ENTRY LOG // H3-79QZ
It’s late cycle, and I’m sitting by the big window in our module, the one that looks out over Dock Sector 4, where the ships come and go like restless fireflies in the endless black. The hum of the station feels softer here, but still, the air smells faintly of recycled metal and hydroponic soil from the domes below. I can hear the distant clatter and hiss of machinery, Dad probably still working in the mech bay, tightening bolts and coaxing life back into old engines that nobody else cares about.
I helped in the agricultural dome again today—lifting those heavy trays of green shoots, checking the humidity meters, talking to the plants like Mom told me to. The hydroponic mist felt cool on my skin, a tiny relief from the recycled air that never quite feels fresh. Even though the law says I can’t really work—too young, they say—I know my help matters. Dad says every little thing counts when you’re stuck on a station orbiting a dead rock so far from the nearest planet you can’t even see it.
There aren’t many kids here, not like on Earth or the old colonies that fell. I almost never see my own age, and when I do, they’re often just passing through before they’re shipped off to other stations or back to Earth. The adults here are always busy, tired, or too wrapped up in their own survival to bother much with the young ones. Sometimes I feel like some odd ghost, wandering these crowded metal halls.
From this window, I watch ships arrive—cargo ships with scratched paint and patchwork hulls, sleek private cruisers that look like they’re hiding secrets, and big bulky industrial vessels that groan as they dock. They always bring new people, new stories. Some are merchants with eyes gleaming at a good trade, some are travelers with tired smiles and rough hands, and others speak in strange tongues that make my stomach flip with excitement. I overheard a trader telling Dad about the ruins on Xal’Vraxis—some ancient alien place filled with glowing symbols and traps. Another time, a pilot told me about the way stars look from the void between galaxies, how they bleed color that no human eye can truly see.
These stories are my stars in the dark. They fill me with a restless hope that maybe, one day, I’ll have my own ship—small, fast, and free—and I’ll carve my own path through the cosmos. I imagine the hum of engines beneath me, the feel of stardust on my skin, and the endless expanse staring me in the face, daring me to jump into it.
But for now, it’s just me, the plants, Dad’s tools, and these quiet moments by the window, watching the galaxy keep moving while I’m stuck here, dreaming. The station feels like a cage sometimes—a glittering prison wrapped in thousands of lights and wires, but it’s the only home I’ve ever known. Tomorrow, I’ll be back in the dome, hands wet with mist and soil, but tonight, I’ll keep watching the ships and thinking about the stories they carry. Maybe, someday soon, one of those stories will be mine.
I’m tired now. The hum is louder, and the stars outside blur through the condensation on the glass. Time to rest. But the dreams… they won’t let me go.
—L.
ARCHIVE FRAGMENT: JX-42∆W9
I’m sitting here under the flicker of the worn hololamp in my cramped workshop, hands stained with the faint metallic sheen of titanium dust and polymer pigments. The air smells faintly of burnt circuits and machine oil—sometimes comforting, sometimes a reminder of how far I’ve sunk into this little corner of the city. The faint buzz of an old servotorque motor hums somewhere in the back, a tired drone that’s become the soundtrack to my days.
It’s been years since I started this business, painting and decorating implants—from skull plates with subtle filigree to full bionic arms and legs carved with intricate designs. I wanted to give those cold, clinical metal pieces a spark of humanity, a touch of personality. Each piece is a canvas, a chance to make something functional feel like art. When I began, the customers were mostly kids and young adults—the ones setting out for the stars, chasing adventure on distant stations or trading routes through the void. They wanted their augmentations to stand out, to tell a story about who they were, or who they hoped to become.
But now, those customers are fewer and farther between. The siren call of space—the unknown, the promise of freedom—has taken most of the youth away. They’re gone to the stations, the cargo haulers, the mining rigs breaking rocks on dead moons. The city below feels quieter, but also heavier, filled with the old and the very young, the ones left behind. The elders shuffle through the streets, their augmented limbs clanking softly, often looking at me with tired eyes. The kids are few, and I see their parents struggling, trying to keep some semblance of life here.
Business is tough. Some days I’m lucky if I can sell even a simple decorative plate, the kind that covers a skull incision or a worn patch on a forearm. I overheard a conversation by the market square today—people speculating on whether I’ll have to switch gears soon, start focusing on repairs and functional fixes for the elderly instead of styling for the spirited youth. I hate to think about it, but maybe they’re right. It’s not like artistry pays the bills when no one wants the art.
I can’t help but feel a knot in my chest. Decorating these parts was never just about making metal look good—it was about identity, about hope. And if those who dreamed of space are gone, who am I making these pieces for? I worry that the spark I chase in every brushstroke might dim as I lose the stories that used to come with each order.
Yet, even now, when a worn old arm comes in needing a fix, I try to find beauty in it. Maybe one day, I’ll learn to tell the stories of those who remain—etched in the scars and polished surfaces of their prosthetics. Maybe that will be another kind of art, quieter but no less alive.
The night deepens, and the city lights flicker beyond my window. Outside, the distant roar of a departing freighter reminds me of what’s out there—vast, cold, and waiting. Tomorrow, I’ll clean my brushes, oil the servos, and see who comes through my door. For now, I just sit with the hum of machines and the weight of futures fading and forming all at once.
—K.