Outland-1: North Star in the Wasteland
That one's Deneb, that one's Vega. I was never one for constellations. Not the type to gaze at the night sky lost in poetic thought, either. The fact that even I could roughly gauge directions from the stars came from a horrific tragedy—or rather, because of some horrific bastard.
If you want to find the North Star, look for the Big Dipper first. If that's hard to spot, find Cassiopeia. That's Kaf, meaning "palm." That's Ruchbah, meaning "knee." And that's Schedar. Guess what that means? "Uh... neck?" Nope, it's "breast"—the word that holds dreams. See that bright star next to it? That's the North Star. Lived your whole life without knowing? Jeez, you ignorant fool.
"Who else in our unit knows stars besides Corporal Kim? Even the division commander could call you ignorant."
I was no stranger to violence, so even as he twisted my arm behind my back, I stubbornly spat out the truth. But what came next was merciless verbal abuse. So, what's that dark patch next to the star? "No idea." That's your remaining service time, punk. Aigoo, it's so damn dark, can't see a thing. Yeah. That guy.
Now, I can't even remember his name—just his cackling voice and star knowledge. Corporal Kim was like the incarnation of malice. I could rant for three days straight about the bullshit he put me through. Spending spring, summer, fall, and winter staring at the night sky with a guy I had zero interest in—that horrific memory, that tragedy. Because of that twisted creature endlessly whispering astronomy lore by my side, I'd become someone who couldn't look at the night sky without seeking the North Star.
And fortunately, the sky here was the same. Just like the one I'd once gazed upon, breasts full of dreams floated in the heavens here too. And a bit further off, the shining North Star.
"That's west. The angle might be a tad off, but it'll do."
Pria stared at me blankly at my words. Seeing doubt and wariness pool in her blue eyes, I realized my mistake. I'd forgotten I was supposed to have amnesia, thanks to the instinct carved into me from repeated torment to find the North Star.
"...You really have amnesia?"
Her lips parted heavily, suspicion dripping from her voice. The pipe aimed warily at me. Taking in her eyes and the pipe, I glanced at my right hand, hidden behind me. At first glance, the pipe thrust forward seemed like her weapon, but to me, her real play was that concealed right hand, shielded by her body.
Weight distribution, eye movement, tensed posture. I instinctively analyzed it all in case of a fight, but that was just old habit. In a world where blades flashed at every turn and assassins or hired ronin ambushed you, it was a learned reflex. Truth was, I had no desire to fight her.
"Hold on."
So I opened my mouth slowly, careful not to provoke her. "Looks like I was a sailor after all."
"......"
Random as hell, right? Words that shatter expectations create openings. Seizing that gap before she could lunge, I continued. "Looking at the sky made me wanna find the North Star outta nowhere. Who else in this world spots it from the heavens besides astronomers or sailors?"
There were poor soldiers tortured by astronomers, but that didn't help the situation, so I buried it in the shadows of my past. Yeah, into the dark, dark days of my military life...
"But thinking it over, sailor beats astronomer. My most admired escape artist was a sailor too."
To be precise, I hated astronomers. More precisely, I hated Corporal Kim, who dreamed of becoming one. He was lost in the sea of stars, blind to humanity...
"......"
Were my lingering emotions from dredging up Kim the reason? Sensing the sincerity laced with old grudges, she spoke in a softer tone.
"...No. 23."
"Sister."
"Honestly, you make me suspicious."
"......"
I was probably thinking the same about her. Her doubt felt justified. The longest-surviving test subject. The only successful one. Unlike me, untouched by a single scratch, looking perfectly fine. How did I look in her suspicious eyes?
"No one else talked as much as you."
"......"
"You said you killed that guy, but I never got to confirm."
And above all. "How'd you do it?"
Her eyes were on my arms and legs. The junkyard limbs that weren't mine.
"That's outdated implant trash no one uses anymore. Hell, your arm's an industrial claw. That leg even work right?"
Her question was doubt, but also verification. Tomorrow, we'd head into the wasteland toward some western city, not knowing how far. We couldn't stake our lives on suspicion. In short, it was something we had to clear up for trust—hers and mine. For each other.
I nodded, acknowledging her doubt. "Alright, I'll go first. Memories before the operating table are fuzzy. But seeing that ugly mug snapped me awake. Face like decades of malice and evil thoughts leaking out. As for the chattiness, no idea—woke up strapped down, probably drugged."
No contradictions in my story, so she listened quietly.
"After that, we talked like you know, and thanks to Sister's wisdom, I pieced it together. Alone, I'd have lost my mind not knowing the situation. Truly grateful for that."
"...Skip the bullshit."
She seemed ready to snap, but her tone softened, almost shy. If not my imagination, a good sign. I pressed on undeterred. "Then for three days, I plotted his death. Dug up everything I saw being wheeled out of the lab, made a plan. Was gonna recover more first, but..."
"...But?"
"This ain't for points. Remember that."
"...?"
"He said another test subject was coming."
"...Scared you'd get scrapped?"
"Nah, even after he sold me out, I was gonna play nice. But that fucker pulled his bullshit on me. Said we got close, but now the useless subject gets scrapped—what a shame."
"...What?"
"Couldn't take it. Just snapped."
I licked my lips lightly. "This industrial claw."
Lifting our gimpy tripod, I said, "One solid smack, and he was gone."
Way more believable than saying I burst his heart and lungs with internal energy and the Crushing Palm technique. So I lied calmly. A white lie. Anyway.
"......"
"......"
She stared silently, expression probing truth from lie—or maybe just the intimidation of a beauty's face making me squirm alone. "...Fine."
Whether belief or deception, she decided to trust for now. "...My turn then."
Sensing my doubts too, she let the pipe droop with a sigh.
I crossed my arms confidently before her. Even straightening up, I had to look up, so I did, delivering my prepared line. "Doubts? Plenty."
"......"
"But lacking context, I won't ask here."
Confusion at the nonsense. Bewilderment at the idiocy. Contempt—no, reward—for calling her Mama. They flashed across her face. Her honest features made expressions easy to read.
"Can't nitpick a fellow inmate and escape buddy's minor flaws. Especially my savior."
Key point: don't call her a beauty. For some reason, most recoil at that timing. Hard-earned survival tip. If they light up, nine times outta ten it's an assassin; the rest are dudes. Don't ask more. Hate thinking about it.
"Let's find a spot to crash. Mama."
"......"
Turning to her silent form, to shake off lingering suspicion, I asked, "Like Mama?"
Reward stack 3. Thank you.