Page 111 of Pets in Space 10

The air inside the Interstellar Agency’s main conference hall hums with a frequency usually reserved for imminent meteor impacts or catastrophic system failures.

Dread. Thick, tangible dread coats every polished surface. Colleagues cluster in tight, whispering knots, faces pale, eyes darting to the imposing doors at the front.

The meeting invite popped up late last night, a bland calendar notification with the subject line: “Mandatory All-Staff Briefing: Agency Updates.” No details, just a time and location that screamed “bad news.”

Sleep? Forget it. I tossed and turned all night, my mind racing through worst-case scenarios.

In each dream, I ended up packing my desk.

Raimei looked confused, and my carefully planned future melted away.

Showing up here today was less like attending a meeting and more like walking the plank, waiting for the inevitable push into the abyss of unemployment.

I lean against a wall near the back, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat prickling under my skin. My knee protests, a dull counterpoint to the frantic pulse hammering in my ears.

“This place smells like panic,” Raimei mutters from his spot near my feet, nose twitching. “Are they cutting the snack budget again? Because I will riot.”

“Worse,” I whisper back, eyes fixed on the doors at the front of the room. “Much worse. Just… be quiet, okay?”

“Heard anything?” A woman from Propulsion Systems murmurs beside me, clutching her datapad to her chest.

I shake my head. “Only the same rumors everyone else has.” Non-core departments. Streamlining. Personnel reductions. Translation: people like me, the ones who deal with the messy human fallout of exploring the cosmos, are likely first on the chopping block.

The doors at the front slide open, and a collective intake of breath sucks the remaining oxygen from the room. Director Ishikawa and two stern-faced executives I recognize from Finance stride to the podium. No smiles. No preamble. This will not be pretty.

Ishikawa clears his throat, the sound amplified in the sudden silence. “Thank you all for assembling on short notice.” He takes a deep breath and looks around. “As you know, the Agency faces significant budgetary challenges…”

He drones on, corporate-speak to the max. “Strategic realignment… maximizing operational efficiencies… difficult but necessary decisions…” My stomach clenches. He isn’t just talking about numbers on a spreadsheet; he is talking about lives, careers, the identities people build around this place.

Difficult but necessary decisions. The phrase lands hard and fast. Necessary for whom?

The accountants? The bottom line? What about the engineer haunted by nightmares after a near-miss simulation?

Or the geologist struggling with months of isolation on a remote outpost?

My job isn’t just support; it’s preventative maintenance for the human mind, the most complex and vital system on any mission.

We keep people functional, focused, alive, when they’re pushed beyond known limits. Calling us ‘non-core’ is like saying life support is optional on a starship. It’s dangerously na?ve, prioritizing budgets over the very people risking everything for this agency’s goals.

“…regrettably necessitate a reduction in force across several support divisions…” He doesn’t name names, doesn’t specify departments, but the implication hangs heavy in the air. Support divisions.

That is me.

That is my team.

The counselors who pick up the pieces when missions go sideways, when isolation gnaws at sanity, when the sheer weight of staring into the void becomes too much.

My team. My work. Gone. Just like that.

Try not to panic, Rosa. He hasn’t said for sure yet.

But I know it’s false hope. I can feel it in my bones.

Anger, hot and sharp, pierces through the fog of fear. This isn’t just about budgets. It is about priorities. Are human minds less critical than engine thrust ratios? Is mental resilience just a footnote in the grand equation of space exploration?

Before I register my intention, I’m pushing off the wall and ignoring the sharp protest from my knee. My voice cuts through the tense silence, clear and steady. No clue how that’s possible. My knees are shaking.

“Director Ishikawa?”

Heads swivel. Ishikawa pauses, blinking down at me from the podium, surprise flickering across his usually impassive face.

“What are you doing, Rosa?” Raimei hisses up at me. “Now is not the time.”

“Shhh,” I whisper at him.

“With all due respect, sir,” I continue, stepping forward into the aisle, “defining mental wellness services as ‘non-core’ fundamentally misunderstands the nature of our work here.” I keep my voice level, channeling the calm assurance I use with terrified astronauts.

“We aren’t just support. We are integral.

We work with teams facing unprecedented psychological stressors: isolation, confinement, the constant awareness of risk.

We help build the resilience required for long-duration missions, for colonization efforts like Kojiki.

Cutting these services isn’t ‘streamlining’; it’s compromising mission readiness.

It’s endangering the very people pushing the boundaries for this agency. ”

I let my gaze sweep across the room, meeting the eyes of scientists, engineers, administrators — people I’ve counseled, people whose colleagues I’ve helped.

“We are talking about human beings, Director. Their well-being is not a luxury item we can trim when funds get tight. It’s the foundation upon which all our successes are built. ”

Silence descends again, and I can feel hundreds of eyes on me. My breathing becomes ragged, but I hold Ishikawa’s gaze.

My outburst hangs in the air, a shocking breach of protocol.

In Orihimé’s corporate culture, influenced by old Earth Japanese traditions, hierarchy is everything.

You don’t question superiors. You don’t challenge directives in an open forum.

And you certainly don’t, as a junior counselor, confront the Agency Director during an all-staff briefing.

I know the rules: deference, consensus, quiet endurance. Speaking out like this? It’s career suicide, potentially blacklisting me not just within the I.A. but across Yamato’s interconnected professional circles.

I begin to sweat. Great job, Rosa. My father will hear of this, and I’m sure he won’t be happy.

Every instinct honed by years of navigating these cultural nuances screams that I’ve committed an unforgivable transgression.

But watching the Director dismiss mental health as ‘non-core’ ignited something fiercer than fear.

This isn’t about my job; it’s about the lives we’re responsible for, the very foundation of successful exploration.

Someone had to say it. So I did. And now I stand here, defiant, waiting for the axe to fall, holding his gaze.

He clears his throat again. “Thank you, Ms… Kimura, is it? Your… passion… is noted. We appreciate your input.” A politician’s non-answer.

Dismissal wrapped in polite corporate gauze.

“All factors will be considered as we finalize the restructuring plan. Further details will be communicated through official channels tomorrow.”

The urge to drop my eyes and bow is like resisting gravity or a favorite dessert. It pains me… until I give in, inclining the proper amount.

Maybe it’ll save me.

Probably not.

And just like that, it is over. The executives file out, leaving a stunned, murmuring crowd in their wake. I stand frozen in the aisle, the adrenaline draining away.

“Well,” Raimei says, nudging my ankle with his nose. “That was certainly… loud. For a quiet one. Didn’t think you had it in you to bark back at the pack leader.” He pauses, then adds, “Not bad, Rosa. Not bad at all.”

Did I torpedo any chance I had left? Or did I make a difference?

Impossible to say.

“Rosa? You okay?” Kenji materializes beside me, his face drawn. “That was… brave.”

“Or stupid,” I mutter, clenching my hands into fists. I squeeze my fingers tight and let them go. “Did you hear anything more specific?”

He shakes his head. “Just that the lists are done. Now, we wait. Hang in there.” He melts back into the anxious throng heading for the exits.

Numb, I limp through the main lobby, needing air, space, anything but the suffocating tension of the I.A. corridors. The polished chrome and holographic galaxies of the waiting area are cold, mocking. My future here is as uncertain as the trajectory of an unguided asteroid.

The universe must be playing some cruel cosmic joke.

First, my knee betrays me, ripping away soccer, my passion, my release.

The family house seems determined to crumble around us, a constant, expensive reminder of instability.

Add in Dad’s meddling, Demi’s protective anger, and the reappearance of Rhys — a complication I’m navigating with the grace of a baby giraffe on ice skates.

And now this. The job I love, the career I fought for, the one stable thing I thought I could count on… gone? Losing this job isn’t about income; it’s about losing purpose, losing myself. It’s the final straw.

I push through the main revolving doors, so lost in thought, I don’t see the person coming the other way until we collide. Flyers scatter across the floor.

“Oh, gods, sorry, I wasn’t…” My apology dies on my lips.

Rhys. Standing amidst a flurry of pastel-colored flyers advertising “Balance and Breath Yoga.” He looks down at the mess, then up at me, surprise widening his eyes.

“Rosa? Hey. Didn’t expect to see you…” His gaze sharpens, taking in my expression, the lingering tremor in my hands. “Whoa. Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The ghost of my career, dead and gone.

“Oh, look,” Raimei drawls, his tone dry as day-old bread. “It’s the bendy man himself, scattering pamphlets like hopeful seeds. What perfect timing. Did you summon him with sheer panic, or does he just have a knack for appearing during moments of existential dread?”

“Give it a rest,” I say, rolling my eyes. Rhys pulls back. “Sorry, not you.” I wave to Raimei. “Someone is feeling snarky today.”

Rhys’s lips turn up. “He does strike me as being the witty type.” He shrugs. “I’ve never paired.”

I nod, remembering that part of our conversation from our first date. Rhys would love to pair with an animal, but he’s had no luck yet. _“It’ll happen when it happens.”_

“Right. Sorry. Emergency meeting,” I manage, bending to help gather the flyers. The movement sends jolts up my leg. “Budget stuff. Not good. What’s with the flyers?”

“Oh, you know. Trying to stay on top of the business. Keep the customers coming in.” He sighs. “I’m not really a flyer-type person, but they weren’t too hard to put together.”

He kneels beside me, his hands brushing mine as we scoop up the papers.

The casual contact sends a surprising jolt through me, a spark of warmth in the icy dread gripping my chest. He stacks the flyers and places them in his bag.

“So, is there anything I can do?” He clears his throat.

“For you and this work business, that is.”

I straighten up, shaking my head and forcing a shaky smile. “Short of inventing a sudden, massive donation to the I.A.’s mental wellness division? Probably not.”

He studies me for a moment, his expression concerned.

“Okay, Plan B. You look like you need to seriously de-stress. Forget this place for an hour. The farmer’s market down by the river just opened for the day.

Fresh air, sunshine, ridiculously overpriced organic vegetables. Come on. Blow off some steam.”

My first instinct is to refuse. Hide. Go back to work and prove that I’m worthy of the position. But the thought of my empty calendar and people whispering about me in the halls, the worried questions from my colleagues, the looming uncertainty? It’s suffocating. I can’t do it.

Fresh air? Distraction? Maybe that isn’t the worst idea. Even if the distraction comes in the form of the attractive, complicated ghoster-turned-yoga-instructor-turned-possible-date.

I look at him, at the genuine concern in his eyes, the amiable smile hovering on his lips. It is a lifeline, however temporary.

“Okay,” I say, the word tasting like recklessness and relief. “Yeah. Farmer’s market. Let’s go.”