Gonzo cruised along at surf factor 5 on the 42; The Beldasia Express lanes. The glow of passing stars across the ceiling wasn’t soothing tonight, it was restless, jittery, as if the universe itself had insomnia. Nestled in my menagerie of cushions and comfort, I tried to mimic the stars’ rhythm, but unease lurked just under my skin. When I rolled over, shifting into consciousness, the automatic lights began their slow, gentle ascent, a pre-programmed mercy I’d given myself after one too many nights waking up boozed out of my mind.

“Gonzo, coffee. Stat,” I mumbled, rubbing my face as I fumbled for my glasses.

“Initializing Caffeine Station. Warning: recommended caffe—”

“Holy fuck, Gonzo, just make the damn cappuccino!” I snapped, cutting him off.

The coffee machine in the galley sputtered to life with an almost passive-aggressive hiss.

“Your impatience has been noted for future optimization, ma’am,” Gonzo replied, his tone irritatingly smug.

I cringed, rolling my eyes. “Cut it out with the ‘ma’am’ crap. Just call me Tracy.”

“Understood, Tracy,” he chirped back with unnerving precision, like he’d been waiting for permission to drop the formalities.

I shuffled to the galley adjacent to the lounge, leaning heavily on the counter while waiting for the cappuccino to brew. The steady bubbling of the machine filled the quiet hum of the ship, blending seamlessly into Gonzo’s unflappable, Jeeves-ass energy.

“Gonzo, how far are we from Beldasia Omega? And spare me the ‘in AU’ nonsense, just give it to me straight.” I asked, pulling out my rolling tray and little black jar of sativa to prepare the hippie portion of my hippie speedball.

“We are precisely 39 hours away, assuming standard surf factor conditions and no unplanned deviations” Gonzo replied. “Traffic conditions on the 42 are currently clear.”

I groaned. I’d been hoping I’d slept through more of the trip, but three solid days in surf was enough to drive anyone stir-crazy. At this point I was desperate to stretch my legs or pick up grub or something.

“Okay, Gonzo, stop us at the nearest Galson or QuikRok-it,” I said, grinding the grass with a practiced hand. “I think stretching my legs might get my mind off the… obvious.”

I glanced toward the holopit, where the image of that poor bastard in the coolant tank was still floating mid-screen. His warped, deformed body was twisted beyond recognition, but the grin—those teeth—still shone through, unnervingly clear. Even in death, he had a smugness about him, like he’d just discovered the universe’s punchline and couldn’t wait to tell me. I hated that grin. It felt too familiar, like my reflection might wear it one day.

“Very good, Tracy. I agree; perhaps a change of scenery would do you well. Setting course for the nearest convenience station,” Gonzo replied, calmly rerouting.

The coffee machine hissed its final bubble right as I finished rolling the joint. A well-timed morning routine is a happy one, especially when the reward is coffee and grass. I took a long sip of my cappuccino, savoring the sweet bitterness—a perfect early-morning slap to the face, just how I liked it.

I wandered the ship, sipping my coffee and puffing away as I paced Gonzo’s length, letting my mind wrestle with the ever growing list of possibilities and uncertainties this journey was piling on. The ship’s exhaust fans kicked in, whisking away the haze before it could settle into a proper hotbox.

I stopped by the torpedo tubes, the same ones where Leon had swiped my FM pod just a few days ago. Sure, Delia had given me a shiny new one, but I’d liked my old one. It was mine.

“Smug bastard,” I muttered under my breath, kicking a nearby box in frustration. Big mistake. The box was heavier than I thought, and my bare toe slammed into it like I’d just kicked a neutron star.

“Fuck!” I yelped, hopping on one leg. The sudden movement sent me crashing to the floor, cappuccino flying out of my hand and splattering across the floor, like a caffeinated crime scene.

I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and letting the absurdity of my clumsiness wash over me. That’s when I saw it—a small teal box tucked just under the torpedo tube where my new FM pod sat.

“What the hell?” I muttered, crawling over to grab it.

It was a paper box, simple and unassuming, with three brushed silver cartridges nestled neatly inside. I turned it over in my hands, inspecting it, before spotting the handwritten scrawl on the lid flap:

“For a real starship captain. Don’t get lost.

-Leon Stardust”

I let out a small laugh despite myself. “Smug bastard,” I repeated, this time with a smirk.

I pulled out one of the cartridges and felt it in my palm, letting the feel of the brushed steel hit me, Rough metallic, and otherworldly. My heart skipped a beat.

Original recipe Cosmitosh.

The holy grail for trip chasers.

Of course he’d have it. Of course he’d leave it for me, like some smug, interstellar Robin Hood.

I hauled myself back to my feet, clutching the teal box like it was a ticket to the promised land. Eyeing my prize, I made my way back to the lounge, each step reverberating through the quiet hum of Gonzo’s systems.

Collapsing into my usual nest of cushions, I grabbed my atomizer. The half-filled cartridge still inside wasn’t worth a damn now, I popped it out and tossed it aside, the faint hiss of wasted charge, a fitting epitaph.

When you’re staring down a Tosh binge of this magnitude, the tendency is to go all the way. The edge is out there, and the only way forward is straight over it.

I slid one of the brushed silver cartridges from the box, twisting it into place with a click. A sharp hiss followed as the atomizer primed itself, the formula swirling inside. Cold to the touch, just as the stories go.

See, I’ve tried the so-called “OG Derived” or “Replica” cartridges before. They’re what you’d expect from the grey market: the usual stuff, dressed up with marketing buzzwords to justify the markup. They’re lukewarm, sloshing around like watered-down hooch.

But this? This was different.

The chill radiated through the canister, a palpable energy crawling up my fingertips like an electric whisper. The metallic tang teased the air around me, and for a moment, I just sat there, staring at it like I was holding a live grenade.

My gaze flicked to the holopit. The case files were still up, their morbid snapshots leering at me. That coolant tank corpse—the grin seared into their deformed face, the sheer insanity of it. Even dead, they’d seen something I hadn’t.

I swiped the files away, the holomatrix flickering out, but their images stayed burned into my mind. I turned the atomizer over in my hands, trying to steady my breathing.

Taking a hit of Leon’s parting gift wasn’t just a trip. It was a gamble, and I wasn’t sure what I was putting on the table.

But when the edge calls, you either take the plunge or step back into the shadows. And shadows never made for good company.

I pressed the nozzle of the atomizer to my nostril and hit the release. A chilled rush of liquid surged through, hitting the back of my skull with a sensation so sharp and frosty it was worth the price of admission alone.

No head rush, though.

Puzzled, I shook the atomizer and took another drag. This time, I went balls to the wall, noz-binging half the cartridge in one go.

That’s when I knew I’d fucked up.

The coolness spread instantly, numbing my nose and forehead like I’d just slammed my face into a frozen steel plate. Turns out, original recipe Tosh is a gradual experience, not the instantaneous hit of its synthetic knockoffs. A critical fact that my dumbass didn’t know before diving in like it was Tosh Fiend Amateur Hour.

Now there was only one sizable binge left in the atomizer, and I could already feel the world tilting ever so slightly sideways.

“Fuck it. In for a penny,” I muttered, pressing the nozzle again and taking the rest. The hollow clatter of the atomizer hitting the floor barely registered.

Gonzo chimed in, ever punctual: “Now approaching Omni-Stop. Five minutes and forty-five seconds to landing sequence.”

My eyes widened. Breakfast. I’d completely forgotten about it.

I stumbled to my cabin—more of a glorified closet since the lounge made a much better sleeping spot—and threw on something comfortable: leggings, an oversized cardigan, my old Bikini Kill tee, and a knit beanie. Chelsea boots? Check. A quick swipe of eyeliner? Double-check.

By the time I made it to the cargo ramp, Gonzo had already lowered it. The hiss of hydraulics gave way to the view of a practically empty parking lot, the Omni-Stop standing lone and defiant on the surface of an asteroid.

The asteroid itself floated in place off the 42, fixed there with spatial anchors that buzzed faintly against the void. From the ramp, I could see streaks of starships tearing by in the express lanes above.

I squinted at the building. This was not the Galson or Quik-Rok-it I’d expected. The Omni-Stop loomed like the bastard child of an IKEA and a late-night rave, neon bleeding green and purple like a bruise on reality.

The ramp hit the ground, and I felt my steps begin to shift. My legs moved, sure, but it felt less like walking and more like drifting toward the store.