An interview with a character

What is your name?
My name? I'm Minea Lintunen. And yes, I know what the surname means. 'Little bird.' Look at me! Do you see anything little about me?

No, I don't. So you're not little. What are you, physically?
I'm large. I'm huge. Oh, not fat, not that. I'm tall. I'm broad. I got muscles. The guy who said women can't grow enormous muscles by exercising was dead wrong.

But your muscles are not that big.
Oh yeah? Look at these damned biceps!

They're impressive. But I've seen bigger, you know.
[She slaps him.] Have you also felt bigger biceps?

No, I can't say I have.
Blah you, author. I'm not talking.

[Pause]

Guys love your body, right?
They adore it. I wish they did. Why don't they? They want weak women. They want women who they can scare. They don't want a woman who scares them.

If you could change one thing in your body, what would it be?
Change my body? Make me smaller, but as fit as now. Give me a more agile body. Make me shorter so I don't always need custom-made cockpits.

That's not one thing, you know.
I don't do small stuff like one. Deal with it.

Speaking of cockpits. You're a pilot?
You know I am.

Tell me more.
Well, I graduated third of class in the Air and Orbit battle school. Got promoted to lieutenant straight from class. Ran some hairy missions and got the medals to prove it.

So you're a lieutenant. Why ——
No I'm not.

You're a captain, then? Major?
No.

What then?
I'm a nobody.

What happened?
I got busted, that's what happened. Why I'm on this damned sinking boat.

Go on.
That damned cocky captain of mine, formerly mine, made a rookie error on a combat flight. I saved his ass. Afterward, he slapped me. I slapped back. I got court-martialed. He didn't.

Why not?
He had connections.

Ah. [Pause] How old are you?
What, that story's over, not interested any more?

Something like that. Age?
Twenty-Six Standard years. And exactly half, on lift day.

So now you're Eighty or so?
No, I'm Twenty-Six. Hibernation stops the clock, don't you know?

No, it doesn't.
Poor old Richard got old. I didn't. He lived the sixty years, I slept. I say I'm Twenty-Six, and half.

Okay, okay. [pause] How do you like to wear your hair?
Another change of subject? Whatever. I'm military. I wear my hair short.

You were military.
I still am. Doesn't matter what the brass says.

Okay. How did you like to wear your hair before?
Before?

In your civilian life.
Ah. I wore it long. Hated cutting any of it, and did it just enough to make it look ... not horrendous.

How did you feel when you had to cut it for the military?
I cried.

All night?
All night. But no fear, so did everyone else.

Everyone?
Yes. We were an all-women group. They split us up soon enough, though.

Did you make any friends?
I was the geek of the group. Tall, yes, but no muscle. And I read books. Books, you hear? It seemed like none of them had ever heard of the concept.

But if they were officer trainees...
We weren't. Boot camp.

You are a mustang?
Yep.

And you got into combat, went to officer training, then flew missions... all that before your twenty-sixth birth day?
Pretty much.

I see where you got your muscles from.
What do you mean?

You were compensating.
Blah.

I notice you're talking terse now.
I'm tired of this questioning... and it occurs to me you're going to post this to the Internet.

Yes, I am.
So, post this as well. 26-year old athletic independent woman wants to date an older man. Geek soldiers preferred. Post a picture, get an answer guaranteed. Include a good book, I'll guarantee three rounds of email.

And you expect to get answers?
No. Go write the story, O Author. I want to know what happens to me next.