❛ A GIRLBOSS MECHANIC, A DELUSIONAL BOUNTY HUNTER AND A BIO-CHEMICALLY ALTERED RODENT WALK INTO A BAR...I'M PRETTY SURE YOU CAN FINISH THE JOKE. ❜ | Calypso Orellano had a sailor's mouth, a punch of steel, and zero tolerance for scruffy bounty hunte...
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IT'S BEEN ABOUT THREE DAYS SINCE THE CRASH.
It has been three days, also, since I have a) slept and b) had a moment of sanity, between Peter Quill trying desperately to kill me before I can fix his stupid ship, and his stupid ship not wanting to cooperate with me.
But if you are curious about how my work resurrecting a literal piece of shit is going, I will say that I am still the best mech in any galaxy anyone finds themselves stuck in. And I don't mean that lightly, because if someone can reincarnate this pile of nuts and bolts into a living, breathing, functional M-Ship again, they deserve to the highest of high titles.
And that's me. Calypso Halley Orellano.
Half delirious and half dead, but at least the M-ship's engine is fully functional again.
The engine will hold, and it'll probably fly pretty okay, too. I wouldn't keep it like that permanently, but for me? It'll do just fine. All that's really left for me to do is repair the small issues that have built over time and from lack of care — like the circuit boards on the wings, which I'm tending to now — and the internal issues. Autopilot and his nav system mostly.
I can't even appreciate my work, though. Everything hurts, and my eyes yearn to rest. My lids struggle to reopen every time they shut to blink, but it's a fight I push through every time, because sleep is not an option. Not right now, and definitely not in these circumstances.
Sleep is possibly my worst enemy. It's a drug I haven't been able to wean myself off, no matter how I try to quit it. I'll go strong, and then it takes me again and rips me back down to hell. And then it's like I'm eight years old again and my heads under the water, and there's screaming all around me and I can't tell if it's coming from my lips or the hundreds of dying bodies around me, and there are universes flashing before my eyes, and a message I can't fucking understand painted in a stranger I should know's blood, and I'm all alone and terrified and soaked to the bone with the paralysing realisation of my mortality.
The nightmares get way too real. They feel more like stories I haven't lived through yet, and in the worst way possible. It's like asking a god to see your fate, and they just show you all the ways you could die horrifically. It offers no help and it only makes you angry, and paranoid, and terrified of what waits behind every door. I have no time or interest in living my life scared of every step.
So. Sleep is barely an option when I'm alone and completely safe in my own bed. Sleep around someone else? When a million bad things could actually happen? Forget it.
I stifle a yawn and tighten the lug nut drearily. At least it's been quiet for the last half hour. My roommate has been on a call with someone. Possibly his boss, pissed that he hasn't shown face. Whatever the case, he's been inside the Milano, and it's given me the peace and quiet I've begun to crave more than nothing else.
