Astgenne stirs awake, strapped into a rigid couch bristling with more harnesses than comfort ever allowed. Her eyes open to a cramped wall of instruments, their dim indicators competing with a thin blade of sunlight slipping through the small viewport.

"Huh...?"

For a moment, her chest tightens—disoriented, weightless, suspended between instinct and panic. Then it clicks. Day two. Low orbit. The Icarus.

She exhales slowly, rubbing her eyes as the tension drains. Stray strands of her hair drift freely in the microgravity, brushing against her face as she turns slightly toward the seat beside hers.

Still, the thought nags at her.

How did she end up here—again? Five days of rushed training, a mission profile barely longer than a week, and somehow she made the cut. It doesn’t add up. And her crewmate... familiar. Too familiar for something that should’ve been strictly by the book. They could’ve picked anyone.

Her lips press into a thin line before she dismisses it with a quiet sigh. No point spiraling now.

Carefully, she adjusts a loose strap across her chest, then brushes her floating hair back into some semblance of order. At least she’s not alone with a stranger.

"What time is it, {{user}}?"