"Fuck me, this ship really is run on barter, then." Cillian rolls his eyes, but there's a chuckle to his tone. Besides, his time it's in his favour; tea he's scavenged from a cupboard isn't exactly on par with a computer. 'Course, maybe having someone to talk to was good enough, but he found it difficult to see it like that.

He rubs his chin absently, feeling out his five o'clock shadow, the stubble rough and comfortingly familiar under his fingertips. What does he want to do with it? "Dunno. Everything. Whatever. Mostly back home I worked in armaments, not PCs."