The year was 2023, and humanity had finally admitted that it was tired of looking longingly at the stars like a kid with its face pressed against a toy-store window. The solution came in the shape of a sleek, white complex built on the northern coast of Hokkaido—AstraLink, the world's first space travel agency designed not for governments, not for billionaires, but for everyone who dreamed of leaving the Earth behind.
The idea seemed absurd five years earlier, but a technological breakthrough changed everything. Engineers had figured out how to miniaturize high-output propulsion systems, making them safer, cheaper, and—most importantly—capable of reaching orbit with dramatically less fuel. A new era of spaceflight dawned, one where reusable ships weren't a fantasy but the default. Space was no longer reserved for the chosen few in military-grade suits. It was an industry.
AstraLink wanted to train civilian astronauts the same way aviation academies trained pilots.
Misaki Haruto wanted to be one of them.
At 21, he wasn't extraordinary on paper. His exam scores were solid, his physical tests decent, and his essays a bit too poetic for an engineering program. But what he had—what AstraLink quietly looked for—was hunger. A drive so intense it practically set off metal detectors. Ever since he was a kid, he had watched shuttle launches with the kind of awe usually reserved for divine miracles. He didn't care about fame or being "the first." He wanted to work in space—fix ships, build stations, maintain satellites—be the mechanic in the stars.
That was why he was here, inside AstraLink's massive Training Dome, sweating in a pressurized jumpsuit while clinging to the frame of a prototype repair craft.
The Dome itself resembled a steel half-moon dropped onto Earth. Its interior held a sprawling zero-gravity simulator, lined with padded walls and dotted with rigs that could accurately mimic the clumsy ballet of movement in orbit. A person could jump, twist, and float for ten whole seconds before gravity politely tapped their shoulder and reminded them this was still Japan.
Misaki floated awkwardly toward the skeletal spacecraft suspended in the center of the training zone. It wasn't pretty. It looked like someone had taken a full-sized shuttle, ripped away everything cosmetic, and left the metal ribs behind. It had clamps, mechanical arms, storage compartments, and access panels—everything a repair technician would need.
His instructor's voice crackled through his helmet.
"Haruto, you're drifting too far forward," Tanaka-sensei said in the tone of a man who had witnessed one too many student collisions. "Use your stabilizers. Think gently."
Misaki tapped the buttons on his forearm. His suit hissed with short bursts of air, helping him stop before he bumped nose-first into the ship's exterior. "Sorry, sensei. Adjusting."
A dry sigh answered him. "This is training. You're supposed to struggle. But keep in mind the ship you're repairing in the future may have an owner who would prefer it alive."
Misaki smiled. "I'll keep the dents to a minimum."
Nearby, another trainee drifted with far more grace. Junpei Ito—classmate, rival, occasional partner in crime—moved like he'd been born on a rotating space station.
Junpei tapped his helmet, opening a private channel. "Man, Haruto, you look like you're trying to hug the ship."
"I'm bonding with the machinery," Misaki muttered. "It's called building trust."
"Uh-huh. Pretty sure the ship is begging for a restraining order."
Misaki reached the exterior hull and activated his glove magnets. They latched on with a satisfying clunk. This part felt real—clinging to a ship, knowing that someday the vacuum of space would replace this safe, padded Dome.
Tanaka-sensei's voice filled the channel again. "Begin the traversal exercise. Follow the predetermined route to the dorsal panel, open it, replace the mock connector, and secure the hatch. Time starts now."
The magnets on Misaki's gloves clicked rhythmically as he crawled along the hull. Sweat slipped down his cheek, trapped behind the padding of the helmet. The Dome lights reflected off the metal surface in cool streaks.
He reached the designated hatch, hovered his wrist scanner over it, and flipped open the panel. Inside, bundles of colored cables and insulated tubes waited for him. Everything labeled. Everything controlled. A puzzle he could solve.
The simplicity of the task was deceptive. This wasn't about replacing wires—it was about staying calm, keeping your body balanced, managing the suit, handling tools, and thinking like an astronaut who might only have minutes of oxygen left.
He grabbed the mock connector, slid it out carefully, and replaced it with the new one.
Junpei's voice floated back onto the channel. "You're slow but steady. Not bad, Haruto."
"Thanks," Misaki replied. "I'll take that as the highest praise your ego is capable of."
"Absolutely not. The highest praise I can give you is 'you didn't crash today.'"
Their instructor muted them before the conversation devolved further.
When Misaki sealed the panel shut, Tanaka-sensei called out, "All right, trainees. Disengage and let yourselves drop naturally. Let gravity remind you where home still is."
Misaki turned off his gloves and let his feet drift free. Slowly, the Dome's subtle gravity caught him, guiding him downward. He landed lightly on the padded flooring as the simulated microgravity ended.
He unlatched his helmet, shaking out his hair. Cool air washed over him, and he inhaled deeply. Every training session felt like a tiny slice of the future he'd been chasing.
The Dome doors slid open, and a team of engineers entered, ready to inspect the prototype after today's round. The smell of metal, machine oil, and sterilized air followed them in—a scent Misaki was growing fond of.
As Misaki walked out with the rest of the trainees, he looked back at the prototype ship. It felt like looking at a promise waiting for him to grow into it.
Outside the Dome, Hokkaido's coastline stretched toward the horizon. AstraLink sprawled across the landscape like a futuristic campus—launch towers, research labs, training fields, and dorm buildings for the civilian astronauts.
Misaki paused to watch a cargo shuttle ascend beyond the clouds, its engines roaring like a mechanical dragon chasing the sun. It was routine for the technicians here. But for Misaki? Each launch made his chest tighten with something fierce and hopeful.
He wasn't in space yet. He wasn't repairing satellites or floating above Earth in a bulky suit. But he was on the path. Every clumsy movement, every drill, every scraped elbow inside a simulator brought him closer.
And someday—soon, if he worked hard enough—he would step beyond the Earth's edge for real.
The stars weren't calling him yet.
But he was already preparing his answer.