Archangelsk Protocols I’m in a galaxy of shit. It was a problem no one anticipated in the early days of NASA and Yuri Gagarin’s debut as the first human artillery shell. Hell, it was a problem we didn’t anticipate until someone nearly crashed a mineral rig into the dark side of the moon because their censors crapped out. But the legacy of manned spaceflight became a chocolate milky way shroud wrapped delicately around our Moon. It took three Security Council resolutions, an amendment to the EU Constitution, two and a half coups in Africa and China threatening to deny foreign aid to the United States to get everyone to the table. Independent analysts in the covert intelligence field estimate that 87 deaths and a further 43 near-fatalities can be attributed to the heavy-handed tactics in play at the conference, but a protocol was reached, named after the city, Archangelsk. Five years ago, the International Waste Station was supposed to be completed, and it was estimated that not only would all human waste debris be cleansed from known space, but that the IWS would be converting the reusable molecules into base blocks for commercial ship's galleys. A series of wormholes deemed unsafe for transport or shipping were to be used to centralize the collection. But international infighting and budget cuts means the station filter whisk simply stirs the mostly-liquid galaxy that’s been gathered here, giving it its own gentle current that pulls the ship down into brown oblivion. Complicating matters further, I am captain of a crew of degenerates: my first mate has been caught over a dozen times masturbating to video footage of this quadrant. In my chair. Our medical officer recently admitted to me over win that he brought rats on board not because they provided an excellent research opportunity, but because their feces, when used as a fertilizer in the hydroponics labs, rounds off the bitterness of our Colombian coffee. A series of thefts in the janitorial storage have been proven part of an elaborate conspiracy using components stolen from the lavatory and human byproducts to bootleg a very popular wine- I had always questioned the presence of the corn coinciding with our meal cycle, but at the time the link did not seem clear to me. To the problem at hand, we are floating in the area where the incomplete skeleton of the IWS looms, our view window and sensors are all buggered up. Most of the crew are drunk on toilet wine, and they'd be of no use anyway because at least one of them steered us here- so none of them are to be trusted. And the unfortunately named wipers only make the situation worse.