Trey's communicator suddenly comes to like with a crackle and a squeal, making him frown. "What's the hold-up, cat, the next haul is already waiting and you're still not here to unload the previous one!", an annoyed and slightly inebriated voice tells him as it echoes inside the helmet.

"I said I'm coming, almost there...! Don't want the thrusters to overload or we'll be wasting even more time.", he replies and stifles a frustrated hiss, receiving some unintelligible background conversation and an acknowledging grunt in return before the communicator goes abruptly silent.

"Not that I'm not taking extra time on this, uuuurgh, I hope this is the last time ever we take work from scrappers...", he ponders while trying to align with the ship he's carefully approaching - his jetpack's thrusters constantly struggling from how his mass has effectively doubled from the random assortment of tools and stripped spare parts crammed into his greatly distended and extremely lumpy belly. Not to mention the constant dull ache from the stretch and the painful churning as hard plastic and metal push against his straining stomach lining, zero-g steering being hard with the distractions. ".... or next time I want to be the one to sort and pack everything, not always the transporter, this suuuucks!"

Art by kitsune-kajiru