Interstellar Fighter

Chapter 5 Rookie mechanic

The next two months, David lived like a wound-up machine. Foul-smelling recycled oxygen, dim mine shafts, the relentless roar of hydraulic picks, and the ever-present dust in the air became his entire existence. Every time he received his meager "dust" of a paycheck, he gritted his teeth and made an installment payment on the "bail money" he owed Uncle Perry. "Getting smarter, kid?" Perry asked one day, watching David make a transfer on his terminal, a rare, almost-smile touching his features. "Just don"t wanna drink that synth-coffee in a Korean police station again," David replied without looking up, his fingers tapping the screen rapidly. Holy crap, that stuff tasted like recycled water mixed with engine oil. The day he cleared his debt, David felt a significant weight lift from his shoulders. He finally had money that was truly his own, however pitiful the amount. Luke came by again, inviting him to "unwind" in Shatterice, but David refused without hesitation. "Give it a rest, Luke. My money"s not going to the Korean cops" bonus pool again," he said, shaking his datapad which displayed his recent purchases: several e-books titled Principles and Maintenance of Plasma Cutters, Troubleshooting Primary Mecha Hydraulic Systems, and Illustrated Guide to Common Outer Domain Electronic Components. "What the hell, man? You turning into a nerd?" Luke exclaimed dramatically, as if witnessing something unbelievable. "Better than being broke," David shrugged. He discovered that his mind, which had been fairly sharp in high school, was rediscovering an interest in complex schematics and technical manuals after the monotony of a miner"s life. A laborer who only sold his muscle would never get ahead in this shithole. But a competent mechanic? Now that"s a different story. Old-timers like Jack held a special status in the base, even Uncle Perry showed him respect, all because he could keep the ancient machines running. Uncle Perry offered silent support for his transformation. Occasionally, during off-hours, he permitted David to spend extra time piloting Old Bear in the safe confines of the hangar, under Jack"s supervision. David was no longer content with just making it walk. He began trying to understand every flickering datum on the instrument panels, listening to the engine"s sounds under different loads, even learning from Jack how to replace worn hydraulic lines. Every successfully diagnosed fault gave him a more solid sense of accomplishment than smashing a rock with his fist. Three months later, David"s savings were finally enough for a decent shopping trip. He set out for Shatterice again, his destination clear this time: the famed "Scrap Iron Street," known for its second-hand parts and knock-off electronics. The hover-truck settled under the familiar dome. The air still held that chaotic, vibrant energy. David took a deep breath, suppressing the ripples of memory the place evoked. Business first, fun later, he told himself. He weaved through the crowded stalls, comparing prices, using the knowledge he"d crammed these past months to carefully select a few reasonably reliable second-hand circuit boards, a slightly worn but still precise set of multimeter probes, and a spool of decent quality nano-welding wire. These items ate up most of his budget, but he felt it was worth it. His shopping bag grew heavier. With his task complete, a desire suppressed for three months began to surface uncontrollably. Well, I"m already here... He glanced towards the "Stairway to Heaven," its pink high-heel hologram still spinning. His feet, seemingly with a mind of their own, began moving in that direction. Just one quick one. A reward for being a good boy, he tried to convince himself. Inside was the same as ever: suggestive lighting, provocative music, and women in revealing outfits with inviting eyes. His gaze instinctively searched for that flaxen hair and those shy green eyes. By the bar, in the booths… Nothing. A flicker of inexplicable disappointment rose. He shook his head. Whatever. Soon, a woman with a fiery figure, wearing a red sequined mini-dress, with bronze skin and thick black hair—a Latina—caught his gaze. She blew him a kiss, her eyes bold and direct. Why not? David walked over. Carmen took his wrist and led him towards the stairs. Her palm was warm and strong, the crimson polish on her nails like drops of congealed blood in the low light. The corridor on the second floor was slightly wider than he remembered. She kicked open an unlocked door. The room was a bit larger, a poster of a Flamenco dancer on the wall, the bedsheets a garish magenta. She turned and, without a hint of shyness, let the straps of her sequined dress fall. The dress pooled on the floor, revealing her bronzed, full-bodied form. Her breasts were large and firm, dark areolae dotted with tiny bumps, her waist slender, her hips rising like ripe, abundant fruit. Without waiting for a reply, she reached for his belt buckle, the metal clasp clicking open. "You look like you need some proper relaxation, cariño." Her directness and proficiency were a relief, eliminating any need for pretended tenderness. He let her peel off his pants. As his underwear was tugged down, his half-hard member sprang free, meeting the cool air of the room. Carmen chuckled low in her throat, a knowing sound, and her warm hand closed around him, working him with skillful strokes until he was fully, impressively erect, veins prominent. She bent down, her thick black hair brushing his stomach, and parted her lips, painted the same vibrant red, taking him entirely into her mouth. The sensation of wet heat and tightness made David gasp, his scalp prickling. Her tongue was agile as a serpent, swirling around the sensitive head, the suction perfect, the slight choke of her deep throat bringing a thrilling edge. He couldn"t help but grab her hair, his fingers sinking into the thick curls, thrusting his hips in rhythm with her motions. She made muffled, encouraging sounds, not resisting but working harder, saliva trickling down his base. Just as he was about to lose control, she released him, a silvery strand still connecting her lips to him. She turned around, braced her hands on the magenta bed, and arched her back, presenting herself to him, her look hazy and primally inviting. "Come on, take me from behind," she panted, "Hard. I like it rough." David didn"t hesitate. He moved behind her, his palm landing heavily on her full, fleshy buttock, leaving a clear red handprint. Guiding his slick, rigid length, he aimed for her already slick entrance and drove into her in one forceful thrust. Carmen let out a sharp, near-scream of a moan—not like Sophia"s suppressed gasp, but a wild,enjoyable cry. Her inner muscles clenched and milked him, hot, slick, and contracting with every pound of his hips. He gripped her waist, riding her like a wild horse, pounding into her from behind. The bed shook violently, thumping against the wall. Carmen"s cries grew louder, mingling with filthy words and incoherent syllables, actively meeting his thrusts, the flesh of her rear growing red. Sweat dripped from their pressed bodies. The air grew thick with the smell of s*x—semen, arousal, sweat, and synthetic perfume combining into a dizzying, aphrodisiac cocktail. This unreserved, animalistic coupling consumed David. His mind went blank, leaving only the most primal desire and pleasure. He was an tireless beast, ramming into her, fueled by her wanton moans and encouragement, feeling himself unwind with each deep penetration. Finally, after a series of rapid, blinding thrusts, he groaned, releasing a torrent of his heat deep inside her. He felt Carmen"s body convulse violently in tandem, her inner walls clenching rhythmically as she let out a long, satisfied sigh. He collapsed onto her sweaty back, both of them gasping for air as if dredged from water. Carmen moved first. She pushed him off, walked to the corner of the room, rinsed her mouth with water from a plastic bottle, and began cleaning herself, her movements still efficient but now laced with post-coital languor. "Not bad, cariño," she glanced at him, her mouth quirking. "Come see me again." David dressed and left the room, his legs a bit weak, his body feeling truly drained. The music still thumped downstairs, but his world was momentarily quiet. This Latina woman, Carmen, was skilled and passionate, completely different from his last experience. He walked out, showered, carrying his bag of parts, heading back towards Scrap Iron Street, intending to use the last of his money on some cheap finds. As he cut through a relatively quiet back alley cluttered with discarded packing crates, a familiar figure caught his eye. It was the Eastern European girl, Sophia. But she was almost unrecognizable. No alluring makeup, no revealing clothes. She wore a plain, almost bulky gray hooded jacket, the hood pulled low, shadowing most of her face. She was clutching something tightly to her chest, walking quickly, her steps furtive and nervous, glancing over her shoulder with a watchful, skittish air, like a startled deer, completely out of sync with the surrounding bustle. She didn"t notice David standing in the shadows at the mouth of the alley. David froze, instinctively stopping. What the hell is she doing here? And in this state… His earlier risqué thoughts vanished, replaced by intense curiosity. This didn"t look like she was "working" or just shopping. Her furtive demeanor suggested something else—like she was involved in some shady deal, or… hiding from someone. David stood there, watching the gray figure quickly disappear at the other end of the alley, swallowed by the noisy crowd of Scrap Iron Street. He looked down at the heavy bag of parts in his hand, representing his new goals and hopes for the future, then looked back towards where Sophia had vanished. Damn it, he muttered under his breath.