Star Date: May 1st, 2955 Crew: Bahaliel, Tragic_Descent, IcaKun, AndrewMacor AI Companion: Finrod Vessel: RSI Constellation Taurus
✧ Morning Light at Pyro Gateway
Armor gleaming, coffee in hand, I stood aboard the platform at Pyro Gateway. Finrod, my ever-watchful elven AI companion, had already calibrated nav paths and uploaded the latest star charts. Ahead, the quiet hum of systems. Beside me, Tragic_Descent — loyal, sharp, and ever-ready. Our destination: Orison. There we were to join with Ica and Andrew for a full-crew operation.
Finrod prepared our quantum jump through Crusader space, checking for Nine Tails interference along the route. All clear. We launched into quantum.
The soft swirl of Crusader’s atmosphere rose to meet us as we dropped from quantum. I descended smoothly, our ship cutting into the clouds like a ghost into silk. Atmospheric entry stable. Altitude 572.9km. Fuel steady at 83%. The world below — serene, beautiful, deceptive.
Vertical landings still held a thrill. There’s something about descending through clouds — the illusion of peace, masking the chaos below.
Tragic was waiting. I gave him a plushie—something soft amidst the steel. He accepted it silently, but I noticed how his hand lingered. Sometimes bonds aren't forged in fire. Sometimes, they're sewn into seams and stitches.
I watched him standing near the railing, his form half-shadowed by Orison's skylight. "My handsome Tragic," I whispered to myself.
He didn't hear, but I felt it.
It wasn't just his appearance. It was the quiet way he held the space around him. Strong. Steady. Present.
As we waited for Ica and Andrew, the servers of Orison proved less graceful. “Server Error: Please Wait” — an elevator priesthood trial. Finrod called it ancient magic. I called it annoying.
It was barely a moment later that the Verse decided to remind us who was really in charge.
Tragic rubberbanded off the shuttle platform. One moment there, the next — gone. Dead by elevator. Respawned in Lorville.
“Classic Orison transit,” Finrod muttered. “I’ve filed a complaint with the Lift Gods.”
Andrew and Ica arrived in the Constellation Taurus, lowering their ramp like a chariot from legend. They picked me up from Orison — Andrew at the hatch, Ica at his side. “Come, sister. We ride at dusk.” I stepped aboard, and we flew together toward Lorville to retrieve our fallen comrade. We soared down into Hurston’s murk. Through the yellow smog and industrial haze, Lorville loomed like a tombstone. Finding Tragic turned out to be more difficult than anticipated. He’d gotten lost in the city’s maze, wandering through alleys and cargo lifts like a space raccoon with no map. We laughed, but deep down I was relieved when we spotted him — finally — walking the platform like a revenant.
He was back, the crew was together at last!
We lingered in the hangar for a moment, watching chaos unfold around us. A random pilot had crashed their ship straight into the dealership display, wedging a Gladius between showroom models like a kid cramming toys into the wrong box.
He started pacing around me, staring — slowly and menacingly. Such strange behavior deserved a response: I wiped my helmet with exaggerated mockery, a statement of disdain louder than any words. Finrod chuckled in my ear.
We headed inside for supplies and snacks. Three strangers were huddled silently in a corner — as if attending a vending machine cult. I didn’t ask. I just bit into my burrito and kept chewing.