"It's dust," Hélène says, unclear about the problem. "Just dust. No one 'round here never made no fuss about dust, except maybe if they'd just put on their nicest clothes and then a storm had the nerve to blow up." And even then, most of the time, they'd just make a run for the nearest shelter, hole up for as long as the storm took, and have as much fun as possible with those who also made it to the shelter. Which sometimes included a little teasing about their nicest clothes a little, before getting down to the real business of chatting about stitching, and quality, and colours, all while the storm raged around them, outside of shelter walls.
Sometimes, the nice clothes don't even stay on all that long, if the company's good.
Anyway, dust. It's just part of life. But this spacer, she don't seem to get that.
"It's not just dust," the spacer says, frowning as she brushes flecks of sand from the sleeve of her spacer-suit.
It's a pretty frown, and it ain't the first time Hélène has noticed it. Pretty frown, pretty blue eyes, and a pretty spacer-suit too. Not that Hélène's had a lot of experience with what spacers wear, on account of them not stopping by the town - or hell, the whole damn moon - so often. But this spacer's dressed up in an outfit that's tight in all the right places, and it's a dark, kinda shiny blue that suits the spacer's colouring real well.
"It's grit. It's sharp little pieces of grit that can get in places we don't want sharp things, on a ship. Do you know," the spacer asks, "what trouble even a handful of grit like this can cause on a space station? Or a ship?"
She doesn't know, on account of never stepping on a space station, or a ship. She's never thought about doing that either, mostly because she figures there ain't much call for people who're good with cattle herds up in space. Though it makes her grin to think about it - her, up on some supposedly dust-free space station, rounding up cattle that are getting their heads, and their hooves, and their dirt all over the place.
"Nope," she replies, when she realizes the spacer is still waiting for an answer.
The spacer frowns even harder. "Really?"
"Uh. Bad stuff, I guess?" Because sure, the dust does sometimes gum up the works of the water pumps, though mostly, Hélène thinks that's down to poor maintenance on the part of the lazy and cheap.
The spacer just looks at her, and then seems to remember the drink in her hand, the drink Hélène had bought her about five minutes after she'd walked into the town bar, looking like she was more than a little unsteady on land. It's a good drink, premium spirits, and Hélène had even had them put the best ice in it. The fancy stuff. With real juice as a mixer.
The spacer takes a sip of it, and then another, and then a long pull from the tall glass. Hélène understands. The dust can make the mouth a bit dry. Plus, the drink's got the premium spirits.
"This is good," the spacer says, and she sounds a little surprised.
Hélène grins at her.
"It tastes–"
"Earthy?" Hélène asks.
"Yes. It's so refreshing."
"Sometimes," Hélène says, leaning a little closer to the spacer, "a body needs a bit of refreshment after a long day. What brought you here today, anyway?"
"Emergency shuttle landing," the spacer says. "We had to put down on the nearest rock with an atmosphere. That was this place." She pauses and gestures at the door. "The pilot and mechanic are out negotiating for parts. I," she gestures at herself, "am just a passenger, and am therefore superfluous to their search."
That's turning out lucky for Hélène. Though good luck to them other spacers with finding parts, unless they're looking for the same kind of parts as get used in a water pump, or the movie theatre, or maybe that generator that Old Davis says he uses to put a forcefield around his barn when a bad storm comes in. Not that anyone believes it works. Though he does seem to lose fewer cattle to lung troubles. "Sounds like a tough day."
"It has been," the spacer says, in the tone of someone who appreciates the commiseration. "Thank you for the drink. My name is Emma, by the way."
"Hélène," she responds, grinning a little wider, and winking slightly. "It's real nice to meet you."
The spacer - no, Emma - grins back at her, for the first time.
And being looked at with that kind of grin is exactly what Hélène needs after a long, annoying day of rounding up cattle in the goddamn dust. She'd been in a bear of a mood when she'd walked into the bar, enough that the locals had known to steer clear. But then Emma had shown up. "Hey," she asks, reaching over to brush a bit more sand from the edge of Emma's sleeve, "can I get you another drink? Looks like you could do with more than one."
When Emma nods, Hélène figures the day is shaping up to be not quite so annoying after all.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fic: Dust (G; Space Cowgirl of a Sparsely Inhabited Planet/Spacer who grew up on Space Stations)
Date: 2025-02-16 09:26 pm (UTC)Dust
"It's dust," Hélène says, unclear about the problem. "Just dust. No one 'round here never made no fuss about dust, except maybe if they'd just put on their nicest clothes and then a storm had the nerve to blow up." And even then, most of the time, they'd just make a run for the nearest shelter, hole up for as long as the storm took, and have as much fun as possible with those who also made it to the shelter. Which sometimes included a little teasing about their nicest clothes a little, before getting down to the real business of chatting about stitching, and quality, and colours, all while the storm raged around them, outside of shelter walls.
Sometimes, the nice clothes don't even stay on all that long, if the company's good.
Anyway, dust. It's just part of life. But this spacer, she don't seem to get that.
"It's not just dust," the spacer says, frowning as she brushes flecks of sand from the sleeve of her spacer-suit.
It's a pretty frown, and it ain't the first time Hélène has noticed it. Pretty frown, pretty blue eyes, and a pretty spacer-suit too. Not that Hélène's had a lot of experience with what spacers wear, on account of them not stopping by the town - or hell, the whole damn moon - so often. But this spacer's dressed up in an outfit that's tight in all the right places, and it's a dark, kinda shiny blue that suits the spacer's colouring real well.
"It's grit. It's sharp little pieces of grit that can get in places we don't want sharp things, on a ship. Do you know," the spacer asks, "what trouble even a handful of grit like this can cause on a space station? Or a ship?"
She doesn't know, on account of never stepping on a space station, or a ship. She's never thought about doing that either, mostly because she figures there ain't much call for people who're good with cattle herds up in space. Though it makes her grin to think about it - her, up on some supposedly dust-free space station, rounding up cattle that are getting their heads, and their hooves, and their dirt all over the place.
"Nope," she replies, when she realizes the spacer is still waiting for an answer.
The spacer frowns even harder. "Really?"
"Uh. Bad stuff, I guess?" Because sure, the dust does sometimes gum up the works of the water pumps, though mostly, Hélène thinks that's down to poor maintenance on the part of the lazy and cheap.
The spacer just looks at her, and then seems to remember the drink in her hand, the drink Hélène had bought her about five minutes after she'd walked into the town bar, looking like she was more than a little unsteady on land. It's a good drink, premium spirits, and Hélène had even had them put the best ice in it. The fancy stuff. With real juice as a mixer.
The spacer takes a sip of it, and then another, and then a long pull from the tall glass. Hélène understands. The dust can make the mouth a bit dry. Plus, the drink's got the premium spirits.
"This is good," the spacer says, and she sounds a little surprised.
Hélène grins at her.
"It tastes–"
"Earthy?" Hélène asks.
"Yes. It's so refreshing."
"Sometimes," Hélène says, leaning a little closer to the spacer, "a body needs a bit of refreshment after a long day. What brought you here today, anyway?"
"Emergency shuttle landing," the spacer says. "We had to put down on the nearest rock with an atmosphere. That was this place." She pauses and gestures at the door. "The pilot and mechanic are out negotiating for parts. I," she gestures at herself, "am just a passenger, and am therefore superfluous to their search."
That's turning out lucky for Hélène. Though good luck to them other spacers with finding parts, unless they're looking for the same kind of parts as get used in a water pump, or the movie theatre, or maybe that generator that Old Davis says he uses to put a forcefield around his barn when a bad storm comes in. Not that anyone believes it works. Though he does seem to lose fewer cattle to lung troubles. "Sounds like a tough day."
"It has been," the spacer says, in the tone of someone who appreciates the commiseration. "Thank you for the drink. My name is Emma, by the way."
"Hélène," she responds, grinning a little wider, and winking slightly. "It's real nice to meet you."
The spacer - no, Emma - grins back at her, for the first time.
And being looked at with that kind of grin is exactly what Hélène needs after a long, annoying day of rounding up cattle in the goddamn dust. She'd been in a bear of a mood when she'd walked into the bar, enough that the locals had known to steer clear. But then Emma had shown up. "Hey," she asks, reaching over to brush a bit more sand from the edge of Emma's sleeve, "can I get you another drink? Looks like you could do with more than one."
When Emma nods, Hélène figures the day is shaping up to be not quite so annoying after all.
Maybe for both of them.