Toys
06 Jun 2017Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
Here’s a paradox for you: I’m a pilot who hates other pilots.Wait. Is that a paradox? Or just boring ol’ irony? I can’t really analyze it too deeply at the moment. This baggie of pure Panem is really treating me right.
Let’s just say that it’s unusual. But I'll explain.
It doesn’t matter if you’re with one pilot or a whole table of them: pilots talk about piloting stuff. They’ll dramatically tell the tale of their last job flying the latest in teledildonics from point A to point B as if the Elite Pilot’s Federation itself hinged on automated dick arriving safely to Port Whogivesafuck. They can't help it. Indy pilots who own their own rigs feel like the entire 'verse owes them a luscious ol' blowjob just for doing what they do. And that goes for the women, too.
Some talk about how a pirate almost pulled them out of supercruise. Other always spout off how they know a guy who knows a guy who actually bounty hunts for a living. A few tell the tale of when they spent a month or two exploring, only to find that the data payout was nowhere near their ship's repair bill. But all- universally, and without fail- will talk about their ships.
Oh, gods! Their ships. Always with their ships.
If you ever want a pilot to open up and blab, just ask about their ship. It doesn’t matter if it’s a highly-tuned Viper or a newjack’s first Sidewinder- a pilot will go on for hours about their rigs. They’ll pore over the tiniest details of the individual components with their fellow flyers. They’ll debate endlessly about the virtues and shortcomings of all the different models of Pythons that have emerged over the centuries, even though they’ll never goddamn own one.
And then there’s the brave souls who break out of the mold and take their ships in to get black market rigged. In a way, I have a certain respect for them- I’ve never had much use for other people telling me what I can and can’t do, so it follows that that attitude might rightly apply to the way that people treat their ships as well. The trick is finding that rare legally-flexible engineer who actually knows what they're doing. Too many gullible commanders fall prey to reckless butchers who are as likely to ruin a ship as they to improve it in any meaningful way. And then, there are the hoops you have to jump through to even find them, let alone engage their services...
If you do find someone who’s had bona fide underground work done to their ship, then it's fifty-fifty that they're about to blast you- commanders who actually need the custom-tuned ships know better than to just blab about it to every stranger they meet. More often, you’ve run into some starry-eyed hotshot who’s paid some flunky wanna-be tech to remove the safeties on their thrusters or their weapons- either way, they won’t have either thrusters or weapons for much longer. But they put out more power for the duration of their dramatically shortened lifespans, so the pilot gets to boast that his rig is "modded".
Still- when a girl’s been around the block as many times as I have, sooner or later the guy who brags about knowing a guy really does know a guy who really can tune the reactor to put out more juice.
Or in my case, less- with the upside of a cooler-running ship. In my line of work, that’s an easy trade.
It’s the first time I’ve ever let someone tinker with the Cool Under Fire’s guts to this extent. The engineer in question has her own secret base and everything- word 'round the sewing circle is that she’s the real deal, expecting her subordinate tinkerers to be as meticulous as she is.
But still- they’re fucking with the reactor, which doesn't fully sit right with me. Maybe everything will go off without a hitch. Maybe it’ll go critical the second I power up the Under Fire’s systems. What a way to go, huh? That’ll be the story of me: Kyndi the Badass Space Chick, who fearlessly lived life on her own terms until she took her ship to the wrong wrench monkey.
Doesn’t matter. Right now, all I’ve got going on is this joint of o-head and a couch to myself in the pilot’s lounge. Yeah, I’m stretched out on it. Yeah, a few (male) pilots have tried to chat me up. No, I’m not moving so that someone else can sit down. In addition to the credits, this outfit made me bring my own black market data and parts to do the work- the least they can do is look the other way while I relax.
And this is some primo leaf…
What? Who are you?
Station security? Shit.
Wait- where is everyone? How long have I been out?
Jesus. Okay, calm down. I was just waiting for the work on my ship to get done. This is a lounge, right? Well, I was lounging. What the hell was I supposed to be doing?
How long am I staying? A few more days, at least. A reactor job isn’t exactly an in-and-out, you know? Alright, alright, I’ll get a room. Sorry.
Sorry about that stick up your ass, mainly.
Oh, gods. Get me out of here.
The pig who so rudely interrupted my nap confiscated all my o-head- patting me down and making extra sure that I wasn't hiding more under my tits. Disgusting. I don’t know what was worse- the unwanted touching or the implication that the girls could possibly sag to the point of being useful for smuggling. I've got decades before that's a problem, thank you very much!
But even that wasn’t the worst. There was nothing to do in the room except sleep. Private transmissions were jammed as part of the installation’s security. I couldn’t enter my ship because it was in pieces. And due to the rough and tumble nature of the clientele, anything stronger than alcohol was banned.
So that left me with no choice but to either sit in my room like a prisoner, or-ugh- socialize.
With other pilots.
About piloting things.
Not even a series of pints helps. In fact, it makes things worse. Not only am I bored to tears sitting at a tableful of other pilots, but I feel fat and gross from too much brew sloshing around in my belly. I can't even pass the time with some good-looking dick. It’s the worst of all possible situations.
So here I am, making small talk about the mod I’m getting on my ship. It’s not exactly illegal, per se- but it certainly isn’t smiled upon by Lakon or by the authorities. But we’re all just chickens in the coop at this point, and there’s no sense in hiding why I’m here.
But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m doing the Pilot Thing- sitting at a table, talking about my ship, downing a beer and pretending to give a shit about other people's rigs. I’m a pilot who hates other pilots, after all. But I’m doing what I have to do to fit in until my ship is done- which includes mixing it up with other pilots. Which I hate.
Again- paradox, or irony?
Fuck it. I’m too drunk to dissect the difference.