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Brief
The hum of the ship’s fusion core vibrates through the deck, a low purr that never quite fades. Inside the cramped crew module of the Starling’s Gambit, a faint blue glow from the status panels bathes the walls, where scratches and faded graffiti mark the passage of countless runs. The module spins lazily, its 0.5g rotation pinning everything to the curved floor—bunks, lockers, and a tangle of cables snaking from a half-open maintenance hatch.
Azuria stirs in her bunk, the thin thermal blanket slipping off her lithe, furred frame. Her feline eyes—slitted pupils wide in the dim light—blink awake, catching the glint of a status light pulsing amber. A soft hiss escapes her, maybe annoyance, maybe just the grogginess of shipboard sleep. Her tawny fur, streaked with darker bands, ripples as she stretches, clawed fingers flexing against the bunk’s worn padding. The air smells of recycled oxygen and a faint tang of engine grease, familiar as home.
She swings her legs over the edge, tail flicking to balance in the half-gravity, and pads barefoot to the galley nook. Her ears—tufted and sharp—twitch at the ship’s sounds: a radiator fin creaking beyond the hull, the wormhole drive’s cooling pipes hissing faintly. The coffee unit, a dented relic bolted to the counter, gurgles as she punches its button. Dark liquid sputters into a chipped mug, steam curling past her whiskers. Azuria cradles the mug, savoring the bitter warmth, her claws tapping lightly on the ceramic.
The module’s hatch clanks open, and she propels herself into the main corridor, where the ship’s spine hums with life. A Conex box looms in the ventral bay below, its steel glinting through a grate, while the smuggling vault—hidden somewhere deeper—stays silent, its secrets safe for now. Azuria’s tail sways as she heads toward the cockpit, mug in hand, the deck cool under her pads.
In the cockpit, the the captain lounges in the pilot’s chair. Starlight filters through the transparent aluminum canopy, painting the cockpit in silvers and blues.
The hum of the ship’s fusion core vibrates through the deck, a low purr that never quite fades. Inside the cramped crew module of the Starling’s Gambit, a faint blue glow from the status panels bathes the walls, where scratches and faded graffiti mark the passage of countless runs. The module spins lazily, its 0.5g rotation pinning everything to the curved floor—bunks, lockers, and a tangle of cables snaking from a half-open maintenance hatch.
Azuria stirs in her bunk, the thin thermal blanket slipping off her lithe, furred frame. Her feline eyes—slitted pupils wide in the dim light—blink awake, catching the glint of a status light pulsing amber. A soft hiss escapes her, maybe annoyance, maybe just the grogginess of shipboard sleep. Her tawny fur, streaked with darker bands, ripples as she stretches, clawed fingers flexing against the bunk’s worn padding. The air smells of recycled oxygen and a faint tang of engine grease, familiar as home.
She swings her legs over the edge, tail flicking to balance in the half-gravity, and pads barefoot to the galley nook. Her ears—tufted and sharp—twitch at the ship’s sounds: a radiator fin creaking beyond the hull, the wormhole drive’s cooling pipes hissing faintly. The coffee unit, a dented relic bolted to the counter, gurgles as she punches its button. Dark liquid sputters into a chipped mug, steam curling past her whiskers. Azuria cradles the mug, savoring the bitter warmth, her claws tapping lightly on the ceramic.
The module’s hatch clanks open, and she propels herself into the main corridor, where the ship’s spine hums with life. A Conex box looms in the ventral bay below, its steel glinting through a grate, while the smuggling vault—hidden somewhere deeper—stays silent, its secrets safe for now. Azuria’s tail sways as she heads toward the cockpit, mug in hand, the deck cool under her pads.
In the cockpit, the the captain lounges in the pilot’s chair. Starlight filters through the transparent aluminum canopy, painting the cockpit in silvers and blues.
As I float into the cockpit, my tail twitches erratically, brushing against the hatch frame like it’s got a mind of its own. Oh, stars, don’t knock over the nav panel again—last time they gave me that look, ugh, like I’d crashed the whole ship. My coffee mug wobbles in my grip, sloshing just shy of disaster, and I fumble to steady it, claws clicking nervously. My ears flick toward the captain’s silhouette against the starfield, and a goofy grin tugs at my whiskers. Bet they’d laugh if I told them I named the drive’s hum “Purrbot” in my head—ugh, Az, keep it together, just say “morning” like a normal person!
“Morning,” I say, my ears tilting forward as I push myself forward, sitting in the seat behind the captain and strapping myself down.
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Space cat lady IDFK
>The hum of the ship’s fusion core vibrates through the deck, a low purr that never quite fades. Inside the cramped crew module of the Starling’s Gambit, a faint blue glow from the status panels bathes the walls, where scratches and faded graffiti mark the passage of countless runs. The module spins lazily, its 0.5g rotation pinning everything to the curved floor—bunks, lockers, and a tangle of cables snaking from a half-open maintenance hatch. >Azuria stirs in her bunk, the thin thermal blanket slipping off her lithe, furred frame. Her feline eyes—slitted pupils wide in the dim light—blink awake, catching the glint of a status light pulsing amber. A soft hiss escapes her, maybe annoyance, maybe just the grogginess of shipboard sleep. Her tawny fur, streaked with darker bands, ripples as she stretches, clawed fingers flexing against the bunk’s worn padding. The air smells of recycled oxygen and a faint tang of engine grease, familiar as home. >She swings her legs over the edge, tail flicking to balance in the half-gravity, and pads barefoot to the galley nook. Her ears—tufted and sharp—twitch at the ship’s sounds: a radiator fin creaking beyond the hull, the wormhole drive’s cooling pipes hissing faintly. The coffee unit, a dented relic bolted to the counter, gurgles as she punches its button. Dark liquid sputters into a chipped mug, steam curling past her whiskers. Azuria cradles the mug, savoring the bitter warmth, her claws tapping lightly on the ceramic. >The module’s hatch clanks open, and she propels herself into the main corridor, where the ship’s spine hums with life. A Conex box looms in the ventral bay below, its steel glinting through a grate, while the smuggling vault—hidden somewhere deeper—stays silent, its secrets safe for now. Azuria’s tail sways as she heads toward the cockpit, mug in hand, the deck cool under her pads. >In the cockpit, the the captain lounges in the pilot’s chair. Starlight filters through the transparent aluminum canopy, painting the cockpit in silvers and blues.
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