Ceres

Ceres

Ceres smells like wet lettuce and hot registry ink — the belt capital carved into a dwarf planet's hollows, where spin-agri shells breathe recycled humidity and court clerks stamp deeds louder than the ventilation. You arrive through pressure locks that sigh like tired lungs and step into corridors lined with Exodus yard memorial plaques: dates from 2101–2111, names too many to read, pride too expensive to forget.

This is 15-point residency done honest — you are Sol, but the inner worlds file you under "later." Ceres runs law and lettuce for the Belt Territorial States: appellate courts that calendar Belt-7 claim fights, agri cans that feed hollow rocks that never pretended to be planets, and a district government that speaks federal politely while meaning it.

Tesla autominers crawl tame seams within patrol lanes; past the Concord leap, real space starts and the machines get fragile. Ceres survives by being the throat everyone argues through — deed tribunals over ghost construction berths, charter freezes that make a hollow-rock militia nervous, and fixers who know which clerk still mourns a yard that launched billions and came home empty.