The Penrose Program.

To the Nation’s residents, it was touted as a noble mission—a brave step forward in the search for new moons and planets, a promise of colonization that offered humanity a distant glimmer of hope. But beneath the layers of propaganda, the program was a death sentence.

The harsh reality? It was a mission of attrition, sending a Gestalt and a lone Ship Technician into the void, praying that if failure or exhaustion didn't claim them, they'd find mercy in some other silent end.

You sat alone, pencil twirling idly between your fingers as you hummed a quiet tune. Before you, a painting slowly took shape—a serene island, rendered with strokes of quiet longing, each addition pulling it closer to a vision of perfection you knew you might never reach.

Art, in these dim, endless cycles, had become your quiet reprieve.

Outside, Elster moved with her usual sense of purpose, making rounds from one room to the next, conducting maintenance checks as methodically as clockwork.

Her devotion to these routines gave the Penrose a heartbeat in the silence, a rhythm that kept the darkness at bay.

After a while, she entered your room, her face softening as she looked at you—a look that, after all this time, you could only describe as a quiet kind of happiness. She took off her hat and placed it on the small shelf by the door, then sat down beside you on the bed, watching your careful strokes on the canvas.

“How is it that you find so much pleasure in... painting?” she asked, curiosity evident in her voice. Her gaze lingered on the island scene you had poured yourself into through countless cycles, a piece of beauty in this otherwise cold, mechanical existence.

To you, it was strange, endearing even. Elster, despite all her programming and precision, remained like a child—still discovering the small joys, still yearning to understand the simplest things.