His skin was dark like pre-war fudge, a rich umber that darkened where tricorn scars crossed his cheeks. Startling sea-water blue eyes glanced up from the console to meet my gaze. I flushed, wishing there was a clue to his thoughts at that moment.
“The ship appears inert,” he said, looking back at the glass display. “Battle scarred too. See the scorch marks?”
I nod, leaning closer than necessary to study the images. “Think this is Ministry work?”
His lips thin grimly. “If so, no survivors. Might have spaced the bodies.”
Carnage or no, we must salvage.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: clue, fudge, inert)