Bored. Bored. Bored. My FTL drive crapped out most of the way through the transit portion of this trading run, and I’ve been coasting ever since. Life support isn’t an issue, I sprang for the nice package that could keep me eating and breathing till I die of old age and turn into a space mummy. The void of space perfectly preserves every container of the specialty medical supplies within my cargo hold. And even though it was never my intention, this delay will likely cause a small shortage at the destination, so I may be paid a bit more than I expected once my supplies replenish their stocks. All in all I should be perfectly satisfied, with every physical need taken care of and practically guaranteed financial success.

The lithe calico male strides over to his desk, spinning in the chair as he keys in a number of commands to his personal terminal and waits for it to boot. The ship was comfortably quiet, with life support systems providing white noise, but quiet nonetheless. The only sound other than his breathing was the chime of the desktop flickering to life in front of him, filled with various icons, most of which seemed to be tossed to the side. A few clicks invoke the last icon, hidden fans spinning to life as a new display opens, showing a number of attractive feline lads and lasses of all shapes and sizes.

It’s just that, as I run through what used to be my favorite roleplay simulation, I can’t help but notice how dead the world within actually is. The devs tried their best, they really did, but these virtual creations weren’t meant to act as long-term companions. And each time I replay the simulation, I keep noticing more of the little tricks that used to prop up the illusion of life.

Usually the conversations and situations are good enough to tide me over for the typical stint of interstellar travel, but as the days have stretched into weeks I’ve started to crave something or someone I can actually sink my claws into. Repulsed at the thought of revisiting any of the simulations again, I close the display and refresh the list of open comms channels again and again, eyes just about to glaze over as I notice a connection flicker into existence, the signal slowly growing in strength.

After a quick query for coordinates, I learn that I’m about 24 hours out from some podunk station, still unable to do anything except wait till I get in range of their tugs and repair stations. While I wait, I might as well request the basic HIST file from their systems. These remote stations tend to take pride in what little they have or once had. Hungry for fresh stimulation, I pore through the documents as they slowly stream to my workstation, pacing back and forth behind the chair each time that I need to wait for more to load.

Let’s see now… One of three such stations, rather old, goes by the name of Blue Moon Terminal. Comparing the frankly ancient promo shots of the station to its modern floor plan, I can’t help but notice that not much seems to be left of it, a far cry from the top of the line accommodations that it hosted nearly a century ago. Hell, from what I’m seeing here, over half of the station has been cannibalized just to keep the refueling station open, with only a small slice of residential and commercial zoning still accessible. I wonder what kinds of folks still make this place their home?

---

The red In Use sign flickered black, then struggled back into life with Housekeeping glowing orange as the pneumatic door hissed open. Stretching and sighing with relaxation as he steps through, a large semi nude canine stalks into the low light of the hall. The smell of fresh blood and girlcum follows him as he wipes at the splatters and streaks of neon pink spread across his body, each stain fluorescing under the lights of the club.

His mouth was particularly drenched and each attempt at wiping away the excess color only succeeded in spreading the bright splashes to his hands and wrists, either soaking into his fur or falling to the ground. The neon path of his footprints mingled with other trails in the hall, each color leading from a room now labeled Housekeeping to the steaming shower room. The “Rainbow Hall” always earned its name by the end of the night and gave the patrons a final rush of adrenaline for the night, surrounded by the scents of a feeding frenzy.

For a minute the hall is empty until the small frame of a mouse limps past the door frame, leaning against the wall as a housekeeping drone squeezes past her. From ear to toe the mouse was bathed in neon pink with her right arm and leg almost entirely covered in fluorescent bite and claw wounds, evidence of a particularly rough play session with a rather voracious client. Her breathing was shallow and difficult as she hobbled down the hallway relying on her good arm and leg to take her deeper into the building and away from the showers, towards the medical wing.

She barely made it to the door at the end of the hall, pink palm-prints staining the wall behind her. Taking a deep breath, the purple mouse places her palm on a neon-stained scanner, waiting for it to chirp with approval before stumbling towards the crisp atmosphere and white furnishings of a medical bay. The bright white light washed across her as she stepped through, but for a moment the hallway was illuminated with normal light. Only while one of the employees ended their shift was the hall’s true appearance revealed, neon replaced by crimson and looking more like a slaughterhouse walkway than a seedy fetish club.

Forcing herself up onto one of the medical tables, she clumsily slaps a large red button, forcing the machines to whir to life. It was all wearing off now, pain seeping through the layers of painkillers, physical conditioning, and bioengineering that had kept her relatively composed till now. Eye-like cameras silently assessed her physical condition, an inflatable cuff slipping around her wrist to take measure of what vitals remained.

[Good Evening, Ms. Meadowmouse. It seems that tonight's session has left you with major injuries in addition to a number of lacerations and punctures across your body. Are you wishing for a thorough repair, or a quick fix to return to service? Alert: Policy states you must receive a complete treatment at least every four (4) visits. It has been two (2) visits since your last complete treatment.]

Her voice was hardly a whisper, somehow filled with bliss as her one good arm strokes along the inside of her thigh, trailing up and up towards her lap. “Just a quick repair please…” Settling into the padding of the table she sighs happily as her bruised slit drools, every single sting and itch making itself known. It had been a good night, but her mind still snags on that familiar feeling, as if she was lacking something to be truly satisfied. Nudging the thought aside, she decides to revel in the treatment, squirming and plunging her fingers inside each time the suture arm pulls two bits of flesh together. A robotic voice intones a request to hold still, but she ignores it despite how irritated the monotone voice manages to sound. After all, getting restrained is part of the experience!