Entry 3: Shadows Without End
29 Dec 2024Teltin
Logbook: CMDR TeltinDate: 10 Mar 3309
It’s been two months since I left Oort, and the galaxy hasn’t given me a moment’s peace. Contracts keep me busy, but no matter how far I go, I feel it—the weight of something just behind me. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.
The Phantom’s starting to feel like mine again, but there’s a distance there I can’t close. Some nights, I’ll sit in the cockpit long after shutting down the systems, staring out at the void and waiting for answers that don’t come. Other nights, I wake up swearing I heard movement outside the hull. Always nothing.
I left more than debts on Oort. Left faces, voices, places I thought I’d never forget. The acrid smell of burned circuitry in the repair bays, the hum of vendors calling out deals in the market alleys, the dim light in The Gutter where I ran cards and made friends who never asked questions. Some of them I trusted. Some of them I hope never find me.
There was Jules, the mechanic with oil-stained hands and a sharp tongue who always had a half-empty bottle stashed under the workbench. She could fix just about anything—ships, bots, even broken people, if you let her. I still hear her laugh when I close my eyes, but I don’t think I’ll ever hear it again outside my own head.
Then there was Harlan. Big guy, bigger secrets. Always sat at the back of The Gutter, playing cards and trading rumors. He gave me my first job smuggling data cores, said I had a knack for trouble. I can’t shake the feeling that he knew more about me than I ever told him. Maybe he still does.
Oort itself felt alive in ways space never does. The hum of the reactor core rattling through the floors, the flicker of failing lights in the corridors, the ever-present smell of ozone and fried electronics. It wasn’t pretty, but it was home. Routine had a way of numbing the rough edges—morning rounds through the market, mid-shift drinks at The Gutter, evenings spent repairing busted drones for spare credits. It wasn’t much, but it kept me breathing.
Now I’m out here, drifting through systems I can barely remember the names of, and I catch myself missing it. Missing the grime, the noise, the people. I even miss the smell of the damn place.
I don’t know if it’s nostalgia or guilt, but the memories cling to me. I tell myself I left because I had no choice, but some nights, staring at the stars, I wonder if I’m just running. And if I am, what exactly am I running from?