The professor sat on the terrace of an abandoned tech facility. Once, solar panels were tested here. Now, it looked as if even the Sun itself had lost interest. A few stubborn bushes survived thanks to the rain and defiance. Overhead, an old floodlight kept short-circuiting — a flicker in memory of shifts that would never happen again. Maybe silence had chosen this forgotten perimeter to speak finally.
By his feet sat a flask of Japanese whisky — a gift from Cat. The very one given after their first clean mission. Spacelunch stared into the dark, trying to sense the outlines of life. Things used to be simpler. A home on Earth. A garage where a pet — once just a cat saved from a burning room as a cub — first spoke. “I should’ve never started those experiments,” he thought. But the images came anyway — the action, the laughter, the arguments — all of it made sense once, as long as someone was walking beside him, who could meow outside of protocol. Somewhere between the missions, the mistakes, the tall tales — their bond had dissolved. But by now, it was far too late to analyze anything.
All content for spclnch is the property of spclnch and is served directly from their servers
with no modification, redirects, or rehosting. The podcast is not affiliated with or endorsed by Podjoint in any way.
The professor sat on the terrace of an abandoned tech facility. Once, solar panels were tested here. Now, it looked as if even the Sun itself had lost interest. A few stubborn bushes survived thanks to the rain and defiance. Overhead, an old floodlight kept short-circuiting — a flicker in memory of shifts that would never happen again. Maybe silence had chosen this forgotten perimeter to speak finally.
By his feet sat a flask of Japanese whisky — a gift from Cat. The very one given after their first clean mission. Spacelunch stared into the dark, trying to sense the outlines of life. Things used to be simpler. A home on Earth. A garage where a pet — once just a cat saved from a burning room as a cub — first spoke. “I should’ve never started those experiments,” he thought. But the images came anyway — the action, the laughter, the arguments — all of it made sense once, as long as someone was walking beside him, who could meow outside of protocol. Somewhere between the missions, the mistakes, the tall tales — their bond had dissolved. But by now, it was far too late to analyze anything.
The casino, tucked away in an old freight terminal, had no name on the facade. Locals simply called it “The Hum” — a place where you could lose your money, and maybe even your mind. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and cheap perfume, and the ceiling sank into a pulsing dim light.
Spacelunch passed a row of slot machines, where regulars pressed the buttons like condemned souls, and stopped at the roulette table. Fraudlin, a scrawny gambling addict with a blank expression, was sucking the last puff out of a cigarette butt as if no one else existed. Suddenly, a figure in a long coat appeared beside him.
— You only show up when things get tough.
— Fair. Today I need your ears.
— Heard about Cat. Word is, the bracelet has changed hands — more than once. And not just the bracelet. Some data on your whereabouts, too.
— Any idea who’s behind it?
Fraudlin flicked the ash, watching the roulette pill slide into a black slot.
— Rumour has it the trail runs through the old customs department. A lot of middlemen down there are working under the Corporation’s wing. Too neat to be a coincidence.
— You think Cat set me up?
— Sometimes it’s easier to blame the closest one than to admit you got outplayed.
Silence fell, full of second-guesses and afterthoughts. Spacelunch reached into his coat and tossed a credit chip onto the pile of chips.
— Let me know if anything new comes up.
— Don’t worry. The Hum hears everything. Keep my channel open.
spclnch
The professor sat on the terrace of an abandoned tech facility. Once, solar panels were tested here. Now, it looked as if even the Sun itself had lost interest. A few stubborn bushes survived thanks to the rain and defiance. Overhead, an old floodlight kept short-circuiting — a flicker in memory of shifts that would never happen again. Maybe silence had chosen this forgotten perimeter to speak finally.
By his feet sat a flask of Japanese whisky — a gift from Cat. The very one given after their first clean mission. Spacelunch stared into the dark, trying to sense the outlines of life. Things used to be simpler. A home on Earth. A garage where a pet — once just a cat saved from a burning room as a cub — first spoke. “I should’ve never started those experiments,” he thought. But the images came anyway — the action, the laughter, the arguments — all of it made sense once, as long as someone was walking beside him, who could meow outside of protocol. Somewhere between the missions, the mistakes, the tall tales — their bond had dissolved. But by now, it was far too late to analyze anything.
