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Music is Bladerunner. Updated Aug 1, 1999.
Here she is...Mothr in our prime. Lifted for you folks from my skull's mothrboard after morning grubs. Wasn't a tough chore...she's always there. Memories are just so much more baggage when a space gypsy has to leave a planet in a mighty big hurry. But, Mothr's not an image anyone sane would dump even after decades. See how she welcomed the void unafraid? No lifekind floated, nor hovered, outside an antigrav dome as she did. Hear me now--imagine never ending legs pushing treacherously against worn exothreads in a dead man's laser suit! Ever see such a sight? Ahh, that terran word 'unique' doesn't do Mothr justice...nothing could.
Pity she's wearing a visor here, although the curse of imprinting has gifted
me with an internal luxury of rare beauty. Hair, empyrean and black, didn't just spiral down slim shoulders. I swear upon a Nexian Blood Stone that observers felt waves of pure harmony caressing all around while alternating between feeling thankful and beloved, as if her energy coursed anew through our spirits gone dry. Impressive? I'll say. Mothr was still dealing with the death of her Spacer mate in the black zone. I once heard that an old terran text talked of the Angel or Destroyer of the bottomless pit...name of
Abaddon. Anyone asks me, the beast resides at what you are seeing right now...want to go there?
Right. If I ever return I'll be inside a burial chamber. Look at me, spilling green guts at the very thought. Somehow I'd survived a dozen missions, yet one wet frolic of an evening I began blabbing like there was no tomorrow on anything and everything. Guess unbearable fear leaked from my brain into my mouth seeing our species doesn't hold Illan Eize well--nor can we release a beaker of it once the first visceral slug is gulped. Gotta admit most of what passed is too raw for present fems, but here's a hoot I can recount...I raved for three earth suns. 
Beyond imprinted stark memories of Abaddon, I was also stoved
bad about spacers being unacceptable to regular folk. We proudly called ourselves mercenaries prior to HQ cutting a greedy deal without our vote. Suddenly, tagged little 's' spacers much to the disgust of every squadron member, many a
free-for-all ensued with Big 'S' Spacers...ain't what you say, but how you say it, remember? Meantime, HQ and those aristocratic landlubbers gladly bestowed awards and credits without forking out the equal respect due any Academy Spacer. Mentioning even one of us hooking with their species made snobby skins crawl.
Ha, seems uprights fessure can get jumpers in a twist over words like "origin unknown." Heck, spacers came from anywhere, came from no-where. It's traditional to protect unfederated galaxies with star chart anonymity. Phagh, we figured regular folk could just wait for an invitation to tea or something.
Regular folk, to the contrary, retorted 'something' made them sweaty nervous so they really would prefer if we would simply die with honor period...and, thank you very much, no visiting. No mating.
Truthfully, this is the way of it no matter where a citizen hangs. I did what I did on my own volition. Yep, first I was a Big 'S' Spacer. Once my final tour in the black zone ended, as I was exhausted fighting off fear of Abaddon, I lived hard as an infamous little 's' spacer. What's all this got to do with Mothr? See, our friendship went way back...she's listened while I gut wrenched about a philosophy of kill or be killed. 
Lemme guess..you wanna know what mind bending event pushed a tough hot shot over the edge to roam feral
as a retrograde space gypsy? Fair question. No answer-yet. While a lifekind can't earn an awesome yarn eazy,
never you mind for now about an aging gypsy. Mothr is this orbit's menu special and I've decided to go sit awhile in that steamy hydroponic garden on Floater #3. Maybe I can even hold hands with a lifetime of dreaming and reality...if I get lucky. Cya.
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