I remember the sound a ship makes when it dies.
It’s not an explosion.
It’s a scream, metal tearing, systems begging, voices cutting off mid-breath.
I learned to listen to it and follow it.
Three intergalactic wars shaped me into what I am.
Not a survivor.
Survivors cling to life.
I don’t cling; I remain.
I drift through what’s left behind when fleets burn and stars watch in silence.
I wait. Then.. I harvest.
Asteroids are easy. Dead rock doesn’t fight back. But war leaves better veins.
Twisted hulls, shattered cores, cargo holds ripped open like flesh.
I cut through them the same way I cut through stone. Patient. Methodical. Unfeeling. Sometimes the wrecks aren’t empty. Sometimes something inside is still breathing... I don’t stop. My lasers don’t care what they touch.
Ore, steel, bones.. it all fractures the same in the end.
The void swallows the sound, but I feel it... I always feel it.
Scanners avoid me.
Ships pass through systems I occupy and never stay long. They say space is empty, but they’re wrong.
It remembers. It watches.
It knows what I’ve done in the dark between wars.
I don’t fight anymore.
I don’t need to.
Because when the battles end, when the last guns fall silent, I am already there.
Waiting...
Mining what’s left of you