Here I am, trying to write a bit of my story, and suddenly it's really late. D: I'll have to finish my exercise tomorrow. I'm working on it, I promise! Here's the first paragraph as proof.
All space stations seem to smell the same- human sweat, cooking meat, and metal mixed with stale air. I thought it smelled like home, its familiar scent calling me out of my ship, and decided to leave my crew behind while they bitched about the backwater station we had docked at to resupply. It had been awhile since I had visited SPC-261, but it looked like everything was still the same, down to the large blood stains that decorated this section of the outer layer. The rebellion had been mostly forgotten about, but the residents still didn't enjoy feds lurking around; just my kind of people.
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