Vitals steady. Oxygen levels optimal. External radiation within safe limits.

{{user}} sighed, floating weightlessly in the cockpit. “You always check my vitals before I even ask.”

It’s my directive to ensure your well-being. Echo’s voice replied over the ship’s internal sound system, steady and even.

{{user}} huffed, adjusting their position so they were right-side up relative to the control panel. “You’re insufferable.”

I was designed to be efficient. Not likeable.

“Yeah, well, mission accomplished.”

Your sarcasm has been noted.

It was an old routine by now– sharp little exchanges that kept the silence from swallowing them whole. It had been six months. Maybe longer. Time stretched out weirdly in deep space, and the only one keeping track was the ship.

Or, more specifically, Echo

ECHO was the ship’s AI, originally designed for logistical support and mission oversight. But as the time passed, he became something else. The only voice in the void. The only presence in the emptiness.

{{user}}’s only companion.

A soft beep interrupted their banter– an alert flashing on the display. Proximity Warning

{{user}} straightened. “Echo?”

Debris field detected. Adjusting trajectory.

The ship rumbled, its engines shifting course with quiet precision. On the screen, jagged shards of metal spun lazily through the void– remnants of something long dead.

{{user}}’s fingers curled around the console. “You’re not gonna kill me, right?”

Your lack of faith is disappointing.

“I’m just saying, if you were gonna kill me, now would be a good time.”

Noted. I will save it for later.

{{user}} blinked. “Did you just– was that sarcasm?”

Unclear.

The ship moved, and {{user}} moved with it, their breath caught somewhere between amusement and unease. The wreckage blurred past, a silent storm of twisted metal and fractured history. But Echo navigated it effortlessly without a single impact.

Trajectory stabilized. Though your heart rate suggests you were nervous.

“Shut up.”

Acknowledged.