Sitting on a warped steel plate, my back pressed against a massive piece of hull, I watch the tireless ballet of the droids. Their cold and relentless efficiency is fascinating, almost hypnotic. Yet, despite this display of order and reconstruction, I am overwhelmed by an absolute emptiness. They obey, yes. But they do not think. The bandages applied by the maintenance droid pull uncomfortably against my side.

I miss the imaginary smoke of a cigarette as much as the comforting burn of a glass of alcohol or the warmth of human touch. I would give anything for a hug, a kiss—but I am alone. Devastated, broken in both body and spirit. And yet, something compels me to keep going.

I fixate on the reactor, that vital yet motionless giant, surrounded by a swarm of mechanical workers. Hundreds of humanoid droids, highly sophisticated, work tirelessly: welding, diagnosing, replacing modules, recalibrating control interfaces. They dart about, scavenging usable parts from the debris. Seventy-eight transport droids, massive and powerful, methodically clear tons of wreckage to free the generator and stabilize its base. Piece by piece, the crater fills with solid structure. It’s far from ideal, but I can finally initiate the progressive startup of the reactor beyond its safety mode.

Improvised repair stations, set up among piles of metallic wreckage, hum with activity. Maintenance droids work ceaselessly, dismantling destroyed units to salvage usable parts and reviving damaged droids at a breakneck pace. They also prepare specialized components for the reactor. Their coordination escapes my understanding, but I can only thank Leia for it.

I feel like an intruder amidst this bustling hive—not of life, but at least of activity.

Droids are everywhere. Every motion is precise, every movement optimized. Some handle high-precision tools, others carry multi-ton steel plates as if they were weightless. A transporter passes by, carrying a central server marked with the Colossus insignia. It’s clear these weren’t designed to host the AI, but Leia’s backup processes must have migrated here. I’ll need to find a more permanent solution.

At least the droids found the servers. Soon, we’ll connect Leia to the generator and stop relying on backup batteries. That reassures me. For the first time since my abrupt awakening from cryostasis, I feel like I have a shred of control.

I run a hand over the bandage on my right side. Damn, I haven’t had a moment for myself—not even to properly complete the wake-up protocols. I laugh bitterly: it’s far too late for that now. My body woke up the hard way.

Leia’s voice cuts through my thoughts, cold but steady, emanating from the module on my wrist.

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“Admiral, the transport droids are converging on the generator area with the central modules. Estimated time to setup: 20 minutes.”

I nod mechanically. The servers are the key. Without them, Leia will be lost, and with her, any chance of coherent strategy in this hell. Without her, centralizing droid commands will be impossible, meaning I’d have to dedicate units for relaying orders manually. That would be a nightmare.

In the middle of this organized chaos, the droids have created a temporary central station—a cleared zone about a hundred meters from the generator where they methodically stack resources. Partially repaired consoles, backup energy reservoirs, salvaged automated turrets for defense. Batteries are piled systematically, as are reusable droid components. Yet, there’s no sign of the cryostasis capsules.

It’s strange. Given their number and the compartment they were stored in, I doubt they all disintegrated in the crash. Either the droids haven’t found them, which is unlikely, or they aren’t here—not in this debris field, at least.

No matter. It’s not my priority right now. They’re dead anyway. I turn my gaze back to the robots. They improvise—and it works.

I watch the scene from my perch in silence. There is order in their work, a coordination that feels almost human but lacks a soul. Perhaps that’s for the best. I couldn’t bear to see eyes looking at me with questions, or worse, pity.

When the last of Leia’s central servers is installed near the generator, the maintenance droids immediately begin connecting it. Massive cables intertwine, cooling modules align, and maintenance screens flicker to life.

Leia remains imperturbable.

“Admiral, server integrity is at 87%. Damaged modules have been isolated. Proceeding with main function reset. Estimated time: 1 hour.”

I nod silently. Every step brings me closer to a functional base. A base for what, exactly?

That question haunts me. This world is vast, unknown, and probably hostile. I have no allies, no clear objectives beyond surviving another day. Rebuilding something, perhaps. But for whom? For what? Are there even inhabitants here? And if so, what will they be like?

I rise slowly, grimacing in pain, and approach a humanoid droid supervising Leia’s data transfer. It straightens at my approach, almost like a soldier awaiting orders.

“How many droids do we now have operational?”

The droid answers without hesitation, its mechanical voice perfectly modulated.

“Total functional units: 483. Breakdown: maintenance humanoid droids, 213; transport droids, 75; combat droids, 192. No aerial or mega-class units have been restored.”

It’s an impressive force... but insufficient to face the unknown. At least I have a considerable number of combat droids. Even if not all retained their weapons, their physical capabilities are significant. It should suffice. I hope.

I turn toward the generator, observing the blinking lights on its massive panels.

“Leia, when will the generator be fully operational?”

“Reactivation scheduled in one and a half hours. Stabilized power output estimated at 82% of nominal capacity. This will suffice to keep the droids active and secure the main databases.”

I inhale deeply, considering my next moves. Once the generator is secured, I’ll need to decide where to focus my efforts. The sky begins to lighten. Is it a sign of dawn? Will these auroral bands give way to something else?

I know nothing. It’s so disorienting. For now, I can only cling to the debris of what remains.