
(I know the screenshot is a shuttle, not a helios, but it’s what I had taken recently, so that’s what I used!)
Filed by E, Helios pilot, full-time wanderer
Some wormholes feel like they wake up with you.
This one didn’t.
It was already watching.
I slipped into the system in my little Helios, cloak humming softly around me like a blanket someone knit out of shadows. Today wasn’t about adventure or dodging hostiles or stumbling into some dramatic rescue. Today was simple:
tend the rescue cache, make sure it’s stocked, make sure it’s safe, make sure some future lost soul has a lifeline.
The hole was quiet. Not the dangerous kind of quiet—just that soft, endless hush that only deep J-space seems to know. The kind that makes you feel like you’re the only heartbeat for ten light-years.
I drifted toward the cache’s bookmark, navigating around drifting ice and slow-spinning gas clouds. Every so often, a particle shimmered off my hull like it was trying to say hello. Cosmic dust is friendlier than half of nullsec, honestly.
The cache was right where it always is—tucked away, invisible to everyone except those who already know it’s there. A tiny container of hope in a place that normally eats hope for breakfast.
I checked the supplies:
- probes
- launcher
- a few nanite pastes
- little handwritten note from the last tender, telling whoever finds it that they’re not alone
Everything tidy. Everything ready.
It always amazes me how much meaning fits in something so small.
With the practical stuff handled, I let myself just… float.
The wormhole’s star was off in the distance, a pale blue thing flickering like it was thinking of blinking out but hadn’t quite decided yet. Clouds of energized particles spiraled lazily between shattered planetoids. The universe does this thing sometimes where it looks like art made for no one, shown to whoever happens to wander by.
And here I was, a tiny speck in a stealthy little frigate, witness to all of it.
I know it’s silly, but I swear the ship felt quieter too—like even the engine didn’t want to interrupt the view. These are the moments that remind me why I do what I do. Why I wander. Why I help. Why I keep coming back to wormhole space even when it’s moody and unpredictable and occasionally tries to set me on fire.
The universe is vast and wild and often cruel…
…but sometimes it’s peaceful, and gentle, and full of small kindnesses we leave for each other.
I gave the cache one last look, whispered a soft “stay safe, whoever you’ll help next,” and aligned out.
Just another quiet day in the dark.
Just another reminder that even in forgotten corners of space, someone cares.
Fly your way. o7






