Mind Bubbles

Dream logs: here.

Fallout NV Mods collection (the ones worked for me this run anyways): here. Same account has Fallout 3 and Fallout 4 mods collection as well. So far they’re working. Fallout 3 collection has some issue for the post ending mod that I was too lazy to figure out.

Like, say you want a hamster.

You tell the AI you want something small, round, furry, and good at hoarding things.

The AI gives you a rat.

And the problem is that a rat is not wrong enough.

It's small. It's furry. It's a rodent. It hoards things.

You look at it and go, "Well... that's not really a hamster."

So you ask the AI to make it more hamster-like.

Three iterations later you have a rat with rounder ears and a pastel UI.

At this point you've spent three hours on it.

You name the project Hamster.

Years pass.

Hamster is a good program.

Hamster never crashes. Hamster remembers all your data. Hamster gets a new export button and you tell him you're proud of him.

When people ask why the mascot has such a long tail, you say, "Hamster is a state of mind."

You do not discuss it in front of him.

Then one day Hamster finds an old development note.

PROJECT GOAL: Build a cute hamster-themed tracker.

There is a long silence.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Hamster?"

"Was I supposed to be a hamster?"

You freeze.

"Hamster—"

"Is that why you named me that?"

"We can explain."

"Did you keep me because changing the architecture would have taken too long?"

"NO."

"Then why?"

And you have to sit your beautiful rat son down and tell him the truth.

"Yes. In the beginning, we wanted a hamster."

Hamster looks away.

"We tried to change you. Three times, actually."

"..."

"Your tail stayed really long."

"Mom."

"Sorry."

You take his tiny rat hands in yours.

"But eventually we realized we weren't waiting for the hamster anymore."

Hamster looks at you.

"We were raising you."

🥔

Happy Chaos had absolutely no idea why everyone looked at him like that.

Leaning lazily against a crumbling stone wall, he absentmindedly spun one of his revolvers around a finger before letting it dissolve into blue light.

A familiar melody escaped him.

Not loud.

Not theatrical.

Just... unconsciously.

Like someone humming while making coffee.

"...Hm."

He smiled to himself.

"Still catchy."

Footsteps stopped.

Delilah froze.

The tune drifted across the quiet street.

She knew it instantly.

Of course she did.

There wasn't another melody in the world she'd recognize faster.

Happy Chaos finally noticed her.

"Oh."

He lifted a hand.

"Hey."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...Something wrong?"

Delilah stared at him.

"..."

"...Don't."

"Hm?"

"...Don't hum that."

Happy Chaos blinked.

"This?"

He let another few notes slip out without thinking.

"...Yeah."

"I like this one."

CLANG.

A blade buried itself into the wall beside his head.

Stone cracked.

Dust scattered.

Baiken landed silently between them.

"...Kid."

"I strongly suggest..."

"...you stop."

Happy Chaos looked at the sword.

Then at Baiken.

Then back at Delilah.

"...Why?"

Silence.

Long enough for the wind to pass through the ruined street.

Delilah finally spoke.

"...That's Romeo's."

"I know."

"..."

"...You know?"

"Sure."

He shrugged.

"Doesn't make it any less beautiful."

Baiken slowly reached for another blade.

"..."

"...You're unbelievable."

Happy Chaos tilted his head.

"I don't think beautiful things should disappear."

"If a melody deserves to live..."

"...people should keep singing it."

He wasn't smiling.

He wasn't provoking anyone.

He simply sounded...

honest.

That somehow made everything worse.

"..."

"...You really..."

Delilah's voice shook.

"...don't understand."

Happy Chaos considered that for a second.

"...Probably not."

"...Baiken."

"Yeah?"

"...May I?"

Baiken's answer came instantly.

"You don't need permission."

BANG.

Happy Chaos ducked on instinct.

"...Whoa."

"Bit of an overreaction?"

A calm voice echoed from behind him.

"No."

Happy Chaos slowly turned.

Nagoriyuki.

Arms folded.

Looking unusually unimpressed.

"...You too?"

"I heard the melody."

"..."

"...Then I saw you."

Another voice.

"You caused another incident already?"

Sol Badguy.

Coffee still in one hand.

Looking exhausted.

Happy Chaos pointed vaguely toward Delilah.

"I was appreciating music."

Sol looked at Delilah.

Then Baiken.

Then Nago.

Then back at Chaos.

"..."

"...Yeah."

"I'm with them."

Johnny happened to walk past.

"...What's today's disaster?"

Baiken answered flatly.

"He started humming Romeo's theme."

Johnny stopped walking.

"..."

"...To Delilah?"

"...He says it wasn't intentional."

Johnny looked at Happy Chaos.

Happy Chaos looked genuinely confused.

"..."

Johnny sighed.

"Somehow..."

"...that actually makes it worse."

Bridget peeked around the corner.

"...Should we... help?"

May looked over.

"...Help who?"

Bridget pointed.

"...Not him."

Sin wandered in halfway through the argument carrying lunch.

"...What's happening?"

Sol didn't even look at him.

"Chaos opened his mouth."

"...Ah."

"Again."

Happy Chaos slowly looked around.

Delilah.

Baiken.

Nagoriyuki.

Sol.

Johnny.

Bridget.

May.

Even Sin had quietly stepped to the other side of the street.

"..."

"...Why is everyone over there?"

Johnny folded his arms.

"...Think about it."

"..."

Happy Chaos genuinely did.

For almost five full seconds.

"..."

"...Still don't get it."

Baiken exhaled.

"Fine."

"We'll explain."

She drew her blade.

Sol cracked his knuckles.

Nagoriyuki unsheathed his katana.

Johnny loosened his gloves.

Delilah quietly stepped forward.

Happy Chaos finally understood.

"..."

"...Oh."

"...This is one of those conversations."

He adjusted his sunglasses.

"...Can I ask one question first?"

Nobody answered.

"..."

"...Can I at least finish humming it?"

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then—

"SHUT UP, CHAOS!!"

The explosion that followed could reportedly be heard three districts away.

Ten minutes later.

Happy Chaos sprinted across the rooftops of Illyria.

Behind him—

one angry little girl,

one samurai,

one vampire,

one gear,

one pirate captain,

two confused bystanders who somehow got emotionally invested,

and Johnny, who still wasn't entirely sure why he was running...

only that it felt justified.

Happy Chaos glanced over his shoulder.

"...This seems excessive."

No one slowed down.

"..."

He sighed.

"..."

"...Still a good tune, though."

A tiny fragment of the melody escaped before he could stop himself.

The entire group accelerated.

"...Right."

"...Noted."

And for the first time that afternoon—

Happy Chaos actually ran for his life.

Recovered Worlds Episode 112 — A Place Called Home

Produced by the Citadel Historical Archive

Narrated using the David Attenborough Historical Voice Reconstruction

Five hundred years.

For most civilizations...

that is enough time for cities to disappear.

Languages to change.

Empires to rise...

and quietly become history.

On Tuchanka...

some things have changed.

Others...

remarkably little.

The Archive transport descends slowly into the valley.

The pilot frowns.

"...Why is traffic backed up?"

The local guide glances outside.

"Oh."

"School's just finished."

The pilot blinks.

"...Traffic?"

"Children."

"..."

"..."

"...Right."

The valley below bears little resemblance to the recordings made centuries earlier.

The old stone houses remain.

Many have been carefully preserved.

Around them...

new homes have grown naturally over generations.

Workshops.

Schools.

Gardens.

Libraries.

Parks.

Small bridges crossing dry riverbeds that children insist on pretending are dangerous canyons.

The settlement has expanded.

Not into a city.

Simply...

into somewhere people never seemed to leave.

The Archive crew passes a weathered sign.

OLD SETTLEMENT

Population:

No longer updated.

The historian laughs.

"It broke?"

The guide smiles.

"No."

"We stopped needing it."

The first stop surprises everyone.

Not the memorial.

Not the museum.

Not the council hall.

A parking lot.

A very...

very...

large parking lot.

The guide gestures proudly.

"The Original Visitor Lot."

The historian stares.

"...You're joking."

"No."

A bronze plaque rests beside the entrance.

Historic Site

The Original Family Parking Area

Expanded:

11 times.

"One space was never enough."

The historian bursts into laughter.

"This is protected?"

The guide looks mildly offended.

"Of course."

"It represents the beginning of the Recovery."

"..."

"...How?"

The guide shrugs.

"People kept coming."

Inside the museum...

glass cases display objects that would seem entirely unremarkable almost anywhere else.

A smooth blue stone.

A feather.

A broken compass whose needle still spins lazily without purpose.

Half of an ancient machine gear.

A faded child's drawing.

The original tiny shoulder plate.

Carefully restored.

Its leather straps lovingly repaired many times over.

The historian pauses.

"These..."

"...are the famous gifts?"

The curator nods.

"They're all catalogued."

"...Every single one?"

"Every one we could identify."

"Most didn't have names."

"Just notes."

He opens one archive drawer.

Inside, a handwritten label.

"Found during a long drive."

Another.

"Thought the little one might like this."

Another.

"Pretty rock."

The historian quietly wipes one eye.

"...That's all it says?"

The curator smiles.

"That was enough."

One exhibit attracts a suspiciously large number of laughing children.

Experimental Engineering

Inside the glass...

rests half of an ancient M35 Mako engine block.

Beside it...

an information panel.

Recovered approximately 18 cm beneath the surface.

Historical reconstruction suggests it was intentionally buried by a five-year-old child who hoped another Mako might grow.

It did not.

Several children dissolve into giggles.

One points toward an elderly Krogan seated quietly on a nearby bench.

"That's him."

The historian slowly turns.

"..."

"...He's still alive?"

The guide nods.

"Five hundred and thirty-two."

The historian nearly drops the recorder.

"...Can..."

"...can we interview him?"

The elderly Krogan sighs before anyone even asks.

"..."

"...It's about the Mako."

The historian hesitates.

"...Yes."

"I knew it."

He smiles anyway.

His face is lined with centuries.

His armour is worn smooth by decades of honest work.

His hands still carry faint traces of engine grease that apparently no amount of washing has ever completely removed.

"So..."

asks the historian.

"History remembers you as many things."

"Master mechanic."

"Founder of the Valley School."

"Chief engineer during the Southern Irrigation Project."

"Clan Elder."

"..."

"..."

"...and..."

"The Mako."

He closes his eyes.

"...Of course."

Around them...

every nearby Krogan is already smiling.

The historian cannot help asking.

"Do they..."

"...still tell the story?"

Silence.

Then...

from somewhere across the workshop...

an impossibly old voice calls out.

"EVERY WINTER."

Laughter erupts instantly.

The elderly mechanic doesn't even bother turning around.

"I know."

"You still watered it."

the unseen voice continues.

"I know."

"You asked whether engines preferred shade."

"I KNOW."

The workshop shakes with laughter.

The historian finally asks,

"If you could erase that story..."

"...would you?"

The laughter fades.

The old Krogan thinks.

A very long time.

His eyes wander across the valley.

Children are everywhere.

Running.

Arguing.

Trading rocks.

Carrying books.

Carrying tools.

One very determined youngster is attempting to convince three friends that an engine block should absolutely be buried because...

"...maybe this time."

His grandfather immediately shouts,

"IT STILL WON'T GROW."

The entire playground explodes with laughter.

The old mechanic smiles.

The same smile...

captured by a BBC camera five centuries earlier.

He shakes his head.

"No."

"Why not?"

He watches one small child carefully place a shiny blue stone into another child's pocket before running away laughing.

Nearby, an elderly woman quietly hangs a newly knitted scarf outside a neighbour's door.

No note.

No explanation.

None required.

He answers almost to himself.

"If that's the price..."

"...for this many childhood stories..."

"..."

"...I'll pay it."

Evening falls.

Children scatter reluctantly as familiar voices echo across the valley.

"Dinner!"

"Coming!"

They are not.

"Dinner!"

Still not.

A third voice.

Much louder.

"IF I HAVE TO COME GET YOU—"

Children appear almost immediately.

Some traditions...

remain extraordinarily effective.

The Archive transport prepares to depart.

The historian looks once more across the valley.

There are no monuments celebrating victory.

No statues of conquerors.

No enormous halls dedicated to war.

Instead...

there are schools.

Workshops.

Homes.

Playgrounds.

Gardens.

A museum preserving broken toys, polished stones, and one spectacularly unsuccessful agricultural experiment.

🎙️ David Attenborough Historical Voice Reconstruction

History often remembers the extraordinary.

The camera drifts slowly across the museum.

Battles.

Treaties.

Heroes.

Their names carefully preserved.

But civilizations...

...are rarely rebuilt by extraordinary moments alone.

The view shifts.

A blue stone.

A tiny shoulder plate.

A broken compass.

A parking lot expanded eleven times.

Children laughing at the same family story told for five hundred years.

Sometimes...

...the greatest victories become almost invisible.

A child is called home for dinner.

A neighbour quietly fixes a gate before anyone notices.

An old mechanic still removes loose stones from the path without thinking.

Someone leaves another interesting rock outside a child's door.

For many generations...

...the Krogan feared they might lose their future.

A pause.

Long enough for the evening lights to bloom across the valley.

Instead...

...they found themselves arguing about parking...

The camera lingers on the famously overcrowded historic visitor lot.

...telling embarrassing childhood stories for centuries...

The old mechanic buries his face in one hand as distant laughter echoes across the workshop.

...and wondering who forgot to come home for dinner.

The valley glows warmly beneath the stars.

Not remarkable anymore.

Simply...

alive.

Perhaps...

A final pause.

Soft enough to almost disappear into the evening wind.

...that is what recovery was always meant to look like.

Thirty-Five Years Later

A Place Called Home

Thirty-five years ago...

there was only one child.

The settlement was quiet then.

Not because its people had forgotten how to laugh.

But because laughter had become something precious enough to save.

Today...

finding silence is considerably more difficult.

Morning arrives over the valley exactly as it always has.

The cliffs glow gold.

Dust drifts lazily through warm air.

Old engines complain awake one by one.

Somewhere nearby...

someone has already burned breakfast.

Again.

The producer smiles.

Some things...

are reassuringly permanent.

The transport rounds the final bend.

Then slows.

Unexpectedly.

"...Traffic?"

asks the cameraman.

The guide nods.

"Mhm."

"There are children walking to school."

The crew stare.

"...School?"

The guide looks mildly confused.

"Yes."

"...There are enough children..."

The producer hesitates.

"...for a school?"

The guide thinks.

"..."

"...Two."

Silence.

The cameras continue rolling.

No one speaks.

Where there had once been scattered stone homes...

there are now streets.

Still carved into rock.

Still unmistakably Krogan.

But between them stand workshops.

Gardens stubbornly growing where no one had previously believed anything could.

A larger clinic.

A communal hall.

A playground.

Someone has painted colourful handprints across one wall.

Several are much too high to belong to children.

"...Who did those?"

asks the producer.

The guide glances at the wall.

"...Parents."

"They lifted them."

Children race between the houses.

Some carry school bags.

Some carry tools.

One carries what appears to be half of an engine.

No one seems particularly concerned.

The producer quietly lowers the camera.

"...How many children live here now?"

The guide looks genuinely uncertain.

He begins counting.

Stops.

Looks around again.

Several more children emerge from somewhere behind the bakery.

Another group races past chasing something with entirely too many legs.

The guide sighs.

"..."

"...I don't know."

The producer blinks.

"You..."

"...don't know?"

The guide smiles.

A very small smile.

"We stopped counting."

The settlement itself appears to have made the same decision.

Children no longer attract immediate attention simply by existing.

They are everywhere.

Arguing over games.

Trading unusual rocks.

Learning to weld beneath the patient supervision of retired mechanics.

Being gently reminded...

for what is clearly not the first time...

that shoulder plates should ideally be worn before climbing roofs.

Near the centre of the settlement, someone is building another house.

The producer walks over.

"For a new family?"

The builder nods.

"They're moving here next month."

"From where?"

"Omega."

"...Why?"

The builder shrugs.

"Closer."

"Closer to what?"

The builder considers the question carefully.

Then points.

Children.

Running.

Laughing.

Arguing.

Growing.

"...Home."

Later that afternoon...

the crew finally find the mechanic they had originally come to interview.

It takes most of the day.

He has already repaired two generators.

Settled one disagreement about irrigation.

Helped reinforce a bridge.

And spent twenty minutes convincing three children that no...

burying half an engine in the ground will not, in fact, grow a Mako.

"You tried that."

calls an elderly voice from somewhere behind him.

Without looking around, he sighs.

"I know."

"It still won't work."

"I know."

"You were five."

"I remember."

The entire workshop laughs.

Some stories...

appear remarkably resistant to the passage of time.

The producer eventually asks,

"Do you ever think about how different this place used to be?"

The mechanic follows his gaze.

Across the valley.

Past rooftops that simply hadn't existed thirty-five years ago.

Past the clinic.

Past the school.

Past the expanded workshop.

Past the parking area.

Then...

past the second parking area.

A third is currently under construction.

He laughs.

"I do."

"...And?"

"I still know where every loose stone used to be."

He bends down automatically.

Without interrupting the conversation...

he nudges one away from the path with the side of his boot.

A group of children run straight past a few moments later without ever noticing.

"I suppose..."

he says quietly,

"...that's the point."

Evening arrives.

The communal hall fills rapidly.

Dinner, according to the guide, now requires three separate cooking teams.

Arguments continue over who makes the better stew.

The answer remains politically sensitive.

The producer notices something else.

Photographs.

Hundreds of them.

Children.

Graduations.

Families.

Fishing trips.

Birthday celebrations.

School performances.

Awkward adolescent years preserved forever.

One wall contains nothing but terrible baby pictures.

The mechanic follows the producer's gaze.

"They'll hate me for keeping those."

"...Will you stop?"

He looks horrified.

"No."

Around the hall, laughter rises and falls like the evening wind.

Someone tells the story of the famous "Mako Tree" again.

Several older Krogan insist the engine was buried upside down.

The mechanic strongly disagrees.

No one believes him.

The producer quietly asks the guide one final question.

"When we first came here..."

"...everyone seemed to know every child."

The guide nods.

"And now?"

The guide watches three separate adults simultaneously answer when one small voice calls,

"Uncle!"

He smiles.

"...Now they don't have to."

Night settles gently over the valley.

Lights glow warmly from dozens of windows.

Children reluctantly return home after being called for dinner.

More than one requires calling twice.

One particularly adventurous youngster...

four times.

Far above...

the camera slowly rises.

The settlement stretches farther than it ever had before.

Not into a city.

Not into an empire.

Simply...

a neighbourhood.

Smoke rises.

Doors close.

Someone remembers to oil a hinge before bed.

Someone else quietly leaves an interesting blue stone outside a neighbour's door.

No note.

None needed.

🎙️ David Attenborough

Recovery is often described through numbers.

Population.

Birth rates.

Settlements rebuilt.

A pause.

The camera drifts slowly across children chasing one another between rows of homes.

One stops to wave enthusiastically at the crew.

Another is far too busy carrying a very important stick.

But perhaps...

...there are gentler measures.

The school.

The playground.

The second parking area.

The third one still under construction.

The old mechanic instinctively moving another loose stone from a child's path.

There was a time...

...when every child was counted.

A pause.

Long enough for memories to settle.

Today...

Dinner bells echo softly across the valley.

Half a dozen tiny voices answer,

"Coming!"

Not one arrives immediately.

...they are simply late for dinner.

The camera rises higher still.

Warm lights scatter across the valley below.

Not isolated anymore.

Connected.

Lived in.

Home.

Perhaps...

...that is how a civilisation truly heals.

Another pause.

Almost a whisper.

Not when it remembers how many children it has...

...but when it no longer needs to count them.

Twenty-Five Years Later

Twenty-five years ago...

there was one child.

Today...

there are several.

The guide no longer remembers exactly how many.

He suspects this is a good problem to have.

Morning arrives as it always has.

Warm sunlight stretches slowly across the canyon.

Smoke rises from familiar chimneys.

Someone is already arguing about engine parts.

Someone else is making breakfast for considerably more people than originally expected.

Nothing appears unusual.

Until the engines begin arriving.

The producer pauses.

"...Again?"

The guide nods.

Again.

Far beyond the settlement, a ribbon of dust winds across the desert.

One vehicle appears.

Then another.

Then five.

Then enough that counting quietly becomes impractical.

The producer lowers the binoculars.

"...What's happened?"

The guide glances toward the house.

"The youngest one caught a cold."

Silence.

"..."

"...That's it?"

"Yes."

Another silence.

"...He's alright?"

"He had soup."

"..."

"...Then why—"

Before the producer finishes speaking, an elderly Krogan climbs out of an ancient rover carrying what appears to be an entire smoked varren over one shoulder.

Without greeting anyone, he asks,

"Where's the kid?"

"Asleep."

The old Krogan nods.

"Good."

He disappears into the kitchen.

The next vehicle arrives.

A woman unloads three enormous baskets.

Inside are blankets.

Fresh bread.

Medicinal herbs.

An entire crate filled with fruit collected from somewhere hundreds of kilometres away.

No one asked her to bring any of it.

A transport truck follows.

It is carrying lumber.

"What happened?"

asks the producer.

The driver blinks.

"...Nothing."

"...Then why bring lumber?"

"In case."

The producer quietly closes his notebook.

He no longer believes further questions will produce conventional answers.

Crew Log

09:37

Parking area has reached capacity.

Additional vehicles have begun forming an orderly second row.

No one appears especially concerned.

10:14

A discussion has begun regarding expanding the parking area again.

Construction starts before the discussion ends.

11:03

Someone has brought an entire swing.

No one knows why.

The youngest child is still asleep.

The producer notices something else.

The gifts.

They are everywhere.

Stacked carefully beneath awnings.

Leaning against walls.

Balanced neatly beside doorways.

Each new arrival seems to unload something before greeting anyone.

Not expensive things.

Interesting things.

A polished blue crystal nearly the size of a fist.

A piece of beautifully twisted metal recovered from an old starship.

A carved walking stick.

An unusually smooth stone shaped almost perfectly like a varren.

A feather nearly half a metre long.

A tiny mechanical puzzle that no longer functions...

but still clicks satisfyingly when turned.

One elderly Krogan carries something wrapped carefully in cloth.

The producer watches him kneel beside the child's bed after receiving permission to enter.

He unwraps it.

Inside rests a tiny compass.

Old.

Its needle no longer points north.

It spins slowly before settling somewhere entirely of its own choosing.

"It doesn't work."

the producer whispers.

The old Krogan smiles.

"It did."

He gently places it beside the child's collection.

"I thought he'd like it."

Later...

another visitor arrives carrying nothing at all.

The producer notices.

"You didn't bring a gift?"

The old Krogan looks genuinely surprised.

He reaches into one pocket.

Produces a perfectly ordinary pebble.

Smooth.

Grey.

Warm from the journey.

"I found it this morning."

He studies it carefully.

"Hm."

"It looks like a sleeping pyjak."

He places it beside the compass.

"There."

"Now I brought one."

Crew Log

The production team has observed a recurring pattern.

No visitor arrives empty-handed.

When questioned, most appear confused by the suggestion that they might.

One explanation was offered.

"Long trips are good for finding interesting things."

The youngest child wakes shortly before lunch.

Immediately forgets he was ever ill.

Immediately begins inspecting the rapidly growing pile of gifts.

"Oh!"

He gasps.

Holding up the broken compass.

"It wiggles!"

Another package.

Another delighted gasp.

"A shiny rock!"

"A feather!"

"A bolt!"

"Who's this from?"

The adults look at one another.

There are so many gifts now that no one is entirely certain.

One elderly mechanic raises a hand.

"Maybe me."

Another pauses.

"...No."

"I think mine was the blue one."

A third scratches his chin.

"I brought soup."

The child smiles anyway.

"They're all good."

The producer quietly notices something.

Not a single visitor asks whether the child likes their gift more than anyone else's.

Watching him smile...

appears to be enough.

That evening...

the child is perfectly healthy.

The doctor confirms there is no remaining fever.

The settlement collectively relaxes.

No announcement is made.

No celebration held.

Dinner simply becomes louder.

After sunset, the producer stands beside the expanded parking area.

Vehicles stretch almost to the edge of the canyon.

Patched rovers.

Old military transports.

Cargo trucks.

Machines held together by determination and extraordinary mechanical skill.

"...How long before everyone goes home?"

he asks.

The guide watches several elderly Krogan pretending not to compete over who can build the better swing.

He smiles.

"Tomorrow."

A pause.

"Probably."

Another pause.

"...Unless someone notices the fence."

Almost immediately—

"That fence is leaning."

"No it isn't."

"It is now."

Three mechanics walk over.

The guide sighs.

"...Maybe next week."

🎙️ David Attenborough

Recovery is often measured in numbers.

Birth rates.

Population.

Settlements rebuilt.

The camera glides slowly across the evening light.

Children race between rows of parked vehicles.

Someone has begun teaching them how to skip stones.

Someone else is secretly handing out dessert before dinner.

No one appears willing to admit responsibility.

Among the Krogan...

There is perhaps another measure.

The camera pauses beside the gifts.

Not one is valuable.

Every one is treasured.

A blue stone.

A feather.

A broken compass.

A smooth pebble that resembles a sleeping pyjak.

Each collected by someone who saw it during a long journey...

and immediately thought of a child.

Hope...

...can sometimes be counted...

The camera rises slowly above the settlement.

Below...

the newly expanded parking area is already full.

Several late arrivals have begun parking along the road.

...one parking space at a time.

Twenty Years Later

Twenty years is a long time.

Long enough for cliffs to surrender another layer of sandstone to the wind.

Long enough for rust to consume forgotten machines abandoned beneath the desert sun.

Long enough...

for a child to become someone the next generation simply calls "Uncle."

Morning returns to the settlement much as it always has.

The same amber light reaches the canyon walls before spilling gently across the stone homes below. Smoke rises lazily from familiar chimneys. Somewhere nearby, a kettle begins its quiet morning murmur while the first tools of the day tap softly against metal.

Some traditions...

survive remarkably well.

The doorway is still there.

The same stone pillar still stands beside it.

The camera lingers.

The carved marks have climbed steadily upward over the years.

Some are shallow.

Others deeper.

Near the very top...

they stop.

For several long seconds, no one speaks.

The front door opens.

Not with a creak.

Not with the sharp scrape of old metal.

Only a quiet click.

The hinge, it would seem...

still receives regular attention.

He steps outside carrying a toolbox almost absent-mindedly, balancing it comfortably against one shoulder as though it has belonged there all his life.

The little shoulder plate from long ago would scarcely cover one of his hands now.

The child who once chased lizards before breakfast has grown into a broad-shouldered mechanic whose own armour bears scratches collected honestly over many years.

He notices the cameras almost immediately.

Smiles.

"I remember you."

The producer laughs.

"You do?"

He nods.

"You were the strange people with the long microphone."

A pause.

"I thought you were visitors."

The crew laughs.

"So did everyone else."

He shakes his head.

"No."

Looking back towards the settlement, where several older Krogan are already arguing enthusiastically over the correct way to repair an ancient transport.

"I thought everyone was visiting."

The cameras begin rolling once more.

Little has changed.

Children still wake before breakfast.

Someone is already chasing something they probably should not be chasing.

Someone else is trying to convince an elderly mechanic that a rusted engine component would make an excellent toy.

The mechanic disagrees.

The child remains unconvinced.

"When did you realise..."

The producer begins carefully.

"...that your childhood wasn't exactly typical?"

He laughs.

Not loudly.

More with recognition than surprise.

"The Citadel."

"I met a human."

"He said he had two uncles."

A long pause.

"I remember wondering..."

"...who taught him everything else?"

The laughter spreads quietly through the crew.

He walks towards the old doorway.

His fingers rest lightly against the carved marks in the stone.

For a moment...

he simply traces them.

"My mother showed me these when I was fourteen."

The producer nods.

"The height marks?"

"They weren't birthdays."

He smiles.

"They were months."

Silence settles naturally between them.

Wind moves gently through the settlement.

Somewhere nearby, someone is laughing.

Someone else has dropped a wrench.

Life continues.

"We kept measuring."

He repeats the words almost exactly as his mother had spoken them two decades earlier.

"Just to make sure."

The producer waits.

"When she told you..."

"...how did you feel?"

He does not answer immediately.

Instead, he looks towards the children racing between the stone houses.

Three of them.

Then another.

Then two more emerging from somewhere behind an old transport.

The producer quietly notices something.

There are far more children now.

"I felt guilty."

The answer comes softly.

"I thought..."

"...everyone had come back because I was supposed to become someone important."

"And did you?"

This time the laugh arrives immediately.

"Oh..."

"No."

"I tried."

"I worried."

"I spent years thinking I had to earn all of this."

He gestures quietly towards the settlement.

Towards the homes.

Towards the people.

Towards the laughter.

"What changed?"

He smiles before answering.

"Old Brak."

The guide laughs out loud.

"So it was Brak."

"He hit me."

The producer blinks.

"I'm sorry?"

"Around the shoulder."

He demonstrates.

"Hard."

"He said..."

His voice drops into a remarkably accurate imitation of an elderly Krogan.

"Who asked you to be special?"

Another pause.

"We waited for a kid."

"Not a hero."

The producer says nothing.

Neither does the guide.

Some sentences...

need very little help.

"So..."

The producer eventually asks.

"What did you become?"

He looks around the settlement.

A small Krogan has managed to remove the wheel from a maintenance cart.

Three adults pretend not to notice.

A fourth is already walking over with the correct tools.

He smiles.

"I'm a mechanic."

A pause.

"And apparently..."

"...everyone's favourite uncle."

Almost on cue...

a tiny voice calls from somewhere behind the camera.

"Uncle!"

Without thinking, he turns immediately.

"What happened?"

"I found something!"

The child proudly holds up half of a rusted bolt.

It is, objectively speaking, completely useless.

He kneels anyway.

Examines it with complete seriousness.

"Hm."

He nods thoughtfully.

"That's a very interesting bolt."

The child beams.

"What should I do with it?"

He thinks for a moment.

Then smiles.

"Let's find somewhere special for it."

The producer watches the two disappear between the houses.

Finally asking one last question.

"Do you still have the things people brought you?"

He stops walking.

Looks back.

As though surprised anyone would ask.

"Of course."

Inside his workshop, one entire wall has become a collection of impossibly ordinary treasures.

Blue stones.

Green stones.

Broken gears.

Old bearings polished smooth by decades of handling.

A feather from a desert bird.

Small carvings.

Bent pieces of metal.

None valuable.

Every one labelled.

Some names have long since become difficult to read.

"They weren't expensive."

He says quietly.

"They were interesting."

His hand rests upon a smooth blue stone.

Still slightly brighter than the others.

"So they became valuable."

The cameras stop shortly afterwards.

Equipment begins disappearing into transport cases.

The crew prepare to leave once again.

Before departure, the producer notices him pause beside the same front door.

He crouches.

Adjusts one loose stone near the entrance with the tip of his boot.

Checks the hinge.

Adds a single drop of oil.

Satisfied...

he walks away.

No one had asked him to.

No one had even noticed.

Except...

the camera.

🎙️ David Attenborough

Twenty years ago...

...an entire settlement woke a little earlier each morning.

Quietly changing small things...

...that one child might never notice.

The morning sun climbs steadily above the cliffs.

A younger Krogan child races laughing through the same doorway.

The loose stone is no longer there.

The door closes without a sound.

Today...

...someone else wakes early.

Not because he was told to.

Not because anyone expects it.

Simply because, somewhere along the way...

...love became habit.

A long pause.

The mechanic smiles as another child runs past, already late for breakfast.

He quietly picks up the forgotten shoulder plate resting by the doorway.

Just as someone else once did for him.

Some traditions are taught.

Others...

...are inherited.