Р’сѓрµ Рјрёсђс‹ Сџрір»сџсћс‚сѓсџ - Р¶рёр»с‹рјрё / All Worlds Are Resid...

"Copy, Scraper. Plant the beacon and let’s get home. Dinner’s getting cold."

Elias didn't move. He realized then the gravity of the ancient law they had ignored. Space wasn't a void to be filled. It was a crowded room.

Elias knelt. He swept away a layer of grey dust, revealing not stone, but a translucent, amber-colored membrane that stretched for miles. He pressed his glove against it. Below the surface, massive, pale conduits—the size of city blocks—throbbed with golden light. "Copy, Scraper

"We’ve been looking for houses," Elias said, his voice trembling as the amber ground beneath him began to glow. "But we’re just mites crawling on a skin."

Elias landed his skiff on a flat plateau. He stepped out in his pressurized suit, the silence of the vacuum ringing in his ears. He began drilling the pilot hole for the colonial beacon. But as the diamond-tipped bit hit the three-meter mark, the ground didn't crack. It flinched . He realized then the gravity of the ancient

The mandate of the Great Survey was simple: find "vacant" ground. For three centuries, humanity had hopped from star to star, looking for worlds that were quiet, cold, and—most importantly—unclaimed.

Elias was a Scraper, a scout tasked with landing on the jagged, airless rocks that the long-range sensors labeled "Dead." His current target was PSR-8, a moon of a gas giant that looked like a bruised plum. According to the readout, PSR-8 was a hunk of basalt and frozen nitrogen. No atmosphere, no water, no bio-signatures. Elias knelt

The radio crackled with the frantic voice of his commander. "Elias, get out of there! The sensors are spiking! The whole sector is... it’s waking up!"