I don the red suit ’cause that’s the way it is.
I’m looking for a fight, to freshen up, to kick ass to the three months of nothing – mining negrolite for credits on that godforsaken planet and here I am on Station Electra, no plans for what’s next.
I stare at the mirror, tighten the suit. It’s beautiful, pathetic. Wonderfully idiotic.
“Captain Flycatcher,” I mumble.
Pulling on the dark red boots, I smile at my reflection.
A young face, thirty years of age; stubble and flushed cheeks.
I stand and the fake leather squeaks with my joints. My lanky figure accentuates the haplessness. A blonde fringe waving to his left and my right; blue eyes, the perfect victim.
“Captain Flycatcher,” I repeat.
And I stride to the door.
– Whoosh, it sounds, shunting upwards.
Stepping out into the corridor, I make my way to the bar while the videoscreens scream at me. This room, that room. Injections for pleasure. Rides to Gzynthem. Casinos that value the customer and opportunities in a life of trade.
Turning left along a series of flashing oblongs, I measure my pace, ignoring it all.