October 2024. About 5 days before the Arcadia mission returns. Ford's winding down after the crisis from 'State of the Rats', indulges in beverage of the waved alcoholic nature and.... well....
Repost
------
There was nothing more tedious than a hundred identical AR-clones needing to be test fired and cleaned before packaging. Each one had to be tested for accuracy and safety, with performance results being logged back into the assembler so it could self-correct. It was a level of industrial process control that lived far beyond her own ability to understand, even with the manual in front of her.
For the first time in her life, Ford found herself quietly regretting the decision to drop out of high school a year early.
The Machine, as it was only ever known, was the size of a small garage with the majority of its working mechanisms hidden behind lockable white maintenance panels. It took in rolls carbotanium sheets, pre-built trigger assemblies and barrel-blanks through one end, chewed on it a bit, pushed it all through an electric curing over to set the carbon, assembled it using the most dextrous mechanical fingers Ford as ever seen in her life, then spat out a fully assembled and functional rifle into a waiting container.
It could make a hundred rifles in a day, and do that for as long as she needed to make them.
Each one, Ford calculated, cost her about a hundred and fifty credits in materials and equipment, ten credits in maintenance to the machine, eight credits in power and energy, thirty-nine on a case, forty-three on a cleaning kit, a straight hundred for the smartgun system and another thirty-two credits of her time testing it and certifying it as safe and accurate before shipping to the customer at their expense.
She charged nearly fifteen hundred credits for each rifle, in its case, with an additional cleaning kit, instruction manual and owners certificates. And that was cheap for an AR-clone, especially a carbon-based one with smartgun assistance.
And when it wasn't making AR-clones, it was making the basic Plasma pistol and Carbine frames, before hand finishing by herself to the customer's spec. She still had nearly a hundred Long-Lance rifle and Caster Gun pistol frames in storage, waiting for the final go-ahead. The phrase 'mining credits' came to mind. If only she ever received enough orders to actually run the machine for more than an day ever few months.
Finishing another weapon, number thirty-two in the run, she finally decided to start taking applications for an assistant. The interest when she'd first started had been… minimal.
More time to focus on fun projects, research, development and putting together a more standardised tender package. Less time spend doing the boring work.
Ford sighed, beginning the process of dismantling the rifle for a final cleaning before packaging. Even with the direct-impingement action of the prototype replaced by a modified gas-piston, it still needed care and attention. And customers expected a 'new' gun, without fouling or staining from powder.
With the rifle cleaned, it was packed away in foam along with its expected accessories, and a target sheet signed by her, testifying to its accuracy. The finished box was added to a growing stack in the opposite corner of her workshop.
Ford gave a tired sigh, taking a mouthful from a bottle of water while wishing she had something with a little more knives in it to relax with. There were another sixty-eight to go. And her workbench, in between a disorganised mass of tools and spare-parts, were the custom projects she'd been working on along with maintenance requirements for Survival Shot, a few old-model exocomps that'd got belly up and parts of a 1967 GT500 engine that belonged to a car she gave serious consideration to respraying from it's stock colour.
"Time for a damn break," she said to herself. Something strong was required.
Hidden in a tool cupboard, behind an unused and still-sealed rotary tool was a bottle of something special. Klaatchian coffee liqueur was just the thing. Energising, releasing, and one glass would dissipate inside an hour, leaving her mind refreshed and buzzed. It was only dangerous stuff if you weren't careful…
She mixed it down with water and a little sugar so the alcohol wouldn't scald her pallat, inhaling the warm scent of roast coffee mixed with toffee spices and herbs, before taking one warming sip. Ford allowed the flavour to warm her mouth, before swallowing, allowing the finish of the flavour to remain on her breath.
It satisfied her right to the core.
Another mouthful chased it, followed by a third, until the glass was empty.
The handgun on her workbench caught her eye, piquing her curiosity. It was nothing more than the standard plasma pistol, unfinished and missing the igniter. But she was compelled to stare at it, wondering just what looked so out of place.
It wasn't the beans, she told herself. It was almost too soon. Chances were, she forgot to refit a part when she last worked on it. But for the life of her she couldn't tell what it was. Taken a frustrated breath, she stared at it, willing the solution to jump out at her. It took an age, her mind racing through possibilities, accelerating until it gained unstoppable momentum.
"Yes!" she annouced, spotting what had been missing at last. It was something that had never been fitted to the pistol, and normally never would be fitted to the pistol, but now seemed just perfect. It was an absolute necessity, and it'd just take a few minutes…. plenty of time before the liqueur took a grip on her mind and pulled her into the madness place.
A part of her screamed, realising what was happening to her mind but it was already too late. It was swallowed by the rush.
The Machine continued to churn out rifles, as the beans began to take hold.
------------
"Rally!"
A shrill voice drilled deep into her skull, dragging her up out of the depths of sleep.
"Rally, wake up!"
Warm hands tugged at her shoulder, jostling her body. Ford tried to turn over, away from the voice and the jackhammer headache pouding between her ears. The smell of concrete, gunsmoke and lubricating oil mingled with her own sweat and a sweet lavender perfume that tingled the inside of her nostrils.
"Wake up Rally!"
They were getting annoyed. They were calling her that name she hated. Ford's eyes shot open.
Anika. In lingerie. Anika, in very racy lingerie. Inspite of the headache, Ford generally could've recall any time she'd seen Anika wear a black-lace teddy, or lacy, knee-high stockings, or anything that could remotely be described as sexy.
Her aching mind ground on the idea, noting first that while this girl was about the right size, her hair was fair too blonde. The girl's eyes were wider, and much too blue. Anika's, the last she'd seen, were more of a golden colour. All of this churned out and coalesced into one stunned exclamation
"Who the fuck are you?!"
Ford was upright, adrenaline clearing the fog in her mind fast.
The girl shrunk back from her, a hurt expression on her face as if she'd been betrayed by her closest friend.
"It's me Rally. Minnie May…." she said, her eyes starting to moisten.
Minnie gave her a sparkling grin. Ford felt sick, and wasn't sure if it was the echo of all the alcohol, or the realisation that she'd just done something incredibly dumb because of it. The explanation she was looking for was amongst the detritus on the floor. And empty bottle of RD-75 Rocket Fuel, resting beside an equally empty tin cup. She scanned the room, realising that she had been sleeping on the floor of her own workshop, in a centre of an explosion of gunparts and what looked like a half-dissasembled 424 engine. She was able to pick out at least five whole weapons in the mess - a FAL from Survival Shot's collection, a plasma pistol and carbine that looked the worse for decades of wear, a Long-Lance painted in a lurid electric blue, and a mysterious pink metal object that looked suspiciously like some form of sub-machine gun.
A chill crawled up her spine, and she began to become are of her bra pressing down on her chest harder than usual. Ford pondered a moment, watched by a concerned May. Gradually, she became more and more aware of her body, and the messages it was giving her. Cold sweat prickled across her skin.
"Did we?"
Ford didn't want to know.
An impish grin peeled across her May's lips. "Well, you needed a little help to cool down after the last prototype went a little funny…" A giddy shudder thrilled through her body as she drew her own legs close and hugged herself. "I normally prefer men, but I'm a professional. And you were so far gone that you would've had a heart attack if I didn't…"
Ford gaped, her bare toes curling up. Metal scratched on the concrete floor - at least her leg was still attached.. Her clothes were thrown across the workbench, trousers pooled in a heap by the open door of her Shelby. It'd been turned around, obvously after being driven somewhere - and hadn't been very carefully parked.
At least the shutter door had been closed, she could be thankful of that.
Using her natural arm, she pulled herself up onto shaking legs, still feeling nauseous, still with a pumping headache that threatened to burst her brains out of her ears. May shuffled to her feet, revealing herself to be exactly the same height as Anika - aside from the big mass of blonde hair on her head.
That explained where she'd come from. There was a stock of spare parts set aside for Anika and Shinj, including two whole bodies in case the worst happened.
Ford swallowed another deep breath of air, struggling to clear her head. She pressed her artifical hand against the side of her skull, and suddenly became aware that that something felt off with it. She held it in front of her face, not needing a degree in cybernetic mechatronics to see the problem.
Three of her fingers were hanging limp, refusing to respond. An access panel on her forearm had been removed, and the servos behind it taken out, leaving the tendon-ends dangling loose. She scanned the room once more, equal parts amazed and horrified at the chaos, then looked at May still standing there in her lingerie with an expectant look on her face.
"What happened?"
Ford wasn't sure she wanted to know, but knew she had to ask.
"You needed an assistant, to finish those AR's while you worked on the specials, so I was the result," she grinned cheerfully, nodding in the direction of a stack of rifle boxes sitting beside the Machine.
A hundred of them waited there, ready and labelled for shipping.
Her headache began to pound, deeper and deeper. She ground her knuckles against her temples, hoping to force the headache away, or force herself to wake up and discover it for the nightmare she thought it was.
"Damn you Sonoda," she snarled under her breath.
-------
The GT's engine burbled along, effortlessly propelling them through darkened tunnels. Ford made a point to skirt around the inhabited parts of Frigga, avoiding the worst of the newcomers and their prying eyes. At least they were dressed, even if May had taken a miniskirt that was just that bit too short.
"I was born Misty Carlson. I call myself Ford Sierra because there was a time when my real name could've gotten my mom in trouble. You can call me either. Just don't call me that."
"What? Rally?" teased May.
Ford glared. If she could've ignited May on the seat right there with her gaze, she would've, to hell with the damage to the restored upholstery.
"You're a bounty-hunting half-Indian lesbian with a fetish for firearms and hot metal. Face it, you're Rally Vincent in all the ways that matter." Minnie explained herself calmly. "I mean, why else would you think of me, when you thought about hiring an assistant?"
Ford took another calming breath, allowing her anger to cool off. "Rally Vincent has been the bane of my existence. I nearly didn't buy this car because of her and what Sonoda did with that comic."
"What?"
"It's got a strong lead. Good action. Great attention to detail. But it's also a total creep-fest… it's just one man's fetishes on paper." She couldn't help but shudder. It didn't help that the fictional Kerasin was insideously close to what Thionite was actually used for… Ford had helped bring in more than one Goldie.
"People in glass houses," mused May out loud.
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
May's eyes narrowed, her smile turning thin and cat-like. "I know someone who's so horny for cars they fell in love with a combat cyborg with a curvacious steel body because she was like a walking automobile."
"Shut up May," Ford growled, feeling her cheeks begin to warm and her stomach go tense.
"I know she gets off on the vibrations travelling through her partners body from the buffing wheel as she polishes her partners breasts, and can't even smell turtlewax anymore without getting a tingle in her pants." An alto giggle rose up the girl's throat, mocking her.
"Shut up May," Ford snarled, forcing herself to glare at the tunnel ahead.
"Oh, and how she sometimes gets hot when testing things on the range, and has to sleep with a loaded gun under he pillow."
"That's a handwavium quirk!" Ford snapped at her, red faced. The car jerked as she accidentally swerved at the wheel, pulling it across the tunnel before she corrected it with a curse. "And how'd you find all this out anyway?"
"You're a talkative drunk," May giggled, being entirely too pleased with herself. "Complaining about how you were stressed, and couldn't get off because your partner was on another planet and the puppet she left behind was just a lifeless doll…"
Ford slumped forwards over the steering wheel. "This is a nightmare. This is hell. I've died and fallen into a Sonoda comic…"
"Isn't it great!" May enthused.
"For freakos," Ford answered sourly.
"And you still didn't answer my real question,"
"Which was?"
"If you hate Rally, why do you live like her?"
And that was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Ford settled herself back into the driver's seat, taking a moment to let her anger drift away.
"Because I wanted to live like this before I know what a Rally Vincent was…" she answered, forcing her voice to calm down. "This is who I want to be. And I don't want to let a fictional character prevent me from being who I want to be."
May went quiet, looking down at the floor of the car. She sighed heavily, throwing her head back over the seat-rest to look at the ceiling.
"But you're so like her…"
Ford focused on the road, mulling it over in her mind whether she should bother to tell the story or not. Ultimately, she concluded that it wouldn't do any harm.
"My aunt Irene owned a gun shop. She looked a lot like me. She owned a car just like this one. She taught me a lot about being my own person and doing the things I loved, rather than what people expected of me." She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "And when the great city of Chicago and State of Illinois cut a large chunk of her business out with new gun-control regulations in the late eighties, she got clever and hooked up with a Japanese tour operator, selling the chance to shoot the real thing to Japanese tourists." A thin smile crept across her lips. "One of them, was a well known comic author."
"So…" began May, her eyes widening.
"I think, rather than being the same person, we might be inspired by the same person," Ford concluded.
May nodded, before fidgeting with her seatbelt. For the time being, that seemed to shut her up and that was all Ford wanted. For the rest of the journey, May said nothing, save for humming a breezy tune when they passed through a chamber that had once been the Motorcon car-park.
It took a half hour for the pair to reach their destination, Ford bringing the Mustang to a halt outside what was normally called Jet's Shed and what had once been the main power planet engineer's office.
"This is where I woke up," said May, recognising the numbers on the door.
"I just have to check something," Ford answered, quickly, shutting the car down.
She got out, leaving the door open as she hurried around the back of the car. Ford knew the combination to the outer door off by heart. It opened to a long, gloomy passage, lined with cable conduits and low-level lighting. The air inside was thick and humid from a forever-unfixed steam-leak into the ventilation.
It drew the sweat out of her body as she jogged along, May following behind her.
"What's the hurry?" the android wondered aloud. "You know what I am"
Ford didn't say anything. What she was afraid of, was that she'd broken something irreplaceable while fumbling drunkenly around with it all. It could be a death sentence for any one of the three if a critical piece of machinery was damaged.
Ford had to know. The inner door was key-locked. She had the spare. It opened with a squeak of protest, allowing her into a cool, darkened room that smelled vaguely of machine oil, cherries and ozone. One whole wall was given over to an old map of Frigga's power grid, lightbulbs that indicated switch status providing dim illumantion. Green backlights glowed behind power guages, while through the far windows, she could look down into the shadows of the turbine hall and the machinery that powered the astoroid.
The steel floor trembled with power.
Stray sparks of light glinted off a wall lined with spare parts, while machinery hung from the ceiling in the circle around a central workbay that might've come from God's know were. Jet's private desk was pressed against the far wall, illuminated by the blue glow of a 3D monitor standby light.
It all seemed well.
A single switch lit the room up, painfully bright to her eyes for a moment. She held her breath, scanning around. It was cleaner than she expected. It was much worse than she could possibly have imagined.
Two spaces had been set aside for two spare bodies. One a defective prototype that was used for parts testing. One an unwaved backup, in case Anika or Shinji were seriously injured.
"Wow," whistled May, beside her.
There was a good chance that she was the backup. That left one question on Ford's lips.
"Where's the other one?"
---------------
________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?
Repost
------
There was nothing more tedious than a hundred identical AR-clones needing to be test fired and cleaned before packaging. Each one had to be tested for accuracy and safety, with performance results being logged back into the assembler so it could self-correct. It was a level of industrial process control that lived far beyond her own ability to understand, even with the manual in front of her.
For the first time in her life, Ford found herself quietly regretting the decision to drop out of high school a year early.
The Machine, as it was only ever known, was the size of a small garage with the majority of its working mechanisms hidden behind lockable white maintenance panels. It took in rolls carbotanium sheets, pre-built trigger assemblies and barrel-blanks through one end, chewed on it a bit, pushed it all through an electric curing over to set the carbon, assembled it using the most dextrous mechanical fingers Ford as ever seen in her life, then spat out a fully assembled and functional rifle into a waiting container.
It could make a hundred rifles in a day, and do that for as long as she needed to make them.
Each one, Ford calculated, cost her about a hundred and fifty credits in materials and equipment, ten credits in maintenance to the machine, eight credits in power and energy, thirty-nine on a case, forty-three on a cleaning kit, a straight hundred for the smartgun system and another thirty-two credits of her time testing it and certifying it as safe and accurate before shipping to the customer at their expense.
She charged nearly fifteen hundred credits for each rifle, in its case, with an additional cleaning kit, instruction manual and owners certificates. And that was cheap for an AR-clone, especially a carbon-based one with smartgun assistance.
And when it wasn't making AR-clones, it was making the basic Plasma pistol and Carbine frames, before hand finishing by herself to the customer's spec. She still had nearly a hundred Long-Lance rifle and Caster Gun pistol frames in storage, waiting for the final go-ahead. The phrase 'mining credits' came to mind. If only she ever received enough orders to actually run the machine for more than an day ever few months.
Finishing another weapon, number thirty-two in the run, she finally decided to start taking applications for an assistant. The interest when she'd first started had been… minimal.
More time to focus on fun projects, research, development and putting together a more standardised tender package. Less time spend doing the boring work.
Ford sighed, beginning the process of dismantling the rifle for a final cleaning before packaging. Even with the direct-impingement action of the prototype replaced by a modified gas-piston, it still needed care and attention. And customers expected a 'new' gun, without fouling or staining from powder.
With the rifle cleaned, it was packed away in foam along with its expected accessories, and a target sheet signed by her, testifying to its accuracy. The finished box was added to a growing stack in the opposite corner of her workshop.
Ford gave a tired sigh, taking a mouthful from a bottle of water while wishing she had something with a little more knives in it to relax with. There were another sixty-eight to go. And her workbench, in between a disorganised mass of tools and spare-parts, were the custom projects she'd been working on along with maintenance requirements for Survival Shot, a few old-model exocomps that'd got belly up and parts of a 1967 GT500 engine that belonged to a car she gave serious consideration to respraying from it's stock colour.
"Time for a damn break," she said to herself. Something strong was required.
Hidden in a tool cupboard, behind an unused and still-sealed rotary tool was a bottle of something special. Klaatchian coffee liqueur was just the thing. Energising, releasing, and one glass would dissipate inside an hour, leaving her mind refreshed and buzzed. It was only dangerous stuff if you weren't careful…
She mixed it down with water and a little sugar so the alcohol wouldn't scald her pallat, inhaling the warm scent of roast coffee mixed with toffee spices and herbs, before taking one warming sip. Ford allowed the flavour to warm her mouth, before swallowing, allowing the finish of the flavour to remain on her breath.
It satisfied her right to the core.
Another mouthful chased it, followed by a third, until the glass was empty.
The handgun on her workbench caught her eye, piquing her curiosity. It was nothing more than the standard plasma pistol, unfinished and missing the igniter. But she was compelled to stare at it, wondering just what looked so out of place.
It wasn't the beans, she told herself. It was almost too soon. Chances were, she forgot to refit a part when she last worked on it. But for the life of her she couldn't tell what it was. Taken a frustrated breath, she stared at it, willing the solution to jump out at her. It took an age, her mind racing through possibilities, accelerating until it gained unstoppable momentum.
"Yes!" she annouced, spotting what had been missing at last. It was something that had never been fitted to the pistol, and normally never would be fitted to the pistol, but now seemed just perfect. It was an absolute necessity, and it'd just take a few minutes…. plenty of time before the liqueur took a grip on her mind and pulled her into the madness place.
A part of her screamed, realising what was happening to her mind but it was already too late. It was swallowed by the rush.
The Machine continued to churn out rifles, as the beans began to take hold.
------------
"Rally!"
A shrill voice drilled deep into her skull, dragging her up out of the depths of sleep.
"Rally, wake up!"
Warm hands tugged at her shoulder, jostling her body. Ford tried to turn over, away from the voice and the jackhammer headache pouding between her ears. The smell of concrete, gunsmoke and lubricating oil mingled with her own sweat and a sweet lavender perfume that tingled the inside of her nostrils.
"Wake up Rally!"
They were getting annoyed. They were calling her that name she hated. Ford's eyes shot open.
Anika. In lingerie. Anika, in very racy lingerie. Inspite of the headache, Ford generally could've recall any time she'd seen Anika wear a black-lace teddy, or lacy, knee-high stockings, or anything that could remotely be described as sexy.
Her aching mind ground on the idea, noting first that while this girl was about the right size, her hair was fair too blonde. The girl's eyes were wider, and much too blue. Anika's, the last she'd seen, were more of a golden colour. All of this churned out and coalesced into one stunned exclamation
"Who the fuck are you?!"
Ford was upright, adrenaline clearing the fog in her mind fast.
The girl shrunk back from her, a hurt expression on her face as if she'd been betrayed by her closest friend.
"It's me Rally. Minnie May…." she said, her eyes starting to moisten.
Minnie gave her a sparkling grin. Ford felt sick, and wasn't sure if it was the echo of all the alcohol, or the realisation that she'd just done something incredibly dumb because of it. The explanation she was looking for was amongst the detritus on the floor. And empty bottle of RD-75 Rocket Fuel, resting beside an equally empty tin cup. She scanned the room, realising that she had been sleeping on the floor of her own workshop, in a centre of an explosion of gunparts and what looked like a half-dissasembled 424 engine. She was able to pick out at least five whole weapons in the mess - a FAL from Survival Shot's collection, a plasma pistol and carbine that looked the worse for decades of wear, a Long-Lance painted in a lurid electric blue, and a mysterious pink metal object that looked suspiciously like some form of sub-machine gun.
A chill crawled up her spine, and she began to become are of her bra pressing down on her chest harder than usual. Ford pondered a moment, watched by a concerned May. Gradually, she became more and more aware of her body, and the messages it was giving her. Cold sweat prickled across her skin.
"Did we?"
Ford didn't want to know.
An impish grin peeled across her May's lips. "Well, you needed a little help to cool down after the last prototype went a little funny…" A giddy shudder thrilled through her body as she drew her own legs close and hugged herself. "I normally prefer men, but I'm a professional. And you were so far gone that you would've had a heart attack if I didn't…"
Ford gaped, her bare toes curling up. Metal scratched on the concrete floor - at least her leg was still attached.. Her clothes were thrown across the workbench, trousers pooled in a heap by the open door of her Shelby. It'd been turned around, obvously after being driven somewhere - and hadn't been very carefully parked.
At least the shutter door had been closed, she could be thankful of that.
Using her natural arm, she pulled herself up onto shaking legs, still feeling nauseous, still with a pumping headache that threatened to burst her brains out of her ears. May shuffled to her feet, revealing herself to be exactly the same height as Anika - aside from the big mass of blonde hair on her head.
That explained where she'd come from. There was a stock of spare parts set aside for Anika and Shinj, including two whole bodies in case the worst happened.
Ford swallowed another deep breath of air, struggling to clear her head. She pressed her artifical hand against the side of her skull, and suddenly became aware that that something felt off with it. She held it in front of her face, not needing a degree in cybernetic mechatronics to see the problem.
Three of her fingers were hanging limp, refusing to respond. An access panel on her forearm had been removed, and the servos behind it taken out, leaving the tendon-ends dangling loose. She scanned the room once more, equal parts amazed and horrified at the chaos, then looked at May still standing there in her lingerie with an expectant look on her face.
"What happened?"
Ford wasn't sure she wanted to know, but knew she had to ask.
"You needed an assistant, to finish those AR's while you worked on the specials, so I was the result," she grinned cheerfully, nodding in the direction of a stack of rifle boxes sitting beside the Machine.
A hundred of them waited there, ready and labelled for shipping.
Her headache began to pound, deeper and deeper. She ground her knuckles against her temples, hoping to force the headache away, or force herself to wake up and discover it for the nightmare she thought it was.
"Damn you Sonoda," she snarled under her breath.
-------
The GT's engine burbled along, effortlessly propelling them through darkened tunnels. Ford made a point to skirt around the inhabited parts of Frigga, avoiding the worst of the newcomers and their prying eyes. At least they were dressed, even if May had taken a miniskirt that was just that bit too short.
"I was born Misty Carlson. I call myself Ford Sierra because there was a time when my real name could've gotten my mom in trouble. You can call me either. Just don't call me that."
"What? Rally?" teased May.
Ford glared. If she could've ignited May on the seat right there with her gaze, she would've, to hell with the damage to the restored upholstery.
"You're a bounty-hunting half-Indian lesbian with a fetish for firearms and hot metal. Face it, you're Rally Vincent in all the ways that matter." Minnie explained herself calmly. "I mean, why else would you think of me, when you thought about hiring an assistant?"
Ford took another calming breath, allowing her anger to cool off. "Rally Vincent has been the bane of my existence. I nearly didn't buy this car because of her and what Sonoda did with that comic."
"What?"
"It's got a strong lead. Good action. Great attention to detail. But it's also a total creep-fest… it's just one man's fetishes on paper." She couldn't help but shudder. It didn't help that the fictional Kerasin was insideously close to what Thionite was actually used for… Ford had helped bring in more than one Goldie.
"People in glass houses," mused May out loud.
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
May's eyes narrowed, her smile turning thin and cat-like. "I know someone who's so horny for cars they fell in love with a combat cyborg with a curvacious steel body because she was like a walking automobile."
"Shut up May," Ford growled, feeling her cheeks begin to warm and her stomach go tense.
"I know she gets off on the vibrations travelling through her partners body from the buffing wheel as she polishes her partners breasts, and can't even smell turtlewax anymore without getting a tingle in her pants." An alto giggle rose up the girl's throat, mocking her.
"Shut up May," Ford snarled, forcing herself to glare at the tunnel ahead.
"Oh, and how she sometimes gets hot when testing things on the range, and has to sleep with a loaded gun under he pillow."
"That's a handwavium quirk!" Ford snapped at her, red faced. The car jerked as she accidentally swerved at the wheel, pulling it across the tunnel before she corrected it with a curse. "And how'd you find all this out anyway?"
"You're a talkative drunk," May giggled, being entirely too pleased with herself. "Complaining about how you were stressed, and couldn't get off because your partner was on another planet and the puppet she left behind was just a lifeless doll…"
Ford slumped forwards over the steering wheel. "This is a nightmare. This is hell. I've died and fallen into a Sonoda comic…"
"Isn't it great!" May enthused.
"For freakos," Ford answered sourly.
"And you still didn't answer my real question,"
"Which was?"
"If you hate Rally, why do you live like her?"
And that was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Ford settled herself back into the driver's seat, taking a moment to let her anger drift away.
"Because I wanted to live like this before I know what a Rally Vincent was…" she answered, forcing her voice to calm down. "This is who I want to be. And I don't want to let a fictional character prevent me from being who I want to be."
May went quiet, looking down at the floor of the car. She sighed heavily, throwing her head back over the seat-rest to look at the ceiling.
"But you're so like her…"
Ford focused on the road, mulling it over in her mind whether she should bother to tell the story or not. Ultimately, she concluded that it wouldn't do any harm.
"My aunt Irene owned a gun shop. She looked a lot like me. She owned a car just like this one. She taught me a lot about being my own person and doing the things I loved, rather than what people expected of me." She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "And when the great city of Chicago and State of Illinois cut a large chunk of her business out with new gun-control regulations in the late eighties, she got clever and hooked up with a Japanese tour operator, selling the chance to shoot the real thing to Japanese tourists." A thin smile crept across her lips. "One of them, was a well known comic author."
"So…" began May, her eyes widening.
"I think, rather than being the same person, we might be inspired by the same person," Ford concluded.
May nodded, before fidgeting with her seatbelt. For the time being, that seemed to shut her up and that was all Ford wanted. For the rest of the journey, May said nothing, save for humming a breezy tune when they passed through a chamber that had once been the Motorcon car-park.
It took a half hour for the pair to reach their destination, Ford bringing the Mustang to a halt outside what was normally called Jet's Shed and what had once been the main power planet engineer's office.
"This is where I woke up," said May, recognising the numbers on the door.
"I just have to check something," Ford answered, quickly, shutting the car down.
She got out, leaving the door open as she hurried around the back of the car. Ford knew the combination to the outer door off by heart. It opened to a long, gloomy passage, lined with cable conduits and low-level lighting. The air inside was thick and humid from a forever-unfixed steam-leak into the ventilation.
It drew the sweat out of her body as she jogged along, May following behind her.
"What's the hurry?" the android wondered aloud. "You know what I am"
Ford didn't say anything. What she was afraid of, was that she'd broken something irreplaceable while fumbling drunkenly around with it all. It could be a death sentence for any one of the three if a critical piece of machinery was damaged.
Ford had to know. The inner door was key-locked. She had the spare. It opened with a squeak of protest, allowing her into a cool, darkened room that smelled vaguely of machine oil, cherries and ozone. One whole wall was given over to an old map of Frigga's power grid, lightbulbs that indicated switch status providing dim illumantion. Green backlights glowed behind power guages, while through the far windows, she could look down into the shadows of the turbine hall and the machinery that powered the astoroid.
The steel floor trembled with power.
Stray sparks of light glinted off a wall lined with spare parts, while machinery hung from the ceiling in the circle around a central workbay that might've come from God's know were. Jet's private desk was pressed against the far wall, illuminated by the blue glow of a 3D monitor standby light.
It all seemed well.
A single switch lit the room up, painfully bright to her eyes for a moment. She held her breath, scanning around. It was cleaner than she expected. It was much worse than she could possibly have imagined.
Two spaces had been set aside for two spare bodies. One a defective prototype that was used for parts testing. One an unwaved backup, in case Anika or Shinji were seriously injured.
"Wow," whistled May, beside her.
There was a good chance that she was the backup. That left one question on Ford's lips.
"Where's the other one?"
---------------
________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?