Wildfire never did grow to fill that job “where they knock buildings down.” Neither, as his caretakers suggested, did he become a punk credit station jacker.

In a cheap Hedonia docking station, a young Seeker onlines slowly, the way a sparkeater rises in the hokiest of horror flicks. Wonder of wonders -- this room actually has a window with sunlight coming through, which would have been better received if it weren’t for the constant, even pounding behind his optics.

(One of these days, he’ll learn that you get what you pay for. And not to accept aeresolized canisters from bots who can’t quite recall what planet they’re on.)

Cursing the bot who invented morning and wobbling on his pedes, he nonetheless manages to step over the empty fuel cubes, step over the datapad with its static vid still on the screen, grab a fresh cube from the table, and drink it plain -- the first decent thing he’s done for his body in three days. Fingers of hated daylight shine off the rivets that dot his optic ridges and the whorls carved like flame into his outer plating; momentos of places he’s bee, and reminders that he’s survived.

In spite of it all? He didn’t blow through all the credits he earned in the last haul.

Here, kiddo. Thought you might enjoy this.

Classes are for all the things they can’t just stick in our heads with wire. You have to sit down with a caretaker, they talk about stuff, then you turn on the datapad and do whatever it tells you to. It’s boring and hard.

It’s good! The rain stopped for a little while and Radar and me made a mud flobster until they made us stop.

Maaaybe

Better. I don’t need any more of the medicine that makes me hurt, but they still won’t let me leave and it’s boring. But they let Radar sit by me.