The feed fades in mid-thought, as if Captain had been speaking to no one, or everyone, for some time. Through the observation lens, the station’s interior drifts in and out of shape, geometry bending in quiet rhythms, like it has been listening too.

The transmission doesn’t start — it leaks. The feed stutters to life mid-frame, catching the Captain mid-thought. One boot propped on the console, helmet resting on his knee, visor dark. Dust floats where gravity forgot it. A quiet clink echoes — something small, metal, just dropped to the floor.

The log begins mid-sentence, again. Camera lens coated in frost. A low hum rattles the hull. Static clears just enough to reveal a slouched figure in a pilot’s chair, face obscured by a cracked visor.

Log Tag: ORIGIN.CULTURE.MONAD Access Level: Internal Memory Stream

The feed begins mid-sentence, as if the recording had been live longer than intended. The interior of the station is visible through an observation lens—geometry that shifts subtly with each blink.

Static crackles. A silhouette materialises against the cold glow of a viewport, the reflection of distant supernovae.