gestured to his waistcoat and fancy clothes.

“Oh.” Howard glanced at his outfit, and realized it was now covered in different juices and stains from all the rooting around. “A rather dirty waiter, by the looks of it.” He noted. The old drunk grunted in agreement, popping another bite of cheese in his mouth, which was quickly washed down with a bottle of spirits.

“So, garcon.” He screwed the cap back on his spirits. “You obviously aren’t from around here.”

“No, no I’m not.” Howard replied with a sigh.

“So how’d you end up in this dump?”

“I sort of ran away from home and was kicked out at the same time,” he replied honestly, trying to not think too hard about the events of the past few days.

“Wanted to strike out on your own?” The drunk asked. Howard nodded in reply, taking the opportunity to focus on something more positive.

“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to be an adventurer, like in the books I read when I was a kid. So much of known space is already colonized, so I figured the Journey Sector would be the best place to go.”

“You want to go to the Journey Sector?” The drunk asked skeptically.

“Of course!” Howard jumped to his feet. “It’s the last true unexplored frontier in existence.”

“To be young and naive,” the drunk cackled, then decided it was time to drink again.

“What’s so naive about that?”

“The Journey Sector is the most dangerous place in the entire galaxy. Unstable gravity, rogue planets, pirates, black holes…” He took a double swig, then let out a big gasp of boozy breath “It’s certain death.”

“No great explorer stayed off their ship for fear of death, no astronaut took to the cosmos without knowing the risks. I don’t want to be any different.” Howard placed his hands firmly on his hips, making a stoic stance. The drunk watched him with a strange gaze.

“Aren’t you romantic,” he said finally and with some sarcasm, then began packing up his feast into a thin black trash bag. Howard realized he was leaving and panicked slightly, unsure he was willingly to part with the one person who’d been nice to him so far in the world.

“Excuse me, but-” he started to say, but the drunk cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on. Not leaving a kid out here to get stabbed by some thug.” Howard’s eyes widened at the statement, realizing that he perhaps had been a bit too cavalier wandering around. He quickly followed the smelly old man deeper into the alley, much more aware of surroundings than he was five seconds ago. He led Howard along the twisty streets of Shangri-La, seemingly taking them deeper into the city than he had been thus far, which made him slightly nervous. The farther they walked the more residential the streets seemed to become, with less trendy and important people intermixed with the crowd. There appeared to be a lot more people just hanging around as well, keeping an eye on him and the old drunk as they moved around. Several times he caught locals eyeing him oddly from their stoops, not making him unwelcome necessarily, but for sure watched.

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Of all the places Howard didn’t think he'd end up in, which he probably should have expected, was a bar. Coincidentally it was one of the bars the stranger recommended on the transport ship over. It was also perhaps the dirtiest establishment Howard had ever witnessed. With one step in through the heavy metal door, a wave of warm booze-scented air hit him square in the face, nearly knocking him over. He found it more tolerable than the dumpster at least. The lighting inside was dim, and he wasn’t sure if that was to better serve the ambiance, or if it was simply a lack of someone performing basic maintenance like changing light bulbs. Once his eyes adjusted from the harsh artificial light outside to the more warm, if not poorer lighting, he noticed the decor of the bar was equally as shabby.

Cheap plastic chairs and tables, dirty looking mugs, and the patrons seemed to match. All of them rough looking, like a collection of jagged rocks wearing loose fitting shirts. Most had some sort of scar from their industry, scars, burns, and big bellies of beer to cope. Many of them nodded at the drunk that brought him there, seemingly knowing one another. His father would have never stepped foot in such a dastardly den of vagrants, and the thought brought Howard some amusement. He followed along and sat himself across from the drunk, his head swiveling back and forth like a curious owl. He noticed that up on the wall, was a large, tattered flag. It was black, with a skull and crossbones. A pirates flag for sure. Howard squinted at it, and the drunk noticed him eyeing it.

“Old Man Ira’s,” he nodded. “He mainly keeps it up to piss off the port master, since it’s illegal but nobody here is going to do anything about it.”

“Why would he want to anger the Portmaster?”

“Because the Portmaster is an asshole.”

“Oh,” Howard nodded, think that he’d have liked to keep up some posters in his room to annoy his father. “Which one is Ira?”

“The giant behind the bar.”

Howard turned to the back of the bar, where the brown bottles glimmered with an amber hue, and gasped. Manning the bar was not just a giant, but a half man, half hippopotamus. He was over two meters tall, with all the features of the animal, but stood like a man, and had a small pair of human robotic hands attached to his stubby limbs, which he used to dish drinks out. It was almost a comical sight, the giant of flesh and muscle using tiny hands to clean mugs, but his scarred up snout and rough exterior quickly dismissed any humor about him.

The drunk waved at Ira, who threw a small towel over his hulking shoulder and shuffled his way over to their meager table, each step shaking the very floor. Howard gazed up at the giant with awe.

“Guillaume. Usual?” Ira asked in a low, deep voice.

“Got anything better than piss?” Guillaume asked gruffly.

“Got any money?” Ira replied with an annoyed snort.

Guillaume rummaged around in the strange coat he wore, then pulled out his point card and flashed it. Ira scanned it. On the requisite beep and ca-ching, he tucked the device away.

“I’ll get you some well whiskey.”

Guillaume simply grunted in reply.

“Who's the kid?” Ira asked.

“Oh, I’m Howard, sir!” Howard spoke quickly, closing his slackjaw.

“I found him in a dumpster.” Guillaume explained, then placed his head on the table.

“I was more dumpster adjacent than in it…” Howard replied.

“You’re thin,” the old hippo eyed him curiously.

“Ah, well, yes. I suppose so.” Howard replied awkwardly.

“Well, if Guillaume dragged you down here I’ll give you a drink on the house.”

“Oh? Is he a friend of yours?”

Ira made a deep, hearty chuckle, reminding Howard of a rich brassy horn. “Hell no.”

Howard raised a finger to inquire further, but the hippo shuffled back behind the bar for a little bit. Howard glanced back down to Guillaume, now realizing he could refer to him by a name.

“So…Guillaume.”

“I’m not talking till I get another drink, my headache is coming on.”

“Shouldn’t you drink water then?”

“If I stop now the hangover will kill me,” he explained while waving his empty hand in Howard’s face, indicating his lack of drink.

Sighing, Howard sat up from their plastic table and approached the bar. He waited for Ira to finish chatting with another rough looking customer, which took a few minutes. He tried several times to get the giant hippo’s attention, but everytime he seemed to be elbowed aside by some other customer looking for a refill. At one point he was leaning over the entire bar counter, waving his arm frantically back and forth. Finally, he was noticed, and two whiskeys slid his way. Howard eyed their color, murky brown. He himself had never tried the drink, having only had wine at dinners. He raised a glass to his nose and took a deep sniff, and recoiled sharply, nearly dropping the drink. He could have sworn his nose hairs had just burnt up a little. He turned around with the drink to return to his table, and came face to face with a man, whose body was squat, and thick. The man was about Howard’s height, but thrice his width. He eyed the whiskey in Howard’s hand with a greedy smirk.

“Thanks for the drink man.” Howard, understandably confused, blinked several times. “Pardon?”

“You bought me a drink, right?” The man chuckled, talking a step closer.

“Oh, you must be confused. This drink is actually for that man over there-” Before Howard could finish, the man reached out with his meaty palms and swiped the drinks from his hands, spilling a good portion of them on the floor.

“Aw come on! You made me spill it.”

“You took it from my hand!” Howard protested, his voice raising slightly.

The man grinned and took a big step forward, bringing himself nose to nose with him. He reeked of body odor and booze. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Howard balled up his fists at his sides, temper flaring up. He raised his hand to point accusingly at his aggressor, not realizing it was about to be taken as an attack. The moment his hand rose above his waist, the man jumped him, placing his entire body weight on top of the boy. He raised his beefy arm in the air and went to bring it down with the intent to clobber Howard’s face. But as his arm reached the top of its arc, a wrinkled liver spotted hand wrapped around it and held on with a vice-like grip.

The man looked up to see who was intervening in their fight, but all he got was a fist to his nose, which broke instantly, sending the man stumbling backwards into a table and spelling cheap beer all over himself.

Howard looked to see who his savior was, and his heart soared at the sight of Guillaume, who stood between him and the man, a fresh coat of red staining his ratty coat. It was then Howard realized what all the other stains were from.

“Thank you, Guillaume!” Howard beamed.

“You spilled MY drink, Kieran!” Guillaume barked at Howard's aggressor.

Howard realized with a bit of dejection that he wasn’t actually being saved. Kieran, as was his name, was too busy trying to stop the bleeding to give a proper reply. But his two friends were in plenty of good shape to give Guillaume what for. They stood from their table, each one in their own right, plenty intimidating. Scars along the arms, tattoos across every surface, and a look in their eyes that said they’d been waiting all night to get into a fight.

Guillaume by comparison suddenly looked different in Howard’s eyes, who thus far he’d been stooped over and tired looking. He'd set his shoulders back and drew his fists in front of his chest, making him look squarer. His eyes were still bloodshot and ragged, but laser focused on his opponents. He massaged his knuckles lightly, which Howard now realized looked quite calloused, and eyed up the three men with a bit of a wild stare. Howard glanced at Ironhand, who was still behind the bar watching what was about to happen with only mild interest.

The two aggressors rushed Guillaume, knocking aside their table like raging bulls with the intent to take him head on. The old man’s fist came out like a pistol, crashing into the first one’s jaw the moment he was in range, knocking him out instantly and sending him cratering to the floor. The next tried to ram into him with his shoulder, running in low and fast. Guillaume waited until the man was just in range, then rammed his knee into the man’s stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs and taking the power out his charge. Seizing the opportunity he grabbed the weakened man's shoulders and rammed his same knee into his face, breaking yet another nose and adding yet another layer of red to the sticky floors.

Kieran, who’d taken the moment to bait out his two companions, finally lurched forward while Guillaume was busy dispatching his friends and landed a wicked haymaker. His first landed with a loud meaty thud and sent the old man stumbling.

Seeing Guillaume take a hit shook Howard from his confusion, and he climbed to his feet to throw himself into the fray. He leapt onto Kirans’s back and wrapped his thin hands around the man’s throat. The man croaked, grabbing up with his superior strength and reversed the move on Howard, now having his huge arms around the young man’s neck. Howard struggled, trying to pry himself out of the pin but unable to make even the slightest headway. Out of options, he bit down on Kiran’s arm, who shouted in pain and let him fall to the ground, where Howard promptly scrambled away on his hands and knees.

“You’re dead!” Kieran came barreling down on Howard, who braced himself for impact. But Guillaume, having used the opportunity Howard gave him, was already there to respond. He grabbed Howard by the collar and flung him backwards to stand in his place, and took the charge in full, setting his center of gravity low and his arms up high to catch Kiran in a gridlock of strength.

“You owe me a drink.” Guillaume snarled as the two locked heads.

“I don’t owe you shit, traitor,” Kiran growled back.

Guillaume’s face twisted into an irate mask of fury, and with a mighty warcry he bared his teeth and clamped down on Kiran’s ear, ripping it clean off. Kiran screamed in horror and pain, abandoning the fight entirely. He clutched at the new hole in his head, feeling blood gush out of it with every heartbeat. The lively sounds of the dive bar ceased at the horrific scream, and all eyes fell on Howard, Guillaume, and the men who’d attacked them. Guillaume, whose own face was splattered with blood, spit out the ear on the floor with disgust, and wiped his face with his grimy coat. Howard was speechless, unsure of what to even do after such a sight. He noticed everyone was looking behind him, so he too turned around, and saw Ira looming over the scene. The patrons waited with baited breath for him to say something.

“Alright you animals, come get it,” Ira spoke finally, then turned around to return to the bar. The patrons erupted into laughter, and the mood quickly returned, not dampened by the fight at all. Howard couldn’t believe it, such an intense moment, going as quickly as it came. Guillaume walked over to him and held out his hand to help him off the floor, which Howard took. Once on his feet, the old man wiped some dirt off Howard’s ever dirtying waistcoat.

“Couldn’t have even gotten one?” He remarked with annoyance.

“I’ve never been in a real fight!” Howard replied defensively.

“Then why’d you jump in?”

“You were in danger.”

“I’d have been fine,” he said dismissively, but had the ghost of a smile on his lips at Howard’s explanation. He placed a thumb up to his nose, sealing one side, and exhaled hard. A glob of blood and snot flopped onto the floor. “Come on, we get a free drink out of it.”

“We do?” Howard replied skeptically.

“Bar policy. You win a fight, the loser has to pay everyone a round of drinks.”

“Seems like that’d encourage a lot of bad behavior.” Howard noted as he placed then quickly removed his sleeve from the bar as he felt the cloth stick to it. He peered at his sleeve, now stained with mysterious liquids and an excess amount of varnish.

“It does, but I get a lot of free drinks out of it.” They were quickly served up two drinks by Ira, presented in his finest glasses, the mostly clean ones. Guillaume raised his drink and waited for Howard to do the same. He tapped his glass against the bar, then threw his back easily, the murky brown liquid vanishing down his throat. Howard, feeling quite roguish himself, tried to do the same. The moment it passed his lips he felt his throat close up, a burning sensation rising into his nose. It tasted awful, bitter in an overwhelming way. He choked, getting the drink lodged in his throat and forcing him to cough it up. His eyes went red as he spit up the drink. .

“It’s…strong,” he tried to say while maintaining some sense of pride.

“Give me another,” Guillaume told Ira, swiping another glass and downing that too. Howard winced at how easily he took the drink. He then watched as the old man pulled out a small orange bottle from his jacket, which made a quiet rattling. Howard realized it was some sort of medicine, which Guillaume took a hearty handful of and threw down his gullet.

“I’m not sure you’re supposed to mix those with alcohol.” Howard said with some pause.

“Not sure I asked,” he replied, sinking into a forward slouch as the booze and medicine kicked in. Within minutes he was out, drooling on the sticky bar. Howard thought for a moment to leave, but felt oddly compelled in the moment to stay with him. Afterall the old man helped him so much already, it only felt right to sit by him a while.

The rest of the night passed by in a sort of strange blur for Howard. What he thought to be a rather dramatic and noteworthy event, quickly lost its mystique as several more fights broke out over other small matters. Howard wasn’t entirely sure, but at least one slugfest seemed to have started due to someone accidentally bumping a patron on the way out, which he thought to be a little silly. But the same people usually had more than a few beers by that time, which seemed to be heavily influencing their decision making. It wasn’t like Howard hadn’t seen anyone intoxicated before, he’d seen his father have one too many glasses of wine on several occasions after all. But his fathers drunken behavior usually had more to do with loud, excitable rants about the failure of those who relied on Confederacy handouts, as opposed to the beatings being handed out for free in the bar that evening.

He was at first a bit uncomfortable watching the brawls, but he found himself growing more amused by them with each passing blow. It seemed that despite how quickly flares tempered up, most of the fights were settled relatively clean and with respect. Someone went down, a hurrah would be sounded around, and more drinks would slide across the bar. By the end of the night, he was hooting and hollering with the rest of the patrons from his perch on at the back, where the old Ira was subtly keeping an eye on him, which Howard was completely oblivious to.

Many hours passed, and soon it was morning, which in Shangri-La was a difficult thing to discern. Since it was essentially a giant floating rock in space with no night or day, the port was in a perpetual artificial light, making the streets seem as if it was always night. Still, the residents had to sleep and wake, so around what would be considered morning galactic standard time, Howard heard the sounds of many of the passed out patrons' watches beeping at them to wake up. He suspected they would be late to whatever engagements they had planned that day. Though incredibly there was a small percentage of the patrons who simply picked themselves up off the floor, wiped the sleep from their eyes, and stumbled out the doors onto the streets without much fanfare. Others were not so lucky, and seemed to wake with a great groaning pain, clutching their foreheads in agony. It was while he was watching these drunken sailors and workers vacate the premise that Ira finally spoke to Howard directly.

“Said your name was Howard, right?” Howard turned around in his seat to face the giant, flinching slightly at the sudden entrance of his bassy voice.

“Yes sir,” he replied quickly.

“What are you doing out here?” The old hippo asked with genuine curiosity.

“Well, I came here with Guillaume.”

“On Shangri-La,” he corrected himself. “You clearly don't belong here.”

“Ah, Guillaume said the same thing,” Howard agreed. “Well, if you must know, I’m trying to go to the Journey Sector.” Howard waited for Ira to scold him, as everyone had done thus far. But to his surprise, he didn’t immediately admonish him. Instead, the old hippo studied him in thought.

“Why?” Ira probed further. “Money? Fame?”

“No,” Howard answered with eagerness that someone seemed to be taking an interest in his quest. “I want to follow in the footsteps of Captain Halock! I want to see things nobody has ever seen before, wrestle with the dangers of adventure, and let nobody tell me what to do otherwise!”

“I see,” Ira replied after a moment, then crouched down to put some mugs away. “How do you plan on doing that?”

Howard was caught flatfooted. “I…hadn’t quite figured that part out yet, honestly,” he answered sheepishly. “I didn’t exactly get the opportunity to plan most of this out.”

“I can tell,” Ira replied humorously, setting a mostly clean plate in front of Howard. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Actually, could you make grilled cheese?”