Travis's smile stays fixed on his face as he lets himself be carried away by the mental image of getting out of this place and fucking off to skip from planet to planet on adventures. Maybe some sort of jurassic Rambo on a Monday, living in a jungle and gunning down dinosaurs, and then sending ghosts straight to the fires of hell on Wednesday, and then blowing up star systems in aerial combat in a mech by Friday.

But the longer he sits with the idea, the more his smile feels like a grimace.

"Yeah, maybe," he says. And, as an offered excuse: "My wife would kill me. The real one, not the..."

A vague shrug.