The crimson glow of the ship's bug-eye plexi viewscreens briefly illuminates the bar windows, even from across the gravel shipyard.
With a clunky mechanical whir the Bug fighter's spindly landing gears touch down on the soft earth, pressing into the gravel with talon balancing supports. Individual hydraulic pumps adjust for the topography and the weight of the ship, sending out hisses of blue steam.
Crouching there like an armless insect, the Bug broods, engine idling.
When the hatch opens and the ramp extends, crunching into the gravel, its pilot tromps down to ground level on heavy black combat boots.
"Computer, seal exterior hatch, maximum security," the human woman murmurs, and with an electronic bleep the ramp slides back into the threshold. The black hull of living metal reseals itself like a closing wound. Then the ship flickers and vanishes.
Myitt One-Nine-Five stuffs her hands into the pockets of her heavy black trenchcoat, heaving a sigh. Her eyes track emptily down at the gravel, frizz brown hair cascading over her pale, tired white face.
"Let's go get a drink, kid," she says with a bland twist of her mouth, leaving the invisible ship behind and marching off towards the bar.
She pushes open the familiar, splintery wooden door and is hit by warmth and stale beer and alien chatter.
Yes, it was good to be back.
Myitt glances from side to side as she approaches the bar, her ratty blue jeans swishing as she makes haste.
Pressing her hands against the scratched applique of the bar counter, she murmurs softly to the bartender and slides onto a seat.
Always her eyes return briefly to the room at large, although she keeps her attention downcast, until the bartender sets a dusty green bottle and a glass in front of her.
Then she grins.
