AI

At last, Kestrel Novalis grasped the truth. The reason there were doors on both the ceiling and the floor, the reason the walls were entirely metallic—he finally understood.

They weren't doors at all; they were space capsules. From the moment he had awakened, he had been walking sideways along the wall without even realizing it.

Stunned, he pressed his face against the glass, carefully examining the view beyond. Though it was cast in shades of gray, he was certain—this was Earth. But something was different. The once-vivid blue planet was now shrouded in a thick veil of metallic debris, as if wrapped in a tattered, gray shroud.

Satellites. Thousands—no, millions—of them, forming an impenetrable shell of space junk around the Earth. Some were so colossal that he could discern their shapes with the naked eye.

"What the hell… How are there so many satellites? What year is this?" Kestrel Novalis muttered, an unsettling certainty creeping into his mind. The technology he remembered from his time could never have achieved such an outcome—not even with the five years of memory he seemed to have lost.

As he tore his gaze away from the planet and turned to the left, his breath caught in his throat. A shimmering, silver-gray planetary ring encircled the Earth like a belt. And the Moon—where the hell was the Moon? It was gone.

The ring wasn't made of ice or dust, as Saturn's was. No, it was a graveyard of rock, derelict spacecraft, and the shattered remains of space stations. And he—he was inside it.

At last, he had the answer to the question that had gnawed at him since waking up. Where was he? He was aboard a massive space station, adrift within the remnants of what had once been the Moon.

But the next question was far more pressing—how the hell was he supposed to get back?

Returning to Earth from a crippled space station was a challenge beyond comprehension. And yet, before he could even begin to contemplate a solution, reality decided for him.

The station trembled, its vibrations intensifying. Behind him, monitors flickered erratically, their surfaces growing warm to the touch. A dreadful realization dawned upon Kestrel Novalis—his earlier movements must have disrupted the delicate equilibrium that had kept this derelict husk stable for so long.

Then, through the window, he saw it.

The station—his station—was slipping from the ring's embrace, slowly tilting towards Earth's atmosphere.

A chill ran down his spine, racing up to the base of his skull.

"Shit! No, no, no—falling back isn't what I meant when I said I wanted to return!"

"Do something. I need to do something—now."

Sweat beading on his forehead, Kestrel Novalis lunged toward the flashing screens. His fingers danced over controls, pressing anything and everything, but nothing responded. The machinery was dead. Cursing, he pushed off the console, propelling himself weightlessly through the corridor.

As if triggered by his frantic movements, previously sealed hatches hissed open. Desperation surged through him as he scoured the station, searching for any means of escape. An escape pod, a shuttle—anything that could get him out of here alive.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry!"

The centrifugal force of the station's rotation was intensifying. His time was running out.

He tore through one chamber after another—cargo bays, gymnasiums, all useless—until finally, with a forceful shove, he burst through a half-jammed door.

Inside, rows upon rows of humanoid machines were secured to the walls, ceiling, and floor.

They resembled humans in structure—except for their reverse-jointed metal legs and the sleek digital displays where their eyes should have been.

There was no time to marvel at their construction. Right now, these machines represented his last glimmer of hope.

Without hesitation, he unfastened their restraints, his fingers scrambling to find a power switch. As his hand brushed against a panel beneath one of the machines' arms, the display on its face flickered to life, forming two simple, glowing eyes.

"Hey! Can you hear me? Where's the escape pod? How do I get out of here?!"

The machine's voice was calm yet mechanical. "System initializing. Progress: 10%... 50%... 70%... Initialization complete."

"Greetings, esteemed user. Welcome to TPAL Technology. Please assign a custom name to this unit."

"You've got to be kidding me—NOW?!"

"Name registration complete: 'You've Got to Be Kidding Me.' Please select an initial operating mode."

Kestrel Novalis, on the verge of losing his mind, jabbed at the "Guardian Mode" option, only to be met with a cascade of additional configuration prompts.

The station groaned as loose components rattled and detached, floating freely in the air. Finally—finally—the setup was complete.

"Kestrel Novalis, greetings. 'You've Got to Be Kidding Me' is now ready to assist you." The machine's display formed two cheerful, crescent-shaped eyes.

"Do you recognize this station? It's about to crash! Do you know where I can find an escape pod? A shuttle? Anything?"

To his astonishment, the machine responded immediately.

"User emergency level: Red. Automatic distress beacon activated. Recording and transmission initiated… Error. Satellite positioning unavailable. Network connection failed. Data insufficient. Unable to execute rescue."

A hideous metallic screech reverberated from outside, a sound like steel being torn apart. Terror gripped Kestrel Novalis, his body trembling in unison with the failing station.

Just as he was about to abandon this useless machine in search of another option, it suddenly spoke again.

"Connecting to unknown subnet 12.128.C1… Data acquisition complete. Rescue planning failed. Error: Insufficient logical processing capacity. Unable to parse subnet data patterns. Requesting user authorization for ROOT access. Upon approval, AI logic system iteration will commence. Estimated rescue probability increase: 32.3%."

"Approve! Approve!"

He didn't understand half of what the machine had just said—but a higher survival chance? That, he understood.

"System iteration in progress."

A progress bar appeared on the machine's screen.

And then—the room ruptured.

A jagged metal panel sheared free, slicing through the air like a guillotine aimed straight at the machine's head.

Instinct took over. Kestrel Novalis yanked its metal arm, pulling it toward him with all his strength—forgetting, in his panic, that they were weightless.

Momentum hurled him into the very spot the machine had just occupied.

The metal sheet came down, grazing his face as it cut through the air.

The force of his own pull sent him tumbling backward until he collided with the far wall. Before he could even catch his breath, a loose bolt spun wildly through the air, aimed straight for his throat like a bullet.

It was too fast. He couldn't dodge.

Then—

A metal hand shot out.

With a resounding clang, the bolt deflected, sparks scattering like fireflies.

Kestrel Novalis turned, following the outstretched arm to its owner.

The machine he had just activated was shielding him, its solid frame absorbing the brunt of the debris.

Slowly, it lifted its head. Their gazes met.

Then, from the machine's speaker, a voice rang out—dry, mechanical, and unmistakably exasperated.

"…The hell kind of stupid name is that?"

4o