Mira’s Day

Mira’s Morning

“…Mira! …Mira! Are you listening to me?”

Mira pinched the fork hovering mid-stab, the scent of syrup failing to break the fog behind her eyes. She nodded slowly, the words spilling out by rote. “The teacher contacted you again.”

“Seriously Mira, I’m worried about how much you cut class. If it wasn’t for your grades…” her mother sighed exasperatedly. “You need to spend more time with your classmates” Mira’s mother stood still, clutching a spatula, it swung about almost like it was a weapon.

“Bu—” a pang of frustration hit her chest as her mother interrupted—again, as she often did. Mira started to focus on her real wants, to get on with her day, her plans…

“No buts! You spend too much time in that workshop with your father’s old crew.” A spatula carved air between them. “I should’ve said no the first time he dragged you down there after class.” deep hazel eyes on Mira silently as she hoped her words would sink in. You’ll stay in class all day today. And if you're late for dinner tonight, I’ll have you restricted from the workshop for the month.”

Mira’s shoulders stiffened. “I… I understand. It’s just… a small project today.” Her mind had already slipped away, tracing wires and welds in the workshop blueprints.

Time froze for a moment as Mira’s mother stood there, in her uniform. Dark Grey with a bright blue, trimmed with a dark red collar insert.

“You…” her mother sighed, “You’re gonna be late.” The spatula flipped in her grasp as she aimed towards the door.

Mira muttered, “yes mom…” she failed to mask her words as they dragged out only half accepting the consequence. She paused purposefully for a split second at the door before turning around, "Your new uniform looks great! Good going Mom!”

Mira then rushed out the door. The stylized unit sign reading ‘1044’ her father had let her help him create from old materials caught her eye for a split second as she rushed down the corridor past the graffitied walls that had been there for as long as she could remember.

Mira didn’t slow, but her eyes snagged on the ‘North Maple’ tag, still clinging like a ghost on the wall.

Class

Mira’s fingers never stopped working from the moment she sat at her desk, to the mid morning break.

“Too easy really” she muttered to herself as she finished a problem assigned as homework later that evening.

“Mira!” The teacher called. His gruff voice tearing her out of her homework.

“Mr Havens?” Mira inquired. “I’m just about done. I just need another..”. The teacher's voice interrupted.

“This is work you are assigned to do at home, NOT during class.” The man took a deep breath. “You do love to try my patience don’t you.” He continued.”Put your PADD down, and go socialize, or do I NEED to let your mother know?” He leaned on the old metal teachers desk with the clutter of instructional materials.

“Oh— no sir. I’ll— go.” Without another word, Mira stabbed save and rose fast enough to scrape her chair. Heat crept up her neck. A slow boil began over wasted time as she slipped out of the room.

Mira stepped out, back stiff. She didn’t make it far.

One wall, two steps — she slumped.

The heat in her neck hadn’t faded. The cool metal against her spine helped hold her up.

She didn’t glance at the checkers, or the kids, or the grating buzz of cheap lights overhead.

She didn’t care. Not right now. All that mattered was not moving. Not snapping. Her fingers tightened around the PADD. Her pulse was louder than the room.

A few deep breaths. Her father’s words echoed in her ears, grounding her. She caught herself, thumb already twitching against the device that called to her.

Only then did her eyes lift — sweeping over the tactile games, the puzzles, the chipped plastic pieces scattered on worn tabletops.

Two groups played the old-style checkers. One had gathered around a round of Chinese checkers.

She pushed off the wall, exhaled, and stepped forward. “Can I—”

She hadn’t even finished the sentence before someone cut her off.

“No!” came the resounding call from those surrounding the board. The sting hit squarely in her heart… “You’re too good. No one else wins when you play!”

“But— I’ll—“ Mira tried to say, but was interrupted again.

“What? Let us win? Then we’ll know you let us. And what fun is that?” The boy speaking was three years above her in lessons, Mira had beaten him — and everyone else — handily at every game in the room.

“Fine—!” Mira stiffened and bottled up her disappointment. She slowly turned and found herself slumping in her desk. Try as she might, she held back — resisting the urge to finish the evening’s assigned work.

Before she knew it, it was lunch break. The ache had stung so deeply in her heart that her only distraction had been working through what she knew was the afternoon’s lessons.

Once she noticed, her mind reeled, considering how best to handle it before berating herself.

“Yup. Failed THAT task badly,” she muttered, darting out of the classroom.

Mechanics Bay & The Graveyard Drones

Mira’s steps echoed down the grated corridor as she carved her practiced path. Her hand caught the edge of the unrecessed door with familiar precision as she pivoted into the mechanics workshop—tucked just off the main launch bay.

The smells slammed into her: lubricants, spent fuel, and the sharp sting of O₂ and trace gases as the ventilation kicked noisily on.

The sounds from the main docks filtered in through the far door that she had to strain to see through to the bay. Her eyes instead eagerly settled on the two dead drones opened and in parts. She halted — her father’s image crashing uninvited. The scene replayed in her mind—him, teaching her everything she thought she needed, or so she had felt at the time.

She reached instinctively, hand closing around a spanner and the worn diagnostic screen. Her face remained bright for a heart rendering second as the memories lingered.

Mira felt a tear threaten her focus as she lowered herself. His ghost was there — still working beside her. Every touch, every part moved the way he had shown her.

Time disappeared as she lost herself inside the dead drone — its shell far from empty, yet lifeless. Every part had been laid out just as he’d taught her. She heard his voice in every movement, guiding her unsure fingers. Each component she handled like glass, restoring it with deliberate care.

Dockside Teasing

Mira worked the plastic connectors inside the tight space, twisting her wrist awkwardly as her brow furrowed. A soft grunt of frustration escaped her as she screwed her face sideways, trying to force the connector to click.

“Hey Harl, jumpgate diagnostics are starting. You in, or just babysitting the lil’ miss again?” one of the younger mechanics called from the corridor.

Mira flinched—her grip slipped.

"Naw. Seen it before, I’ll see it again when they launch real ships," Harl replied, only half looking. His focus returned to Mira almost immediately.

One or two of the crew teased her lightly, but she ignored them – maybe muttered under her breath. Their laughter echoed briefly, but her hands kept moving.

“Hey, little miss,” the wiry tech called, grinning as he leaned in. “This here old guy ever tell you about the Ghostflare drones yet?” He slapped Harl’s shoulder with a little too much force. “Delta-Zeroes, we used to call ’em. Zips off to the Oort like they’re on some grand mission, then—poof. Flared out, gone. No beacon, no trace.”

She half-shook her head. She was focused. Breaking that focus meant playing their game—and to her, it wasn’t a game.

The Commotion

Mira was deep in focus, knuckles deep in the drone's internals. The explosion hit like a punch. The whole station shook, a low thunder reverberating through the floor grates. Somewhere outside, alarms blared. The overhead lights flickered.

She startled, nicking her finger on a misaligned bracket. Harl cursed nearby, rubbing his shoulder where the wiry mechanic had slapped him just moments earlier. He muttered something about dumb kids and timing.

“Emergency Stations, repeat, Emergency Stations. Perimeter Breach”

"What was that?" Mira whispered, half to herself. The PA crackled overhead—static, clipped chatter. Something about propulsion surge testing. Something about a perimeter breach. She blinked. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

She turned back to the drone, breath shallow. One panel. Then another. Her fingers moved faster now, driven by instinct and nerves. A panel slipped—her skin pinched. She hissed through her teeth, but kept going.

She could feel the hum in the deck plates now. A deep vibration that wasn't there before. Engines. Multiple. Launch prep, or scramble.

Near her foot sat the small power core—a salvage unit, under-spec but still viable. It was never meant for deployment-grade gear. But Mira had claimed it hours ago when no one else cared. Today? It was good enough.

With a deep breath, she slotted it into place.

The drone accepted it with a soft click. Then stillness.

The overhead speakers blared again. “Launch all craft, Repeat–launch all craft!”

Mira hadn’t really noticed—until the second blast hit. She ducked behind the drone’s shell as the bay shook. Dust rained from the ceiling. Tools rattled. Somewhere, someone shouted, "Seal the blast doors!"

Mira’s breath came fast. Her heart thudded in her ears. But her eyes stayed locked on the drone.

The Awakening & The Aftermath

Mira flipped the switch. Nothing.

She slumped, arms crossed, lips pressed thin.

Harl chuckled nearby. “Guess it needs another tear down, eh?”

Her fists balled tight—then click.

One light. Then two. A ripple of color shimmered along the drone’s spine.

She snapped upright.

The old LED display buzzed to life:

[Parsing Instructions]

...waiting

Complete

[Parsing Rules]

...loading

Complete

[Connecting to Master Node]

A fresh blast shook the bay, and Mira ducked behind the drone's chassis. Dust rained down as she strained to watch the readout.

...Connected

Initiating Update

The hum of nearby engines deepened. The bay vibrated underfoot. Outside, sirens wailed. Launch teams scrambled.

“Sealing all blast doors—repeat, sealing all blast doors.” The PA crackled through static.

Harl barely glanced away. The hatch to the hangar was sealing shut.

Mira’s eyes opened wide as the drone chirped.

[Update Complete]

[Syncing Time/Date with Master Node]

Verified

A blood curdling scream could be heard through the entryway.

[Retired State Enabled]

[Shutdown Initiated]

Mira and Harl waited anxiously as the drone dimmed. Then—

[New Instructions Received]

Acknowledged

Scanning Vectors

The drone twitched. Lifted. Stabilized.

Then, without a sound, it launched—straight through the bay’s exit field, chasing a streak of light from a departing ship.

Mira ran to the edge of the entry to the hanger launch area as the sliding doors had halved the opening. Craning her neck, eagerly following the drone– only for it to vanish among the stars.

Harl shouted her name, his voice tight with alarm. "Mira, get back here!"

Inside the Launch Bay, chaos reigned. Ships aflame. Crew barking orders. Smoke bleeding through the vents. It had begun assaulting Mira’s nose, her eyes.

Harl finally stepped up beside her. “See? That’s what the other one did, too.”

She turned, eyes wide. “I shouldn’t have activated it.”

“Maybe,” Harl said. “But I reckon it chose to leave. Not everything waits for permission.”

She hesitated. “Do you think it’ll come back?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just watched the void.

“Those were Forgeborn builds. Rare. Older than any of us admit. They don’t fly just anywhere.”

Mira nodded slowly.

Harl lowered himself onto a bench with a groan. “Some stories, Mira… the ones no one tells twice—they’re the ones that matter. The ones redacted. Air-quoted without fingers.”

Mira tilted her head.

“You’ll understand one day.”

They sat in the near silence. Alarm klaxons still shrilled dully through the sealed blast doors. Mira’s eyes drifted to the second drone, still lifeless on the worktable.

“You be careful with that one,” Harl warned gently. “Your dad would be proud of what you did. But he’d worry about poking at that next one.”

Mira nodded, her fingers already twitching toward the next project.

Outside, unseen by both, the real drama unfolded. Ships launched. Flames were quelled. And no one—not one soul—noticed the drone vanish behind the experimental craft.

Time passed.

“Uh… Mr. Harl?”

“Yes, lil miss?”

“I think I’m late for dinner.”

Harl grinned, reaching for a comm. “I’ll message your mom. Tell her you're safe.”

Mira darted off. Around the corner, she paused—one last glance at the chaos of the bay through the view port of transparent aluminium in the wall, then ran.

Down the corridor, officers waved bystanders away:

“Move along. Nothing to see.”

But Mira knew better.

The smells. The smoke. The silence behind the blast doors.

They told a very different story.

She didn’t look forward to facing her mother—especially not after skipping an entire afternoon of school. But that was a small problem.

Her mind had raced as she made her way back to the unit she shared with her mother. The familiar tagging on the passageway came into view as her stomach lurched. Her stomach wanted to toss what it didn't have. Something felt, oddly– off. Her fingers tapped the code that would allow her entrance to the compartment.

The door slid sideways, and darkness stared back at her. Lights off, quiet. No dinner. No– “Mom?” she very hesitantly called. Worry creeping in. Silence answered her. The only source of light, pale as it was, came from the viewing port on the outer wall. Another ghost crept in as she could see him sitting there in the dark. A trick of the lights, but still something drew her forward. Heart leaping as she took a deep breath.

This never happened. Never. Mom was always there to greet her, even if she was angry. Her or Dad–

Then—a flash erupted outside the viewport. The JumpGate that she had never once seen activated, lit up. The swirling light spun dizzying patterns. Explosions lit the void as ships flitted past like fireflies. Traces of light striking other craft, and some craft targeting the gate itself.

One, two.. Four? Had entered the gate.. And then… with the fifth, something, a very familiar outline and a vague light on its surface refracting enough to leave sunspots in her eyes.

A lone drone slipped in behind it—vanishing beyond the event horizon.