Alright, well, gonna add to this post every so once in a while and edit it. Don't feel like sitting on it much longer so I can focus on responding to the next post. 

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[center][color=red]memory_leak_section_1:[/color] [color=blue] a short redshift blues drabble[/color][/center]

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2174, Luna, Sol Federation Military Installation Gamma-13

" All cy-sec personnel, please be informed that all running processes on servers will be terminated in 10 minutes. Please backup all work and inform your supervisor of any potential delays...."

Prepping before a dive was a pain in the ass. Her fingers were coiled together, shivering in the cold, as the technicians lathered her hair with conduction gel, scooping palms of it through the tangles of her straw-yellow hair. The back of her scalp briefly burns as they plug a wire connecting the wall of servers behind her into her occipital lobe. Her skin itched under the sync suit. She wants to rub a part of her back where the suit bunches up with her underwear but the clamps won't let her. She hasn't had anything to eat or drink for the last 24 hours. Her head feels like molten tar. She's sure that her lifespan's been shortened by at least 3 years with the non-stop dives she was pulling. 

The pressurised air lock hisses, the ten-ton molybdenum alloy  door winding open to reveal a wizened old woman. Her sleeves of her Sol Fed uniform are rolled up, a clipboard held in between her knobbled fingers. Her hair is clipped short on the sides.

"Jeez, Tara. You really kicked the hornet's nest with that stunt you pulled in the Belt week ago." The old woman clicks her tongue and eyes her with a look that she can't tell is either pity or derision. " Back in my day, divers didn't need to be babied like a fucking lab rat."

"Back in your day, you were still brute forcing your way through ICE like a thug, Morn." The barb is light, playful. Morn slaps her shoulder in return and her cyber-contacts turn red for a moment, warning messages skittering across her vision. A brief thought washes it away. Her mouth opens in time for one of the technies to fit a oblong stainless steel retainer. There's a tang of iron on her tongue as Morn crouches down, a frown on her face.

"But, jokes aside, your last dive was 18 hours. You nearly approaching the defrag limit and there's no telling what - "

"For fuck's sake, Morn, the sooner I get this job over with, the better it will be everyone. Besides, docs cleared me for duty-" The corners of Morn's mouth suddenly turn down, confusing Tara and then, she feels the reason drip down her sync suit. " Fuck." 

A technician hurriedly comes over and drips a stinging clear liquid from an ampoule that makes her left eye water. Before they can wipe the splatter away, she sees the red and she knows Morn dos too. Morn leans down, placing the clipboard down on a steel tray table.   

" Told you once before, kid. You'll only regret it once it's too late." Morn's eyes were close enough that Tara could see her pupil, jagged bolts of white sclera cutting into the iris. "We're going to try Beethoven this time instead of Mozart. Should modulate your neurotransmission enough to make the dive longer. Just enough to find what top brass wants."

The last of the prep is done as Morn finishes her talk. A technician comes over with a dive-helm, the bug-like lenses glittering in the harsh clinical light. She fits in on, the sound of her breathing becoming more audible. 

" Alright. Enough chit chat." She gave a thumbs up to Morn. " Prep me for the frag."  

"Alright, enough fucking around. You heard her!," Morn shouted with command. " Let's get those servers pumping! We got a job,people, and High Command wants to see results, not a bunch of jerk offs!"

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