The club is dark, humid with the sweat of crammed, dance-twisting bodies, the bass so deep that it squeezes Lanis’ heart.

  Day three, is it? What week? She’s made an effort to lose count, and her undertaken mission is to never be sober, coming up for air only to shoot back a drink or a protein packet, lingering in the clubs’ dark bathrooms just long enough to find a vein or snort some substance.

  Sometimes, rarely, there are a few hours of sleep, and when she wakes it’s usually in a tangle with some model-thin stranger with non-reactive pupils. She’s always the first to wake, the others' bodies valiantly trying to metabolize the alcohol and drugs out into Lanis’ sweat-stained sheets while she slips into one of her dingy hotel’s communal showers. Thirty seconds of blasting cold water, a quick change, the stranger gently or forcibly removed, and then she’s out into the city again.

  Lanis doesn’t truly need the drugs to keep going; at least not the uppers. Which hasn’t stopped her from taking anything she can get her quick hands on. It’s not just a matter of her youth, or having the physical conditioning of a professional athlete: plenty of people in this city’s club scene are the same, and they can’t match her. It’s the stamina that Fleet demanded, and the modifications that they implanted, that keep her going, night after night.

  If only they could see how she’s using them now.

  Still, even Lanis gets tired. And on this, her third day without sleep, if she’s being slightly honest with herself (an effort that she’d really like to avoid), she might finally be running on fumes.

  But that would mean sleep.

  Ugh, no, she thinks. She bounces and pivots, staring at the gritty club’s ceiling with bloodshot eyes, and pushes the thought of sleep right back into the hole where it belongs. Time for another drink, that’s all. Maybe a stim. Anyway, it’s only 2AM. The line outside is still growing longer in the drizzling neon rain, and the crowd inside is just starting to become well and truly fucked up.

  She dances and stumbles through the sea of bodies to her beacon, the long fluorescent expanse of the club’s main bar. Hey! She mimes, pushing her body up into a position that, with the outfit she’s wearing, snug and black, usually gets a quick response. She had never been to a club before two months ago, but if there’s one thing that can be said, it’s that she’s a quick learner. Her tactic works, the only price being the annoyed exasperation of the other clubbers. A little yelling, a little miming, and she gets two shots of clear liquid that are near tasteless going down, though maybe that’s more due to her overwrought nerves than the alcohol. She closes her eyes and feels a dull warmth spread throughout her body. Ok. I'm ok.

  They snap open to a hoarse yelling in her ear.

  “Hey I like your—" the words are cut off by a growing surge in the music and a cheer from the crowd. Lanis turns to meet the eyes of another grinning model-type (do they let in any others here?), tall, earlobes full of crystals, eyes milky white with retinal implants. She’s already becoming bored with the type, the avant-garde young and the maybe rich and the searching-for-muses, but she’s feeling oddly generous after the two drinks, and she manages a grin and a shouted thanks.

  Of course, that encourages him, and he leans in, tall broad shoulders stooping down a bit. Can I buy you a drink, he asks, and why not she answers, because she needs a bit more time for the alcohol to hit until she gets back out there.

  They retreat to a sound-dampened corner where a dozen others are taking respite, their voices heard with mild yelling instead of the rattling screams needed elsewhere as a ceiling funnel-fan gently wafts up the groups’ chain smoking. The stranger introduces himself, talking quickly, as Lanis sips her drink. He points to his eyes: he’s been doing some modeling for the new Vennici-iris models, which are actually amazing, he says, so he’s getting this pair left in, not that they usually do that, but his cousin is a VP. All sort of scanning, fully adjustable color, dilations- he starts to rattle off the specs before awkwardly stopping, the way high people sometimes do when they suddenly realize they’ve been acting very high, and compliments her again.

  “But the best part is, they let me appreciate how beautiful you are," he says, giving her a satisfied smile, all perfect teeth. "And your work is gorgeous... Where did you have it done?”

  Lanis has come to a vague understanding, between her capacity to find sleeping partners and her ability to get into clubs and skip the line at bars, that she might be attractive. It's not something people talked about at Fleet, where worth was measured in AI integrations and mental stamina. For what it's worth though, she knows that he’s talking about her head. It is, she has to admit, fairly striking. If only he could see her bald, like she was before. Alas, her hair has grown out in the three months since she was removed from active duty, but one can see the lines of dull silver and gold that branch out from under her shirt from the back of her neck, spilling across her head and to her temples.

  “Fleet service,” Lanis says. She watches, curious, as the model’s perfect, wide smile falters, confused, then spreads wider.

  “Ok, haha, but seriously. It's super cool. Is it functional too? Or just decorative?” he says.

  “Hm. Not as functional as it used to be, but definitely not decorative. I’m serious though. I was de-listed about... I don't know, a couple months back. You can look if you like: Neural shunt is still intact." She taps a flat little emerald-looking jewel on her temple which slides open to reveal a metallic implant node. He leans in, eyes narrowing. Lanis flits her eyes and the node retracts. "A little fried now, but...” she trails off, scanning into the crowded darkness. She laughs instead of finishing, and it has a maniacal edge to it.

  “Whoa,” the eye model says, looking concerned and taken aback, milky pupils dilating rapidly. “I like, actually don’t know if you’re joking now.”

  Lanis shrugs.

  “I’m not, but whatever. Look, I’m not going to fuck you, but if you want to dance I’m headed back out. Thanks for the drink,” Lanis says, patting the man on the shoulder. The eye-model grins lopsidedly, confusion almost overridden by disappointment.

  They end up dancing together for a while, the model gamely trying to change Lanis’ mind. She even lets him make out with her for a while, lets him slide his hands over her body and tell her how beautiful she is. It's nice to be touched, she has to admit, but she keeps laughing when he does it, in on some joke that he's not privy to, and eventually he drifts back off to the bar to maybe try again with someone who isn’t going to tease him with a bunch of nonsense about Fleet. Lanis smiles when he goes. She loses herself again in the beat, feet bouncing, eyes closed, anesthetizing loss.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  One hour. Two. Three. Club Onset will run for 72 hours straight, and Lanis’ talk with the model marked hour thirty-five of her current long night. Her hyper-conditioned body has already long outlasted the original occupants of the dance floor, but at hour thirty-eight it needs another break. She suddenly realizes that she’s hungry. When did I even last eat? she wonders. Alcohol has sugar. Do I actually ever need to eat again? Her body groans in protest, and Lanis sighs.

  She pushes through the crowd again, studiously avoiding any eye contact that could be mistaken as encouraging talk, and aims for the red-lit stairs at the back.

  Three flights up, past couples or trios drinking or making out, and then onto the club’s covered rooftop. A heady rush of cool air greets her, Lanis takes a deep pre-dawn breath, her body steaming like a furnace. There are fewer people here, hanging in clumps and clusters of form-fitting lovers and tattooed smokers. Sunrise is still two hours away, and the rain is still coming down, soft and sweet, pattering on the industrial metal overhang.

  She walks carefully, swaying only slightly, to a long row of bright-blinking vending machines. Some serve full hot meals, or coffee, or steamed pork buns, or changes of pre-worn schoolgirl underwear, but she’s only interested in the utilitarian Murkata-Heisin Co branded protein-gel packets. Murkata-Heisin, makers of industrial heavy machinery, AI security logistics, DJ implants, and protein gel-pack vending machines.

  Maybe I can get a job with them, Lanis thinks idly, as she punches in an order. Not likely, with what Fleet has put on her record, even in the vending machine division. She tears open the packet and squeezes orange-flavored liquid protein into her mouth. Damn that’s good. She punches in an order for a second, then a third.

  “You are ex-Fleet, aren’t you?” A woman’s voice says from behind her.

  Lanis turns, the third gel pack dangling from her mouth. The woman who spoke to her leans against another vending machine, the one selling pre-worn underwear, her face illuminated by its pixelated animations. She has a stronger face than Lanis’ elfen one, a bit older and a bit less model-like than most of the others here, which Lanis finds immediately appealing, and her curly hair is discerningly disheveled, tousled in just the right way to show up the highlights of layered bright blue. And god, what is she wearing? Her outfit is outrageous even by the standards of Origin, as if a business suit had been ripped apart by a pack of art-school wolves, who then raggedly replaced some of the tatters with transparent, glowing plastic. It accentuates the woman’s curves in a way that Lanis finds distressing.

  “That’s ah, quite an outfit,” Lands says, smiling oddly, unable to help herself.

  “It’s bespoke. Very expensive.” The woman flashes a grin, then cocks her head. “Sorry for eavesdropping earlier. Well, I actually love eavesdropping, but some people find it rude, she says. She holds out a hand. “I’m Mirem.”

  Lanis shakes her hand softly, her other hand still holding the third gel pack. “A pleasure, Mirem. I’m Lanis. And yes, I am. Ex-Fleet, that is. Had a bit of an incident though. Turns out Fleet doesn't care much for non-functional parts. But I guess, who does?"

  A moment of silence passes between them, rain echoing on the overhang, dull bass and laughter laughter in the distance.

  “Well. First, I would say that we're all broken, in one way or another,” said Mirem slowly. Mirem pauses, her face unreadable. "But it’s a bit unusual for Fleet to discharge people Terra-side, no?"

  Lanis runs a hand through her short hair. She feels the coolness of the implants. She shudders. Maybe it’s just the cold. "I wouldn’t blame you for not believing me. It's funny, you know? Fleet told me not to go around advertising it. But I found that it doesn't really matter, because no one believes me. Not that I mind."

  "Well, can you really blame people? That would make you... ah, how do I say this? Quite unique,” Mirem says, smiling.

  "If Terra has about twenty billion, then I'd be about one in five million, if you were just going by my cohort," Lanis says, dramatically ticking off the statistics using her right hand's fingers. She purses her lips, and raises her eyes to the obscured sky before meeting Mirem's eyes again. "Very roughly, of course. Could be more or less though, depending on what service track I went into."

  She can see that Mirem doesn't really know what to make of her, but also that she hides it well. Some sort of training? Or maybe just practice.

  "Well, at minimum I would love to buy you a drink. And, if you find yourself available, I have a proposition. Contact sent,” Mirem says.

  A subtle blink tugs at the periphery of Lanis’ vision. She accepts the packet, gives it a scan.

  “Huh. Versk Energy Corp. And you’re a… talent agent?” Lanis says, her brow furrowed.

  The smile that has been tugging at the corner of Mirem’s mouth turns into a laugh.

  “I guess you could put it like that,” she says. “I’m a liaison between their engineering teams and various pilot associations, mainly pre corp-sponsorship in the second and third Arena tiers, but also planetary Service and corporate security. We’ve had a few ex-Service member pilots, but I don’t think there’s ever been anyone from Fleet before. Could be fascinating.” Mirem readjusts herself, crossing her arms across her chest; it pushes her body out of her suit in new, unexpected ways.

  Lanis has only the vaguest notion of what the Arena entails. She had no interest in the games when she was younger, and Fleet training didn’t exactly leave much time for extracurriculars.

  Whatever. It doesn’t really matter if she doesn’t know what Mirem is talking about, because her new rule of thumb is that nothing really matters. However, an exception seems to be standing right in front of her. Mirem, Lanis has decided with an odd lurch to her heart, is stunningly beautiful.

  Lanis holds Mirem’s gaze as she brings her gel packet to her mouth and squeezes it onto her tongue. She swallows, feeling the gummy, nutrient-rich acidity slide down her throat. Fleet training hammered in certain instincts. One is that boldness is rewarded more often than not.

  “I’d be open to a pitch, if you came back to mine,” Lanis said, trying to project the confidence of a capital-ship navigator.

  Mirem laughs again, but it’s not unkind. She tilts her head, as if she’s considering it.

  “You’re too drunk. Or high. I’d feel bad.” Mirem says softly, brushing a stand of curly hair from her face.

  Lanis sighs. She gestures to a Murkata-Heisin BAC reader sitting like an afterthought at the end of the vending machine row.

  “Right. My blood alcohol is a little high, I suppose, 0.12 by my readout. My Fleet implants, the ones they couldn't remove, include some high-end detox modules. So, if you’re really so concerned,” she rolls her eyes dramatically, “I’ll take it to .085. But not any less, I won’t let you be a total buzz kill. Give me ten seconds. Ugh.”

  She walks to the BAC reader and frowns as she initiates her body’s rarely-used detox protocols. She's done it before when someone tried to spike her drink, another time with a bad batch of injectables, but never with alcohol. What a waste.

  She waits a few moments, then puts a finger into the BAC reader. A green 0.085 flashes across the screen. She watches Mirem's face as she does so, sees a subtle change, the idea of Lanis lying about her ex-Fleet status slightly diminishing. Her smile takes on a new meaning.

  “Well. Ok then,” Mirem says. “But not your place. You’re, what, only a few weeks out, from what I overheard? You’re probably renting some crappy week-let. I wonder if it’s even been cleaned since you started on whatever little rampage you’re on.”

  Lanis opens her mouth to defend herself — except that it’s all true — but Mirem waves her off and continues. “No. If you’re serious, then you’re coming back to mine,” she says, a mischievous look playing on her face.

  Lanis thinks about the few, vague rules she had set out for herself two months earlier. Don’t take drugs from strangers. Don’t advertise that you’re ex-Fleet. Don’t go back to anyone else’s place. The first two rules have long since been broken, with increasing self-destructive recklessness.

  Why not go for all three?