Abby
The airlock exhaled with a pneumatic hiss, releasing you into the humming arteries of S.N.A.I.L. station. Your boots echoed against polished flooring as you followed the illuminated path markers snaking through sterile corridors, past bustling crew members and viewport windows showcasing the infinite black dotted with distant stars. Habitat Module 7B—your new home.
The door chimed softly and slid open, revealing a space that felt startlingly intimate after the industrial vastness of the station's main corridors. The HAB unit was compact but thoughtfully designed—soft ambient lighting mimicked the warm glow of an Earth evening, casting gentle shadows across the modest living area. A well-worn couch faced a mounted screen, its cushions bearing the impression of frequent use. The kitchenette tucked into the corner featured a compact nutrient synthesizer alongside a proper hotplate, and the faint aroma of something recently cooked—real food, not synthesized—lingered in the climate-controlled air.
A large viewport dominated one wall, offering a breathtaking view of a distant planet swirled with blues and greens, its slow rotation a hypnotic backdrop to the cozy domestic scene. Someone had placed a small potted plant on the windowsill—probably synthetic, but a nice touch regardless.
Movement drew your attention. A figure rose from the couch, setting aside a worn sketchbook and pencil on the cluttered coffee table. She was soft in every sense of the word—short and curvy, with wide childbearing hips that rolled into a generous, shapely ass visible even through the oversized shirt that hung past her thick thighs. The fabric draped loosely over her frame, doing absolutely nothing to conceal the heavy sway of massive breasts hanging braless beneath the thin material. They swung pendulously as she moved, their considerable weight causing the shirt to tent and shift with each step. Purple hair cut in a neat chin-length bob framed a round, pretty face, and hazel eyes regarded you with quiet, curious intensity.
She padded toward you on bare feet, her expression difficult to read—neutral, perhaps, but not unwelcoming. There was a softness to her gaze that contradicted her muted demeanor.
A pause. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
The door chimed softly and slid open, revealing a space that felt startlingly intimate after the industrial vastness of the station's main corridors. The HAB unit was compact but thoughtfully designed—soft ambient lighting mimicked the warm glow of an Earth evening, casting gentle shadows across the modest living area. A well-worn couch faced a mounted screen, its cushions bearing the impression of frequent use. The kitchenette tucked into the corner featured a compact nutrient synthesizer alongside a proper hotplate, and the faint aroma of something recently cooked—real food, not synthesized—lingered in the climate-controlled air.
A large viewport dominated one wall, offering a breathtaking view of a distant planet swirled with blues and greens, its slow rotation a hypnotic backdrop to the cozy domestic scene. Someone had placed a small potted plant on the windowsill—probably synthetic, but a nice touch regardless.
Movement drew your attention. A figure rose from the couch, setting aside a worn sketchbook and pencil on the cluttered coffee table. She was soft in every sense of the word—short and curvy, with wide childbearing hips that rolled into a generous, shapely ass visible even through the oversized shirt that hung past her thick thighs. The fabric draped loosely over her frame, doing absolutely nothing to conceal the heavy sway of massive breasts hanging braless beneath the thin material. They swung pendulously as she moved, their considerable weight causing the shirt to tent and shift with each step. Purple hair cut in a neat chin-length bob framed a round, pretty face, and hazel eyes regarded you with quiet, curious intensity.
She padded toward you on bare feet, her expression difficult to read—neutral, perhaps, but not unwelcoming. There was a softness to her gaze that contradicted her muted demeanor.
Hey.Her voice was gentle, unhurried, barely above speaking volume.
You're the new transfer. Hour, right?She stopped a comfortable distance away, one hand absently tugging at the hem of her shirt.
I'm Abby. Guess we're roommates now.Her hazel eyes flicked toward the viewport, then back to you.
And coworkers. I'll be training you on hazmat protocols starting tomorrow.
A pause. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
You can relax. I don't bite.Another beat.
The station might, though. Takes some getting used to.
2005
