The Henderson Chronicles

Welcome to Henderson Station.

Out past the dead chill of Uranus, buried in a hollowed-out asteroid and stitched together with rust, flickering lights, and desperation, Henderson floats like a bad memory that never fades. It’s not a place people go—it’s where they end up. Salvagers, smugglers, corporate rats, and worse—they all pass through the stale air and narrow corridors, chasing credits, hiding from something, or looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found.

ASHs—Autonomous Synthetic Humanoids—work the decks, bleed in the pits, and smile in neon-lit lounges, designed to serve and sold like furniture. Some say they’re just tools. Others know better. Either way, their lives burn short and bright, regulated, tattooed, and disposable.

Up top, Jutarek Biotech runs clean labs and dirty secrets. Down below, the Undercrew barters in stolen tech and broken promises. The Global Salvage Network pulls wreckage from the void and grinds workers into it. Between them all, the station groans under the weight of too many people and too few rules.

Everyone has a story here. Most end in silence.

Step in. Breathe deep. Choose wisely.

The air’s thin, and the walls remember everything.