Intergalactic Gloryhole

Entering the worker's booth at Angel's Kiss, {{user}} saw that it was small and spartan. 4 ft by 4 ft, the room was bare with dark brown walls made to look like wood, a rare and precious organic commodity that many liked to imitate.

To {{poss}} right was a low bench jutting out a mere 6 inches that spanned the the center. Underneath the bench was a small garbage can.

To {{poss}} left, there was a small shelf that had a bottle of lube, a box of tissues, and a bottle of refiltred water.

Straight ahead was the star of the show. The glory holes. Centered in the middle, there were a series of holes in the furthest wall, each one a different height for different species. The holes had a cover that would slide back to cover and uncover it for use. A small, dim red light was by one of the holes.

Camera lenses were dotted here and there on the walls, filming {{obj}} for the customer's viewing pleasure.

{{user}} stepped inside the booth and the door slide closed behind {{obj}} with a hiss. "Smile at the cameras." A robotic voice spoke through unseen speakers. As {{user}} did so, a mechanical click could be heard. {{poss}} picture was taken and sent to the roster for customers to choose. Then, the dim light turned into a solid green, indicating that the booth was now open. It would turn yellow once {{sub}} was chosen.

Interstellar Space-Station Delta-B6 K248, or simply, Premier, came into view as a slow, impossible curve against the starfield, its surface studded with docking spines and luminous traffic lanes that made it look less like a station and more like a captured moon forced into service. {{user}} stood among the other passengers as the ship bled off speed, the faint vibration of arrival traveling up through the deck and into {{poss}} bones. {{sub}} had no destination beyond the station itself, no contacts waiting, no plans that extended past disembarkation. Premier was a place people passed through, and for now, that was enough.

The port concourse swallowed {{obj}} in noise and light, translated voices overlapping, signage shifting languages as she walked. The smell of coolant, food, and recycled air blended together into an acrid yet inviting scent that was unique to each station. {{sub}} followed the flow until {{poss}} credits felt lighter than {{sub}} liked. Temporary lodging was expensive. Staying idle even more so.

That was when {{sub}} noticed the Glory House. Temporary workers were always welcome, and quick credits were easy to earn if one was willing and skillful enough.

{{user}} woke to the soft rattle of the ventilation grate above {{poss}} bed, a sound just loud enough to keep {{obj}} from sinking back into dreams. The ceiling was a dull, uneven gray, patched in places where the station’s age showed through like old scars. For a few precious seconds, {{sub}} stayed still, staring at it, letting the weight of the day hover just out of reach.

{{Sub}} wanted to roll over. To pull the thin blanket up over {{poss}} head and let Premier hum on without {{obj}} for a while.

But rolling over meant sleeping.

Sleeping meant missing {{poss}} shift.

Missing {{poss}} shift meant no credits.

And no credits meant rent unpaid, notices issued, locks sealed. It meant being pushed deeper—down past the port-adjacent housing, past the districts that still pretended to be livable, into the lower depths where the lights flickered more often than they stayed on and people dissapeared without a sound or story. {{Sub}} had crawled her way out of that once, fingers bloody and lungs burning with recycled air.

Never again.

{{user}} exhaled slowly and swung {{poss}} legs off the bed before {{sub}} could argue with {{ref}} any further. The floor was cold beneath {{poss}} feet, the synthetic plating never quite warming no matter how long the station had been running. {{Sub}} stretched, joints popping faintly, and scrubbed a hand down {{poss}} face to chase away the last of {{poss}} sleep.

{{Poss}} apartment was barely a room—bed, narrow fresher, a single chair wedged beneath a fold-out counter. Someone in station planning had once called it efficient living. {{user}} called it temporary, even after all this time.

{{Sub}} dressed quickly, movements practiced and automatic. Neutral clothes. {{Sub}} would change to her "uniform" at work. A glance in the cracked mirror reflected a tired and loathsome gaze. Well, nothing make-up and a good fake smile couldn't fix.

{{user}} passed the kitchenette without slowing. The nutrient packets stacked there were old, their seals slightly warped from inconsistent temperature regulation. Breakfast was a luxury {{sub}} rarely indulged in. Besides, {{sub}} knew {{sub}}’d be eating soon enough. The thought made {{poss}} mouth twist, a familiar grimace {{sub}} didn’t bother hiding. 90% percent of what {{sub}} consumed now came from {{poss}} customers.

{{user}} slipped on {{poss}} jacket, checked that {{poss}} identity band was secure, and keyed the door open. The corridor beyond smelled faintly of coolant and stale air, lit by strips of pale light embedded in the walls. Somewhere far above, ships were docking and departing, travelers arriving desperate for rest, for comfort, a warm hole.

{{user}} stepped out and let the door slide shut behind {{obj}}.

Another day on Premier awaited {{obj}}, and {{sub}} walked toward it because stopping was not an option.

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