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.