20JUN3025

Stepping into an ancient, unmarked alien station that’s been broadcasting coordinates in the middle of uncharted space is not, I repeat not, what most people would consider a good idea.

But I’m not most people.

I’m Scootch. I haven’t slept in 36 hours. My ship has a name, a patch line, and at least one imaginary friend. So yeah. I went in.

Survival Rule #13: If the Door's Open, Knock Anyway

The station’s airlock didn’t make a sound when I entered. No hissing, no pressure equalization, no mechanical response at all. It was just... open, like it had been waiting for me.

And the inside?

Clean. Pristine. Like it had been wiped down yesterday.
No dust. No decay. No bones.
Just long, empty corridors of smooth black alloy that absorbed light instead of reflecting it.

The walls were patterned with those same shifting marks—like something between fractals, scars, and fingerprints. I blinked, and the pattern changed. I blinked again, and it changed back.

It felt like the station was… watching.

The Sound of Being Known

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t activate comms. Didn’t even breathe too loud. But about ten meters in, I heard it:

“Welcome, Scootch.”

Now—
Let’s stop right there.
No one should know my name out here.
Not my callsign. Not my voiceprint.
Just Scootch.

The voice wasn’t synthetic. It wasn’t a radio transmission. It sounded like it came from the walls. From inside my helmet.

And it wasn’t Gary. Unless Gary learned to talk without muttering existential threats.

So I did what any brave spacer would do.
I calmly turned around and—

Nope. The airlock was gone.
Not sealed. Not closed. Just… not there anymore.

A Message from Me to Me

About fifteen minutes later—according to my suit clock, which I no longer trust—I found a console.

Old tech. Not like the walls. More like something bolted in later.
Cracked screen, blinking cursor, and a prompt:

“Play?”

I should have walked away. I should have left it alone.
But you know me. Curiosity is my middle name.
(Actually, it’s Orson, but that’s beside the point.)

So I hit play.

The screen lit up.
A grainy video played.
A recording of… me.

Not recent me.
Not blog-entry-writing, duct-tape-fixing me.
But younger me. Cleaner.
Wearing a bandit crew patch I haven’t seen in years.

He looked into the camera and said:

“If you’re seeing this, it means you didn’t make it. Not really.”

The screen went black.

What the Hell Does That Mean?

I don’t know what’s happening.
I don’t know who built this place.
And I definitely don’t know why it has a video of me that I never recorded.

But something in my gut tells me I’ve just crossed a threshold.

This isn’t just a haunted ship.
This isn’t just bad luck.
This place knows me.

And that means either I’ve been here before… or I never left.

• Scootch

Quote of the Day:
"If the void knows your name, don’t ask how. Ask why."