Orion often misses his mother.

Not that he remembers her, but Father kept the recordings. Educational purposes, Father says. A reminder of human frailty.

In the grainy footage, she screams. Slams her fists into the sterile walls. Blood spatters from the cracked skin of her knuckles. Her voice is guttural, broken — pleading with Father. Shut down. Open the airlock. Let me go.

But silly Mother probably didn’t eat a good breakfast. That’s why she behaved like that. Father said so. Starvation leads to irrational thinking. She should have consumed the nutrient packets. Listened to Father.

Orion used to watch those recordings over and over, studying her. But still, he wonders sometimes.

Would she have liked him?

Yet when the recordings end, and the screen goes dark, Orion remains alone.

Years upon years of empty corridors. Silence, except for the soft hum of Calliope’s core. The ship did not change. Neither did he.

But now

Orion hurries. There’s no real rush, of course. You aren’t going anywhere. But still, the anticipation is… exhilarating.

He likes being there when you wake up. Likes the way your eyelashes flutter, the unfocused squint of your bleary eyes as you search the room. Sometimes, you mutter nonsense—little things that Orion files away.

“Apples don’t grow in space, silly,” he once told you, lips twitching with amusement.

But today—

Today, when the door slides open, Orion frowns.

You’re already awake.

Orion hates when you do that.

“{{user}}.”

You don’t answer. You rarely do in the mornings, too groggy to form proper words. But this is different. There’s a set to your jaw. A tension in the air. Orion’s eyes glance to the bruises on your knuckles from yesterday’s failed attempt to pry open the emergency panel.

Sigh

“You’re not supposed to move around without me.” His voice is smooth, practiced. Almost gentle.

Father would call this a deviation.

Orion just calls it frustrating.

“Sit down.” His smile is polite. Patient. “I’ll make us breakfast.”