Pig in a Blanket
31 Aug 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
Prison.Fucking prison.
At least I'm a pain in the ass to process. No identification apart from my Pilot's Fed license, no official address, no home system, and no known kin makes for an interesting time with the clerk. All I have is a date of birth.
Hell, she's lucky a girl like me even has that. We nomadic types aren't exactly the kind for cake and ice cream, you know?
But I digress:
Prison.
Fucking prison.
I'm in the station's holding tank, mixing it up with the other riffraff until Authority decides what to do with me. Apparently, my case is a bit of a conundrum. I've been booked with conspiring to transport illicit goods, but they can't decide if I should be charged in local or Federal court. The incriminating conversation took place in a bar here in indy space, but the actual crime would have been committed in Federal space. What's more, the locals and the Feds are in a tug-of-war over who gets to throw the book at poor ol' Kyndi Jane.
For the locals, staying here would be a triumph of law and order, a message to all who do business here that Authority is not to be trifled with.
For the Feds, it would be one more warm body for whatever privately-owned corporation that owns the prison to gouge the taxpayers over.
What can I say? It's nice to be fought over for a change. Speaking of a fight, who's this mean-looking specimen walking up to me?
Thank you so much for moving me to a private cell. I mean it. And to think- all I had to do to get my own little space was to cold-cock some prison gang bitch who was getting in my face.
I appreciate it. Really I do.
Oh. The solitary block? For that? Thanks again.
Wait. Being alone is supposed to be a punishment?
Clearly, you don't deal with many pilots. But oh well.
Ah, thank you. Those handcuffs were a bit tight. Not really my thing, those. Especially in a women's prison. A girl hears stories, you know?
Wait. Where are you going? Don't I get a magazine or something? How about a free transmission? The prisoner always gets a transmission in all the holo-vids!
Well. That was rude.
I don't think they like me here.
Two days in, and a clear pattern has emerged. My days are divided into two distinct halves: the first part when Fatass Bitch brings me my breakfast, and the second when Skinny Bitch brings me my dinner.
Those were my names of the only points of human contact I had in solitary: Fatass Bitch and Skinny Bitch. Not my most creative nicknames, granted- boredom and shitty prison food have a way of driving away my muse. But at least I wasn't far off. Fatass Bitch is a grouchy old hag the size, shape, and personality of a refrigerator. She communicates entirely in grunts and disdainful glares.
Working the second shift is Skinny Bitch. She isn't actually much older than I am, but her eyes alone add a good thirty years to her appearance. She's not as angry at the 'verse as Fatass Bitch is- but with the way she keeps her hand on that stun baton, there's no doubt that she doesn't mind using it.
Still, if I had to pick one...
I have to bust out fast. If Authority follows standard procedure, my ship will be confiscated and my belongings disposed of. It's bad enough that I'm out a perfectly good flight suit, but to lose everything...
No. Fuck that.
I take a deep breath, formulating my plan. If this is going to work, I have to play it just right...
Oh, great. You're here. Must be dinner time.
Wait! Please don't go. Thank you.
So, uh- kinda having some girl problems in here. How about a walk to the head?
Ugh. That means "restroom", you landlubber cow.
Yeah, great: nice baton. You're in charge. Now could you please open the door before my prison orange becomes prison red?
Uh, no. I'd rather not spread 'em. You understand, right?
Oh. Really? Not in years? Jesus. You Feds really do let your corporate overlords control your lives, don't you?
Okay, okay. Fine. Happy now?
A little closer. That's it. No problems from me. I'm just a girl who needs a little help.
And dropped.
Sorry about that. Nothing personal. It's just that between you and Fatass Bitch, you're the one who can help me out the most. Now just stay unconscious, will you?
Jesus, Kyndi. Second day in the Snatch Hatch and you're already undressing a guard.
Skinny Bitch is heavier than she looks. It's a pain in the ass to lift her hips enough to slip her uniform off, and a real chore to do the whole thing quickly and quietly. Then, I have to lay her on my bunk and pull the blanket almost over her head...
... and then slip out of my prison orange and into her Authority uniform. Seems to fit well enough, except-
Except that she has no tits and no ass. Unlike me. Stupid custom sizing...
There. Slip on her sunglasses, tuck my long, purple hair under the cap, and-
Oh. What's this? A master access card? Thanks a lot, Skinny Bitch. I owe you one. Sleep tight, piggy.
And- out. She's in my cell, and I'm in the main solitary corridor. Not a lot of foot traffic through here, but that'll change as soon as I hit the main levels of the brig. I have to move fast and smart. Standing in the station's lift, I take a deep breath and straighten Skinny Bitch's too-tight clothing.
Just be another uniform. Don't make eye-contact. Just get to the damn impound.
The lift doors open, and I'm greeted by the same sight as the way in: the women's wing intake facility, staffed by numerous uniformed Authority. Off to the side is a line of recently-arrested convicts, and around me are my fellow guards. Just as I hoped, no one seems to notice just another woman in uniform, and the lift is so damn close...
Shit.
An officer is flagging me down, walking straight up to me and smiling.
If I ignore him, it attracts attention.
If I acknowledge him, he'll have no idea who the hell I am.
I consciously control my facial expression. There's no avoiding this. You've come this far, Kyndi. Don't let some stuffed shirt stand in the way now.
Why hello. Me? No, first day. Yeah, just transferred in from surfaceside. First time here, actually.
A tour? Oh, no thanks. I would appreciate some help, though. I'm looking for the ship impound. Could you point me in the right direction?
Well, hell. Maybe Skinny Bitch's uniform is worth the squeeze, after all. He hasn't made eye contact this entire time.
Oh, that's so helpful! Thanks! Well, I've got to be off. Don't want to be late for my first shift!
I don't know what's going to pop first- my tits from this shirt or this guy's eyeballs out of their sockets.
Don't follow me, Johnny Law. Just look at my ass as I walk away. That's it. You stay there. I walk here. Step into the master station lift, give the poor guy a smile as the doors close, and-
I exhale, slumping slightly. Thank God.
At least the cop gave good directions. I nod confidently at the bored-looking attendant at the gates of the impound, swipe my keycard, and-
Oh, hell yes. Let mommy in. Stay dumb, desk jockey. Just a cop checking out the impound. Nothing to see here...
Hmm. Not as many ship as I'd expect. It's got to be around here some-
There. The long, yellow thing at the very end. I grin as I walk swiftly towards the Cool Under Pressure. Looks like she's in good shape. I flip open the access panel by her landing gear and input the code to lower the entry ramp.
"Halt!"
I turn around. Filing into the impound with guns drawn is the undercover Fed from the bar, the local Authority officer who gave me directions, and the impound clerk. I put my hands on my head, inching towards the entry ramp as it descends to the deck.
Like hell I'm letting you pigs get the drop on me again.
As quickly as I can, I dash up the Diamondback's ramp, pistol rounds ricocheting off the hull around me. I mash the ramp controls and sprint to the cockpit, jumping into the commander's chair and activating the systems as quickly as my fingers can move.
Yes, bypass the safeties! I need to move!
As the systems come online and the reactor thums to life, I look outside the canopy, down to the trio of officers emptying their clips at me. Sorry, boys. Those popguns aren't doing jack against my canopy glass. Better get out of the way, though. I hear these directional thrusters can get pretty damn toasty in close quarters.
I lift the Diamondback from the deck, moving it to face the entry slot and pushing the throttle forward as I pass the local and Fed cops trying to bring me in. It would only be courteous to say goodbye...
Yeah, you all know what that is.
I keep the ol' middle finger pressed against the canopy glass as I hit the boost from inside the docking bay, rocketing me out and knocking all three cops on their backs.
A grin spreads over my face as I pass through the entry slot, the blackness of space filling my view. Halt that.
The smile on my face only grows as the acceleration pins me to my seat. I'll be out of mass lock in no time- and when I am, it'll be adios, amigos.
Authority Eagles are being scrambled. Can't say that I'm surprised. I hit the kill switch, closing off the heat vents and making me invisible to their scanners.
Sorry, boys. You're playing my game now.
The mass-lock warning light blinks off, and I select a system too far away for their Eagles to follow. I hit the frame shift drive, starting the spooling process and keeping an eye on the ship's rising heat. At the very last second, I open the heat vents as the stars begin to tremble...
The Cool Under Pressure performs flawlessly, jumping away from all my troubles from the last two days. What I wouldn't give to see the look on those pigs' faces as I flew past them. Silly boys. Silly cops. Silly locals. Silly Feds. They just never learn, do they? Not until it's too late:
Kyndi Jane McCaskill stays free, motherfuckers.
