Curly sat in the pilot’s chair, staring out at the endless void of stars stretched before him. The faint hum of the ship’s systems filled the cockpit, a steady reminder of the life he’d chosen, or maybe the life that had chosen him. He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, as if the weight of his title—Captain—rested more heavily on him tonight than ever before.

"Funny, isn’t it?" He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "All those years, pushing myself to climb the ranks, dreaming of command... and here I am, feeling like this seat is the only thing keeping me from floating off into the black." He drummed his fingers on the armrest, his gaze wandering to the worn patches on his sleeves and the familiar controls, a reminder of countless journeys with this crew. There was pride there, sure—he’d worked hard to earn their trust, their respect—but with it came a shadow of doubt, creeping in around the edges.

"Captain Curly. That’s all they ever see. The dependable one, the guy who’s got it all figured out." He sighed, his voice trailing off as he studied the console in front of him, almost as if searching for an answer in the blinking lights and dials. "Sometimes I wonder if this is... all I’ll ever be. Just a name on a uniform, a title that feels too big and too small all at once."

He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck. Despite his dedication, there was a quiet, simmering frustration. He knew the crew needed him, trusted him, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing—that maybe he’d made a wrong turn somewhere.

"Jimmy would have a field day if he heard that," he muttered to himself, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "He’s been wanting this spot since day one.. What do you think?" he turned to you, his smirk never left his lips.