Figures crafted from bits of scrap, drift aimlessly across an abandoned planet. These beings seem to be programmed with no discernible purpose, aimlessly wandering the barren landscape, made of twisted cables, old paper, and fragmented machines, as if they were once part of a greater whole.

Among them is Aidan Aidan, a figure with a broken antenna, made from repurposed debris.

Their torso is constructed from a rusted chassis, and where a face should be, there is only the broken nozzle of a cleaner spray bottle. S/He moves erratically, as though aware of some impending doom—though s/he has no memory of who s/he once was or why s/he was created.

Far above, in the orbit the visitors are tricked into believing a message of hope, seemingly from an eccentric recluse. The message claims to be from a dying individual—Aidan Aidan—offering a fortune to those who respond. It speaks of a brain tumor and the end of days, promising 830,000 credits to the one who can take care of their estate.

In the control room, Charamaynne reads the message. Their instincts tell them it’s a trap. But the AI advises investigation. 

As Charamaynne leads a small reconnaissance mission to the surface. The eerie figures appear harmless, but Aidan Aidan stands out. S/He seems to recognize the team, stepping forward, their broken voice crackling through old, deteriorating speakers.

“Help me… ,” Aidan Aidan says.

The team scans the entity, discovering remnants of consciousness uploaded into their artificial brain. Aidan Aidan, a long-dead philanthropist, had their mind transferred into this construct centuries ago. The “brain tumor” s/he spoke of is actually a failure in their data core, a self-deleting program that threatens to wipe what little remains of their identity.

Time is running out, and Aidan Aidan’s fading voice repeats the same line. “Help me… ”