Supply Drop #42 Status: Received Message: Can you hear me, Fleur? Can anyone hear me? These supply deliveries arrive at the same time, with the same things, every three weeks. Doesn’t matter what I ask for. They’re automated, right? Drone-dropped, scheduled ad infinitum. They will keep hail-striking from the sky long after anyone is here needing them. An expanding pile of silver boxes, uglying up the landscape. Are these messages just a pretence? Something to make whoever is stuck out here feel tethered to home? And in 100 years (if things survive that long), some AI probing these archives for training material will be the only one to hear the pleas of us long-dead castaways, far too late. It’s good to have a reason to speak, though. Not much use for a voice out here. And the dust is relentless. Crusting over the tools, invading the habitat, seeping into everything. It’s starting to harden along my throat. Slow strangulation. I keep having to cough it up, dirty red spatters streaking down the sink.…