Hangover
07 Oct 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
Ow.I open my eyes, the soft reading light of my bunk exacerbating my headache. My hand drifts to my temples, squeezing them gently in an attempt to alleviate the pain. Slowly, I sit up, my feet sliding off the bunk, and touching-
Liquid?
I look down, remembering the spilled sake as it pools around my toes.
Oh yeah. That happened.
There's no hardwood, no carpeting- only the bare composite deck plating, so not a drop of it has seeped in or evaporated. Both it and shards of glass are everywhere. I gingerly shuffle my feet along the floor as I stand up, pulling my leather pants back up from my thighs and thankful that I didn't cut my feet. Taking a deep breath, I let the events of last night unfold and replay.
He's gone. Nothing can change that, and you know it. You knew it then, too- but what did you do?
Grimacing, I take a few cautious steps around the glass as I make my way to the shower, stripping off my shirt and holding my hand up to block out the cabin lights.
You got extra fucked up. You had a grief wank. And then you passed out, pants down and laughing like an idiot because of the fucking Purity.
I grope against the shower lever, starting the hot water and struggling to shed the leather pants. FInally, I peel them off and step into the shower, letting the liquid heat purge the haziness from my mind. Lifting my arms and turning around, I rinse away the sweat that coats my body, no doubt saturated with narcotics. I close my eyes and lean against the tile, my forehead touching the cool ceramic surface. I should be wracked with grief, but I feel nothing.
Squeezed your reserves of serotonin and endorphins dry in one euphoric go, didn't you? It'll be a day or two before shit returns to normal. 'Till then, you'll be a fucking robot.
Absentmindedly rubbing body wash over my skin, I humorlessly chuckle to myself. I'm not totally devoid of emotion- I miss the guy, I'm in a state of grief, but everything's been muffled. Dan and Monty themselves could walk in with chocolate ice cream and throw six-figure credit chips at me- and I'd still only feel a vague sense of happiness at best.
And that right there is why you don't normally do Purity.
Shutting off the water, I step out of the shower and open up the head's storage compartment. Downing a couple painkillers to slay the remainder of the headache, I lean against the entryway to my pilot's cabin, surveying the aftermath of my night with clear eyes. There's the sake puddle and shards of glass from when I threw the bottle against the wall, of course- but there's also the half-smoked joint, clothes, crystal glasses, and spilled baggie of onionhead. I look down and rub my temples, wishing to God that the painkillers would kick in.
Lazily, I open up the cabin's refrigeration unit and down an entire canister of purified water in one nonstop pull. Not even pausing, I crack open another and drain it halfway gone, too. Breathing a little hard from not breathing the entire time I'd been drinking the water, I shake my head from how thirsty it turns out I am.
That's the Purity, too. Dehydrates you like crazy and you don't even notice until the next day.
I take one more look around the pilot's cabin, grimacing at the mess I had to clean up.
Yeah. No more of that shit for awhile.
The Cool Under Pressure flies gently out of Izamikawa Port's docking bay, the soothing blue light washing over the canopy and ushering me into the coldness of space. I'd tarried a little longer to have breakfast at one of the station's restaurants- upping my docking fee and delaying my departure by a bit- but it was worth it. A plate of real ham and eggs washed down with real coffee is about the best hangover treatment in the 'verse, and it wasn't like I was late for a job.
I'd briefly considered trying to track down his mates from the bar to offer them my condolences- but why? I didn't know them, they didn't know me, and it's not like mercs have funerals or send sympathy cards anyway. No, they'd raise a glass to their fallen comrade, move on, and swap stories about him whenever they were drunk enough to feel sentimental.They wouldn't shed tears, and they for damn sure wouldn't put their lives on hold and wallow in grief.
I hardened my face as I boosted away from the station, swinging to my left to browse the starmap. There were so many destinations to choose from the further out I zoomed. All I had to do was choose one and get a feel for what illicit goodies the locals were demanding, just like I'd done for years.
Yeah. Time to move on and feel like your old self again.
Despite the early hour, I fished out an onionhead joint and lit it, the pungent smoke swirling around my face and I scrolled through the list of systems in my nav. I needed something out of the way, a place where I could drop and not linger.
Hmm. Interesting. Some piddling little backwater's got a case of the sniffles, huh?
Chuuku was nearby, in the midst of a plague, and the local governing corporation was paying top dollar for medicine. It wasn't exactly smuggling work, but it would keep me flying until a more lucrative score came along. Better yet, it was sparsely populated- and the entire transaction would likely be done by automation, what with the quarantine and all.
Chuuku it is. Let's do a good deed and make some credits in the process.
Exhaling, I plotted the course and swung my ship around to align with the jump beacon. I took another long drag from my joint as the numbers counted down. This is more like it. It feels good to be running a job, even if it is a squeaky-clean legal one.
I exhale the bluish-green smoke through my mouth as the stars began to stretch, the tunnel into witchspace forming ahead of me. His face briefly flashes in my vision, causing a dull ache of loss and grief to settle in my belly. But it was what it was. He was gone. I wasn't. And even though I hadn't known him well, I had the feeling that he wouldn't have wanted me to wallow for his sake.
And I won't. Not because he isn't worth it, but because life's just too damn short. I'm Kyndi Jane McCaskill, and I stay free.
