I don’t recall what tore me from my dimension and hurled me into this quadrant of space. Maybe there was a trigger, some cosmic event, or a burst of interdimensional energy. But since I reincarnated as a squalling infant, any memory of my former life is a haze. By the time my mind fully awakened to my past self, I’d already grown enough to accept my reality—a mystery I didn’t need solving. After all, the universe doesn’t stop spinning just because you don’t have all the answers.
I was reborn in a mining outpost wedged precariously between the Lunatran Empire and the Holy Solar Commonwealth of Solflare—two galactic powers locked in an endless cycle of war and truce over the disputed star systems along their borders. The outpost belonged to Lunatra, officially, though its people were a mix of desperate souls from every corner of space.
It was a time of relative peace when I first opened my eyes to the stars, but by the time I turned nine, the tenuous ceasefire shattered, and the war resumed. My parents died in the first planetary strike. Not that they were stellar examples of parenting. My father was Lunatran, my mother from Solflare—a pairing as volatile as antimatter in a magnetic field. Their union was a rebellion against their respective worlds, but their shared stubbornness meant home life was... less than harmonious.
After their deaths, I was sent to my father’s uncle, who lived on a sprawling orbital station deep in Lunatran space. The man barely tolerated me. A child with bioluminescent hair and tinted skin, an obvious blend of Solflare genetics, wasn’t something his rigid Lunatran pride could stomach. He didn’t hit me, but he didn’t hide his disdain either. A severance credit transfer and a cold dismissal later, I was on my own. For most kids, that would’ve been the end—a plummet into the abyss of desperation. But I wasn’t most kids.
Around the age of five, I’d awakened to something unusual, a special power that clung to me like starlight after my dimensional shift. I still don’t fully understand it, but it let even a frail, scrappy kid like me scrape together a living. Was it the universe’s way of apologizing? Doubtful. It’s more likely the cost of surviving the shift.
When you hear a story like mine—a dimension-shifted orphan with strange abilities—it probably sounds like the setup for a tale of heroic destiny. A rise to power, a conquest of the stars, maybe even a romantic harem of aliens. And, sure, for a while, I dreamed of wealth and glory. But as I drifted through the years, surviving on the outskirts of galactic society, I came to a simple conclusion: *this is fine.*
Risk my one and only life battling apex predators and genocidal warlords? No thanks. I’ve seen what radiation poisoning does to flesh, and micro-fractures in a pressure suit aren’t something I’d gamble with for the promise of riches. I’m more interested in safe, steady work.
For the same reason, I don’t meddle with the scraps of future knowledge rattling around my head. The last time I tried that, it didn’t end well. Back on the mining outpost, I created a holographic strategy game, hoping to rake in some credits. It caught on, but the colony stole and attributed it as the invention of the administrator’s worthless son. It's unfortunate, but I could live with it. Then, one day, the *worthless son* mysteriously "vanished." Not long after, the game reemerged, branded by a prestigious tech conglomerate as their latest entertainment innovation. Now it’s a minor success, sold in mid-range space lounges across the empire.
The lesson? Power is dangerous. Knowledge is dangerous. If you’re smart, you don’t tempt the cosmos with ambition. It makes me feel like no number of lives could be enough.
“Narwhal, on maintenance duty again? You’re not even injured this time.”
“Yup.” Through my helmet’s comms, I confirmed the work request, extending my gloved hand to receive the datapad from the receptionist.
Station maintenance is bottom-tier work, barely worth the time of a low-ranked guild member. Cleaning deck plates, repairing worn-out wiring, and running diagnostics on ancient waste systems—it’s menial labor no one wants. The pay’s laughable, but the contribution points are decent, and the clean freak in me doesn’t mind. This station is filthy. If I’m going to live here, at least the corridors I frequent should shine.
Of course, there’s one maintenance job I avoid like a black hole: waste recycling. The stench alone could kill a grown Krivven. No thanks.
“Oh my, Narwhal, maintenance again? The station air is thick today, isn't it?”
"M-Morning,” I stammered, my magnetic boots clicking against the station's grated metal flooring as I scrubbed grime from the deck plates.
Acquaintances often stop to chat while I work, especially the synthetic food vendor. She’s got a knack for nagging, particularly if I haven’t bought nutrient packs in a few cycles. Her unsubtle “Buy something!” energy is suffocating.
“By the way, have you heard about the Space Marshal from Central Command?”
“Yeah, I heard one was coming. Commander... Something. Must be rough for the habitat pods.”
“I know, right? The pod manager’s been ranting nonstop. Says marshals don’t understand how to use environmental controls properly.”
“How’s business at your shop? More orders?”
“Pfft, no way! Everyone’s swarming the premium dining pods. No one wants basic nutrients anymore. It’s infuriating!”
“Haha.”
“What’s so funny?”
“Sorry, I’ll buy something next cycle.”
“Oh goodie! I’ll be waiting, ‘kay?”
Chatting with station folk while scrubbing deck plates isn’t glamorous, but it’s... grounding. I get to feel like part of the community, and the station gets a little cleaner. It’s a win-win. Besides, looking like a poor, unassuming grunt has its perks. Space pirates don’t waste time on harmless nobodies like me. Out here, the appearance of poverty is a shield.
That’s an important lesson for surviving in the cosmos: when the stars are full of danger, it’s better to be overlooked than overestimated.