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
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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.
