Author: translunartravelerslounge

Military Intergalactic Recon and Response Ship, or MIRRS for short, was getting anxious. Or rather, as anxious as a retired military warship could be. This largely manifested as running propulsion system scans every 8.2 seconds as opposed to every 15 seconds, as she typically would in alert standby mode. She also ran a series of probability outcomes; not that she was asked to. They weren’t even the type of computations her system was designed to excel at. At 22 solar cycles, her processors were nearly obsolete. Certainly a newer AI could have run the numbers faster. But she never let pride get in the way of duty.

“They’re ready for you, Captain,” says the voice interface of the Orbiting Transfer Station. The glass in front of me is opaque, and I can’t see into the holding room. My heart sprouts wings and beats them wildly in my chest, but I steady my hand, and tap to open the door. The floor under my feet creaks as the station lists from the force of the invisible matter outside. I feel the change in a surge of queasiness. The station finds itself and is still, but the swell stays in my stomach.

The last Historian slips from between the pages of reality—a professional smile on their lips, one limb outstretched in welcome. “Hi,” they say, “I’m the Visiting Historian, here for the acquisition of the offered narrative. Could you please confirm your ticket…?”

Some advice I’ve never heeded: whatever you do, whatever you do, avoid your mysterious neighbour and his glamorous parties. Here’s a better suggestion: he’s had all the advantages you didn’t, so go for it. See how the other 0.0000005% of the other half live.

It doesn’t exist. Not the Codex; of course it exists. Why else would I be floating over your head? I mean the perfect relationship. Even a perfect relationship is inherently flawed. You ask me why? Because humans are just that way. Give them everything on a platter and they begin to… well, abuse its value.

You begin this dream in the middle, as always, knowing that the merchant is named Nihtcargast and sells nightmares. He runs a claw through the porcupine-like quills on the top of his head. “Nightmares are burnt soft-boiled eggs, you see.”

The meeting was held in one of the bomb shelters left over from the water wars.

Holy tits, Brisdor, you are heavier than I could ever have imagined. I always thought of you as my scrawny little sister, but

The shop only appears at midnight, when the curfew begins and the day ends. The streets are empty, save for the imperial soldiers. None of them approach the shop. Anyone in uniform gets turned away. Not by the shopkeeper, for it has none. That’s right. The shop has no keeper. As if by itself, every night it appears.

Okay, this thing looks like it’s recording. The light is on, but I have no idea if it still really works. Not much else does, but I figured keeping a record of some kind is a good idea. Though I still don’t know what happened. We got hit by … something. A meteor maybe? Or an asteroid? All I know is that there is a gaping hole in the station, not far from the cells, and everything has gone to shit. Like deep shit.