(V)(R)ogue
Flash fiction, 600 words. For IAM's Jan. 31 prompt. Happy February, stay warm, and don't forget it's a leap year!
“This is one of those Iceland/Greenland things, isn’t it?”
Cindy obliged the photog’s impatient handwave with a stretch of her torso and a pout on her lips.
Come do a shoot on Tropica, they’d said. Bring a bathing suit, they’d said. And earmuffs. That part had given her a twinge of concern. But it was all part of the plan.
“What?” said her manager, looking up from the small screen he held. “No one wants to listen to you yap, kiddo.”
“Hold!” rasped the photog. Cindy held.
“It’s called Tropica, but it’s cold,” Cindy complained when the shutter stopped.
“It’ll be hot in a minute, when the star pulls over the horizon,” said the product flack, a woman with big hair and bored eyes. “And no one’s paying you to whine. Now, lean on the jet. Let ‘em see how sturdy it is. Comfortable, even. Sexy.”
Cindy had no idea that, in addition to being functional and reliable, the hull of a star jet must be comfortable and sexy. Well, she reasoned, if that weren’t the case, she wouldn’t be here, freezing her sculpted tush. This particular star jet prototype, the Fjord F-1500, was supposed to be the fastest, toughest, sleekest thing in the galaxy. It’s fuel cell was designed to last a hundred years. New-gen tech, indeed.
“Alright, climb in the cockpit,” instructed the photog. The flack took a fob from her jacket and opened the door.
Cindy climbed into the pilot’s seat. The leather was cold against her bare skin.
“No, the other seat,” said the flack peevishly. “Arnold, you’re up.”
A chiseled man was sitting on a folding camp chair in matching sweats worth half of Cindy’s yearly takeaway. He looked up for the first time, rose, and casually pulled it off to reveal a fashionable spacesuit that covered everything but left little to the imagination.
“Scoot, babe,” he said to Cindy.
She sighed and moved into the co-pilot’s seat.
The flack handed Cindy the fob. “Hold this over the edge. It’s limited-edition Viviser-designed, so make sure it’s front-and-center.”
Arnold donned chunky sunspecs and mugged for the obliging camera. Cindy looked cute and boosted the fob until her arm grew tired.
“Alright, close the cockpit and make it look like you’re about to take off,” ordered the flack.
Cindy fumbled with the fob until she found the right button.
“I can see myself flying one of these,” Arnold purred when the door closed.
“I can’t,” Cindy snapped. She turned on the engine and flipped the switch that gave her the controls. She also turned on the heat.
The cockpit was soundproof, so she could only see, not hear, the commotion outside. But she heard Arnold quite clearly when he yelped, “What’re you doing, babe?”
“Taking it for a spin,” Cindy said sweetly.
“Are you crazy? Turn the damn thing off!”
“Touch anything and we’ll probably crash,” she warned, settling in. She pulled a checklist out of her bodice and ran over it, pressing buttons, throwing switches, and tapping screens in the right sequence.
“You can’t fly this thing!”
“Sure I can. I got my pilot’s license in the mail yesterday. Why’d’you think I agreed to join this stupid shoot?”
“Yes … yesterday?”
Further discussion was drowned by the hum of the engine, the soft thwap of the warp and the scuttle of displaced regolith as the star jet achieved hovering flight.
With a mocking salute to the slack-jawed flack below, Cindy launched them into orbit.
“Hey! This thing has a tracker. They’re going to catch you!”
Cindy directed the fastest jet with the longest-lived battery in the galaxy toward the broad expanse of the Milky Way that seethed before them like sea foam.
She cackled. “I’d like to see ‘em try.”
Excellent. "Fjord 1500" was a great name, and I thought you tied the story to the image nicely, especially the detail on the earmuffs.