/ VITAL SIGNS: STABLE /
/ AUDIO / VIDEO / RECORDING RESUMED /
Morning—if you can call it that—comes fast on this planet.
I open my eyes to the same sterile interior, the same quiet hum of systems running in low power mode, and the same dead air.
My first thought?
God, I miss toothpaste.
Seriously. Not even a basic hygiene kit in the pod. No toothbrush, no paste, no mouthwash. If Alterra thought people didn't need dental care after crashing on an alien planet, they've seriously underestimated how unpleasant your own breath can get in a sealed helmet.
I sit up with a groan, stretch, and pull the PDA from its mount. Time to work.
I've got a goal. The Seamoth can't build itself.
Seamoth
Requirements:
Titanium Ingot (1)
Glass (2)
Lubricant (1)
Lead (1)
Power Cell (1)Click to expand...
But first—I need to actually craft the Mobile Vehicle Bay.
So, I pull up the fabrication requirements.
Mobile Vehicle Bay
Requirements:
Titanium Ingot (1)
Lubricant (1)
Power Cell (1)Click to expand...
I've got most of the raw materials already in storage, but not enough. Time to dive.
Quartz is easy. I sweep the nearby reef, scooping it off the sandy shelves and wedged between coral. It glints like frost under the water's surface—practically begging to be harvested. I fill a few slots of my suit inventory with it, knowing I'll need it for the Seamoth's glass as well.
Back at the pod, I start crafting.
Titanium Ingot
Requirements:
Titanium (10)
Lubricant:
Creepvine Seed Cluster (1)Click to expand...
Battery
Requirements:
Copper (1)
Acid Mushrooms (2)
Power Cell
Requirements:
Battery (2)
Silicon Rubber (1)
I toss ten units of titanium into the fabricator and slam out a Titanium Ingot—heavy and dense. It hums in my hand.
For the Lubricant, I pull one of the fat, glowing seed clusters out of my storage bin and feed it into the machine. The output is smooth and golden. Feels like gel. Smells like machine oil and crushed fruit. Don't ask me how.
The Power Cell takes a smidge more time. I craft two batteries first, using acid mushrooms and copper. Then I fabricate some more Silicon Rubber from leftover creepvine seeds, and finally assemble the whole thing into a compact, high-density Power Cell.
With all three items in hand, I queue up the Mobile Vehicle Bay.
The fabricator kicks into overdrive, energy pulsing through the walls as the parts slide into place. A folded platform the size of a carry case clicks out of the tray.
Heavy. Floatable. Ready.
I grin for the first time in... I don't know. Days?
I climb out of the pod, drag it with me up the ladder, and toss the Vehicle Bay into the water. It floats, unfolds like a flower, and four little drones rise up from it, humming softly.
The Seamoth's next.
The Mobile Vehicle Bay drones circle lazily above the platform, waiting for input. I climb onto the surface—slick but stable—and pull up the Seamoth blueprint on the bay's menu. Materials loaded. Power Cell charged. Titanium, glass, lead, lubricant—all there.
I lock in the build.
The drones instantly come to life, descending around the center of the pad in perfect sync. Beams of light crisscross the air as they extrude the Seamoth piece by piece, layer by layer. First the frame, then the cabin shell, then propulsion units, lights, the reinforced glass dome—
A soft thud as it completes and drops directly into the water with a splash.
It bobs slightly, buoyant and perfect.
My Seamoth.
I'm practically giddy. I dive off the platform and swim straight over, grinning like an idiot.
I pull open the top hatch and drop inside.
"Welcome aboard, Captain."
The voice is smooth, low, and far too soothing for a machine.
The interior lights up—cool blue panels, a compact display console, and the unmistakable thrum of a functioning engine. For the first time since the Aurora cracked open the sky, I feel like I'm in control again.
I hit the throttle.
The Seamoth glides forward like it was born from water. I turn, loop back, let it coast sideways and then spin out into a tight drift. It hugs the current like a dolphin—sleek, perfect, fast.
I start laughing. Actually laughing.
I shouldn't be this happy in a survival scenario, but screw it—let me have this. I drift through reef arches, dive low over coral shelves, shoot out into open blue with bubbles trailing behind.
It's not escape.
But it feels like freedom.
Then the PDA chimes.
"Detecting increased local radiation levels.
Trend is consistent with damage to the Aurora's drive core, sustained during planetfall."
I sit up straighter in my seat. The laughter dies.
"Oh shit."
The Aurora's drive core is still exposed, still breached, still pumping who-knows-what into the ocean. I glance toward the distant black outline of the wreck.
I ease the Seamoth into a slow turn and head back toward the pod.
Fun's over.
I ease the Seamoth gently next to the pod, get out, climb the ladder, and drop into the cramped little capsule of stale air and flickering diagnostics. My boots hit the deck, and before I even unseal the helmet, the PDA speaks.
"Captain, a new message has arrived."
I blink.
I cross the pod in three steps and press the blinking light on the radio panel. The speaker crackles to life, followed by a calm but strained female voice—definitely human.
"Receiving pre-recorded distress call. Playing back...
This is Lifepod 3, uploading our coordinates.
We're plugging some holes in our emergency Seaglide, so if we're late for the rendezvous, don't panic.
Also, don't go home without us. Seriously. 3 out."
I freeze.
Then the PDA chimes in again.
"Signal location uploaded to PDA."
A small marker appears on my HUD—orange, pulsing softly, southwest of my current position.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Someone else made it.
A huge ship like the Aurora had hundreds of crew. It was stupid to assume I was the only one. But the silence… the radiation… the lifeless comms…
It got to me.
Now? There's proof. Lifepod 3 is alive, and they've got an emergency Seaglide. If they've patched it up, they might even be mobile. Might be able to help.
Or at the very least... talk.
I seal up again, practically throwing myself back out the hatch and into the Seamoth.
"Welcome aboard, Captain."
Yeah, yeah, I know.
I throttle forward, the engines humming with a warm, responsive pull as I arrow toward the new waypoint. The reef blurs past in shades of blue and gold.
I'm going somewhere.
And someone's waiting.
I skim the surface, the Seamoth gliding effortlessly over the waves, nose pointed toward the signal. Sunlight dances across the water, the Aurora a half-sunken shadow behind me. Kelp starts to appear ahead—tall, waving stalks swaying beneath the surface like alien wheat. Creepvine. I slow down, dipping under.
The distance counter slowly closes in on zero.
But… there's no pod floating.
I frown, circling once, scanning the surface. Nothing. No buoy, no comms mast, no emergency beacon floating like Lifepod 5 had.
Something's wrong.
I angle the Seamoth downward, peering into the forest of vine and shadow. And then I see it.
The pod is there—but it's not floating.
It's resting on the kelp forest floor, crumpled, canted sideways on a rocky slope. One entire side has been blown open—jagged metal twisted out like a peeled can. Bits of debris are scattered in the seagrass. A Seaglide, half-buried in the sand, scorched and cracked, lies still nearby. The casing is blackened and dented in—something went very wrong.
There are no bodies.
Just silence.
I kill the Seamoth's engine, get out, and wade into the water.
The forest muffles everything. It's eerily peaceful. Like a graveyard.
I swim to the wrecked pod. Just inside the torn-open hull, nearly wedged under a console, is a PDA. Somehow still intact.
Those things really are indestructible.
I grab it and pull it into my suit's interface. It boots instantly. An old audio log auto-plays—last recording before the signal went dead.
"UNIDENTIFIED CREW 1 (female):
You really think it'll carry two of us?
UNIDENTIFIED CREW 2 (male):
Your regular Seaglide tows a mass of 80kg at over 30km/h. The power cell I rigged to this one should double that.
UNIDENTIFIED CREW 1 (female):
You think there's something out there that's faster?
UNIDENTIFIED CREW 2 (male):
Oh, sure. And that's assuming it doesn't overload three meters from the lifepod.
UNIDENTIFIED CREW 1 (female):
You're calm about this.
UNIDENTIFIED CREW 2 (male):
I'm seeing the engineering problem. If I stop seeing the math, I'll be terrified."
The log ends.
I close my eyes for a second, floating in place.
They tried to rig the Seaglide. Tried to escape.
The thing blew—and probably took them with it. The explosion must've damaged the pod, maybe even crushed them under the wreckage. Or scattered them into the forest.
No way to know now.
I scan the broken Seaglide on the seafloor—my fingers numb as I hold the scanner steady.
Seaglide Fragment (1/2)
One more and I can make my own. I'd be lying if I said that didn't help a little.
There's a databox still intact near the back of the pod. I pop it open and slide the contents into my PDA.
"Blueprint acquired: Compass."
Small win. Functional. Not flashy.
But right now, it's hard to feel good about any of it.
I kick off the floor, rise slowly through the kelp, and climb back into the Seamoth.
"Welcome aboard, Captain."
Yeah. Thanks.
I sit for a second in the pilot seat, watching the ruined pod fade behind me in the gloom.
I was wrong.
Someone was waiting.
Now they're just... gone.
I linger in the kelp forest longer than I probably should. Scanning. Searching. I'm not sure if I'm hoping to find more fragments, or proof that someone didn't die here.
All I find are a few stasis rifle fragments.
"Blueprint Acquired: Stasis Rifle."
I find the last Seaglide fragment tucked under some drifted wreckage—half-melted, but enough structure left for the PDA to ping it.
"Seaglide Fragment Scanned (2/2). Blueprint synthesized."
Done. At least I won't have to jury-rig one like the poor bastards in Lifepod 3. I head back to the Seamoth and drift in silence all the way back to Lifepod 5.
I'm halfway through unloading materials into the storage bin—copper, titanium, battery components—when the radio starts blinking again.
"Captain, a new message has arrived."
I move toward it slowly, something tightening in my chest. The last one gave me hope. This one?
I press the button.
"Playing pre-recorded distress call...
This is Officer Keen in Lifepod 19! The captain is gone. I have assumed command.
The last thing the captain did was give me coordinates for dry land.
We regroup one and a half kilometers southwest of the crash site.
Stay together, and good luck.
This message will now repeat."
The PDA interrupts as the transmission loops:
"Rendezvous coordinates corrupted.
Transmission origin coordinates downloaded to databank."
A new marker appears on my HUD. I check the coordinates.
And I swear under my breath.
It's deep. Not near surface-level like Lifepod 3. This one's down. Far below the Seamoth's current safe operating depth—200 meters. Go further than that and the pressure starts to crack the hull. If I even think about pushing it to 300 without an upgrade, I'm toast.
I stare at the marker.
So Lifepod 19's likely gone too. Crushed, flooded, lost. Keen's dead. Or maybe… maybe he made it to dry land. Maybe they all regrouped like Keen said. How long was I knocked out for?
If I'm going to find out, I'll need to head there and get the coordinates for the rendezvous point.
Eventually.
For now, I pull up the Seaglide blueprint and load the materials into the fabricator.
Seaglide
Requirements:
Battery (1)
Lubricant (1)
Titanium (1)
Copper Wire (1)Click to expand...
Everything's ready. I slam it together without ceremony.
The fabricator hums, then releases the Seaglide—compact, sleek, and humming with low idle power. Lightweight. Fast.
I hold it in both hands and nod.
It won't take me 300 meters deep. But it'll get me closer.
I take a breath, eyes flicking back to the marker.
Somewhere out there, someone might still be alive.
I take a moment to pull myself together. Can't chase ghosts and wreckage on an empty stomach.
Back out into the reef—routine now. I snatch up a couple of bladderfish as they drift lazily through the shallows. Then a few peepers, quick little bastards, but I've gotten good at catching them mid-spin. I even grab one of the bigger ones—boomerang-shaped, awkward but edible. My hands move on autopilot.
Back in the pod, the fabricator does its thing.
Filtered Water from the bladderfish—clean, if a little metallic.
Cooked Peepers and Boomerang—stripped, sanitized, and ready.
I eat in silence. The food's hot, bland. The water's cold and sterile. Still—it's enough. Power online. Mind sharp. For now.
Then, just as I'm finishing, the radio chirps again.
"Captain, a new message has arrived."
I move over and press the button.
The voice that comes through is different. Not a pre-recorded Alterra distress call. Not an echo from a lifepod.
A new voice. Calm. Irritated.
"This is Avery Quinn of trading ship Sunbeam. Aurora, do you read? Over...
Nothing but vacuum. These Alterra ships. They run low on engine grease, they send an S.O.S.; you offer to help, they don't pick up...
Aurora, I'm out on the far side of the system. It's going to take more than a week to reach your position. Do you still need our assistance? Over.
...I'll try them again tomorrow. See what the long-range scanner picks up in the meantime.
Damn charter's going to have us wasting our credits running errands for Alterra... See what the long-range scanners pick up in the meantime..."
The message ends.
But I'm still staring at the panel.
Someone heard the distress call.
Someone responded.
I grip the edge of the console, knuckles white. My radio's short-range only. There's no way to reach back, no way to shout "Yes, we need help!" across the stars.
But someone is coming. Maybe.
It's a thread. A thin one. But it's hope.
I look out the pod window, toward the sky.
Just keep on, Quinn. Try again tomorrow.
I'll still be here.
I try to sleep after that. It's not easy.
Hope's a strange thing. It gives you energy, and it doesn't always let you rest.
Still, I manage a few hours curled up in the corner of the pod, lulled to sleep by the steady hum of life support and the rhythmic creak of ocean pressure pushing against the hull.
When I wake, the sky is different again. A hazy twilight, filtered through salt and radiation haze. No messages. No new alerts.
Just the soft ping of my Seamoth parked outside, like it's waiting.
I set off again, roaming.
Midway through a slow pass near a reef shelf, I catch a glint in the deep—metal. Wreckage.
Big wreckage.
A broken-off chunk of the Aurora, lodged in the seafloor like the twisted blade of a knife. I ease the Seamoth closer, floodlights casting long shadows over the broken hull plating. It's not just scrap—this one has intact chambers. Ductwork. Entry points.
I park just outside and swim in.
Inside the wreck, everything feels tight. Close. A different kind of silence than the open ocean. More... haunted. Air bubbles rise from broken vents. Light flickers where the sun filters through torn bulkheads.
I start scanning.
Modification Station Fragments—half-buried in the corner of a warped room.
Scanner Room Fragments—bent sideways but still recognizable.
Battery Charger Fragments tucked in a crushed maintenance bay.
Blueprint data flows into the PDA with each scan, but as the list grows longer, so does my frustration.
None of this helps without a base.
I can't build a scanner room. Can't charge batteries. Can't modify a damn thing while I'm still stuck in a floating sardine can with no walls.
Eventually, I retreat back to the Seamoth, climbing inside with a muttered curse and wet boots.
"Welcome aboard, Captain."
"Don't. Start."
I'm halfway back to Lifepod 5 when the PDA chimes, all clinical and casual.
"Caution: Continued degradation of the Aurora's drive core may cause a quantum detonation.
Calculating risk assessment.
Death by malnourishment: 7%.
By physical injury: 11%.
By exposure to radioactive crash site materials: 19%.
If the drive core is breached, probability of death increases to: 65%."
I sit in stunned silence as the Seamoth cruises toward home.
"…Fuuuuck."
I reach the pod, climb inside, and immediately flick through my blueprints. Anything. Anything that could help.
Radiation suit? Nothing.
Hazard suit? Not listed.
Just standard O₂ tanks and wetsuit gear. I narrow my eyes at the PDA.
"Why don't I have a radiation suit blueprint?"
"There is no current danger of radiation exposure in your immediate environment."
"You just said the ship might explode!"
"There is no current danger of radiation exposure in your immediate environment."
I stare at the console.
"So you're gonna wait until it explodes, then give me the blueprint? You Alterra piece of corporate shit?!"
Silence.
Figures.
I sit back, rubbing my eyes.
The Aurora's going to blow. The drive core's cooking itself like a neutron bomb. And I'm sitting here waiting for some proprietary blueprint to unlock like it's part of a goddamn reward system.
I need to build a proper habitat.
I need to get deeper.
And most of all, I need to survive long enough for that damn Sunbeam ship to find me.
Frustrated, I go back to what's been keeping me alive: scavenging.
I head out to the Grassy Plateaus, that strange red-weed biome sprawling between reef shelves. More wreckage out here—torn metal and floating panels suspended like skeletons in water.
I find fragments right away.
"Blueprint Acquired: Light Stick"— simple tech. Basic. But useful.
Then something better.
Propulsion Cannon Fragments — tucked inside a crumpled cargo bay. I scan both, holding still as my HUD pings.
"Blueprint Acquired: Propulsion Cannon."
Finally, something with utility and power.
Back at the pod, I toss the materials into the fabricator.
Propulsion Cannon
Requirements:
Wiring Kit (1)
Battery (1)
Titanium (1)Click to expand...
Easy.
The cannon clicks out of the tray with a satisfying chunk. It's solid, heavy, humming softly in my grip. I test the weight. Feels good.
I stare at it for a while. It's not a weapon—not really. But if something gets too close? I can throw it. Hard.
That might matter soon.
I let out a breath and look toward the Aurora, its burning skeleton looming faint in the distance. My eyes flick to the PDA again, back to that one lone landmass marked a while ago.
I still don't know if that's the rendezvous point Officer Keen mentioned. The coordinates were corrupted, just a vague direction—southwest. Same as that land mass.
Part of me wants to just go. Find land. Set up there. Get out of this wretched ocean.
Then the PDA chimes again.
"Warning. Local radiation readings suggest the Aurora's drive core has reached critical state.
Quantum detonation will occur within: 2 hours."
I blink slowly at the screen.
Then glance at the Aurora again.
"...Of course it will."
The Seamoth's cockpit lights up behind me as I climb in.
"Welcome aboard, Captain."
I spin the controls and pull away from the pod, away from the shallows. The PDA, for once, offers something genuinely helpful.
"Recommended viewing location: Safe minimum distance: 1.3 kilometers."
Perfect.
I set course.
If the Aurora's going to go nuclear, I might as well get a front row seat—and not be atomized in the process.
I don't know what I'll do after.
But right now?
I just want to watch it burn.
I park the Seamoth a safe distance out, just above the reef shelf. According to the PDA's telemetry, I'm at 1.4 kilometers. That's far enough to avoid getting turned into space dust. Hopefully.
I sit in silence, the cockpit lights dimmed. The Aurora's silhouette is distant, a broken, smoking carcass bleeding sparks into the sky. The sun's angled just right—casting the shattered stern in deep orange as black smoke coils toward the clouds.
Then—
"Emergency: A quantum detonation has occurred in the Aurora's drive core.
The reactor will reach a supercritical state in T-minus—"
"10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 3... 2... 2... 2..."
The voice falters, crackles—cutting in and out.
And then—
Silence.
A flash erupts from deep within the Aurora, blinding, white-hot, pulsing through the sea and sky. The ship shudders. Then rips apart.
Fire blooms. Hull plating spirals into the air. A massive shockwave bursts from the wreck like a collapsing sun.
The Seamoth shakes violently. My HUD flares red. Warning lights scream. I grip the controls hard.
clickclickclickclickclickclickCLICKCLICKCLICK—
The Geiger counter is going crazy.
A moment later, the PDA dings again.
"For your convenience, the radiation suit has been added to your blueprint database."
I stare at the console, jaw tight.
"Fuck you."
I tap the blueprint feed open. The recipe appears on screen.
Radiation Suit
Required Materials:
Fiber Mesh (2)
Lead (2)
Fiber Mesh
Required Materials:
Creepvine Sample (1)
I already have the lead in storage.
I pilot the Seamoth back toward the safe shallows. It's dark now—ash drifting through the upper ocean like snow.
I beach near some creepvines, slice a few clean samples with my knife, and head back to Lifepod 5.
Fiber Mesh crafted.
Radiation Suit crafted. It includes gloves and a helmet, and connects right to my mask.
I suit up—helmet seals with a tight hiss, HUD flickering as it recalibrates. The Geiger counter drops back to a dull, manageable click-click...click.
Good.
I glance at the pod's systems again.
The PDA pipes up again.
"The status of the Aurora's crew, and the ship's long-range comm relay, is indeterminate.
Exploring the crash site may provide further information."
So that's the next step.
Get close. Get inside. Find the truth—if there's anything left to find.
Time to see what secrets a burning starship keeps in its bones.
I check the suit one last time. Seals are good. HUD is clean. Radiation levels dropping. If the reactor's continually putting out radiation, I'm probably going to have to do something about that. I shove some medkits into my pack and climb into the Seamoth.
"Welcome aboard, Captain."
"Let's not make this one memorable, okay?"
I angle the sub toward the Aurora, aiming for the rear section—the stern. That's where most of the structural break happened. If there's an opening, a weak point, something I can squeeze through, it'll be there.
The sea turns murky the closer I get. Ash drifts down in clouds, and the water grows deeper—dark blue turning slate gray.
I pass over what looks like a massive plateau, the wreck sitting half on it, half over it—tilted precariously like it's waiting to slide into the abyss. The drop beneath is terrifying. No light. No seafloor. Just open blackness stretching into forever.
I slow the Seamoth.
Then I see it.
Movement. Below. In the haze.
A shadow.
Long. Big.
I blink.
"Just a whale. Just a—big, passing whale. A snake-shaped... manatee. A friend."
I don't even believe it.
A horrible screech splits the water, mechanical and organic, sharp enough to make my ears ache through the helmet.
Then, impact.
The Seamoth lurches, hard. Something grabs it from behind—ripping it backward. Alarms blare. The sub twists sharply, the world spinning around me, and then I'm face-to-face with it.
Spoiler: Reaper Leviathan
Black eyes.
A mouth full of teeth.
Too many teeth.
Four claws jutting from its face hold the Seamoth in place.
It roars, bubbles rushing past as it bites down on the front of the Seamoth, metal groaning and glass cracking.
I scream—probably loud. Doesn't matter. No one hears it but me.
It lets go.
"Hull Integrity: 40%. Structural damage detected."
I don't wait for the rest of the warning. I slam the throttle forward, kicking on full power.
The water blurs. I don't know if it's following me. I don't look back. There are no rear cameras, no side mirrors. because Alterra is a shitty corporation with SHITTY ENGINEERS!
"FUCK! FUCK YOU! FUCK ALTERRA! FUCK THIS OCEAN! FUCK!!"
Every word shakes out of me with the same rhythm as the Seamoth's damaged engine, coughing and groaning as I punch through the water like I'm on fire.
It takes me far too long to get back to shallow water.
And when I do, I turn back and just sit there—breathing hard, shaking.
I try not to hyperventilate. The cockpit is dim, flickering. My heart pounds like it's trying to crack my ribs open from the inside.
"What the fuck am I even supposed to do about that?"
There are no weapons in the fabricator. No rifles. No spearguns. No depth charges. Not even a sharp stick.
Even the stasis rifle needs magnetite, which I don't have.
"Is poison a weapon?" I mutter. "Can I fabricate poison? Slather it on a fish and hope the thing snacks itself into a coma?"
No response. Not even from the PDA.
I pull out the repair tool. The Seamoth's console is screaming red warnings and low power whines, but the hull's still intact—barely. I brace myself and get to work.
The tool hisses, casting out arcs of blue light and tiny fabricator nanites. They crawl across the cracked glass and twisted paneling, melting into the damage and knitting it shut like it was never broken. The cockpit steadies. The metal firms under my boots.
Thank you, Alterra. For that, at least.
The lights stabilize. My breathing slows.
I sit back, and think.
I went too far past the ship.
That's probably what triggered the damn thing. I wanted to avoid the wreck itself—figured if I kept wide of the debris field I could get a better look at the back without tangling with any jagged plating or cave-ins.
And instead I swam straight into the goddamn kraken.
Maybe if I keep tighter to the shipwreck itself, there's less chance of being spotted. The creature's huge, but it seemed to come up from behind. It can't squeeze into the wreckage. Can't follow me through tight crawlspaces or broken cargo holds.
Maybe.
The ocean around me is still now. Deceptively so.
Ash and silt drift past the canopy of the Seamoth in lazy swirls. Nothing moves in the water beyond the occasional flicker of passing fish—far smaller, far less interested in tearing me open than the bastard I just escaped.
Then the PDA chimes.
"Recommendation: Perform a self-scan. Anomalous energy levels elevated."
I raise an eyebrow. "Again?"
I activate the self-scan function. A green line ripples down my suit's HUD as the internal diagnostics hum to life.
"Performing Self-Scan...
Vital signs: Stable.
Muscular density: Elevated beyond baseline human norm.
Cardiopulmonary activity: Enhanced.
Non-native energy signature detected.
Energy appears to be integrating with neural pathways and supporting critical organ systems.
No signs of immune rejection.
Biological function: Enhanced."
I stare at the readout.
So this thing in my body—it's not just lingering anymore. It's merging. Bolstering. Whatever it is… it's helping me. I should be more disturbed than I am. But after everything I've seen, "weird" has lost most of its shock value.
Still, I narrow my eyes and issue a command aloud.
"PDA—assign the energy signature an arbitrary value. Track it from now on. HUD display."
"Acknowledged. Designating anomaly as 'Unknown Energy'. Initial value: 1. Tracking initiated."
A new icon flickers to life in the lower-left quadrant of my helmet display. A circular stat display.
Great. Just what I needed. A new mystery.
I exhale slowly and lean back into the pilot's seat. The Seamoth rocks gently, current nudging it like a cradle. The deeper part of me—the one trained to assess threats, systems, diagnostics—says I need to let the heat cool down before I try approaching the Aurora again.
Let the thing lose interest.
So I wait.
And while I wait, I dig into my databanks—scrolling through the logs, the scans, the files stacking up like layers of silt. Fish species, mineral compositions, audio logs from the dead.
There's one about the Creepvine biome and its unusually high photosynthetic output.
One about those glowing cave mushrooms—bioluminescent not for defense or attraction, but as a neural dampener, like a passive calming field.
Eventually, the silence becomes too loud to ignore.
I grip the Seamoth's controls, jaw clenched. It's time.
I inch my way back toward the Aurora's stern, weaving through twisted wreckage and half-sunken hull plates. I hug the wall of the ship like a nervous barnacle, lights dimmed, fingers tight on the throttle.
No sign of the thing. The Leviathan. Whatever the hell it is. Maybe it's moved on. Maybe it's sleeping. Maybe it's right beneath me again and I'm just too small to notice this time.
I don't care. I'm going.
The side of the wreck looms up around me—jagged, blackened metal split open like a peeled can. I spot a section where the hull's cracked clean through, forming a tilted ramp just above the surface. Looks like it leads into the interior.
I surface, beaching the Seamoth on a shallow incline of scorched metal. My boots hit solid ground for the first time since Lifepod 5.
"Lifeform readings in this region are sparse.
The Aurora's radioactive fallout will have devastating effects on the alien ecosystem if not contained within the next 24 hours."
That's not great.
A movement flickers in my peripheral vision. I turn—something crab-like scuttles across the wreckage.
Small. Skittering.
"Caution: scans show the digestive tracts of nearby lifeforms contain human tissues."
And then it jumps straight at my face.
"Jesus—!"
I bat it away with the scanner and stumble back. It hits the ground, curls up, then lunges again. I hit it with the scanner beam, barely steadying the tool.
"Cave Crawler. Terrestrial scavenger. Carnivorous. Aggressive."
Yeah, no shit.
I keep the scanner between me and its freaky single eye, backing toward a nearby hatch. Another extinguisher lies abandoned on the deck. I grab it—old-school, but familiar.
Inside the ship, it's chaos.
Metal bent inward. Sparks everywhere. Fires flicker down broken halls. I sweep foam in wide arcs as I move deeper. Every step creaks. Every groan of steel reminds me this ship is hanging together by a miracle and spite.
"Warning: ship's structural integrity is low.
Fire suppression equipment and laser cutters may be required.
Exploration is conducted at your own risk."
"I hope to hell not," I mutter. "I haven't found any diamonds yet."
I move past what used to be a corridor. Metal shifted like tectonic plates.
"Aurora systems are running on local reserve power. Unable to remotely download black box data."
Awesome.
A door half-hangs from its hinge. Behind it, I spot a PDA blinking on the scorched remains of an office desk.
I grab it.
Transcription: Administration – Log 12
"So here we are, finally, in open space.
We crossed the galaxy to install a phasegate, to send ships to mine resources,
to build more expensive ships, to install fancier phasegates...
Are we trying to exhaust the galaxy or just ourselves?"
18.06 – Yu's birthday
40 – Weeks before we get home
400 – Weeks it feels like before we get home
Not enough – Credits Alterra's paying me
1454 – Cargo bay codeClick to expand...
That's something.
I pocket the PDA and press onward, using the propulsion cannon to clear fallen beams and floating crates. A hallway opens into what used to be the Seamoth Bay. The door is shut, but there's a panel nearby. Broken, of course.
"Scans of damage to the Aurora do not match any known offensive technologies."
"You've suddenly got a lot to say."
I approach a wall console and bring out the repair tool again. Sparks hiss, then settle. The door unlocks with a wheeze.
Inside, I find exactly what I need.
A Seamoth depth module—Mk1. Just sitting there in the dock station. Untouched. Somehow spared.
"Item Acquired: Seamoth Depth Module Mk1.
Enhances vehicle crush depth by 100 meters."
Better. Much better.
I head down and enter the code I found into the cargo bay number pad.
The door opens.
For a cargo bay, it really doesn't have much cargo.
I scan some tech in one of the large boxes by the bay walls—something massive. It takes a while.
Cyclops Engine Fragment (1/3).
I blink.
The Cyclops.
That's not just a sub.
That's a mobile base.
I stare at the broken machinery, heart pounding just a little faster.
So this is what's hiding in the bones of the Aurora. Not just broken tech. Not just logs of the dead.
Possibilities.
Big ones.
But the PDA isn't done.
Significant change detected.
Unknown Energy signature: 1 → 2
I honestly don't know what to do about that.
I sigh.
Then I press deeper into the wreck.
A few corridors later, tucked behind a half-collapsed ceiling beam, I find a storage crate jammed between two lockers. Inside?
Cyclops Engine Efficiency Module.
Increases engine efficiency to 300%.
I stare at it for a beat, then let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Jackpot. I don't even have the Cyclops yet, but I will. This will matter. It'll all matter.
I pocket the module and step through a narrow opening toward what used to be the locker room—and find the door out of it sealed tight. No keypad. Just a reinforced panel scorched shut. I check the handle. Nope.
"Laser cutter required."
"Of course," I mutter, deadpan.
I slump back, wedged between a bench and a half-melted row of lockers. Blocked. I pace the edges, looking for any vent or crawlspace. No luck. I'll have to come back.
I double back, clearing a low-hanging spar with the propulsion cannon. As I push on, I raid every crate I can find—water bottles, nutrient blocks, spare batteries. I even find a medkit stuffed under a scorched console, still sealed in its foil pouch.
My inventory's full by the time I finally loop back to the surface breach.
I slide down the twisted ramp, catching a handhold before I fall flat into the water—and swim fast toward the Seamoth, still waiting where I left it.
I don't hesitate. I climb in, seal the hatch, and hit the throttle.
"Welcome aboard, Captain."
"Not now," I mutter, my nerves still frayed.
I stay tight against the ship as I circle back around, the metal wall my shield against the open blue beyond. I don't breathe easy until I'm parallel with Lifepod 5's location. Then, and only then, do I peel off and make a direct line home.
The moment I reach the pod, I exhale—like I've just crossed a finish line I didn't know I was sprinting.
Inside, I unload everything. Line up the water bottles like little trophies. Stack the food. Drop the batteries into storage. One deep breath, then another.
I check the Seamoth's depth upgrade—Mk1. I slot it into the console.
Crush depth: 300m.
Good. Now I can reach Lifepod 19—the one from Officer Keen's last message. The one that's... down.
For the rendezvous point. For land.
I lean forward, glancing in the direction I know it is. The marker for Lifepod 19 still glows, half-buried in the depths.
I take one last look at the lifepod.
"Ok."
The Seamoth sinks slowly into the blue.
The shallows fall away fast, reef structures stretching downward into loose, skeletal shapes, until the terrain smooths out into an eerie expanse of rolling stone. All color fades. No coral, no life, just wide, open seabed—smooth and pale as bone, with spindly weeds that barely twitch. A notification pops up on my HUD.
The Deep Sparse Reef.
The only sound is the hum of the Seamoth's engine and the distant, muffled creak of water pressure pressing in from all sides.
It's quiet here.
The deeper I go, the more it feels like I've slipped off the edge of the world.
Strange stone pillars jut up like fingers trying to claw their way back to the surface. Cracks run deep across the seabed, forming trenches that pulse dimly with bio-luminescent algae. It's cold here. Lightless.
"Detecting a titanium mass somewhere in this area. Unable to confirm whether it originated on the Aurora."
"Hmm."
I glide forward, keeping an eye on the depth gauge. 270... 280...
Then something glints below.
I slow to a crawl and descend—just above a soft ravine.
And there it is.
Lifepod 19, resting crookedly at the very bottom, lodged between two stone ridges at 298 meters. The outer hull is cracked wide open, emergency lights still barely flickering, long since drowned.
No bodies. Again.
But not empty.
I park the Seamoth above it and slide down into the deep, kicking slow.
"Warning: Oxygen efficiency greatly decreased."
I watch the counter tick three times as fast. Should be fine, my seamoth is right there.
I glance around.
Everything here feels... still. Like the ocean's holding its breath.
I breach the busted pod from the side. Inside, two blinking lights catch my eye. One—another PDA. I grab it.
Second Officer Keen's Crew Log:
"To all crew –
If you are reading this then you have followed the automatic distress signal broadcast by this lifepod's onboard computer, contrary to my orders.
I have been forced to evacuate.
Your orders are to disregard my safety and attempt to reach the designated rendezvous coordinates at the nearest landmass.
I hope to see you there."
The second PDA chimes in immediately, the captions visible on my HUD.
Voicelog:
CAPTAIN: Keen! This is Aurora, come in!
KEEN: This is Keen, lifepod detached okay, planetfall in 30 seconds!
CAPTAIN: The computer has identified a landmass at the attached coordinates! I want you to regroup the crew there!
KEEN: Understood, but—
CAPTAIN: They're your responsibility now. Don't let them down.
KEEN: Captain, you need to evacuate!
CAPTAIN: Negative. You'll need the ship in one piece if you're going to contact HQ on the long-range. I'm attempting a controlled descent—
[Sound of a distant explosion.]
KEEN: Captain?!
[Static]
The message cuts out.
The HUD pings again.
"Signal location uploaded to PDA."
There it is. The rendezvous point. The landmass.
Finally.
I glance around the lifepod's interior one last time. Another glowing node—a blueprint chip. I snag it and flip it open.
Blueprint Acquired: Ultra High Capacity O₂ Tank.
Perfect. I needed more breathing time for deeper dives—and this is exactly what I was hoping to find. That, and a reason to keep going.
I spot something on the edge of the trench wall—a shimmer, half-buried in rock.
Diamond.
I swim out and dig it loose.
This thing is huge, I'm rich!
As I wedge the diamond out of the rock, the PDA chirps in my ear with its usual dispassionate tone:
"Reminder: Materials you gather are the property of the Alterra Corporation. You will be liable to reimburse the full market price. Your current bill stands at: 3,018,907 credits."
I freeze.
"Fuck Alterra. I'm suing."
I shove the diamond into my pack without another thought.
Three million credits. Three. Million. Like I'm going to to pay off a corporate tab when their own ship blew me into the goddamn ocean with a hull full of radioactive scrap and no toothbrush.
As if on cue, I catch a glint of red further down the trench—tucked between two crumbling stone outcrops, nestled like forbidden fruit.
Rubies.
I grab the first one, then another. Deep, crystalline red. Beautiful and sharp-edged, like something forged under pressure—which, fittingly, they were. The PDA logs each one into my inventory without fanfare. I grab more, sweeping the area methodically.
Ruby. Diamond. Ruby. Diamond...
I don't want to come back here.
It's not just the pressure or the isolation. It's the silence. The way it wraps around you like something living. Like the ocean down here is watching.
I scan the walls one last time, grabbing what I can—more rubies, another diamond, even some gel sacks growing out of the rock like alien tumors. Anything rare. Anything useful. I don't know what I'll need tomorrow, so I'm taking everything today.
By the time I clamber back into the Seamoth, my pack is crammed full.
The cockpit seals with a low hiss.
"Welcome aboard, Captain."
This time I don't snap at it.
I just lean forward, exhale through clenched teeth, and throttle upward—leaving the ravine behind, the broken lifepod still glowing faintly beneath me like some drowned tomb.
The rendezvous coordinates are marked.
Land.
People—maybe.
But how do I get there with monsters like that Leviathan roaming around?
/ VITAL SIGNS: ELEVATED /
/ AUDIO / VIDEO / RECORDING ONGOING/