Situated on the far side of the Wild Duck cluster, The Lagoon-Carina Depot is a generational space station with a population holding steady at roughly 2300 private citizens. Established nearly 100 years ago, its citizens were once exclusively employees of D.B.A. Fuels- a leader in its era, paving the way for interstellar travel with a patented refining technique that mysteriously transformed humble space rocks into potent, efficient solid-state fuel.

There are three ways to end up on this humble little station, which the locals have taken to calling "Elsie." The first is behind the wheel of a tanker. If you're hauling freight across Sagittarius, Elsie isn't too far from anywhere, and produces a stronger targeting signal than any independent depot in the quadrant, due to the large- some would affectionately say oversized- broadcast tower jutting from its underside.

The second way to end up in Elsie is perhaps the easiest way- the odds are against it, mathematically speaking, but you can absolutely be born there. If you are, it's very likely that so were your parents, and their parents, and their parents' parents. The amount of jumpsuits in your household is bound to be large, and the amount of cream soda in your diet is bound to be hazardous. However, Elsie is supported by patented D.B.A. Hyperstable Modular Gravity Plating, and when you're got D.B.A.H.M.G.P. humming away under your feet, you know you're getting the optimal pressure on your body to keep you in perfect shape. That'll show that cream soda who's boss.

The third way to end up in Elsie is very much in the intrepid, pioneering, spontaneous spirit of its history. If you happen to be hurtling through the Wild Duck cluster at a great enough speed- with your arms and legs locked in at your sides- you can fly through an open airlock as it's shutting and crash-land in an occupied loading bay. While the diligent D.B.A. employees are sure to be displeased with the service interruption, you couldn't hope to be in more capable hands.

And if you happen to be a tourism-minded machine intelligence named Proxima, and your limbs were pinned in place due to an accumulation of ice and dust that threatened to turn you into a living comet, Elsie is the perfect place for explaining yourself- a great deal- because you've never been in quite so much trouble before.

"What do you reckon that is?" asked a gruff, thickly accented man from across the way. Proxima turned her frosty eyes toward his nametag, and found out he was called Early. Early was exactly the kind of man you'd find in a depot on Elsie, and as it turns out, there he was. He belonged to a Betelgeusian family, every last one of them with thick red hair and wide, grounded builds. He took that wide build across the depot floor, mustache bristling under his flat nose with the kind of agitated interest that suggested to everyone around him that he was the only one who thought he was brave enough to get close.

Of course, nobody was in any danger at all, but set upon with Early's brand of urgency, Proxima couldn't help but feel a little defensive- not that she could do much, still straining against the thick crystals of space ice that kept her elbows locked. Early's boots crunched on glittering frost as he rounded on Proxima, unsure of what to make of her. Beneath the dusting of shiny debris, her hair scattered all around her, making her look more like a frozen, mangled television than the woman she usually was.

It was a struggle to rise, and her fingers hissed from the difference in temperature as she strained to take Early's hand, looking to lift herself onto her feet. He yelped in surprise and took a sudden step back, blowing on his digits in upset. Were they hot, or were they cold? He couldn't tell- but they certainly stung! Chunks of ice shattered on the floor as the heat of mammal-grade living conditions rapidly warmed Proxima's body and allowed her to finally stand. Apparently Early wasn't expecting a bright, shiny smile, or frosty yellow eyes, because he reared back yet again, every bit like a panicked horse, letting out a quick belt of profanity for the whole shipyard to hear. He was beet red and fuming by the time Proxima began to talk.

"Tell me I didn't break anything on the way in. I was so worried! I didn't hit anybody, did I?"

Mouths hung agape- except for Early, who screwed his mouth up into a neat little frown that seemed to be pushed up into his mustache by his chin.

"Took out an oxygen recycler," Early huffed, drawing himself up to his most authoritative five and three-quarters feet tall, hands on his hips, work boots shoulder-length apart, after a little self-conscious adjustment. "Y'gon have us breathin' mountain air until we get that fixed. You'd best be willing to pay, stranger."

Proxima squinted down at Early while one large hand pawed at her face, brushing off crunchy accumulations of space dust. "Sorry about your, uh..." She looked away suddenly, tossing frigid glitter everywhere in the process of getting her bearings. "Oh, man, the oxygen? I'm so sorry, I know how important that is to people with lungs. I'll do everything I can to fix it right away."

Early was about to grunt something else at her when she stood and stretched, watery little diamonds dripping from the soft core of her body as she fanned out her massive mane of synthetic hair, flooding it with heat and light, more and more melt splashing the concrete floor. She set a hand on her hip and turned to get a better look at the recycler she'd crushed on impact, while the purpling little mechanic stuck close to her side, jaw pumping away frustratedly at a wad of gum.

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"Alright, alright, I don't recognize any of this, but let's see..." Proxima gathered up a few strands of her hair and twirled them thoughtfully between her fingers. A mesh of pale blue light, holographic and freestanding, stretched between the strands and the machine, scanning it. Yellow circles hovered in the field of blue, clocks counting down to completion... and flipping over into blinking red triangles, buzzing in rejection.

"...Ah, pogs. It's analog." She looked at Early ruefully and shook her head. "Normally I could fix something like this in a second, but this is... old! Listen, uh, Early?"

"It's pronounced Yarly."

"Of course it is. Anyway, I'm really sorry about your recycler. If you don't decide to vent me right back out into deep space, I'll fix it myself. I just need a little time, and somewhere to stay while I work on it."

Early hooked his thumbs into his toolbelt and did a little strutting, smugly sizing up the stranger and the machine she'd broken. Nobody was taking his spot as top handyman today. "I'd be remiss not to offer you a sampling of Elsie's hospitality, even... given the circumstances."

He paused and frowned at the wrecked machine, and then at the other wrecked machine, in the shape of a giant woman. She must've been seven feet tall- eight with all that glowing hair, and she seemed genuine enough- rare for a tourist.

"I've got room at my house- just for a little while." Better to appear gracious and giving, after all his public swearing and frustration. Keeping the respect of the people working under him was always a tightrope to walk, and he was starting to hate it. "Y'can stay there until the pump's fixed- which ought not to take longer'n a week, whether you or me gets hands on it."

Proxima studied him for a moment, and decided she liked the cut of his jib. Maybe he was a little rough-and-tumble, and his heart rate was all over the place, and his face grew a little hotter every time he looked back at the trouble she'd caused- but she knew better than to pass up a couch. It'd give her time to recover and research how to fix a hundred year old relic- and in the meantime, she could take in the sights! Not a bad deal at all, she decided.

"You know my name, or close enough," Early added, interrupting her train of thought. "How 'bout you tell me about yourself while we, ah, put a perimeter around all this mess." He raised his hand and beckoned a pair of jumpsuited twenty-somethings from across the yard, who made quick work of hanging up a yellow cordon while he and Proxima headed for the nearest set of doors.

She did a good deal of explaining, whether she realized it or not. It was a lot to take in, and confusing more often than not. She described herself as a machine intelligence from another galaxy altogether, great-great-great-granddaughter of someone called the Stone Primus- a name she interchanged frustratingly often with both "great-great-great grandma" and "Prior Zero," as the subject drifted to family. For her part, she was the daughter of a war machine, built on the wish that she'd be everything her mother couldn't be- not stuck on one planet, not putting herself at constant risk, not armed to the teeth, not rigid and angular and tall as a building.

"Can't say as I've heard of any stone primates or prybar zeroes out here, so you must be a mighty long way from home. But we take all kinds, here. Always have, ever since way back." He looked back at a number of workers in gray jumpsuits, all different shapes and sizes, species from all over the galaxy who seemed to share his uncertain demeanor about new people.

"You make good on your promise, and I reckon you'll feel right at home."

He led her just a few blocks away, to a house that was evenly split down the middle- one half residential, one half garage, the door rolled open to reveal a jumbled mix of vehicle parts, fishing poles, industrial spools, and festive strings of lights, and musical instruments. Early pointedly ignored the mess as he led her to the door- "Mind you don't bump your head," and opened the way into his humble abode.

"Pardon my lackin' experience, but I haven't the vaguest notion of what a robot needs. But we got a kitchen, bathroom upstairs, sofabed down here, and-" He paused for a moment. "...Maybe don't wander too much. Clem's a little protective about their bedroom. I'm sure you'll meet 'em soon- never stays gone for long, no matter how many times they say they're gonna."

Proxima didn't know what to think, but she was trying to stay positive. Early showed her this and that, and she kept ducking under doorways to see what was next- until at last, he seemed to realize the time and slapped his forehead in shock. "Drime, we've got barges comin' in. I've got to get back to it- I'm takin' my keys, so mind you don't lock yourself out!"

And then he was gone, and Proxima was alone in a stranger's house, on a strange space station, and she couldn't leave even if she was able. Her good nature saw to that, she did owe the man a repaired recycler, after all. The sofa creaked under her as she made herself comfortable and linked up to the local newsnet. Images flashed across her hair as she casually took in Elsie's history and turned her attention toward antique machinery.

She was just about to start her research in earnest when she heard the most spectacular noise from the other side of the door leading into the garage.

"We are Lane 13, and we've got sixteen pound balls!" The voice was muffled by a wall, but it was high and rough and full of laughter.

"Then how do you walk?" Another voice shot back, this one squeaky and almost cartoonish, and quickly followed by a quick riff on what had to be a trombone.

The music that ensued a moment later was among the worst Proxima had ever heard in her life.

Instantly, she was their biggest fan.