It's been a month since I crash-landed on this dusty, nameless planet. And somehow, I've started to adapt.
The days here are a furnace. The twin suns---which I've taken to calling "Castor" and "Pollux" after the Earth constellation---blast the surface with enough radiation to fry unshielded electronics. The nights, a freezer dropping to minus forty. The silence? Endless. No wind, no animals---just the hum of failing systems and the soft whirr of drones doing their best to stitch my ship back together.
Still... progress.
Every morning begins the same. I wake up to the AI's flat voice, rub the stiffness from limbs that shouldn't ache at sixteen, and start ticking boxes off my daily repair checklist. It's weirdly comforting---routine, in a life that's anything but.
"Captain," the AI greeted me this morning, like clockwork. "Ship repair progress: 48.7%. Estimated time to full operational status: 61 days at current pace."
Better than the original five months. Way better.
I sat up in my bunk, tail curling protectively around my ankle---a Devilukean reflex I'd never fully shed. The cabin was bathed in the soft azure glow of morning mode, shadows retreating to corners where dust gathered despite my best efforts.
The secret weapon behind our progress? My wish power.
It's not like some fairytale genie. It's closer to a system---structured, limited, but powerful. I get a small wish every 24 hours. If I don't use it, the energy builds up, letting me stack for more impactful results.
The first time I tried explaining it to the ship's AI, it replied with probability calculations and quantum uncertainty principles. Eventually, I stopped trying to define it. Some things in this universe defy easy classification.
I've been using it carefully. Strategically.
Week one was about survival. My first wishes went into boosting the ship's nanobot efficiency---cranking it up to 400%. Just that change turned a five-month rebuild into something almost manageable. But even turbo-charged bots couldn't do it alone.
So I got my hands dirty.
Most days, I crawled through scorched corridors with a plasma welder, fixing hull fractures by hand, splicing ruptured energy conduits, rerouting unstable reactor loops. On day six, I used a wish to summon a complete Devilukean tech manual---academy-level stuff---and studied it every spare moment. Within three days, I could swap out control nodes and recalibrate core shielding like a half-trained cadet.
I felt... proud. Not the shallow pride of buying something expensive or winning a game. This was deeper---the satisfaction of creation, of taking broken pieces and making them whole again.
My fingertips now bore tiny scars from where the hot metal had nipped at my skin. Each one was a badge of honor, proof that I wasn't just surviving. I was rebuilding.
Week two changed my focus. If I'm going to survive outside this ship, I can't stay the weakling who crash-landed here.
So on day eight, I made a simple wish: "Increase my learning speed and physical training efficiency."
The effect was subtle but immediate. My reaction time improved. My workouts---basic resistance training, tail agility drills, shadowboxing---started producing real gains. The planet's gravity was 1.3x that of Deviluke Prime, so everything felt heavier. Perfect training conditions.
By the end of that week, I was already twice as fast, twice as strong. My stamina? Tenfold improvement.
One morning, I caught my reflection in a polished bulkhead. My body had changed---leaner, more defined. But it wasn't just the physical difference that startled me. There was something in my eyes, a focus that hadn't been there before.
I never thought I'd feel this sharp. Not back on Earth, where I binged anime, avoided sunlight, and barely left my room. That version of me would never recognize this one---standing tall on an alien world, muscles aching from honest work, purpose burning in my veins.
Week three, I doubled down.
I burned a few stored wishes to stack minor enhancements: sharper focus during training, faster neural pattern recognition, stronger pain tolerance. Not flashy powers---no laser eyes or teleportation---but enough to make me feel... capable.
On day twenty-one, I used my biggest wish yet---seven days' worth---to create something new:
A modular repair drone.
I named him Bleep.
He's got a sarcastic voice profile I designed myself, ripped straight from an old Earth sci-fi franchise. Constantly talks back. Complains about dust. Calls me "Meatbag" when he's annoyed. Honestly? I kind of love him. He's the closest thing to a companion I've got out here.
"Your welding technique is still subpar, Meatbag," he observed this morning, hovering over my shoulder as I patched a particularly tricky hull breach. His optical sensor narrowed in disapproval.
"You could help instead of criticizing," I shot back, sweat beading on my forehead as I held the plasma torch steady.
"And deprive you of a learning opportunity? I think not." He drifted closer. "Though if you adjust the angle by approximately 3.7 degrees, you'll achieve optimal fusion."
I smirked and made the adjustment. The metal sealed perfectly.
While I sleep, Bleep repairs structural fractures. While I train, he fine-tunes external ports. He even plays music from my personal Devilukean collection---mostly anime OPs, idol songs, and whatever counts as "classics" in Deviluke's galactic pop scene.
Yeah. I'm still an otaku. Even out here.
Every couple nights, I climb a rocky ridge near the crash site. Watch the twin moons rise. The sky bleeds from gold to violet, then to midnight blue. The stars emerge---unfamiliar constellations in a foreign galaxy. Sometimes I try to name them, creating my own mythology in this empty corner of space.
The view's unreal. My ship---half-buried in red sand---looks less like a vessel and more like some alien relic. The metal gleams in the moonlight, wounded but defiant.
But it's home now. My home.
And I'm not wasting a second of this second life.
Ship Repair Log --- One Month In
Power Core Stabilizer: Cooling rods manually replaced. Core oscillators re-synced. Stable at 87% capacity. The reactor hums now instead of sputtering---a healthy, steady rhythm that vibrates through the deck plates.
Shield Matrix: Using scavenged parts and wish-enhanced composites, I've got it to 75% efficiency. Can handle small meteor impacts and low-grade energy bursts. When I activated it yesterday, the air shimmered with a faint blue glow---beautiful, in its way.
Hull Fractures: 60% sealed using alloy-foam and structural polymer. Still a long way to go. Every sealed breach feels like stitching a wound closed.
Sensor Array: Restored. Can now scan terrain up to 10 kilometers with 83% accuracy. Last night, it picked up a mineral deposit three kilometers south---might be useful for further repairs.
Water System: Fully repaired. Hydration's no longer an issue. The recycler purrs like a contented cat.
Cockpit Interface: Replaced the damaged controls with a neural-sync digital interface---faster response, lower energy drain. Also... really cool. When I connect, it feels like the ship becomes an extension of my body.
Drone Support: Bleep handles night shift repairs and sings J-pop while doing it. His rendition of "Nebula Heart" is terrible and perfect.
Not bad for a so-called otaku shut-in, right?
And I'm not done yet.
Tomorrow, I tackle the engine housing. The real heart of the ship. If I can restore the subspace drive, I'll have the ability to leave. I could explore. Travel. Maybe even find Deviluke Prime again.
I won't go just yet. Not immediately. I want to stock up a few more wishes. Get stronger. Prepare for whatever's waiting out there.
But soon... I'll have a choice.
And the next time I pilot this ship, I won't be the naive kid who barely survived a black hole.
I'll be something more.
Right now, I lie in my bunk. The overhead lights dim to twilight mode. The ship hums softly around me---half-machine, half-sanctuary. Bleep has powered down in his charging dock, his optical sensor dimmed to a soft crimson glow. I sip a warm cup of synth-protein. It tastes like nostalgia and bad cafeteria food.
But I smile anyway.
I close my eyes.
I don't feel helpless.
I feel ready.