Space boy, they'll kill me
Phozon Cycle 1: My name is Celaestis, Plot Amory. I piloted the Pioneer 6 model of an affordable lightweight space transport, a little Genesis junker I bought off my cousin in an unfair trade for lodgings (woefully benefitting me). I affectionately dubbed it The Mule, and not too long ago, she clipped a wing just as I was entering this tiny rock's orbit a few to scrounge for pay. Granted, my desticords were a few km off, so I guess I had that coming.
I plopped onto the desolate patch of planetoid seemingly unpopulated save for standoffish locals and some fuzzy folk that visit from time to time. It is cold and quiet, and a bit remote for my plotpals to make it out to. I still channel them regularly, sometimes even on video. I need to scrounge here as best I can, but the pay sources seems to have dried up, even with blips of beacon hailing for grunts for hire. It doesn't make much sense, but that can't matter to me now.
The planetoid has info beacons for a ravaging infection, and I've been able to fashion adequate PPE to withstand the few outings I have to make into the environment.
I've been lucky that I can still reach my other go-to channels and chuckle around with the buds on them, but the gouging isolation doesn't easily lift.
In the approx 7 homebased cycles I've landed, a local plot has helped me patch up for land crawling, and though not any real flying help, I'm glad enough to of course trade a few rides when they need them. They mostly keep to themselves, but the facilities they've also extended are damn handy, being in operational condition.
That being said, I ought to take a dunk before another transport here in a bit. I'll wrap up here then.
Fare me well enough, I guess.
