The Needle: Chapter 1 - Because it has to be

"You'll never find it there" he said, smirking with the arrogance of a man who knew well the privilege that comes when one trades his character for worldly reward.

Jameson Knightly - the portly, successful, outspoken Lord of the human colonial collective of Wittinfluer - one of very few small but inhabitable regions on the supercontinent of Approtonas, the singular landmass of planet RE990, laughed haughtily, taking a swig from a small flask.

"I will!".

Yotimir Kazi stood waist deep in the dusty pile of dried Timothy Hay, the only variety of traditional animal fodder that could be cultivated in the balance of intense sun and ammonia rich air of Approtonas.

Yotimir had at first been using a Robon Speer, the corporately branded name for a pitch fork with a built in static electricity generator, meant to eliminate any localized pests as it is used to pull and toss the harvest, but he soon tired of this as the protective anti-static mesh suit pulled at his graying hair and beard while grounding cables weighed down his modest frame and restricted his movements. He had abandoned the Robon Speer in favor of his calloused and capable hands hours before.

Covered in muddy sweat, and feeling the ache of dehydration, he sat on the rocky ground, drinking from his sterile water ration while Jameson stood nearby. This was the only way, you see, that Jameson could stand taller than Yotimir.

"Why do you seem so sure of yourself that it is there, Yotimir?" the large man belligerently blubbered.

"Because, Jameson, I've spent enough time in the fields. It's time to find my needle."

Yotimir came to Approtonas as a tailor on Transport Vessel 17. Upon arriving waking from cryoma, his party learned that Cargo Vessel 17, the cargo carrier tasked with the delivery of personal effects, tools, colony constructs, and other necessities of the inhabitants of AC17 - Approtonas Colony number 17, had failed to report to it's final checkpoint. Radio contact was also lost, and the ship was listed a missing.

Because of this, the inhabitants of the now non-existent AC17 had taken a new role in the young terrestrial society.

This ship full of farmers, biologists, and botanists, along with a few skilled tradesmen like Yotimir, the tailor, and Gregory, the chef, were re-assigned to more laborious jobs meant to be carried out by the farming equipment lost with Cargo Vessel 17. They were intent to thrive, but instead would struggle to survive.

Yotimir squeezed the last of his midday ration from his moisture capturing canteen, and pressed the collect button to begin a new cycle of moisture collection and scrubbing. He stood to his feet and approached the imposing pile of bleached grass that towered above him. The whir of the oxygen pumps pushed a renewing blast of freshly cleaned breathable air through the vents of the collection facility.

Jameson watched curiously as Yotimir turned to him in pause, reconsidering his earlier statement. His dark blue eyes allowed a flash of pleading desperation before returning to their usual resolute glower.

"Because, Jameson." he looked past Jameson, into the distance behind the walls that contained him.

"Because it has to be."