He set the decoy into the co-pilot’s seat and lifted the Vortu helmet from off his head, then indulged his fantasy of piloting the craft on a quick, imaginary joy ride, complete with vrooming noises and laser effects, and just the right type of girls who would be impressed with all of that.

He dropped his hands from the wheel, then leaned over and turned the helmet transmission back on so the Scythin would continue their pursuit for it. The sound baffled him. The Chime sounded, like, well, a chime. A really big chime. But still. If there truly was a sound evil enough to destroy the galaxy, wouldn’t it be something like post-Black Album Metallica, or Justin Bieber? This was a... a doorbell. He sighed. From the bathrooms to the pending End of Everything, outer space had so far been one disappointment after another. Spaceship showroom excepted.

He considered the decoy, sitting next to the helmet. “Okay, man. Time for us to part ways. Give ’em hell, buddy.” He tapped the jar of pickles lovingly as one might a small pet; then, as it was arguably a poignant moment, gave the lid a try. It turned with a satisfying pop-hiss.

Patton selected the center pickle as one does and held it in his mouth while resealing the lid. Then holding it aloft, said, “To me and you, Ben,” and took a bite.

He set the Vortu helmet, still broadcasting, over the top of the jar, and strapped the pair snuggly into the cockpit-replica. His internal sense of time, which was admittedly not good, began to insist that now was in fact when he should stop dawdling.

He left the spaceship store with a few souvenirs and jogged back to the transways. There were ten tubes that made the center-crossing transit. Several sat empty. He stepped into the one furthest from the one he’d rode in on and wondered: Would the Scythin take the transways? Would they need hotel cards to do it? He chuckled to himself as the doors closed, thinking about a tube full of extra-dimensional Scythin galaxy murderers reading the newspaper or doing Sudoku as they waited for their stop.

Over the last few days and several spilled drinks, Patton had learned how quickly the transways accelerated. He dutifully strapped in before the thing really took off. The center-crossing transways were a special type of fast. Satisfied at a job well done, he relaxed and let the acceleration press him into the seat.