The Machine Shop - Eidolon Wraith

[Enkidu]

:: It won’t fit. ::


The bion curled her fingers around the metalled edges of the terminal, her fingers starring the plexiglass.

:: God damn it. I should have become a frickin’ tap dancer, not a ship tech. I'm suprised Sunny even wants me working with him.::


Engineering. The discipline where the certainties of the cosmos are always undermining the procreative function of your mind. Art can be adapted - a still life can become a portrait in a flurry of interdisciplinary excuses. Music can be reconstituted from genre to genre, from bossa nova to hard bass with nothing but skilful fingers and a few mathematical certainties. Materials science was inflexible. Perhaps in some more forgiving universe the prosecutor could take carry the lightrider system, but not in this life. Not in our slice of the cosmos.

She closed the window, the holographic projection of the fighter slotted down into the recycling bin. Screw ‘em. Screw me. Failure had its teeth in her chest and there was nothing to punch, nothing to shake off.

:: There goes all hope of a fighter that doesn’t bottom out when the guns get a little antsy under the thermal load. Raven’s going to be pissed. ::


The seven foot cyborg dragged herself out of the machine shop an hour early than her allotted shift, bunking herself with the air of a greasy little savant absconding from school at the first sign of a grade lower than A, pushing herself up towards the observation deck.

:: The barrier better have some really good fairy lights out tonight. ::

:: I need it to block out the gloom. ::

---

THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)

Information | Recruitment | Message Dump |
Feedback | Diplomatic channel

(Links pending redevelopment).