Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 135784 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135784 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I like the bland, industrial smell of my station. I like the smells of grease and char, of old exhaust and even the fake smell of old plas and even older carcinogels. My station smells familiar. Or at least it did until today. Because when I go into the lavatory, it smells like soap. The counters have been scrubbed free of old dust and water stains, and the mirror’s freshly washed. In fact, as I look around, the entire room practically keffing sparkles. It smells fresh and clean and I hate it because I know who did this.
It’s like she’s keffing with my head — shitting on the floor and then cleaning the bathroom so thoroughly you can eat off the floor.
I’m sure it’s all a game to force me to confront her, but I’m not going to play along.
Her scent is all over the station, though. It’s light and feminine, almost floral in its sweetness, and there are traces of it up and down the halls, and it seems everywhere I turn, she’s in my nose. It bothers me.
This is why I hate visitors. Because even when they’re not in the room with me, they’re still present in some way. It’s maddening, and it affects my ability to concentrate. I do my best to ignore all of it, turning back to scrapping one of the latest sling-drives I’ve acquired. If I focus enough, I can get most of it done before I collapse into bed. Hopefully the dreams won’t come if I exhaust myself. Most nights they don’t, but sometimes, when my brain won’t quiet, they creep up on me. Tonight feels like one of those nights, so I grab a second sling-drive and thump it down on the table next to the first.
I’ll stay busy until my eyes won’t remain open.
I’m up to my elbows in delicate wiring when there’s a knock on the wall. It’s in the direction of the doorway, and when I look over, teeth gritted, the human stands there.
“What?” I growl. Twice today? Doesn’t she have things she can do?
She clears her throat delicately and takes a step forward. “I was looking for the food dispensers and I can’t seem to find one anywhere. If you can tell me where they’re located, I’ll get out of your way.”
My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything today myself. “There’s no dispensers.”
Her mobile little brows go up. “What do you mean, there’s no dispensers?”
“Too much maintenance,” I say. “The parts break down too much. Eat a protein bar.” I pull my hands free from the wiring and notice that my arm is twinge-ing, a sure sign that my body’s about had it for the day.
“I’d eat a protein bar if I had one,” the human female says in a sharp voice. “But no one left me anything to eat or drink. Don’t you have supplies?”
I do, but I mostly eat them raw, straight from the container. With a heavy sigh, I wipe my greasy hands off on a rag and push away from my table. I shoot a glare at her for interrupting me as I get up and walk slowly over to the boxes of supplies that I never bother to put away. I pull off the lid, pick up a bag of dry noodles, and hold it out to her.
She moves to my side, smelling like flowers again, her soft-looking hair drifting around her face in tendrils. I hate that part of me wants to bury my face into her mane and just breathe deep. Hate that. It means I’m just as stupidly susceptible to a human as any other male out there in the universe.
The female—I forget her name—looks at the nondescript bag and wrinkles her nose. She looks up at me. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Cook it.” I eat the noodles hard and plain, mostly because I don’t care.
“Cook it?! On what?” She gestures around me.
Maybe I’m being a perverse keffing ass, but I’m enjoying this a bit too much. I move over to my welding station, flick it on, and then gesture at the open flame. “Here you go, princess, since I have to do everything for you.”
She gives me a scalding glare and marches over to the flame, bag of noodles in hand. “Where’s a cooking pot? Utensils?”
I shrug.
Her jaw works back and forth, and she looks as if she’s about to start spitting venom. “Again, I’ll repeat myself. What am I supposed to do with this? You don’t even have the basics.”
I gesture at the room. “You are completely surrounded by junk. Get creative. Improvise. Figure it out, or shut the kef up.”
A moment later, the bag of dry noodles smacks into my goggles. It jostles several of the smaller components against my face and scratches at my skin.