Wandering was a good name for it. Drifting. More people pressed upon the ship, this Stacy, some she passed by, others she paused to observe. Half in shadow, she studied a particularly interesting man. Tired, yes, but weren't they all tired? All of them. Her blue-within-blue eyes glimmered and she was annoyed that she had no cloak, nothing but the uncomfortable, yet more and more familiar, ebb of the plantsuit she'd been forced to wear.

"Are you waiting for something more to happen or just waiting?" she asked, her voice vibrant and warm with curiosity. Men waited for many things. Some died waiting, some lived.