Misaki Haruto woke up before his alarm. The dorm window glowed faint blue with early Hokkaido sunlight, but his heartbeat was already racing like he'd taken off without the rest of the shuttle. Today wasn't training. Today wasn't simulation work. Today was their first field experiment.
They were going to space.
Not for a long mission. Not even for a full orbit shift. Just a controlled ascent to rendezvous with the dismantled shell of ISS-2—the International Space Station's successor that had been quietly decommissioned after structural issues made long-term habitation risky.
AstraLink had acquired the frame of ISS-2 as a testing platform, a boneyard in orbit where young engineers could practice real repairs without risking a living crew.
Misaki brushed his hair aside, grabbed his flight suit, and stepped into the hallway.
Junpei's door was already half-open.
Inside, Junpei Ito stood in front of the mirror attempting—and failing—to flatten a cowlick in his hair. "You're early," he said, glancing over. "Did you even sleep?"
"Barely," Misaki said. "My dream had me doing EVA drills. I woke up sweaty and upside down."
"Sounds like Tuesday."
They suited up quietly after that—AstraLink blue jumpsuits, biometric undershirts, boots with strap anchoring for the shuttle cabin. Their nerves showed in the little ways: Junpei tapped his foot faster than a tachometer needle; Misaki clipped and unclipped his gloves three times before finally leaving them on.
By the time they reached the Launch Wing, the air tasted like disinfectant, metal, and raw anticipation.
Waiting for them were their mission leads.
Commander Reina Kisaragi—compact, sharp-eyed, and notoriously calm—extended a hand. "Haruto. Ito. Welcome to your first real test. Don't faint."
Junpei raised a hand. "No promises."
Beside her stood Chief Engineer Alvarez, tall and weathered, the kind of man who probably had a wrench engraved on his heart. He motioned toward the display screen behind him, where ISS-2 floated like a skeletal crown above Earth.
"Here's the run. You two will assist in field-testing Prototype Unit 07 in actual microgravity conditions. Your role is observational and supportive—recording data, double-checking diagnostics, and assisting with the disassembly attempt of Node C. You are not conducting the disassembly yourselves."
Misaki nodded, absorbing every word. "Yes, sir."
Alvarez squinted at him. "Haruto, you look like you're vibrating."
"Just excited, sir."
"Good. Bring the excitement back with you. It's expensive."
They finished the briefing, underwent final medical checks, and filed into Shuttle Hikari-03, a compact transport built for low-orbit missions. The interior was clean and snug, lined with removable seats and walls dotted with emergency tools.
As the countdown began, Junpei leaned over. "We're actually doing this."
Misaki strapped in tighter. "If I pass out, tell them it was from joy."
"You pass out, I'm drawing on your face."
A voice from the cockpit intercom cut them off.
"This is Hikari-03. Cabin sealed. Pressure stable. Launch sequence beginning."
The engines vibrated beneath their feet. A deep rumble turned into a roar that pressed them into their seats. Misaki felt his stomach sink through several floors of gravity, then slowly rise as the shuttle cut through atmosphere.
Junpei laughed—a breathless, ecstatic sound. "We're flying!"
Misaki didn't answer. He was too busy staring at the window.
The sky darkened from blue to ink. The Earth curved beneath them, a vast mosaic of oceans and land blurred by distance. Light shimmered along the horizon like the planet was wearing a golden halo.
It didn't feel real.
But they were there.
Orbit.
The shuttle stabilized with a soft lurch. Commander Kisaragi unbuckled and floated free with practiced ease.
"Welcome to low Earth orbit, trainees," she said. "Try not to puke."
Junpei promptly lost control of his first float and spun slightly sideways. "No guarantees!"
Misaki grabbed a rail and steadied himself. Floating felt like living inside a dream someone forgot to finish.
The rear hatch opened to reveal the silhouette of the repair shuttle—Prototype 07—drifting a few dozen meters away, tethered to the maintenance pod like an obedient robot dog. Its spider-leg arms were folded, its tools neatly locked in place.
"Team A will hold Hikari-03 in position," Commander Kisaragi said. "Team B—Haruto, Ito, you're with us. We'll make our way to the prototype."
Moving in microgravity was nothing like simulated zero-G back on Earth. The simulator prepared them; space perfected the lesson. Every motion mattered. A wrong push sent you drifting sideways. A too-strong pull spun you like a top.
But Misaki adapted fast. And Junpei, annoyingly, adapted even faster.
They reached Prototype 07. Up close, the machine looked majestic—sleek joints, reinforced chassis, articulated arms ending in multi-purpose clamps. It was the future's toolbox.
Alvarez floated beside them and pointed at a sealed hatch. "Your job is to observe as we attempt disengagement of Panel C-17. This will test the dexterity of the arm and the stability of the prototype. Keep cameras active. Don't interfere unless we tell you."
Misaki breathed deeply, clipped his tether to the frame, and gave a shaky nod.
The engineers activated the prototype.
The main arm extended with fluid grace—then, just as it reached the ISS-2 node interface…
It twitched.
Just once. Barely noticeable. But everyone saw it.
Kisaragi narrowed her eyes. "Alvarez?"
"Feedback loop. Nothing serious," Alvarez muttered, though his tone suggested the opposite.
The arm attempted to secure the latch on Panel C-17.
It lagged.
A small delay—half a second, maybe less—but in space, half a second was long enough to ruin your lunch break and your trajectory.
The arm jerked forward, overshooting the latch. The prototype frame shifted slightly, throwing off balance.
Misaki felt the tension in the tether tighten. "Should we abort?"
"Negative," Kisaragi said. "We need to understand the behavior. Continue recording."
The arm attempted again.
Lag.
Misalignment.
Then—contact.
A hard, unintended shove against the panel.
The prototype lurched backward from the push… directly into Misaki and Junpei.
Both trainees were yanked forward by the sudden motion, crashing into the side of the unit. Their helmets clacked against the metal. Misaki's tether snapped taut, slamming against his harness.
"Haruto! Ito!" Kisaragi shouted. "Status!"
Misaki blinked stars out of his eyes. "I'm okay! Junpei?"
Junpei groaned. "I think I just headbutted a national project."
Alvarez cursed under his breath. "The arm's control latency is worse than we thought. We're stopping the test. Now."
Kisaragi floated closer, steadying both of them with firm grips. "You two just learned the most important rule of EVA work: machines don't care how careful you are. You have to outthink their mistakes."
Misaki tried to slow his breathing. His heart was pounding harder than during launch.
Their first real experiment hadn't gone smoothly.
But it had gone real.
And in space engineering, that mattered.
As they reoriented and prepared to return to the shuttle, Misaki glanced back at Prototype 07.
It floated silently, arms folded again, like nothing had happened.
But he knew today would go down in their logs as the moment AstraLink learned a critical lesson:
Space wasn't forgiving.
And neither were the machines humans built for it.
Misaki's heartbeat had just begun to calm when the shuttle gave a subtle shudder—just enough to be felt through the gloves gripping the rail.
Commander Kisaragi froze mid-motion.
Junpei's eyebrows pulled together. "Uh… is that normal?"
The second shudder wasn't subtle.
It felt like the entire shuttle had slipped on invisible ice.
A soft alarm tone pinged through everyone's headsets—high, nervous, and far too polite for the situation.
Alvarez swore in Spanish. "We're drifting."
Drifting wasn't a friendly word in orbit. Drifting meant someone's calculations had just been kicked down a flight of cosmic stairs.
Kisaragi snapped orders instantly. "Team A, adjust position! Fire attitude thrusters, compensate for deviation!"
The response from Hikari-03's pilot came thin and strained. "Negative! Thrusters not responding—attempting manual override—"
The shuttle jerked again, its nose slowly dipping toward Earth.
Misaki felt his stomach drop as if gravity had reached up and plucked a thread tied to his spine.
"We're losing orbital stability," Alvarez said. "If we drop below threshold velocity—"
"We'll start falling," Junpei finished, a little too loudly.
A slow fall from orbit wasn't a fall. It was the beginning of a fiery, atmospheric fistfight.
Kisaragi gripped the hull of the prototype and looked at her crew. Her calm expression had sharpened into something colder—something that meant danger was real.
"Everyone stay anchored. No free-floating." She checked her wrist display. "Hikari-03 is dropping five meters per second. If we hit ten—"
The ship lurched again.
A metal groan vibrated along the frame, a low howl of stressed alloy.
Misaki clamped down on the rail so hard his gloves whined. His breaths fogged the corners of his visor.
"Commander," he said, "Prototype 07's tether—"
He didn't finish.
The tether snapped.
Not explosively. Not dramatically. Just a small metallic twang, quiet and terrifying. The prototype drifted free, carried by the same whispered pull dragging the shuttle downward.
Junpei's voice cracked. "We're losing it!"
Prototype 07 spun lazily, a helpless satellite of a satellite.
"No!" Alvarez barked. "We cannot lose that unit—it's a hundred million dollars of test hardware!"
Kisaragi glared at him. "It's equipment, not a person. Focus on stabilizing your—"
"Commander," Misaki interrupted, voice thin, eyes wide. "It's moving back."
"Back" wasn't the right word.
Prototype 07 rotated… slowed… and began drifting toward them again.
Pulled not by magic, but by pure orbital mechanics: the shuttle's drop caused a shift in local vectors, sucking the free-floating craft along its path. The two machines were now falling together—two stones tied by invisible math.
"Brace for contact!" Kisaragi shouted.
"Brace for what kind of—PUAH!"
Prototype 07 collided gently with the shuttle's hull—not enough to break anything, but enough to knock Misaki and Junpei sideways like startled cats grabbing at rails.
For one surreal moment, the unit bounced, rotated, and stuck itself against the main body—the curve of its support frame catching perfectly against one of the shuttle's external clamps.
Misaki blinked. "Did… did it just reattach itself?"
Junpei blinked back. "By accident. Total, cosmic-level accident."
Alvarez rushed forward, locking his tether and securing clamps onto the prototype's frame. "I'll take luck over competence right now. Securing!"
Kisaragi opened a channel to the cockpit. "Pilot, status!"
"Working on restoring control!" came the clipped reply. "Restarting thruster circuit—stand by—"
The shuttle groaned again—the unmistakable sound of structural tension flexing under atmospheric drag.
Misaki's gloved hand trembled as he clutched the rail. "We're still dropping…"
"Not for long," Kisaragi said, her voice lower now, steady as stone. "Teams—prepare for emergency correction. On my mark we stabilize the prototype's position. Once thrusters restart, the shuttle will regain attitude control."
Junpei swallowed audibly. "And if they don't restart?"
Kisaragi didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Earth filled Misaki's visor—a blue titan, growing larger, too large. The curve of the horizon was no longer serene; it was the mouth of a giant waiting to swallow them whole.
Alvarez gripped the prototype's frame and hissed into the mic, "Pilot—tell me something good."
A beat.
Then—
"Thrusters online."
Misaki's knees nearly gave out.
"Firing stabilizers—hold onto something!"
The shuttle jolted as the engines lit, not to climb but to slide back into proper orbit. The frame vibrated like a living thing fighting gravity tooth and nail.
The drop slowed.
The tilt eased.
The slip of gravity loosened its claws.
"Orbital stability regained," the pilot breathed. "We're back in safe zone."
Silence washed through the comms—a silence thick with relief, sweat, and the awareness of how much closer they'd come than they should have.
Misaki let go of the rail with shaking hands. Junpei slumped beside him, his breaths sharp and uneven.
Kisaragi turned to them, voice firm. "You two. Status report."
Junpei wheezed. "Terrified. Alive. Definitely aging faster than intended."
Misaki nodded. "Same."
Alvarez pushed himself away from the prototype, checking the clamps again. "This entire operation is going into the incident log. Loss of thruster control, tether failure, prototype displacement—this is going to be a week of arguments in a boardroom."
"Good," Kisaragi said. "If they're arguing, they're learning."
Misaki looked toward Earth, still too close for comfort. He'd dreamed of space his whole life. Today had been a reminder:
Space wasn't beautiful.
It was brutal.
And it did not care who you were.
But as he stared at the prototype—accidentally nestled against the shuttle like a stubborn child—it hit him:
They survived.
Not because of skill. Not because of perfect engineering.
Because they stayed calm. Because they knew what to hold onto. Because someone made the right call at the right second.
This wasn't a simulation.
This was the job.
And for the first time, Misaki understood—really understood—what it meant to step into the stars.