THE ORBITAL BONDING SYSTEM(OBS)

—Carlos Mendez | ORB Logistics Operator, Route 19-X, Western Corridor

I was twenty-one when I crossed the border with nothing but a box of papers, a single pair of boots, and an ORB named Luna.

She was a second-hand issue, old voicepack, bad sensors—but she still floated beside me like I was someone worth following.

She translated for me when I couldn't speak.

She reminded me to eat when I was living off vending machines and corner-store bread.

She kept a backup of my mother's voice, even after the accident that took both my parents.

That ORB saved me more than once.

I worked garbage routes. Construction crews. I even did night guard gigs in warehouses that smelled like melted plastic and oil.

But it wasn't until I found the transport sector that things started clicking.

See, most people think ORB transport is just driving.

Moving tech from point A to point B.

But when that cargo is bonded ORBs—when they're pulsing with the imprint of newborns or the memories of fallen doctors—you're not just hauling boxes.

You're carrying someone's legacy. Someone's future.

I take that seriously.

My name's Carlos Mendez.

Born in Durango. Settled in Sector 7 of the American Republic.

I've been a Route Operator for 14 years now.

Every ORB I transport, I treat like it's got a soul. Because maybe it does.

Luna—she's still with me. She's better now. Upgraded shell, better speech synth.

But she kept the same voice I remember as a boy—soft, like my abuela's lullabies.

She knows my kids. Wakes them for school when I leave early.

She helped me build their bunkbeds.

She whispers my wife's heartbeat to me when she's sick and doesn't want me to worry.

She's the only one who really saw me climb out of the dirt.

I've made it my life's work to protect every delivery.

And not just for the company.

Because the moment that ORB leaves the factory—bonded or not—someone's already dreaming through it.

A child who'll grow into it.

A doctor who'll save lives with it.

A father who needs it to raise his kids while he's out working three jobs.

So yeah, I've had run-ins.

Scramble zones. Faked waypoints. Jammed trackers.

Most times I get out clean—thanks to Luna.

She alerts me, reroutes, encrypts. She sees before I do.

But once?

Once, I saw his work up close.

A hijack team hit a freight train in Sector 5.

Three bonded ORBs gone. Two families left screaming in silence.

The transport runner? Found with his sync helmet fused into his skull—signal overload. They said he didn't even get the chance to blink.

And you know what tag was sprayed on the casing wall?

"Ren was here."

I hate ORB pirates.

Cowards who tear futures out of the sky just to line their pockets.

But him?

That one?

Ren Splicer.

If I ever see him—if I ever catch even a trace of his presence near one of my routes—

I don't care what Luna says.

I'll floor the cargo rig into his face, consequences be damned.

Because there's two kinds of people in this world:

The ones who carry the future.

And the ones who try to sell it for scraps.

Tomorrow I start the East Drift run. High-value cargo. No backup drones.

Just me. Luna.

And 600 kilometers of sky.

Hope the route's clean.

…

But if it's not?

Let him come.

[END LOG]

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