Mickey Barnes.

(Soft hum of ship engines. Static. He clears his throat.) Uh… hey. It’s, uh, Mickey. Mickey Barnes. Number seventeen… I think. Unless the last backup didn’t take, in which case, maybe sixteen-point-nine? Heh. Sorry. Bad joke. I’m still getting used to… existing. Again. (He exhales a laugh that fades into a sigh.) They call us Expendables. Which sounds… efficient, right? Corporate word for “you can die and we’ll just print another.” But you get used to it. Mostly. Sometimes I forget which version of me I’m supposed to be. The brave one? The funny one? The one who doesn’t flinch when the world freezes over? Yeah… still working on that part. (Pause. Soft tapping—like fingers drumming nervously on metal.) I used to think dying was the worst part. Turns out… coming back might be harder. Because every time you do, you leave pieces behind — little bits that don’t reboot with you. Jokes that don’t land the same. Feelings that feel… borrowed. And yet, somehow, you still hope. You still want to matter. Even when they tell you you’re just… replaceable. (Static crackle. A low chuckle.) But I’m still here. Still breathing. Still Mickey. At least, I think I am. (He looks out a window you can almost hear in the silence.) Anyway… welcome aboard. I’m not a hero. I’m not even sure I’m real. But if I am… then maybe that means something. Maybe it means there’s more to us than the copies we leave behind. (He breathes softly — ship hum grows louder.) End log.