Finally blinking the bleary gunk out of my eyes I look over the room. There is rust and plants. That should be physically impossible. If I remember right, the Distant Dreams' hull was—

  "A marvel of layered engineering!" the AI assistant suddenly interrupts, its voice adopting an overly enthusiastic tone reminiscent of a propaganda reel. "Designed by the brightest minds in humanity’s Golden Age, the outermost layer of Vibranium Composite absorbs impacts and kinetic energy with unparalleled efficiency—perfect for deflecting space debris or those pesky micrometeoroids! Beneath that, Zeramite provides heat resistance so advanced, it can withstand star-skimming maneuvers without breaking a sweat. And Duratanium? Oh, Duratanium! The impenetrable backbone of human ingenuity, safeguarding the Distant Dreams' vital systems from radiation and physical harm."

  I blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. "Uh, thanks for the… enthusiastic commentary?"

  Undeterred, the AI continues, "But wait, there’s more! The inner framework relied on Aerosteel and Carbosteel. Aerosteel’s ultralight structure made it the ideal choice for our expansive corridors and living quarters, while Carbosteel’s composite strength provided unmatched durability against micro-impacts and radiation! Together, they formed the perfect harmony of form and function!" The AI finishes with a flourish, and for a moment, I half expect it to flash a logo in my mind’s eye.

  I exhale sharply, rubbing my temples. "Okay, I get it. Can we dial it down a notch? I’m trying to process the fact that this supposedly indestructible ship is rusting. And, you know, the whole plants-growing-on-metal thing."

  "Of course, Master!" the AI chirps, unbothered. "Just let me know if you need a full breakdown of humanity’s greatest engineering triumphs. Always here to assist!"

  I mutter under my breath, "Great. Not only do I wake up forty-five thousand years in the future, but I get saddled with an infomercial mascot. Lucky me."

  The inner framework, I recall, relied on Aerosteel. Unlike the dense Carbosteel hull, Aerosteel’s ultralight structure supported the interior without adding unnecessary weight. It was perfect for the labyrinth of corridors and compartments inside the ship. Both materials were considered unbreakable in their prime, but forty-five thousand years is a long time to test even the most advanced engineering.

  I look around the bay as my vision clears, the dull white light reflecting off the aerogel walls, giving the room a sterile, washed-out glow. It feels like standing in a neglected office building, the kind where broken coffee machines and flickering fluorescent lights are the norm. The pod bay isn’t much to look at—twenty pods in total, a testament to the budget economy class that my middling salary could afford. Luxury, this was not.

  I frown, the thought of medical staff seeing my pod stirring a familiar sense of self-loathing. Slightly overweight, out of shape, and utterly unremarkable—my body was a testament to years of neglect. It wasn’t that I didn’t have options. Weight-loss pills and high-rate metabolism muscle builders were commonplace, practically handed out as incentives. But they always felt fake, unearned. I’d told myself I wanted something real, something I could point to and say, I did that. Yet here I am, proving that wanting and doing are two very different things. They probably took one look and stifled a grimace before moving on, just another subpar specimen to add to the list. The realization gnaws at me, a bitter reminder that even in stasis, I’ve left nothing worth admiring behind.

  There is a gurney in the central catwalk between the pods. a palm tree has grown up around it making it look like some screwed up version of a beach chair in the bahamas. Upon its white fabric -- what is this obsession with white in medical facilities -- sits a simple t-shirt and a pair of hyperweave pants. Hyperweave—an engineering marvel in its own right—wasn’t just clothing; it was survival gear. Constructed from carbon nanotubes bound with a synthetic polymer lattice, it was lightweight, breathable, and nearly indestructible. Resistant to tears, extreme temperatures, and even minor radiation exposure, hyperweave had been the go-to material for deep-space attire.

  "That’s right, Master!" the AI chimed in, its voice brimming with exaggerated cheer. "Hyperweave isn’t just any material; it’s your ultimate space buddy! Tear-resistant, super breathable, and oh-so durable! Plus, who wouldn’t love a fabric that shrugs off radiation like a pro?"

  I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "Yeah, thanks for the... riveting commentary."

  "You’re welcome, nya~!" it replied, undeterred. "Just think of me as your friendly fashion consultant! After all, hyperweave doesn’t just protect—it makes you look purr-fect!"

  I run my fingers over the fabric, the texture smooth yet oddly firm. It’s practical, sure, but it feels impersonal, like the kind of thing mass-produced for colonies where individuality wasn’t a priority. Functional, not comfortable. Still, I couldn’t deny its utility, especially given the state of the ship. Anything less durable would have fallen apart long before now.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Walking back to the pod, I check the options and find what I’m looking for: the wash cycle. Finally. The thought of getting the last of this vile gunk off me feels almost cathartic. As the gel begins to flow away in rivulets, spiraling down the drain, I can’t help but think about the things I’m leaving behind. It’s like I’m washing the past off, shedding years of complacency and regret.

  Maybe I need to stop seeing this as just a loss. Maybe this could be a chance—a chance to grow, to start over. I’ve always followed the path of least resistance, drifting through life with no real aim. But if I’m honest, that’s never gotten me anywhere. This time, I want to make something of myself. Something real.

  As I pick up the clothes and pull them on, my fingers brush against the familiar texture of a techy jumpsuit. I pause, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. These jumpsuits were the uniform of the tech bay—practical, comfortable, and strangely unifying. Memories of me and the buds flood back, a cascade of chaotic moments that defined who we were. Fun-loving idiots, just like me, finding humor in the monotony of work. There was that time we left the fake rat in the air filter housing—a lifelike little monstrosity that caused a commotion every time someone "discovered" it. For months, it was our go-to prank, passed around like an inside joke with sharp little teeth.

  The smile fades as I lift the jumpsuit and see another set of items underneath. The sight drags me abruptly out of nostalgia and into something far darker. These items stir memories from an entirely different chapter of my life—memories of the conflict that marked humanity’s final days on Earth. My throat tightens as fragments of the past resurface.

  I served. Everyone did; it was mandatory for those coming of age. What happened in China—the sheer devastation—it’s something that still haunts me. The water wars had already ravaged the planet, turning nations into battlefields over dwindling resources. Chemical fires burned for months, and the blackened skies suffocated hope itself. But the atrocities in China… those were something else entirely.

  Their government made a grim calculation: limited food and water couldn’t be wasted on those deemed "less valuable." Instead, they turned their citizens into machines, replacing biological parts with crude metal augmentations. Minds were trapped in those cold, unyielding shells, robbed of free will and forced into servitude. The lifeless eyes of those metal husks still haunt my dreams. They weren’t just soldiers or workers—they were prisoners in their own bodies, stripped of everything that made them human.

  I remember standing there, weapon in hand, faced with the unbearable task of ending their misery. They couldn’t scream. They couldn’t fight back. All they could do was obey. And I… I had to do what I thought was mercy. It’s not something I would wish on my worst enemy.

  Billions died during those years. The wars that came before looked almost trivial compared to the unrelenting horror that swallowed humanity whole. And it wasn’t just adults. They didn’t stop there. The augments—originally designed to give mobility to the infirm or restore lost limbs—were turned against the most vulnerable. Children. Small bodies encased in metal shells, their young minds manipulated into perfect tools of labor or war.

  I clutch the jumpsuit tighter in my hands, my knuckles whitening. The memories are too much. I feel my chest tighten, the air turning thick. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I try—and fail—to suppress the images: lifeless eyes behind cold, unfeeling masks. Children who should have been running, laughing, playing… turned into something monstrous.

  I let out a ragged, choked laugh, more a sob than anything. "Ironic," I whisper aloud to no one. "They were supposed to help. Those augments were supposed to be miracles. And we turned them into nightmares."

  I drop the jumpsuit back onto the pile and grip the edge of the gurney for support. My legs threaten to give out beneath me. My mind reels, spiraling back to that moment—standing there with a weapon in hand, faced with what felt like an impossible choice. The faces of those children… metal shells crumpling under fire. I thought I was ending their misery. But was I? Or was I just trying to make it easier for myself?

  I gasp, forcing the bile back down. The past is gone. Those days are gone. But the scars remain, fresh and raw, no matter how much time passes.

  Pulling the jumpsuit back on feels less like dressing and more like a ritual. My hands move instinctively, each action etched into muscle memory by years of practice. I strap the tac belt around my waist, cinching it down until it feels just right—a familiar weight against my hips, grounding me. The load-bearing belt isn’t just for utility; it’s a constant reminder of battles fought and burdens carried, both physical and emotional.

  I press check the pistol, the motion smooth and automatic. The slide clicks back just far enough to verify the chamber is loaded. I drop the magazine, counting the rounds with the precision of someone who’s done this countless times. Both are ready. I pause, holding the pistol for a moment longer, and let out a bitter laugh. It’s a Glock 19 pattern slug-thrower. Even after all this time, some things really don’t change.

  There are two spare magazines secured on the belt, their weight reassuring. Beside them sits a Vibranium knife with a vibro-edge. I thumb the activation stud, watching the blade hum faintly as it vibrates. The oscillations could shear through nearly anything—metal, bone, you name it—as long as it had a charge. Practical, deadly, and utterly impersonal.

  "Looks sharp, nya~!" the AI chimes in, voice laced with cutesy enthusiasm. "But don’t worry, Master! It’s vibro-edge is purr-fectly safe… as long as you don’t trip! Nyan~!"

  I let out a groan, pressing my fingers to my temples. "What are you, the galaxy’s worst safety instructor?"

  "That’s what I’m here for, Master! Keeping you safe… and entertained!" it chirps, undeterred. I resist the urge to argue with the disembodied voice in my head and focus back on the knife.

  Each piece of gear slides into place with the precision of a practiced rite. The familiarity is both comforting and unsettling, a reminder that while the world may have changed, the rituals of survival remain the same.

  Chapter length. Do you like the length of this chapter versus the previous?