Prompt: “taste”
FROM: mgmt@AORD.org AT 11:02 AM UCT
Re: Cafeteria Menu
Hello All and Good Morning… we have received a variety of complaints about the recent cafeteria menu change… we are accepting feedback thru the 24th of this month for improvements and changes.
Thanks,
Management
EVENT VIEWER: SYSTEM: 11:04:45 AM UCT:
SOLAR ARRAYS 20-65… SYSTEM FAILURE… SELF DIAGNOSTIC TEST FAILED… MANUAL CHECK RECOMMENDED
“...Wang? …Wang, why’s it dark all of a sudden? …No, it's not dark…”
FROM: gmorgenstern@AORD.org AT 11:07 AM UCT
Look out the window brother… got a feeling something bad’s gonna happen. Get the particle fields up if you would please.
FROM: cwang@AORD.org AT 11:10 AM UCT
Alright but only resi areas solar cells not receiving power right now.
TO: anazarenov@AORD.org AT 11:11 AM UCT
Aaliyah… you and your dept. are in BIG trouble effective IMMEDIATELY.
Not a lot of people wonder what 2219 T6 aluminum alloy tastes like.
Sung-Hyun Park, however, does.
(Researchers,) the voice of hundreds of wasted man-hours rings through the Midvale. (Do you want to see the failure of your work?)
TO: anazarenov@AORD.org AT 11:20 AM UCT
This is YOUR PROBLEM AALIYAH.
If we get crushed to death by Park I'm never going to forgive you.
(I do~.)
She barely parts her lips and the Midvale’s uppermost array of solar cells is suddenly wet, hot. Billions of Union taxpayer dollars are moot in a second. It would usually take the force of a solar storm or a moon-sized collision to take paneling off of the Midvale. But “TA” Park’s tongue works just as well.
From solar arrays to the resi decks down to bioresearch to medical; half of the Midvale, trillions of metrics of work and money and effort are stuck in her Sun-sized mouth.
(Come on,) And to whom she's speaking is only somewhat clear. (Cum for me.)
The command deck is safe, it's lower down. And where are the firing arrays? -Park brushes an asteroid-belt sized finger against the tip of the Midvale, almost drooling.
“Are you on crack?! What are bullets going to do?!”
“I'm not saying they’ll DO anything- I'm saying she asked us a question and we should probably give her something unless we want to get turned into dust!”
She tilts her head- the Osiris shines on the inert solar cells for a moment- and kisses the Midvale wetly, softly (softly, I.E., bending the particle field with mass it was ever intended to shoulder). Chemically indifferent saliva sticks to the glass windows of the command deck at the base of the facility. She takes almost the whole station in her mouth, moans, drips spit onto the bottommost solar arrays.
Several, if not all, structural engineers and architects on board lose complete faith in their job as Park does her work. Millions of dollars of tempered glass, even more in unistrut and solar cells and specially-designed kevlar paneling- completely wasted.
And she looses, hums contentedly, stares down at the Midvale, saliva floating lazily up from her lip in zero-gravity.
(...You’re no fun.)
To what extent the woman’s reality-bending existence functions is a mystery to even Nazarenov and her computer scientists. Ergo: why and how Sung-Hyun is wearing clothes in the first place is a sort of mystery. Her glasses could probably destroy an entire planet if left in the ray of a star. (Or alternatively, she’s got her sights on the Midvale instead.) She untucks her beige crewneck from her work jeans, lifts it up and over her sports bra, lets the lack of gravity keep it suspended for her. And then goes her sports bra.
Space is only a freezing vacuum in accordance with every other law of reality. Sung-Hyun’s viscous spit hangs to the Midvale, causes leaks in a few I.T. rooms, overloads a few spare sump pumps, creates wet spots on some drop ceilings in offices.
And she says nothing- just takes the Midvale between her bust and SQUEEZES. The particle shields can only do so much. The entire facility forms an hourglass shape; and she keeps going, makes sure every square centimeter of the 55,000-kilometer length of the Midvale, utterly wet and slimy, is compressed; flumes of spare oxygen and natural gas spit out of the sides of the facility.
FROM: gmorgensten@AORD.org at 11:45 AM UCT
…But at least the central pillar is sound.
A great, horrific creaking echoes through the Midvale. I-beams bend in ways they were never intended to bend. Electrometallic conduit and annealed copper tubes form 45, 90, 120 degree angles; circuits short on all paths and water leaks everywhere it can go. Sung-Hyun dribbles spit into her bust, drawn downward by some great other law of gravity Nazarenov never figured out. Another I.T. room springs into chaos; she continues the boobjob; feels something wet and warm form at the end of areolae similar in size to Mercury.
She squeezes her bust together again, rubs lightly, just barely stifles a moan. And why IS it called the Milky Way? That’s a question Researcher Bolton liked to ask her apprentices before it stopped being funny and started being sour.
Europa, Ganymede- just two moons of Jupiter that have liquid- and now among that liquid is sweet, watery milk, congealing around their surfaces, sticking to the Midvale, forming bubbles in the vacuum of space, liquid still by a defying of logic.
(Hmmph,) Sung-Hyun hums, licks her lips. (Researchers… I told you to cum for me. Did you listen?)
The crew, all alive- this month they were low-staffed- can’t even manage a response collectively with all three-hundred of them in the central command deck.
(...You’re so tiny.) Just specks compared to even her fingernail. (But useful.)
She smiles. Their supposed deliverance smiles, undoes her belt, pulls down her jeans, her sport boxers. She’s wet, egregiously so, and it’s slick and visible on her thighs, from the light of the Osiris.
The Midvale is, ostensibly, not liquidtight. But Sung-Hyun goes forth anyway: spreads her sex, feels more millions of taxpayer dollars corrode from her precum. She moans loud enough for more of ARKA’s deep-solar probes to pick it up.
(Researchers…) it’s difficult, since she doesn’t have any real traction on anything, but she’s managing. (Come on, come on…) servos and pumps and macrocircuits fail, fail, fail, spare generators leak gasoline, backup oxygen tanks burst open inside of her; the Midvale, the pride of ARKA and the Union, worth more money than the Union’s debt, is no more than a fancy toy- the whole of the Midvale down to the command base is how far she manages, structural metal and kevlar panels and arrays bending and shattering under immense, cosmic pressure, heat and wetness far more than they were ever designed to withstand; and even though it’s an industrial piece, maybe it’s BECAUSE it’s an industrial piece that it feels so fucking good to USE it- it’s just an object, after all- and it doesn’t matter how much labor and time and money went into it, it’s too good to go to waste as just one of ARKA’s facilities- because it’s HERS now-
Solar cells crack- circuits short- cooling pumps spill- and Sung-Hyun cums, nearly floods the abandoned residential decks and crushes three floors while squirming from orgasm, pulls the Midvale from herself, sighs, brings a hand to her mouth…
(Oh…) she observes the damage. (Looks like you didn’t design with my tolerances in mind…) and she smiles, caresses the Midvale, fingernails clicking over the remaining flaps of kevlar and cells on the outer shells. It is a total disgrace of what it was an hour ago. It is a hunk of metal covered in incomprehensibly large, cosmic amounts of ejaculate and spit and lactation.
(Good thing I’m only getting bigger~.)
…Researcher Nazarenov, who, to her own dismay, never once looked away from the dying camera feeds- drops her pencil and goes bug-eyed.
FROM: mgmt@AORD.org AT 12:10 PM UCT
Re: Cafeteria Menu
Never mind
Thanks,
Management