Bin von Beaverton slipped his beveled helmet down, casting the city at his feet in an ominous, darkened wash. The eclipse-light setting, left behind by the helmet’s former owner, was inadvertently triggered as it slipped over his shellacked hair touffe.

Bin lifted his chin in reverence, thinking of the fallen colleague, thinking of the playlist of sad-to-wistful-to-joyous songs he had scrupulously chosen for the funeral rites. It was strange that Bin had been chosen for such an honor, given how little he had ever glimpsed of the man himself. Glonder had seemed like a Gravitational Raindance sort of guy, or at least a lover of Slathered Flux (who wasn’t?).

Bin looked out across the triple-moon sky, thinking of that small, orbiting co-worker.

He hoped, at least, that he’d enjoyed the acoustic version of Laser Beanbag Rebellion.