In the twenty-third century (a phrase which gives ninety percent of readers pause), the whole of the solar system has been developed during the second space race. Earth has been united, but pockets of resistance remain. Sadly for the rebels, like William Hatterax, these pockets are rather ineffectual.
The alarm clock, if such a tablet could be called an alarm clock, began to buzz, if a mellow chiming noise could ever be called a buzz. William groaned, as had billions before him who were faced with the daunting task about to befall him: getting up on Monday morning.
It seems that everything about Monday was engineered by Satan (or a subsidiary agent thereof) to generate a visceral distaste in the emotional mouth. So far, this taste was proving to be quite prevalent for Captain William Llewellyn Hatterax, commanding officer of the Systemic Independence Fleet minor assistance craft Novgorod. His first utterance of the morning would prove to be an attempt to cleanse this taste from his palate.
"Son of cyberslime!" he screamed, after being pounced on by his disgustingly misbehaved cat. It was too early for him to appreciate the irony of his calling the mother of his feline a vague non-profane insult, so he decided to grab an iced tea. He would have succeeded, had there been any iced tea. This, needless to say, set Will into a fit of rage, for approximately four seconds, until he collapsed back onto the bed due to a lack of energy.
It was the only part of the day that STH truly would have enjoyed, had "she" been capable of enjoying anything. However, her being a simulation of a human being, this concept of enjoyment was rather difficult. Being on the bridge without Will, though, still was an uncommon treat. Here, STH could catch up on her reading, monitor essential functions, and still have enough processing power left to beat millions of earthbound children at whatever game they were playing online that year. Yes, from 2200 to 0630, bridge duty was an absolute pleasure, which was about to end in six seconds.
"STH," Will crowed, simultaneously cheerfully and facetiously, "How was your evening, babe?"
STH would have given anything for a nice, pointy tack.