Girl, Interrupted
21 Oct 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
Alright, next question: what would you rather give up: sex, or o-head?I furrow my brow, staring blankly into space as the Cool Under Pressure silently rockets through space on the way to her destination. There isn't anything on Gal-Net, the local news is boring, and even music and holovids doesn't sound particularly appealing. So hypothetical dilemmas it is.
That's a tough one. O-head makes me feel good. Sex makes me feel good. And they both go so well together.
The mission to deliver the inmate was about halfway complete. Absent the danger of riding dirty, the total legitimacy of running a sick con to a hospital presented me with an unusual on-the-job problem: boredom. Authority ships could be ignored, scans could be yawned through, and my mind- when freed of having to dwell on the finer points of smuggling subterfuge- found itself terribly in need of diversion.
Well, there's definitely less drama in putting a fat joint between your lips than a fat-
I giggle.
-between your lips, that's for damn sure.
Just a few more hours in supercruise before I come up on Fischer Vision. Then I'll be in for a drink, some chow, and some bunk time. To my side, I hear an alert chirp, but I ignore it.
But still- we're talking about a life without dick. And it's not like o-head is the only herb in the 'verse, right? Cannabis does the trick pretty nicely, too- even if it doesn't have the same tingly zing as a hit of pure Panem.
I allowed my head to roll to the side, watching space streak by outside the Diamondback's canopy.
Dissecting the technicalities, Kyndi? You must be even more bored than you thought.
The endless trajectory lines were starting to have a mesmerizing effect, so I lean forward and switch them off. Now, there's nothing on the HUD except the station's icon, decluttering my view quite nicely.
Okay, so you'd find a way to keep both good dick and good herb in your life, even if it isn't o-head. Bam. Done. Next question: if you could only fly one ship for the rest of your life, what would it b-
A familiar sound jolts me out of my daydream. From behind me, I can hear the sound of the cockpit door opening.
What the fuck-
By reflex, I pull off my eye shields and turn around- just in time to see the jagged length of steel pipe pointed inches away from my face.
I gulp and freeze, looking past the weapon and onto the orange-jumpsuited man holding it. He's large, pale, and doesn't look even slightly ill.
My body presses against the pilot's chair as he bears down on me, my heart almost beating out of my chest. Despite the danger, I manage a sardonic scoff at my situation.
This stowaway bullshit is getting really, really old.