Stood Up
30 Sep 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
Jesus, Kyndi. It's like you're getting ready for a high school date.I look at myself in the mirror and pose. Yep. Same ol' me. Purple hair. Black leather pants. Faded crimson tank top. Black leather jacket.
Except that you never went to high school.
Turning at an angle, I bite my lip as I lift the back of my jacket slightly, arching my lower back.
Yep. Still filling 'em out. Never thought the day would come when you actually want a guy to notice.
I lift my shields, leaning in close to the mirror.
Eyes nice and white. No redeye from all the o-head with Dan and Monty. Nice.
Replacing my glasses over my face, I take a step back, straightening my hair to fall in long, straight tresses over my jacket. I glance to my bunk, the bottle of Kōtei no Hyōtan waiting for our return. It's flanked by a pair of crystal glasses and a little baggie of pure Panem organic. I smile, relishing the trip to heaven that I've got planned for us as I take one last look in the mirror.
Well, buddy boy, you'd better be there. I look too damn good right now for you not to be.
Howdy, barkeep. Oh, you remember me? How sweet.
Listen- I'm trying to find a guy. Tall, kinda rough-looking- he's been here the last few nights. You might have seen me with him.
What do you mean, "not here?"
Goddammit.
His friends? Yeah, sure. I bet they could point me in his direction. Thanks. Here you go.
Did you just flip the bartender a hundred credits for answering a basic question? You really are in a good mood, aren't you?
Hello, boys. Mind if I intrude for a sec? Sorry if I'm interrupting a toast.
Yep. Kyndi has tits. But they're not for you. Eyes up here.
I'm looking for your friend. Tall guy, needs a shave, blue eyes. Anyone know where I can find him? He seems to frequent the place.
Oh, c'mon! Cat got your tongues? And why the sudden long faces?
Anyone?
Jesus. I think I liked you guys better when you were staring at my tits.
Oh, stop with the droopy eyes and just spit it out! Where can I find him?
No...
What? Yeah, I heard you. Just give me minute.
Flak cannon blast to the cockpit. Tore right through the canopy. No, no, no...
I, uh- I think I need a drink. Thanks for, uh-
I'll leave you boys to it.
Left foot, right foot, Kyndi. One step at a time. Just walk out. Eyes forward. Steady breaths.
The shock and pain haven't hit me yet. I know I'm not going to see him. Not today, not ever. I'm Kyndi Jane McKaskil, the badass smuggler chick. I'm fine. I'm always fine....
A heavy weight begins to grow in my belly as I quicken my pace toward the hangars.
And I'll be damned if I let them see me cry...
Fuck.
The entryway door to my ship slides shut behind me. I take two steps, my legs wobble, and I double over, violently dry-heaving as the first tears well around my eyes. I stumble forward a few steps, bracing against the bulkhead wall for support. Breathing comes hard, and I throw off my jacket, using my shirt to wipe my mouth.
Fuck, fuck, fuck...
I don't make it to my bunk, not quite. I collapse in front of it, crying into the sheets that I'd looked forward to being pressed against not an hour earlier. The bottle of sake and o-head are still there, mocking me in my grief and adolescent stupidity.
You stupid, stupid, stupid little bitch.
With trembling hands, I unwrap the o-head that I had positioned in front of the bottle. I take one of the joints and light it, sucking the herb into my lungs, exhaling it as I climb onto the bunk, curling up into a fetal position, my leathers creaking as I ball myself up. For a long time, I simply lay there, smoking the joint and battling the same recurring thought:
Four days you've known this guy. Four. And here you are, bawling like some teenage girl. Get a goddamn grip.
I sit up, taking a couple long, deep breaths to calm myself down. I bury my face in my hands, and slowly look up into the mirror.
Stupid bitch. How many times does this have to happen before you fucking learn?
I lean back slightly, the bottle pressing against the small of my back. I reach behind myself, my fingers curling around the glass. In one violent motion, I hurl the bottle against the bulkhead, screaming as it shatters, glass and sake running down the wall. The onionhead joint returns to my lips, the cherry on the tip intensifing as I take another long drag. I flick the butt away and look around, grief and loathing and tension still churning in my belly.
The drug is doing its job, but it's not enough. I set my face and reach under my bunk. With as polluted as my night's been, I could use a little bit of-
Purity. Fuck yeah.
I pull out the aerosol injector, biting off the tip and giving the needle a test squirt, watching the fluid within dissolve into vapor. I push it against my arm, waiting for a vein to rise and trying to get the mental picture of a floating, destroyed Viper out of my head.
And if anything'll help me with that, it's this.
Purity is a black market cocktail of 33rd century pharmacological ingenuity. It combines the properties of o-head, rush, and Ex into one concentrated dose- and is neurofidelic to boot, so no one ever builds an immunity to it. It's rare, it's potent, and the supply is kept deliberately low so that prices stay high. I'd been saving it for a special occasion, to celebrate a dream score or a lux vacation on board one of those Beluga liners. I chuckle bitterly to myself as I press the injector against my arm.
Or maybe it's to get over what a dumbshit I am.
I pull the trigger, feeling a slight prick as the re-purposed stim delivers the cocktail into my system. A soft hiss escapes the capsule, and I pull it out and toss it aside, laying back in the darkness and breathing deeply. A welcome sensation begins to spread from my chest outward, covering my body in what feels like a warm, tingly body sleeve. I feel the grief, the pain, and the misery begin to drift away, replaced by a vague feeling of joy and contentment.
There we go. That's the stuff.
I close my eyes as the drug saturates my system, the feelings of joy intensifying into a state of euphoria. The forced state of bliss juxtaposes against the mental picture of drifting ship wreckage, my mind both reeling from the imagery and bathing in the ecstasy that Purity brings.
My fingers trace along my belly, their touch a tingly, sensual joy. I lift my hips as I unzip my leather pants from the rear and push them down to my thighs. I'd wanted the sensation to come from him, but-
I laugh as the last traces of grief are overwhelmed by the mindless, unfounded joy. - But you wanted a time to remember, and by God you're getting one.
My heart is pounding nearly out of my chest as my hand drifts lower, the drug-induced ecstasy and heightened sensation building to a crescendo. This is what I needed. Not a man. Not a stupid adolescent infatuation. Just myself. Because attachment is settling. I'd only forgotten.
And I'm not in this to settle. I stay free.
My hips arch and buck, the drugged-enhanced sensations slamming through my body as I close my eyes hard, a single tear running from both. All I see is his rugged gaze back in the bar, feelings of soaring bliss crowding my mind where their should be pain and grief. No matter. It's a fucked-up situation, but the void is a fucked-up place.
I collapse onto my bunk, the soft sheets and the Purity making it feel like I'm sinking into the gel mattress. My heart is still racing, my mouth open and gasping for air even as the mindless euphoria persists. More tears leak from my eyes even as I smile and laugh, my hands gripping my head as my body writhes in forced ecstasy.
And tonight, I need to be free from myself.