Trazin Spaceport, Tau Ceti Gamma. On the edge of human controlled space, irregular crowds of traders, outcasts and pioneers mix and mingle. And here at Sirius's Pub, recently retired celebrity pilot Zebulon Sirius, the Wolf of Helios, is at ease, slinging only the finest human cocktails for spacers that pass through this critical port of call. 

An homage to taverns and divebars of pre-contact Massachusetts, three things distinguish the pub immediately from all else in Trazin's economic zone. First, its light-up signage, a clever imitation of arcane neon yellow lighting. Second, a genuine 20th century jukebox, retrofitted and rigged to pantomime loading records but actually run off holo storage and touchscreen. And third, the interior extensively done up with natural and artificial woods. The bar itself is a notable extravagance made of massive dark oak planks from homeworld.

There, Alex Kravitz is minding his own business, pulling on a tiny vaporizer, playing a game of holocards nobody else sees, and contemplating what manner of bullshit to get up to on this particular Saturday. His options are limited by the irregular work he's been able to find repairing starships in the yards. It was a fun change of pace for a few weeks, but it's unsustainable and not the best use of his talents. He doesn't belong down here. He belongs up there, as an engineer on a merchant vessel, enjoying room, board and salary as a friend to the tritium powered interstellar beast living in its belly.

On the other hand, there's not much ass to be had in space, nor much drinking and dancing. Be nice to have a few more memories of that sort associated with his time on Tau Ceti. Space is mostly sitting around playing cards while on-call, with the occasional burst of adrenaline-fueled repair work.

This is what's on his mind when Zeb barks his name. His eyes barely flick upward from the cards. Casually he reaches out a hand, as the levitating tumbler of whiskey glides down the bar and smacks comfortably into his palm. Only then does it register to him, he didn't order another whiskey.

He lifts his gaze, considers the amber liquid, and cocks his head at Zeb, who nods the other way. To the corner of the bar nearest the entrance. There, silhouetted by the golden evening sunlight, drumming her little fingers on the polished wood surface, is the prettiest girl Alex has ever seen. Outrageous pink hair spills down her pale face before ending in a smart bob, not quite touching the collar of her olive drab canvas flight jacket. Her cheeks crinkle up in a joyful grin as their eyes meet.

There’s something about her, something Alex can’t quite place.

He returns the grin, and brushes off his chocolate brown synthetic leather coat. Black ringlets spill over his shoulder as he stands and saunters over.

"Hey," he says.

"...Is for horses," she replies. Alex blinks. "...Sorry, old Earth joke."

Her name, he learns, is Cynthia Eridani. She captains a small freighter; he is an engineer looking for a gig to get him off this rock; so naturally they get to talking and drinking. She notices where his eyes are pointed, and asks if he'd like to play against a human opponent. Turns out, they're evenly matched at dogstar poker, and that's saying something. She likes vintage spacerock, 20th century soft rock, and lev-biking.

Soon they are pounding their feet on the bar's little dance floor, riding high on imported liquor and Tau Ceti’s finest cannabis. It's a bit hard to talk over the music, but it is plain they're both tight wound and badly needed the night off. Eridani very nearly succeeds in picking a fight with a trio of scaly blue Tralfamadorians over the jukebox, their eyestalks quivering with annoyance. Alex laughs and politely butts in, pointing out the error in her English-to-Tralf translation, and everybody relaxes a bit.

On the way back to the Res Zone, they swing by the freight depot. Here, outside the dome, it is ice cold and dead quiet. A billion stars wheel slowly overhead. He feels at once tremendously liberated, and crushed under the pressure of trying to make this tiny insignificant life mean something. Cynthia seems to recognize the look.

"Ground control to major Kravitz. Yeah, in the back corner there. That's my baby."

It’s an older model light cargo vessel, but fully tricked out with modern propulsion and loading gear. Must be a gas to fly. And from the floodlights hitting the aft section, he can discern the paint job, a pleasant cornflower blue.

"Pretty. So who’s handling the engine room now?”

“No one. I give her a quick check when I’m on-planet, which is good enough for these short trips. But I’ll be up a creek when they extend the shipping lane next year.”

He chuckles to himself. “Must be kismet.”

“Say, you want to come over for a nightcap?”

"I dunno if I should. Eh, fuck it, I shall."

The next thing he knows, they're in her hotel room, half a klick from the depot, pawing at each other and tearing their shirts off. A familiar song he can't quite place drones on in the background. He makes a cheap and unnecessary come-on; Cynthia blushes. Then she shoves him hard onto his back on the mattress, and climbs on top, knee between his thighs.

"You're gonna pay for that, you handsome bitch." She rests one hand on his throat as she thoughtfully plants kisses on his mouth.  

Alex sighs and melts under her ministrations. Almost imperceptibly, his head sways to nonsense lyrics about an old Earth frozen cocktail.

“I didn’t see tonight… going quite like this.” He struggles to get a thought out between the mouth smashing. “But there’s something… about you. I like being your pet.”

“Good boy. How would you like to get fucked like a dog, then?"

He bares his teeth with glee. “Say less.”

She pops an impish grin. “Thought so. I have a tendency to get what I want.”

At this, hairs stand up all over Alex’s body. His jaw slackens as a thought blossoms in the back of his mind. 

Static. Pshhhhhhhhhhht.