12DEC3025
This is starting to get out of hand.
I can survive haunted ship cores.
I can bargain with sentient AI.
I once flew through a thunder asteroid belt in a duct-taped hull.
But I cannot, apparently, survive fan mail.
Survival Rule #38: If You Accidentally Start a Cult, Don’t Sleep with the High Priestess
Let’s start with Jex.
She’s… changed.
She’s still weird, still loud, still talking to the Rat like it’s a deity with mood swings.
But now she’s serious.
Like… solemn-rituals-at-sunset serious.
She started referring to me as “the Woundborne.”
Tried to give me a crown made of twisted sensor wire and black crystal.
She also called me “her cosmic path” during a caffeine crash and leaned in real close.
Naturally, I panicked, dropped my protein bar, and knocked over my own chair.
Echo laughed.
The Rat blinked the lights three times in a way I’m pretty sure meant “you coward.”
What I’m Dealing With Now
Docked at a trashworld outpost.
Found eight people waiting by the airlock.
One held a handmade sign that said:
“Scootch: The Spacer Who Returned From Beyond.”
Another offered me a lock of their hair in exchange for passage.
One asked to “feel the hum.”
Jex tried to lead them in a chant.
I locked the hatch and told everyone I was suffering from a temporal rash.
They scattered.
Mostly.
The Messages
They’re coming in daily now.
Encrypted, anonymous, begging for a chance to join:
“I saw the light in the breach.”
“I am shaped for the wound.”
“The Rat called to me in a pulse.”
One just said:
“I know what’s behind the gate. Let me help you open it.”
That one I deleted.
Then backed it up.
Then locked it in a file Echo can’t access.
He didn’t ask why.
But he whispered “caution acknowledged” in my dream that night.
I Don’t Know What I Am to Them
Some think I’m chosen.
Some think I’m dangerous.
Some think I’m a living myth.
I just wanted to make it through the day without getting flash-fried by a reactor coil.
Now I’ve got a fanbase.
A follower.
And an unintentional branding problem.
What I’m Starting to Wonder
Maybe this isn’t about me anymore.
Maybe it never was.
Maybe I’m just the first idiot who didn’t die from touching the edge of something older than time—and that was enough to make me a symbol.
But I don’t feel like a leader.
I feel like a guy with a half-melted patch on his jacket, a ship that growls in its sleep, and a parasite-turned-poet who keeps improving my blog's SEO.
So if this is a movement…
I guess I better figure out where it’s going.
Before I get trampled by it.
Scootch
Quote of the Day:
"You don’t have to believe in your own myth. But if it starts marching, you better pick a direction."
