Cohost writing prompt: @ — Starship pilot who fuels their ship with what?!
"Fuck," Catalonia Blue says, at the helm. "Fuck. They traced the jump. They're here, slipped in right behind us. We need to go again, now, now, try to lose them—"
In the jump couch, Alicia sobs weakly, held down even by the weak cling of electrodes and implant magplugs as much as the softly padded wrist cuffs, at this point; kitten-weak and frantic-hearted, trying to get her breath. "I can't," she wails. "I can't, I can't—"
The Chief Engineer looms over the couch, snapping on a fresh pair of latex gloves. She reaches for the holster at her hip, draws the heavy wand, deliberately and conspicuously thumbs it into a low industrial throb.
"You will," she says darkly.