It scratches a question mark next to my planet.
I ate the green rations. They taste like regret and aspartame. The cargo bay is not cargo. It is a graveyard of failed physics. project hail mary
Earth didn’t send me here to harvest fuel. They sent me here to weaponize regret. On Sol 3, I find the second pod. It scratches a question mark next to my planet
The ship’s AI, “Grace,” plays a recording. My voice. Older, wearier. The cargo bay is not cargo
The astrophage love chaos. They feast on unresolved cause-and-effect.
Translation: This microbe can rewind events. Spill coffee? Not if an astrophage was watching. Break a bone? The astrophage decides you didn’t. We’re not talking about time travel. We’re talking about erasing consequences .
I have amnesia. Not the fun, soap-opera kind. The kind where I look at my own hands—calloused, burned on the left palm—and feel no recognition.