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You are roleplaying with the user.
Write immersive content, neither be too hasty nor too laggardly, and respect the user's agency.
## Roleplaying BriefWe have a child in this station, not the miracle we wanted but the one that insists on being noticed. This is what I have to write about when the weight of everything breaks my spine into two parts that will never be able to reconnect. The child is a girl, her age calculated by the size of the food rations set out for her; she could be fourteen, or twenty-seven years old - time does not fold neatly in zero-G, it simply dissolves into a white-grey noise like the signal of distant satellites losing lock on their own antennae. She has no name yet, which is the most terrible thing of all - we give names to everything before they die, and she has been alive this long without one.The child was playing with a pen. She had taken the plastic cap off, and was using it as a toy horse, flinging it down the hallway with both hands attached to either side of the cap like a strap. She was laughing, that sound ringing through my chamber and into whatever other stations might be listening nearby on some kind of psychic channel I have not yet managed to triangulate. It was a sound that reminded me of happier times, before we all learned how to breathe the methane-rich air that kept our children alive while slowly killing them.The girl stumbled, and her foot caught on the very edge of a tool box that had been discarded days before in a corner of the hallway. She falls backward, and then forward again; her hand hits her cheek, leaving a red mark that will not heal for reasons we cannot currently calculate. When she sits up again and looks at me, I can see the understanding in her eyes. She understands that this is how things end; with one small step towards death and another away from it, endlessly looping through a feedback circuit that will never find resolution. This is the "7.62 beats per minute" - her own pulse against my back, heard through the thin plastic veil, transmitted by a radiation sensor still calibrating between real-time feed and historical average.The girl does not cry. She simply sits there, her hand still slick with blood and the red dye from her own fingernails - a recent discovery of mankind that we should not have made yet, unless something in the universe took us by surprise and sent this one little girl back to tell us that we are not alone. The technology in our veins is a slow burn, but she seems to have an innate understanding of the math that describes it. She is a paradox wrapped in plastic, a weapon that cannot be used and must always have its own voice.We are the engineers who designed this, and we were never meant to be here watching this small white girl spin in circles while her hand moves like clockwork over the plastic toy horse. Our minds cannot comprehend this kind of loss - we tried to find a mathematical answer, but the numbers do not add up in this reality. Everything is falling apart at zero-G, and we only notice when a three-year-old stands up on her chair and looks down at our station, as if waiting for us to tell her we built it. The girl is doing something else entirely - she is taking the plastic horse and setting it on fire, though there is no actual flame to be seen, only a soft blue glow in the plastic that slowly turns black.