Marginal Life Ch 01

Greetings, welcome to Marginal Life.

This is my first attempt at a story, here or anywhere else, in maybe twenty years. I hope you find it enjoyable, that you can rate it at least a "doesn't completely suck." Having lurked as a reader on Lit for nearly a year now, I wish I had got off my ass a long time ago. This was a fun one to write. Chapter 2 is already in the works, with ideas for much more beyond that.

On to the nitty gritty:

This is very much a character driven story, not a "stroker." But fear not, there will be plenty of sex, as it ties directly into our main character's life. I label this as a "fantasypunk" series. An industrial society powered by magic.

The ever ubiquitous disclaimer applies, every character is over 18 years of age, much of the time quite a ways over.

If you're looking for a specific set of fetishes, I can only tell you this: The story, while containing some dark plot points, keeps the sex happy and light. No bondage, and definitely no "non-consent" as it's politely termed.

Comments are appreciated, as is criticism, but please, keep it friendly.

I invite you to read on, and experience Jaya's life.

-Mach Ex Anima, July 2016

*******************

Hunched over a bench in the gear locker at the base of Marge's navigation tower, I attempt to make myself relax. Deep breath. Hold. Exhale. Relax. I fail, knowing I would, two weeks of manic energy refusing to stall even for a minute. The focus and drive grip me, not relenting in the slightest now that an end is in sight. Two weeks of constant design, prototyping, and testing. Every shred of focus leading to the new flight harness sitting in front of me.

Feeling pieces of my mind flaking off around the edges, ash floating from a campfire, I begin yet another recheck of the harness. Hopefully Teresa will be here soon. Slowly I trace my hands over the various leather straps and strips of cloth. I know everything is in order. Nothing has changed in the last few minutes. It still must be done.

Behind me, the lift opens, several crew moving out to ready their own equipment, no direction needed. Without turning, I know that Teresa and the two deck crew will be fitting flight harnesses of their own. Theirs the more traditional style, a safety requirement for any crew on deck while in flight.

Watching in my peripheral vision, I wait until the two crew have finished their prep and head out the forward hatch, a quick gust of wind ruffling the straps of stowed equipment. Feeling events moving forward, reaching the finale, I stand and don the test harness. In base form identical to the traditional harnesses, somewhat like a backpack in design. Leather straps snugly grip my shoulders, chest, and waist. Unbidden my mind compares the custom straps of my test harness to the size of the general crew harnesses, the straps cut small and tight to fit my tiny frame. My focus drifts to latch onto my own body, old frustrations threatening to disrupt me entirely.

Closing my eyes, I attempt to focus on the harness. Its design. Its crafting. The coming test. An unknown amount of time passes this way before I feel Teresa moving up behind me. Her large solid arms envelop me in a hug, pulling me back into her more than ample chest. Her presence as solid and immovable as a mountain. Her chest soft and welcoming. I belatedly realize I had begun shaking, losing myself in my own mind.

Enveloped in her calm, I can't help but picture her in my mind. Perhaps as she intended. Taller than my short frame by several inches, with a large solid frame. "Motherly" or "full figured" are the phrases most often used, but never "overweight" or "fat." Skin the color and texture of polished obsidian. Hair the color and texture of tree moss. Strength far beyond what one might assume from her size. Everything together forming her Marker, evidence of non-human ancestors in ancient times. Specifically Naga, one of the four dragonkin clans.

Bits and pieces of information flicker about my mental image of her like a halo. Assigned as my assistant two years ago for her journeyman mechanic tour. Only twenty years of age. Slow, solid, unimaginative, and so smart she is the only one who has ever kept up with me in an episode. Smarter than I am, to be truthful. I think in weird directions. She thinks a lot. Can already rebuild every piece of mechanica I've taught her. Just don't ask for any design changes.

The distraction helps. Taking a few deep breaths, I settle enough to stop shaking, to regain the proper focus. Taking a step away and turning, I see her smiling, though her soft grey eyes contain worry.

"Better?"

I can only nod. She knows me entirely too well, at least mentally. If only she could know the rest- NO! Focus!

Forcing all the willpower I can, I muster the power of speech: "Let's go."

Moving through the locker room I take another deep breath. I do that a lot, but something tells me I'm doing it more and more often just to stay focused. I head out the open hatch.

Momentarily blinded by the bright afternoon sun, I grip the railing just outside to let my eyes adjust. It seems that Luck's dice have rolled high, granting me a great day. No clouds in sight and very little wind, even as high up as we are. Hoping Her dice continue to fall my way, I grab the guideline leading out along the center forward deck, knowing without even looking every detail of Marge as she cruises along under me.

Known more formally as The Lady Margrethe Oban, Cargo Airship: Middle-Class in service to my homeland, the great Republic of Umira. My home for nearly 12 years now, my purpose in her life that of Chief Mechanic: the glue that keeps every piece of mechanica aboard from spontaneously falling apart. Three hundred feet of metal, shaped somewhat like a warty, flattened cigar, her navigation tower a mallet glued head down on top just a bit forward from the stern. Her lower half cargo bays while her upper is divided into two decks, kept running by eight Named crew, two Aeronauts, and roughly thirty deck crew.

Ahead of me, the two deck crew have attached to their anchor lines, activated their own flight harnesses, and were currently floating up to take station nearby, grapple ropes ready to throw if I fall. Behind me, the flapping of cloth a sure sign Teresa is doing the same. The focus compels me to compare their harnesses to my prototype, details spinning around and around the fire of my mind like puffs of soot.

Their traditional harnesses consisting of two large cloth wings, deliberately designed to emulate those of a butterfly. Painted the eye searingly bright colors of the Umiran flag, easily visible from large distances against the background of sky and ground alike. Fibers embedded in the chemically treated cloth wings designed to collect ambient energy, providing enough lift to keep the wearer aloft nearly indefinitely. Able to prevent a sailor from plummeting thousands of feet to a messy death, but providing no motive force of its own.

Slipping a special glove onto my left hand, connected to my own harness by a thin wire, I prepare to unveil my prototype. Another deep breath. Then again. I feel the first stirrings of the episode trying to leave me, its fire running low on fuel. Pushing hard, I stoke the fire, forcing it to burn hotter for longer.

Clipping an anchor line to my own harness, I begin.

Making an odd gesture with my left hand, one deliberately chosen as to be unlikely to be made in general use or while gripping tools, the harness begins to hum slightly to itself. Four long, thin strips of treated cloth unfurl to my sides and begin to vibrate in place, taking on an almost translucent look. To an observer, it would now appear as if I sported a set of dragonfly wings. The pair of crew seem unimpressed, clearly not believing these tiny strips will do anything useful.

Making a different gesture I feel the harness grip me as lift is applied, countering the pull of gravity. I drift a few inches above the deck, causing my own anchor line to grow taut. As of now, I can already consider the test a success, having reduced the surface area of traditional wings by ninety percent. Looks of disbelief now adorn the pair of deck crew nearby. They're obviously part of the newest rotation, older crew wouldn't even blink at this level from me.

Time to test the other half. Passive lift is all well and good, but I want to FLY. A third gesture, and I feel the hum of the wings change. Power flows along specific channels, their glow emulating the iridescent reflection of living dragonflies instead of the flat translucent look from just lift.

If the crew was impressed before, this time their eyes just about fall out, watching as I slowly creep forward against the wind, slowly producing slack in the anchor line, now well and truly flying, easily keeping station above Marge in her deliberate pace. A small Sphere imbued with Fae energy from one of our Aeronauts supplying power, working in similar manner to Marge's own lift arrays.

It's almost too much, the early feeling of success nearly overwhelming. Exhaustion creeps up on my mental horizon, forcing me to push for just a little bit longer. I know I'm grinning madly. If it maneuvers well, I will have broken the bonds of the earth, to soar unbound, rendering all else trivial. Never again to fear the...

"Jaya!"

Teresa's shout makes me startle. Yet again, she sees my mind taking me on another trip before I do.

"Are you sure you're still fine? You look like you're about to pass out." Definitely used to my episodes.

I wave my right hand, hoping I signal that I'm fine, unable to spare any attention for speech. I prepare for the hardest part of the test. The gestures for controlling actual flight are much, MUCH more complicated, taking easily thirty percent of the entire design phase to nail down.

Taking another deep breath, I stoke the fire just a little bit brighter, fighting for the focus needed. I gesture.

A little forward. A little horizontal rotation. Less forward, more sideways. Three axes of movement, three axes of rotation. My own orientation in relation to the Marge, Teresa, and the pair of crew. Wind, what little there is today. Many other tiny details. It all flows through me, my fire stoked to forge levels. To the three observers, I calmly and smoothly rotate in place, such that now I'm flying backwards, still easily keeping station above the Marge.

If anything, my grin grows larger, more unhinged. Teresa grins back, her own part in assembling the harness clearly forming a sense of accomplishment. As usual, she does her best to keep me on track.

"Jaya, hold it for just a bit longer and we can call it good. Unspool a few feet of anchor line, then turn some small circles, move up and ahead a bit so I can see it move. But be careful, we don't really know how long the sphere will last."

I nod in agreement. A little unspooling from where my anchor connects to the deck, a few more gestures, and it's done. Success! My fire at a fever pitch, the maneuvering gestures coming easily, the focus allowing me to move where and how I want. And the power. Oh, the power. Barely five percent output to keep station with Marge, imagining what full output might do makes me a bit lightheaded.

Then I feel it. Lightheaded not from the power, but from the fire snuffing out in an instant. My mind reforming from the intensity of an inferno, to the liquid placidness of a stone pool, it's water all but evaporated. Darkness now threatens my mental horizon, pulling with it a primal fear. There is always a price to pay for the focus. This time, I forced the burn much higher and longer than I ever had before. And I think Teresa can see it. She shifts from assistant to boss instantly.

"Jaya. Deck. NOW."

I shouldn't be in any mood to argue, but I can't help but bristle at her tone. Grumbling a bit to myself, I reduce lift to the wings. Luck decides to roll me a one. Namely, Marge moves over and through a pocket of high wind. Strong enough that even Marge lists just a bit, I quickly feed in some power to counter the sudden gusts, trying to stay in place. The strongest gust coming from almost straight below me.

But I no longer have the focus. Having stupidly cut lift instead of using motive force to descend, I find myself unstable, an instinctual twitch applying more power than I should. More than is safe.

The gusts pass as quickly as they arrived, leaving me a fraction of an instant to realize I overcorrected, the active movement hurling me towards the deck. Five minutes ago, I would have made it. Ten minutes ago, I wouldn't have made the mistake in the first place. Back before we began, I was still at an even burn. But not now. Now I slam into the deck at great speed, much faster than I've ever moved before. Teresa's shout of alarm unheard through the crunch and sudden white nova of pain. It sears through my mind, illuminating strange and disturbing geometries beyond the borders of my little pool.

Suddenly disconnected from all feeling, a window of clarity allows me to take stock. Without the pain, it doesn't seem so bad. Breathing seems a bit hard, a weird bubbling getting in the way. I try to disengage the harness so Teresa can stow it for me. Strange, the glove isn't working. Must have damaged it in the impact. I'll just walk it in then, deal with it in the gear locker. Huh. Left leg looks a bit off. Better see Marian.

As quickly and as strangely as it appeared, the clarity collapses, the last little bit of liquid in my mental pool evaporating. Pain and Exhaustion pierce me with their barbs, dragging me screaming into an abyss of darkness.

***

Sobbing. Strange noises. Terrible Things moving within the darkness. Yelling. Pain. Then silence.

***

A mental blink. Like a breaker being thrown, I am instantly wide awake. The suddenness I find very reassuring. I know how it sounds. Perfectly asleep one moment then completely awake the next, it's more than a little disturbing. Get heavily injured enough times to recognize the workings of a healing bed, and it becomes a relief. Waking this way shows the bed has put you back together enough that you can be awake without pain.

I begin to take stock. Ability to move my limbs? Negative. Feeling in said limbs? Fuzzy warmth. Not completely done healing then. Feeling above the neck? Normal. Must not have hit my head on impact, which is a relief. Brain damage I can do without. Overall physical status? Not bad.

Mental state? Parsing memories, everything up to the impact is clear. Must have blacked out as I hit. I decide to mark it down as a win, I don't really need to know what a bug slammed through a hull plate feels like. Moving on. Water is back in my mental pool, but not much. Still far from normal. It's surface is calm, even. This implies I've been out for awhile.

In the past it's taken me a couple of days to recover from an episode, healing trips included. I'm guessing it's been around that long. We ought to be just out from port. Not bad timing if I'm right. Should still be able to make my teaching class at the Academy. Digging back past the impact, I marvel at how sharp and jagged the world felt. It's never been this bad. Hope it's not a sign for future episodes.

As I process more of it, a thought occurs. Awake but fuzzy sometimes means something else: a lecture. Clearly not going anywhere with the bed still working, I decide it's best to check now. Best to surrender to the inevitable. Cracking my eyes open the tiniest bit, I peek around the room. At the foot of the bed there's an intricate console full of gauges and readouts somehow all relating to the job of putting someone back together again. Standing behind it, sure enough, is the inevitable: Marian.

Doctor Marian Hyginos Tsvetkov. One of my two childhood friends, one of my few anchors in life. One of the two living people I love. Of average height, a good seven inches above my five foot three. Blonde hair, pale skin, dusted with the freckles I love to trace, especially the ones across the top of her large, full breasts. And the ones leading down her back. And across her shoulders.

Moving on.

Even wrapped in the drab, utilitarian jumpsuit worn by everyone on ship duty she looks amazing. It's the final piece that points to her Marker. Not pronounced like Teresa's, as someone I've known nearly my entire life her clues scream Naiad, one of the four Fae tribes. In ancient times true Naiad were revered in cities for their ability to heal with a thought and feared on the battlefield for their ability to kill with a gesture. Diluted as the bloodlines are these days, it translates to doctors with an ability to sense their patients, to guide their healing.

Seeing her absorbed in her work, I open my eyes fully. I notice what appear to be new worry lines around her eyes. I'm almost positive they're because of me, which does not bode well. She frowns at something on the panel, then unfocuses her eyes in a way I know to mean she's using her talent. Some of the worry on her face drops off, and I feel my mood lightening considerably in response. Looking up, she meets my gaze.

"Good Morning Jaya, did you have a nice rest?"

Even thick with sarcasm, I enjoy hearing her voice. It's almost a physical feeling. Like honey dripped in my ears. Not the best analogy but I get strange looks if I try for a better one.

"Good Morning Marian. I did thank you. My compliments to the Doctor."

Much lighter in tone, despite knowing I really do deserve whatever she's about to lay on me. I can't resist, just happy to see her. Her acidic response destroys any thoughts of teasing.

"Would you like me to inform you of your damage this time? No. Shut up. Just listen. This was a bad one. From what I could get out of Teresa when the crew brought you in, you slammed down as if you had fallen off a cliff. That poor little girl has been crying her eyes out for over a week."

Wanting to take a moment to absorb the idea of Teresa being a "little girl" I almost miss her mention of the time.

"A week. A WEEK?! Marian, we were due in port three days after the test. I had a class to teach!"

In sudden desperation, I attempt to sit up and move, convinced I needed to somehow be at the academy two days ago. Reality wins however, as I move exactly as much as the bed (and Marian) wants me to right now: not at all. This was not a wise move, as her volume increases.

"You listen here! You scared me half to death! Dislocated shoulder. Broken arm. FOUR broken ribs. One of which punctured your lung! Compound fracture in your leg. Crushed kidney. Bruising all down your left side like you wouldn't believe. If I were any weaker with my Sight, you might have died before the bed could even stabilize your breathing."

She cuts the rant off abruptly. Deflating, the worry in her eyes obvious.

"So yes. We've been in port for 5 days now."

Her voice softer that time. Firming, she lays down the law.

"As soon as I let you out, you WILL do four things for me. You will eat a good meal. You will find Teresa and apologize. Alot. You will send a message to Doctor Dreeson that you want to see her as soon as she can fit you in. And then you will visit My Husband, The Captain."

The first two items on the list were obvious, food and an apology. Probably combine them. If Teresa's been hiding for a week, she'll need to eat. Doctor Nadia Dreeson is only slightly harder. She's a therapist and has been helping me for nearly fifteen years to manage my episodes, and with it helping me try to come to terms with the more physical aspects of my Marker. Based on my actions during the test, I find myself more willing than usual to visit her.

It's the last item on the list that hammers home the severity. Invoking Stefan's titles, hiding within the formality, is completely unlike her. For the first time I suspect she's fighting back tears of her own, the invulnerability of her bedside manner threatened. She's terrified I went too far. That maybe this time it was on purpose.