This should not take a year. Then again. I've done far more and deleted half of it.
----
She found herself on the station’s main concourse, staggered to find it buzzing with life, people milling about. Some wore industrial overalls, with high-visibility flashings across their shoulder. Others, their own private uniform that was half 19th-century military, and half short-skirt and long boots.
Ohtoripunk had become the fashion on Frigga, a revolutionary counterpart to the clean, classical neo-romanesque architecture of the Crystal Millenium.
Archwork which would’ve been grown from solid crystal, had been wrought and welded from meteoric steel into graceful, skeletonised art-noveau curves. What would’ve been formed from filigree metalwork on Crystal Tokyo, had been blown into electric neon lights, fizzing with energy.
Metal, light and concrete came alive, rather than existing in an eternal indestructible stasis. Bubblegum-pink roses with nuclear green stems, framed inisde brilliant white strips lit the passageways below.
Kotono’s Phitness Bee gym had a golden bumblebee merrily buzzing between white daisies. When Frigga’d been a mine, it’d been a boardroom for middle managers. The Midoriya Cafe shone a soothing, grassy green. It’d been the staff lunchroom. The Rock and a Hard place bar sparked in an electric blue. It’d once been the HR Department. The cubicles made for good private booths.
The executive boardroom had become a school for the few fen-kinder they had.
Only the general store lived in the same place as it had back when Frigga had been a corporatocracy trying to emulate the Greenwood model. The Original ‘New Bermingham Company’ sign had been restored
The Fellow Travellers had pasted a sign on the wall, warning people it still traded in souls. Justice and Peace suggested taking salary payments in scrip contravened the principals of Social Justice. The Station Council reminded that station scrip didn’t count as taxable income for your monthly dues to the Crown as it was and they were working to keep it that way.
The Company Store saved everyone money on transport costs.
People took it according to their own beliefs, what suited their goals, or what they needed most.
Other bills had been stuck to the noticeboard. A few were for the training courses on the station - as a Reactor Operator, a Miner, or a Firefighter. The School called for willing part-time teachers. Somebody'd added recruiting posters for SHIELD alongside those for the Station Militia. Disaster Area had been booked to play a show in a week's time, followed by an obscure band nobody had ever heard of, but somehow had causes a great buzz. Another invited people overwhelmed by the stresses and anxieties of their lives to get away from it all and become a Catgirl instead.
Jet couldn't tell if the artist intended it to be sarcastic or not.
Rose bushes filled rows planters that had previously been home to monochrome shrubbery manicured to the square and level. Daylighters in the ceiling kept them alive. The diffuser panels had long been lost, throwing sharp black shadows into the corners and sparking hard and bright off glass and metal trims.
The workshop Ford had once worked out of had become the station’s public armoury. The Heavyarms sign had been replaced by the glowing pink outline of a catgirl carrying a sleek shining pistol.
Next door to it, a luscious purple cat beckoned visitors inside a seperate establishment for a more intimate and private experience.
One smelled of gunsmoke, metal and machine oil. The other, of spicy perfumes and menthol aftershaves. Minnie-May Hopkins had taken over both.
Jet took a deep breath and stepped inside the Purple Kitten. Silken drapes flowed across her armour as she stepped into a world of plush fuschia cushions, golden trim and deep, crimson. Thick, luscious carpet the colour of fine wine muffled her footsteps.
The look of surprise Minnie May greeted her with, turned a nervous knot in Jet’s stomach.
“I need some help,” she said, momentarily wishing she could turtle her head into her armour.
“Help?” Jet watched Minnie’s eyes drop to a point just below her legs. “How?”
There were, of course, some obvious difficulties.
“I need to get cleaned up.” Jet said. “It’s very hard for me to get properly clean.” She demonstrated by trying to touch her back.
“Well, we know how to be discreet!” Minnie assured with a bright smile. “And I know just how to help. Room A-2-4 and someone will be right up.”
Another Patron passed by, dressed as Yuri from the Dirty Pair, her tanned skin shining with sweat as bright as her golden battle-bikini.
Jet guessed they weren’t used to walking in heels, or with so much weight up top. Someone trying on a puppet to explore a new identity, or to indulge a private fantasy? Someone who would quickly spread the rumour
The puppetmaster raised a single finger to her lips, making a quiet ‘shsssh’.
Jet matched with a steel finger and a smirk. A mutual secret that caused her to tingle inside. Whomever really lay behind those mahogany eyes thought they had as much to lose by being discovered as Jet did.
A giggle escaped the puppet’s lips, chased by a warm red blush as they realised what they’d just done.
Jet felt a soft smile on her own lips, chased by a momentarily thrill of anticipation and moments fantasisation about breaking out of her armour and giving Yuri a Kei as a cosplay partner.
What would that be like?
She found the door, and pushed it open. Inside, the lights shone harsh and bright, like an operating theater. The air still carried a faint hint of antiseptic, mingled with spiced wildflower and that machine-oil aftertaste Jet would normally have associated with A.C Peter’s workshop.
The walls had been painted a hard, clean titanium white. The floors, a clean, medical blue linoleum intended to be hosed down.
The entire room had been formed from Catgirl Mimetic polymers - adapting to every customer - with a little extra help from a Wizard trying to replicate a Room of Requirement.
Jet heard the door nbehind her open again, the sound followed by a draft of fresh menthol aftershave. She turned to face three men, each carved into the image of Olympic perfection. Jets eyes fell to the muscles first, sharp and chiseled as cut from stone, oiled glistening under the spotlights overhead Followed by the budgies being smuggled in underwear that strained to escape.
Something deep inside her stirred - a little giddy electric thrill that echoed inside the remnant of her body. A little ember that’d long been asleep sparked, flickered and began to smoulder .She felt herself swallow a lump a wave of desire.
Wow.
“May?” she sounded her best to sound cross. “Why’d you send the Adoni?”
“I’m busy in person,” the first of the Adoni answered. “The amazons were booked.” said the second. "And I pride myself on knowing what my clients want, even if they don’t want to admit it to themselves.” said the third. “Besides, all you need is some help getting cleaned up,” chorused all three.
“You know I’m not into men,” Jet said, firmly.
“You said you prefer women. That’s different” said the first. “So you won’t enjoy a single bit of this then”, said the second, teasing Of course, he gave a roguish toss of his luxurious blonde hair over his shoulder. Her face had turned a hot red. His face had been cast in the mould of female desire, longing to worship her.
It didn’t matter.
They’d already prepared the buckets of warm water, sponges, chamois leather, cloth and turtle wax.
Getting properly cleaned up was intimate work for a cyber such as Jet, and, of all things, Minnie May Hopkins could be counted on to be a professional and not blab about it.
—-
----
She found herself on the station’s main concourse, staggered to find it buzzing with life, people milling about. Some wore industrial overalls, with high-visibility flashings across their shoulder. Others, their own private uniform that was half 19th-century military, and half short-skirt and long boots.
Ohtoripunk had become the fashion on Frigga, a revolutionary counterpart to the clean, classical neo-romanesque architecture of the Crystal Millenium.
Archwork which would’ve been grown from solid crystal, had been wrought and welded from meteoric steel into graceful, skeletonised art-noveau curves. What would’ve been formed from filigree metalwork on Crystal Tokyo, had been blown into electric neon lights, fizzing with energy.
Metal, light and concrete came alive, rather than existing in an eternal indestructible stasis. Bubblegum-pink roses with nuclear green stems, framed inisde brilliant white strips lit the passageways below.
Kotono’s Phitness Bee gym had a golden bumblebee merrily buzzing between white daisies. When Frigga’d been a mine, it’d been a boardroom for middle managers. The Midoriya Cafe shone a soothing, grassy green. It’d been the staff lunchroom. The Rock and a Hard place bar sparked in an electric blue. It’d once been the HR Department. The cubicles made for good private booths.
The executive boardroom had become a school for the few fen-kinder they had.
Only the general store lived in the same place as it had back when Frigga had been a corporatocracy trying to emulate the Greenwood model. The Original ‘New Bermingham Company’ sign had been restored
The Fellow Travellers had pasted a sign on the wall, warning people it still traded in souls. Justice and Peace suggested taking salary payments in scrip contravened the principals of Social Justice. The Station Council reminded that station scrip didn’t count as taxable income for your monthly dues to the Crown as it was and they were working to keep it that way.
The Company Store saved everyone money on transport costs.
People took it according to their own beliefs, what suited their goals, or what they needed most.
Other bills had been stuck to the noticeboard. A few were for the training courses on the station - as a Reactor Operator, a Miner, or a Firefighter. The School called for willing part-time teachers. Somebody'd added recruiting posters for SHIELD alongside those for the Station Militia. Disaster Area had been booked to play a show in a week's time, followed by an obscure band nobody had ever heard of, but somehow had causes a great buzz. Another invited people overwhelmed by the stresses and anxieties of their lives to get away from it all and become a Catgirl instead.
Jet couldn't tell if the artist intended it to be sarcastic or not.
Rose bushes filled rows planters that had previously been home to monochrome shrubbery manicured to the square and level. Daylighters in the ceiling kept them alive. The diffuser panels had long been lost, throwing sharp black shadows into the corners and sparking hard and bright off glass and metal trims.
The workshop Ford had once worked out of had become the station’s public armoury. The Heavyarms sign had been replaced by the glowing pink outline of a catgirl carrying a sleek shining pistol.
Next door to it, a luscious purple cat beckoned visitors inside a seperate establishment for a more intimate and private experience.
One smelled of gunsmoke, metal and machine oil. The other, of spicy perfumes and menthol aftershaves. Minnie-May Hopkins had taken over both.
Jet took a deep breath and stepped inside the Purple Kitten. Silken drapes flowed across her armour as she stepped into a world of plush fuschia cushions, golden trim and deep, crimson. Thick, luscious carpet the colour of fine wine muffled her footsteps.
The look of surprise Minnie May greeted her with, turned a nervous knot in Jet’s stomach.
“I need some help,” she said, momentarily wishing she could turtle her head into her armour.
“Help?” Jet watched Minnie’s eyes drop to a point just below her legs. “How?”
There were, of course, some obvious difficulties.
“I need to get cleaned up.” Jet said. “It’s very hard for me to get properly clean.” She demonstrated by trying to touch her back.
“Well, we know how to be discreet!” Minnie assured with a bright smile. “And I know just how to help. Room A-2-4 and someone will be right up.”
Another Patron passed by, dressed as Yuri from the Dirty Pair, her tanned skin shining with sweat as bright as her golden battle-bikini.
Jet guessed they weren’t used to walking in heels, or with so much weight up top. Someone trying on a puppet to explore a new identity, or to indulge a private fantasy? Someone who would quickly spread the rumour
The puppetmaster raised a single finger to her lips, making a quiet ‘shsssh’.
Jet matched with a steel finger and a smirk. A mutual secret that caused her to tingle inside. Whomever really lay behind those mahogany eyes thought they had as much to lose by being discovered as Jet did.
A giggle escaped the puppet’s lips, chased by a warm red blush as they realised what they’d just done.
Jet felt a soft smile on her own lips, chased by a momentarily thrill of anticipation and moments fantasisation about breaking out of her armour and giving Yuri a Kei as a cosplay partner.
What would that be like?
She found the door, and pushed it open. Inside, the lights shone harsh and bright, like an operating theater. The air still carried a faint hint of antiseptic, mingled with spiced wildflower and that machine-oil aftertaste Jet would normally have associated with A.C Peter’s workshop.
The walls had been painted a hard, clean titanium white. The floors, a clean, medical blue linoleum intended to be hosed down.
The entire room had been formed from Catgirl Mimetic polymers - adapting to every customer - with a little extra help from a Wizard trying to replicate a Room of Requirement.
Jet heard the door nbehind her open again, the sound followed by a draft of fresh menthol aftershave. She turned to face three men, each carved into the image of Olympic perfection. Jets eyes fell to the muscles first, sharp and chiseled as cut from stone, oiled glistening under the spotlights overhead Followed by the budgies being smuggled in underwear that strained to escape.
Something deep inside her stirred - a little giddy electric thrill that echoed inside the remnant of her body. A little ember that’d long been asleep sparked, flickered and began to smoulder .She felt herself swallow a lump a wave of desire.
Wow.
“May?” she sounded her best to sound cross. “Why’d you send the Adoni?”
“I’m busy in person,” the first of the Adoni answered. “The amazons were booked.” said the second. "And I pride myself on knowing what my clients want, even if they don’t want to admit it to themselves.” said the third. “Besides, all you need is some help getting cleaned up,” chorused all three.
“You know I’m not into men,” Jet said, firmly.
“You said you prefer women. That’s different” said the first. “So you won’t enjoy a single bit of this then”, said the second, teasing Of course, he gave a roguish toss of his luxurious blonde hair over his shoulder. Her face had turned a hot red. His face had been cast in the mould of female desire, longing to worship her.
It didn’t matter.
They’d already prepared the buckets of warm water, sponges, chamois leather, cloth and turtle wax.
Getting properly cleaned up was intimate work for a cyber such as Jet, and, of all things, Minnie May Hopkins could be counted on to be a professional and not blab about it.
—-
I love the smell of rotaries in the morning. You know one time, I got to work early, before the rush hour. I walked through the empty carpark, I didn't see one bloody Prius or Golf. And that smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole carpark, smelled like.... ....speed.
One day they're going to ban them.