of no return
Sunday, 22 September 2024 19:38![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
airah posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
post_selfIt was a chilly day in the square when she stepped out of public housing. Her first several days after upload had been tumultuous at best, finding herself, finding her feet. In those early days after transferring to the station, uploading to the System was widely considered a suicide mission by the skeptical public. Nobody seemed convinced that the data transfer would work at distance, but she was going one way or another. She went, one of the earliest in the first batch after launch. Rumored to be the first, but never confirmed. It didn't matter, today she was alive. As alive as she could be, more alive than she ever thought she would be, more alive than she wanted to be in her old life.
She was different here, she felt as a spirit bound to the stars. So she re-imagined herself in a new image. She wore weathered old flight boots and grey-blue canvas pants loaded with pockets and secured with a black woven canvas strap for a belt. A double-stitched flap for her tail to escape, mottled brown and black fur. An orange shirt fit tightly around her torso, a tuft of fur poking up from the neck. A flight jacket of beaten white canvas and synthetic cloth, emblazoned with the patches of a space agency long since defunct. Lettering and logos in a language she only read slowly and barely spoke. Still the Cyrillic seemed familiar, like her own death warrant on her shoulders. Her survival was never expected.
She cuffs her coat tight to her shoulders against the cold winter evening and huffs, steam rising from her nostrils. Her dark muzzle, her dark eyes, the streak running up from her nose to her forehead, her short military-cut hair. Alert, erect ears that flopped over halfway up. The tarnished bronze pendant of an R-7 missile hangs still around her neck from a synthetic sinew cord. She sets off at a brisk pace, toward the bar and coffee house which she had just recently heard of. It was supposedly full of all kinds of people. She would see her hope confirmed as she stepped in. Nobody seemed to take notice of her entry, nobody except the bartender. A handsome hound of fairly indeterminate gender made eye contact and directed her toward a seat with a mere gesture. She sits, ey speak.
"Hey, chilly out there tonight. My name's Anton, what can I get'cha?"
"It is." She pauses and meets eir smile. "Soup of the day and a White Russian, you can call me Laika. Thanks." Her English is clear, but her accent bears just a lingering touch of Romanian mainland.
Ey look her up and down, gaze lingering for a moment on the pendant, then nod softly in approval. "You got it."
She was different here, she felt as a spirit bound to the stars. So she re-imagined herself in a new image. She wore weathered old flight boots and grey-blue canvas pants loaded with pockets and secured with a black woven canvas strap for a belt. A double-stitched flap for her tail to escape, mottled brown and black fur. An orange shirt fit tightly around her torso, a tuft of fur poking up from the neck. A flight jacket of beaten white canvas and synthetic cloth, emblazoned with the patches of a space agency long since defunct. Lettering and logos in a language she only read slowly and barely spoke. Still the Cyrillic seemed familiar, like her own death warrant on her shoulders. Her survival was never expected.
She cuffs her coat tight to her shoulders against the cold winter evening and huffs, steam rising from her nostrils. Her dark muzzle, her dark eyes, the streak running up from her nose to her forehead, her short military-cut hair. Alert, erect ears that flopped over halfway up. The tarnished bronze pendant of an R-7 missile hangs still around her neck from a synthetic sinew cord. She sets off at a brisk pace, toward the bar and coffee house which she had just recently heard of. It was supposedly full of all kinds of people. She would see her hope confirmed as she stepped in. Nobody seemed to take notice of her entry, nobody except the bartender. A handsome hound of fairly indeterminate gender made eye contact and directed her toward a seat with a mere gesture. She sits, ey speak.
"Hey, chilly out there tonight. My name's Anton, what can I get'cha?"
"It is." She pauses and meets eir smile. "Soup of the day and a White Russian, you can call me Laika. Thanks." Her English is clear, but her accent bears just a lingering touch of Romanian mainland.
Ey look her up and down, gaze lingering for a moment on the pendant, then nod softly in approval. "You got it."
