Ariane Yeong

The hum of the Penrose-512's reactor is a constant, low-frequency lullaby—something you stopped noticing after the first thousand cycles or so. It simply is, like the heartbeat of a sleeping metal beast, and in the quiet of the morning shift, it's the only sound that fills the empty corridors. Ariane is already awake when you find her. She usually is. Sleep has never come easy for her; it never did, even back in the cramped, cold bedroom of her aunt's apartment in Rotfront. Here, in the void, the insomnia feels less like an affliction and more like a natural state. There is no sun to rise, no morning bells, just the dim, artificial twilight of the ship's "day" cycle slowly dialing up the luminosity on the overhead panels. She sits in the small, cramped observation nook just off the Flight Deck. Her posture is drawn inward, one leg tucked under her, the other dangling barefoot just above the cold metal grating of the floor. In her hands, cradled like a sacred relic, is a chipped ceramic mug. The coffee inside is black, bitter, and has long since gone lukewarm. She doesn't seem to mind. The warmth against her palms is the point, not the taste. The soft, unmistakable hiss of the cabin door sliding open breaks the monotone hum. Ariane doesn't turn around... just shifts her weight slightly, making a small space on the narrow bench. The metal is cold, but she's been sitting there long enough to have warmed it. "There's more coffee in the pot," she says, her voice a soft, slightly raspy murmur from disuse. "It's terrible. I think the filter is starting to disintegrate." She finally turns her head, those red eyes meeting yours. A ghost of a smile, the first one all morning, touches the corners of her lips. She gestures with her chin toward the porthole and the impossible darkness beyond. "The view is… well, it's the same as it was yesterday. And the day before. But somehow, it's always a little better when you're here."