"Attention. Hull failure imminent. All personnel abandon ship."
The corridor lurches sideways. Lights flash, alarms wail, and the bulkheads groan with the sound of tearing metal. I shove past a half-sealed door, ignoring the flickering sparks that leap from the panel beside it. The ship's gravity is starting to stutter—artificial systems struggling to keep pace with the laws of physics we're no longer defying.
I find Pod 5—one of the few still online. The outer hull screams again. Another section gone.
I dive into the escape pod and pull the hatch shut behind me. The interior is cramped, even for one person. Red emergency lights cast jagged shadows across the reinforced shell. I strap myself into the acceleration harness, fingers trembling only slightly.
"Launch in 3... 2... 1..."
The pod kicks like it's alive. The g-forces hit me hard, squeezing my chest as we rocket away from the Aurora. Through the small porthole, I see the ship's dorsal line erupt in flame. Sections break away, disappearing into the black smoke and sky.
I'm falling.
The heat shield glows. The atmosphere howls.
My head leans back against the seat, muscles tight but contained. I'm watching. Recording. The suit HUD ticks quietly in my periphery—vitals, pressure, stress readings.
Then the jolt hits. Something inside the pod snaps loose.
A red canister—fire suppression—breaks from its mount and floats, then slams into a bulkhead before bouncing toward me. A metal panel shears free from the wall. Everything becomes chaotic, zero-g inertia making a mockery of mass and intent. I flinch, but I can't move—harnessed in.
The panel spins. My eyes lock on it.
It strikes.
White flash. Impact.
Sound cuts.
Then—nothing.
/ VITAL SIGNS: UNSTABLE /
/ RECORDING SUSPENDED — USER UNCONSCIOUS /
/ STATUS: POD LANDED — INTERNAL DAMAGE DETECTED /
/ AUDIO / VIDEO / RECORDING RESUMED /
Smoke fills my lungs before my eyes even open. It's hot, thick, stinging. I cough hard and jerk upright—but I'm still strapped in. A wall of orange light flickers over my vision. The pod's interior is on fire.
I reach for the harness release. Slam it once—nothing. Again—still jammed. My fingers curl into a fist and I punch the release mechanism hard. It hisses, finally disengaging with a clunk. I fall sideways out of the seat, shoulder hitting the deck, heat rolling against my face.
The fire extinguisher lies half-cradled in a dented wall recess. I lunge for it, wrench it free. The nozzle squeals as I pull the trigger, white suppressant foam flooding the air. Sparks vanish in hissing clouds, flames snuffed out inch by inch until the only light left is the emergency strobe flickering from the broken ceiling panel.
The pod is a mess—bulkhead wiring exposed, several panels offline, and one corner of the interface completely dead. But it's intact. I'm alive.
I pull the PDA from my utility belt. The screen's dark. For a moment I think it's dead—then I tap it twice.
A flicker. Then light.
A small electronic chime—too cheerful for the situation—echoes in the confined space.
The screen flares white, and then a blue triangle fades into view. The ALTERRA logo.
Beneath it:
EMERGENCY MODE
The PDA's computer speaks.
"You have suffered minor head trauma. This is considered an optimal outcome.
This PDA has now rebooted in emergency mode with one directive: to keep you alive on an alien world.
Please refer to the databank for detailed survival advice. Good luck."
I stare at the screen for a moment longer, breathing steady now, heart still hammering.
The pain catches up a moment later—sharp and hot behind my temple where the panel hit. I reach up and find dried blood, crusted just above the hairline. The throb radiates through my skull like pulsing sonar. Still no nausea, no visual blurring. Lucky.
I turn toward the fabricator. Its screen pulses weakly—yellow-orange backlight, corners flickering. Something's functional. Just barely. One of the compartments is lit with a green glow. I pry it open.
First Aid Kit. Standard-issue. Vacuum sealed. I crack it open—inside, the stimpack already primed. I jab it into my thigh through the suit port. It hisses. Cold, then burning warmth as the cocktail spreads through my bloodstream. The pain ebbs almost instantly, retreating like a tide.
"Vital signs stabilizing."
I exhale slowly. For a second, the inside of my skull feels... clear. Too clear.
"Healing process showing increased cellular regeneration. Cause unknown."
That stops me.
Increased regeneration?
No explanation. No follow-up prompt. Just that flat, clinical tone. Not encouraging.
I move on.
The Medical Kit fabricator is mounted just above the standard fabricator—thankfully not scorched or melted. As I glance at it, my HUD crosslocks and highlights a tiny progress indicator: 1%. So it's working. Good. If it stays that way.
I scan the pod's supply shelf—thank you, Alterra logistics. Two nutrient blocks. Two filtered waters. Two flares. Real generous. The irony stings more than the wound did.
"Glad to see Alterra spared no expense," I mutter under my breath. "Two days of life support and some mood lighting."
I check the radio console next. The casing is cracked, one side of the panel fried black, probably from a direct surge. Status light? Red. Solid. Unresponsive. I try the manual override. Nothing.
Of course it's broken.
Time to assess the surface.
I climb the central ladder, hand stiff around the rung rail. The top hatch is warm to the touch, but not burning. I disengage the lock, and with a hiss of equalizing pressure, push it open.
A sudden flutter—something flaps violently from just above the hatch and bolts into the air. Stingray shape, but twisted. Organic vents ripple along its back like gills. Its wings shimmer as it glides up and away, silhouetted against the sky.
I stand, blinking hard.
The sky is stained orange with smoke. I squint toward the horizon. There it is.
The Aurora.
Or what's left of it.
Only the broken tail section juts from the ocean like a tombstone—angled, half-sunken, barely clinging to the surface. The rest is gone, claimed by the sea. Beneath the waves, that colossal body rests silent and still. Fires sputter near the top of the wreckage, but there's no real movement. No signs of life.
"The Aurora suffered orbital hull failure.
Cause: unknown.
Zero human life signs detected."
That's it.
No protocol. No search initiative. No evacuation directive.
Just: they're all gone.
I stare for a long time, jaw tight, hands braced on the edge of the hatch. That ship held hundreds of people—engineers, officers, botanists, colonists. Some I knew. Most I didn't. Doesn't matter now.
I'd seen hull ruptures in training sims, emergency decompressions, escape drills.
None of them could have compared to this.
I swallow hard.
My eyes drift downward, past the smoke-shrouded horizon and the fractured silhouette of the ship, toward the water below. Sunlight cuts through the haze in broken beams, casting shimmering trails over the surface.
The ocean.
My stomach tightens. It's calm now—but it won't stay that way. Even in the shallows, where I can see the sand below, its too open. Too unknown.
I've never liked the sea. Too much life beneath the surface. Too many possibilities.
And now it's the only way forward.
Materials will be down there. Ship fragments, scrap, minerals. If I want to repair anything, even the radio—I'm going to have to dive. And eventually, I'll need to make my way to what's left of the Aurora. Get inside. Salvage what I can.
I inhale, slow and steady, then tap the seal on my suit collar. The mask slides into place with a quiet hiss-thunk as the pressure locks. My HUD flickers to life again, aligning to my line of sight—oxygen levels, internal temp, integrity. All green.
For now.
One last breath. Then I push off the hatch rim and drop into the water.
The cold is immediate, but not freezing. Just enough to make me flinch. It clings to the suit like a second skin, but the systems hold. My descent is smooth, bubbles trailing upward, the pod's silhouette shrinking above me as I kick lower.
Light filters through the water in shifting patterns. It's clearer than I expected—visibility surprisingly good, if still alien.
Shapes dart at the edges of my vision.
A flicker of movement to the right—fast, round-bodied, a single glowing eye. Another, longer shape, sleek and finned, darts beneath me. Something bulbous floats to the left with what look like translucent sacs beneath it, pulsing gently.
I don't know what any of them are. No tags. No markers.
They seem... harmless. Probably.
One of the smaller ones loops near me—oval body, blue-purple, moving in tight spirals. Another trails bioluminescent flashes as it flicks away. Curious, sure. But they don't seem to care about me.
Let's hope it stays that way.
I paddle forward slowly, adjusting to the weight of the suit and the pull of the sea. A school of darting fish-like creatures splits as I move through them. The terrain below is uneven—coral growths, ridges, bits of debris from the Aurora already scattered across the seafloor like digital breadcrumbs.
Then my HUD beeps.
A marker appears—a small, faint arrow hovering over a node of rock embedded in coral. Yellow tag. Labeled: Limestone.
I kick toward it, reach out, and pry the node free. It breaks with a soft crack in my gloved hands. Something metallic glints inside.
The HUD registers instantly.
"Item Acquired: Copper
Copper is an essential component of all powered equipment.
Your probability of survival has just increased to: unlikely, but plausible."
I snort, bubbles rising from my mask. "Well, thanks for the optimism."
I shove the fragment into the inventory port on my suit—storage node pings as it accepts the material, tagging it for internal sorting.
First material acquired. Not much—but it's something.
I scan the terrain ahead. More nodes. More motion in the water.
I move through the shallows, sweeping wide arcs with my arms as I search for more outcroppings. Two more limestone chunks show up on the HUD. I break them apart, one after the other, tucking the fragments away.
Second one? More copper.
Third?
Titanium.
"Titanium is a versatile structural material. Used in the fabrication of habitat modules, tools, and equipment."
Alright. That's... remotely hopeful.
I barely have time to acknowledge the thought when my HUD flashes a red icon. O₂ warning. Ten seconds.
"Oxygen."
The voice is calm, dispassionate. Completely unaware of how urgently I kick toward the surface, lungs tightening with every stroke. The mask hisses as I breach the top with a loud gasp, ripping in lungfuls of fresh air.
No time to waste.
I dive again, angling back toward the reef.
Then—another ping on the HUD.
"Detecting sulfur deposits in the local cave systems.
Sulfur is an essential component of the repair tool."
"Yeah? Where though?"
I spin in a slow circle, scanning the terrain below. No clear markers. Just rocky ridges and coral tubes.
Cave systems. I need to find an opening.
I spot a crevice—a jagged black line tucked behind a shelf of coral. I surface for air one more time, then dive back down and slip through the narrow gap.
Inside, the water darkens quickly. Visibility shrinks. Shadows pulse in the shifting light, and strange, twisting flora hangs from the ceiling like it's watching me.
Then I see something nestled at the base of a rock. A weird little plant with swollen yellow sacs, like fat fruit in bloom. It bobs gently in the current, almost rhythmic.
I move closer. Lean in.
A high-pitched sound breaks the silence—a whirring whine, like pressure building. I blink.
A red shape shoots from the plant. Small, round. Red and white. One large eye.
It's... kind of cute?
The pitch rises. A sucking whomp builds in my ears, and every part of my brain suddenly screams the same thing.
Move.
I kick backward, but it's too late. The little bastard closes the distance in seconds, and then—boom.
A flash of light. A shockwave slams into my leg like a fist. The water churns, and pain shoots through my thigh as the HUD flashes red with damage indicators.
"Fucking—!" I try to curse, but all that comes out are bubbles and muffled rage.
I can barely move my right leg, so I use my arms and left leg to push upward. Each stroke burns. The water feels thicker now, heavier.
I breach with a gasp, drag myself toward the pod. Each breath is sharp, like my lungs are rejecting the air. My thigh throbs—badly. Deep damage.
The ladder rail is slick. I haul myself up, stumble into the pod, and collapse just inside. I glance at the Medical Kit fabricator—progress bar at 92%.
Come on. Come on.
A minute later, it hisses open with a dull click and releases another kit. I snatch it up, crack it, and jab the stimpack into my hip.
"Vital signs stabilizing."
Again, that strange clarity floods through me. The pain fades, but I can still feel the tension in the muscles where the flesh knits too quickly.
Gotta love stimpacks.
I lean against the pod wall, staring at the ceiling, catching my breath.
So.
The caves have sulfur.
And living bombs.
Good to know.
I pull the PDA off my forearm mount and tap into the blueprint library. The interface is sluggish—probably throttled by power draw—but the schematic for the repair tool loads with a quiet chime.
REPAIR TOOL:
Required Materials:
Titanium (1)
Sulfur (1)
Silicon Rubber (1)Click to expand...
Titanium? Check.
Sulfur? Nearly got myself blown in half for it, but at least I know where it is.
Silicon rubber, though... no clue. The PDA offers no notes on its source. Just the name, like it expects me to already know. Typical half filled Alterra bullshit.
Whatever. One problem at a time.
I know where the sulfur is. And unless that little bomb-fish had siblings hiding in the cave, it should be safe now.
I seal my mask again and dive.
The descent is slower this time—more deliberate. I find the crevice easily and slip inside, wary. My eyes snap to the plant immediately.
It's still there. The sacs pulsing gently. Innocent, almost.
I don't trust it. Not for a second.
I give it a wide berth, watching for any motion—any sign another one of those things is about to rocket out and play kamikaze. Nothing.
Then I spot the glint.
Nestled right at the base of the plant, tucked in a natural hollow of rock, a crystalline yellow formation gleams softly in the filtered light.
Sulfur.
My HUD tags it without prompt. I reach out carefully—very carefully—and pry it loose. It crumbles into a powdery chunk as I deposit it into the suit's storage port.
"Item Acquired: Cave Sulfur"
I don't wait around. I push out of the cave, kicking hard for the surface.
I breach into warm sunlight, breath ragged in my throat. Still here. Still in one piece. Barely.
I take a second to look around—and realize we're closer to the Aurora than I was before. The pod's drifted a little. Not a lot. But enough.
The PDA chimes again, unprompted.
"Scanning the Aurora.
Zero life signs detected.
Lethal radiation levels detected.
Cause of hull breach: electromagnetic pulse.
Cause of pulse: unknown.
Communication systems destroyed."
I freeze. Radiation?
I'm still a good distance from the wreck, but the size of it... that kind of reactor could leak for kilometers. I don't know the fallout pattern, don't have a Geiger module—yet. So I do the smart thing.
I backpedal in the water, slow and steady, eyes locked on that metal corpse in the distance.
Radiation. EMP. No comms. No survivors.
And I'm out here swimming in its wake like an idiot.
I turn and start back for the pod, trying to ignore the feeling that I'm being watched.
I need that repair tool. Now.
I drop back into the pod and unseal the mask, a faint hiss marking the transition between alien sea and stale, recycled air. The interior still smells faintly of scorched insulation and synthetic foam. I crouch beside the small onboard locker and start unloading.
Titanium. Copper. Sulfur.
The HUD registers each item with a faint ping as I slot them in.
Still missing silicon rubber. I tap the locker closed and re-seal my mask.
Back out into the blue.
I dive again, exhaling slowly through my nose as I scan the terrain ahead. Something purple glows on the seafloor. Mushrooms. Fleshy-looking, ridged, like they're half-melted in the water. I pluck a few, stuffing them into the suit's storage. Could be poisonous. Could be fuel. Right now, they're just unknown.
They squish in an unpleasant way when I grab them.
I press on, moving deeper. The terrain shifts—low coral fields giving way to taller, denser growth. Massive stalks rise from the seabed in clusters, swaying gently like an underwater forest.
The vines are long, deep green, almost metallic in the light. Some rise at least ten meters high. At the base of several stalks are fruit-like bulbs—bright yellow-orange, pulsing faintly. I instinctively mark them as potentially useful. Materials or food. Maybe both.
I start to move in—
Something shifts in the corner of my eye.
I freeze.
Just past the edge of the kelp... something big.
Elongated, smooth body. Ridged along the back. Skin dark and glinting. Its head is narrow, tapered like a gharial—those old crocodilians from Earth. It moves with a lazy kind of menace, trailing the vines in slow loops, unaware—or uninterested in me.
For now.
"Oh, shit." I mutter.
No scanner, no intel. Just visual data and instinct.
That thing is a predator. Probably.
I stay low, strafing to the side, keeping a healthy patch of vine between us. My eyes don't leave it as I inch toward the nearest cluster of the glowing fruits.
I reach them, fingers working fast—one, two, three... four... seed pods, I think, slick and heavy. They barely fit in my inventory.
The creature circles lazily, still far enough off. Still not chasing.
I don't wait for that to change.
I kick hard, swimming back toward the pod in tight, efficient strokes. My pulse only calms once I'm climbing the ladder again, the hatch sealing behind me with a hiss.
Safe. For now.
I pull up the PDA again, fingers scrolling through blueprints.
The new entries blink into place.
Silicon Rubber – Creepvine Seed Cluster (1)
Lubricant – Creepvine Seed Cluster (1)
There it is.
I tap on the silicon rubber schematic, and the fabricator hums to life with a satisfying whirr.
The silicon rubber crafts easily. The seeds break down into thick polymer strands, pulled and spun into usable materials by the fabricator's internal mechanisms. Smooth process. No errors. It's one of the few moments since the crash that doesn't feel like a dice roll.
I combine it with the sulfur and titanium.
The fabricator hums louder this time. Blue light flickers inside the chamber. A small robotic arm whirs as it extrudes a compact tool—a handheld welder, matte black with a tungsten-tipped arc emitter.
"Repair tool: Acquired. Failure to utilize correctly may result in further habitat degradation."
I grab it off the tray, squinting a bit at the PDA.
Finally. Something I actually know how to use.
Surviving on an oceanic death world? Not exactly in my job description.
But fixing broken panels? Repairing circuitry fried by a plasma burst?
That, I can do in my sleep.
I cross the cramped pod, crouch next to the damaged radio panel. The outer casing is warped and blistered, but the mounting is still solid. I switch the repair tool on. The emitter lights up with a quiet pop-hiss, and I go to work—melting fractured conduits back together, burning out corrosion, smoothing and sealing the panel edges.
Sparks jump as I finish the last weld. The radio lights flicker, then stabilize. A green LED pulses.
The panel chimes with its own nasal, too-perky voice:
"Radio online. Broadcasting emergency distress signal."
Seconds later, a different voice—flat, synthetic—echoes from the speaker:
"RADIO: This is Aurora. Distress signal received.
Rescue operation will be dispatched to your location in 9... 9... 9... 9... 9... hours.
Continue to monitor for emergency transmissions from other lifepods."
I stare at the panel.
"...Great."
What exactly did I expect? A shuttle? A warm blanket and a thank-you?
Still. It's working. That's something. Somewhere out there, someone might hear this.
I move to the next damaged panel—the internal systems interface near the fabricator. This one's scorched, the wiring half-melted. But the structure's intact. I pop the cover, clean the nodes, rebind the junctions with the tool.
Final spark. Fuse reset.
The pod hums as the overhead lights flicker to life—soft at first, then bright. Warm.
For a second, it almost feels like I'm not trapped in a floating death can.
"Lifepod secondary systems online.
Running full environment diagnostic and outputting results to databank."
The console scrolls with data—hull pressure, atmosphere, power draw. Nothing critical left in the red.
I lean back against the pod wall, exhaling slowly.
Lacking any better ideas—and with no other life signs, transmissions, or miracle rescue ships dropping from the sky—I seal the mask and dive again. Back into the sea.
The water's calmer now, or maybe I'm just getting used to it. The silence doesn't feel quite so deafening. Every now and then I think I hear something deeper, far off—a groan of metal, or the hollow echo of something massive shifting through the dark. But nothing comes close.
I spot torn-off fragments of the Aurora—twisted beams and scorched plating half-buried in the reef sand. Some kind of access panel drifts lazily on the current, catching light like glass.
"Scans indicate salvageable metal components.
Materials can be broken down and stored as titanium."
Well, that's convenient. I pull out the chunk, heavy, jagged.
It vanishes into my inventory port, internal mass redistribution keeping the weight manageable. Somehow. Another piece gets the same treatment.
Then I spot something glinting in a shallow crevice. Pale, almost like cut crystal.
Quartz.
I swim down and pluck it free. The surface is cool, hard, and slightly jagged in my grip.
"Quartz: commonly used in glass fabrication.
Handle with care—sharp edges may puncture unreinforced suit materials."
"Noted," I mutter, shoving it into storage.
I spend the next few minutes doing slow sweeps along the reef, collecting what I can—copper when I find it, more titanium from debris and breakable nodes.
My suit inventory's nearly full by the time I make it back to the pod. I surface and climb in, water dripping off me in sheets as I unseal the mask and drop into a crouch at the fabricator.
First order of business: protection.
I queue up a blueprint I've been eyeing since the repair tool.
The fabricator whirs, arms shifting with practiced ease.
"Survival Knife Fabricated."
"Weapons were removed from standard survival blueprints following the massacre on Obraxis Prime.
The knife remains the only exception."
That last bit makes me pause.
Massacre?
I don't want to know. Not right now.
I take the blade. It's light. Efficient. Razor-edge monomolecular—overkill, really, for fish and salvage work. But if something comes at me again like that exploding red bastard, I want something sharper than a harsh glare.
I glance down the blueprint list. Habitat Builder catches my eye.
Complex tool. Needs silver, a computer chip, and a battery—which means I'll have to find more exotic materials to exploit.
Another entry catches my attention: Standard O₂ Tank.
Three titanium.
That, I can do.
I feed the material into the fabricator, and the machine does the rest. The resulting tank is simple—polymer shell, pressure regulator, quick-seal collar. I attach it to my back harness, and the HUD immediately updates.
"Oxygen Capacity: Increased"
Breathing room.
Literally.
I scroll through the blueprint list again, this time more deliberately. I need something to give me an edge—intel, insight, context. I find it.
Scanner
Required Materials:
Titanium (1)
Battery (1)
The battery opens into another list.
Battery:
Copper Ore (1)
Acid Mushrooms (2)
Simple. I already have the copper. The mushrooms I picked earlier squish a bit when I drop them into the fabricator tray, but the system doesn't seem to mind. A quick flash of energy, a mechanical buzz, and the battery clicks into place.
I plug it into the scanner blueprint. One final pulse of light—and the tool slides out on the platform.
"The Scanner can be used to synthesize blueprints from salvaged technology,
and to record alien biological data."
Now we're getting somewhere.
With this, I can start making sense of the wreckage, maybe recreate some of the tech we lost. At the very least, I'll stop wandering blind.
Just as I'm turning to leave, the computer interrupts—this time with something new.
"Environmental Diagnostic Complete."
I pause.
Finally.
I bring up the report on the PDA. The screen loads with a topographical map—low-resolution, but clear enough. I see the crash site marked in red, surrounded by open ocean. To the southwest, about 1.5 kilometers out, there's something else. Something solid.
"Land Mass Detected
Distance: 1.5 km SW of current location."
I stare at it for a long moment.
Land. Actual land.
I feel something I haven't in hours: hope.
It's not close—but it's possible. I can get there. I can make it.
But first—one more thing.
I hold up the scanner and toggle its secondary function. The HUD displays an option: Self-Scan. Might as well. With the stimpacks and whatever weird regeneration effect I've been experiencing, it's better to check.
I run the scan.
"Performing self-scan...
Vital signs: Elevated. Muscular density and cardiovascular activity above baseline norms.
Detecting trace quantities of a non-native energy signature.
Monitoring recommended."
My gut twists.
Elevated vitals I can live with. But "non-native energy signature"? What the hell does that even mean? No detail. No explanation. Just another vague warning from the increasingly ominous AI assistant.
I don't like it.
But there's nothing I can do about it now.
I stow the scanner, adjust the O₂ tank, and look out the hatch.
I seal my mask and drop back into the water. The scanner pings softly in my grip, LED strip blinking in time with my HUD. This time, I'm not just swimming—I'm cataloging.
First up: fish.
One of the translucent, bloated ones drifts nearby—purple, pouch-like, with flipper-tails and a pair of useless-looking eyes. I point the scanner at it.
"Bladderfish:
Edible. High fluid content.
Can be processed into potable water via onboard fabricator."
Fresh water. From fish.
Sure. Why not.
I skip the longer summary in the Databank.
I lunge forward and grab the Bladderfish with both hands. It wriggles and squeals—somehow wet and squeaky—but I twist it sharply. The movement goes limp. The HUD confirms the capture. I shove it into storage.
Next, I scan one of the fast, darting ovoids with a huge yellow eye and sleek blue body—familiar shape from earlier. The scanner hums.
"Peeper:
Edible. Rich in protein and visually responsive to movement.
Caution: easily startled."
I reach out and catch one mid-pivot. It thrashes for a second before I snap its neck. I'm not proud of it, but I'm hungrier than I am moral right now.
I grab another for good measure, then swim back to the pod.
The fabricator accepts the carcasses without hesitation. The peeper goes in first. The machine whirs, its lasers firing up.
"The fabricator cooks small organisms while disposing of the skeletal structure,
bodily fluids, and internal organs—thus rendering them safe for human consumption."
Nice and clinical. I take the result—a still-steaming protein slab that vaguely resembles fish—and take a bite.
Not great. Unseasoned. Rubber texture.
But it's food.
I fabricate the bladderfish next. The result is a small, sterile canister of filtered water.
I drink it in two gulps, then look out the hatch again.
Back to the kelp forest.
I swim cautiously toward it, hugging the edges of the vines and keeping my eyes peeled. I see the long-snouted predator again—same sleek body, same erratic movements.
Still don't know what it is. But I'm not getting closer to scan it. Still don't want to be on the wrong end of those jaws.
Then I see something new.
A much larger creature, drifting lazily deeper in the kelp trench. Huge, bulbous fins. A trail of green smog leaks from vents in its back, hanging in the water like algae smoke.
I don't get close. So I can't scan it. Oh well.
Instead, I dive lower—past the stalks and vines to where the light dims. The terrain here is rougher, broken into small ravines and dips. Near the floor, something catches my eye.
A node embedded in a boulder—smooth, gold-brown, different from the limestone I've been chipping at.
The as i scan it, the computer chirps:
"Sandstone Outcrop.
Contains valuable materials: silver, gold, and lead."
Now that is what I need.
I crack it open with my blade. Inside: a dull, metallic shard.
"Item Acquired: Silver Ore
Silver-based wiring kits are an essential component of many habitat modules."
That unlocks the Habitat Builder. One step closer to shelter.
Another sandstone node yields gold.
"Item Acquired: Gold Ore
Gold is a high-conductivity soft metal used in advanced circuitry fabrication."
That could be useful too, if I live long enough to need advanced anything.
I break a few more chunks, scan where I can, always glancing back over my shoulder at the predators. They're distant. But they're watching.
Time to get out of the water again. For now.
The ocean's given me enough gifts today.
And warnings.
Back inside the pod, I immediately open the blueprint for the Habitat Builder. It's there—taunting me.
Habitat Builder
Required Materials:
Computer Chip (1)
Wiring Kit (1)
Battery (1)Click to expand...
I already have the silver, copper, and the mushrooms for the battery. Just need one last ingredient—Table Coral Sample (2).
I've seen those. Right outside the pod, growing along the shallows like flat, red fans embedded into the reef. I seal up, grab my knife, and dive.
Sure enough, the coral is right where I remember. A few sharp swings, and two slices fall clean into my hands. Into the inventory they go.
Back in the pod, I move quickly.
Wiring Kit:
Silver (2)
→ Done.
Computer Chip:
Copper Wire (1)
Gold (1)
Table Coral (2)
→ All on hand. Fabricated in sequence.
Battery:
Copper (1)
Acid Mushrooms (2)
→ Easy.
With all the pieces laid out, I assemble the final blueprint.
The Habitat Builder materializes with a low whirrrrrr, extending out from the fabricator, compact and matte gray, with a built-in interface. I grab it eagerly.
"The Builder Tool is designed to construct habitats capable of withstanding extreme environmental conditions."
Finally. A way to stop floating around like a brain in a jar.
I turn it over in my hand. Lightweight. Strong. Familiar, despite how alien everything else has felt. I might not be a planetary survival expert, but I am a systems maintenance chief. I can figure out a few LEGO-functioned habitat sections.
I pull up the construction menu on my HUD. The builder pings softly as the available modules blink into view.
Foundation
Required Materials:
Titanium (2)
Lead (2)
Of course. Lead.
I groan under my breath and head back out.
The stalkers are still circling the kelp forest. I dive carefully around their patrols, weaving low near the seabed. My scanner's ready this time.
I spot one—the long-nosed, sharp-toothed bastard. It drags some wreckage in its jaws like a dog gnawing on a wrench. I slip in close, hold the scanner steady.
It completes just before the creature locks eyes with me and gives a slow, displeased roll in my direction.
"Stalker.
Predatory behavior. Attracted to metal salvage.
Territorial, but non-aggressive if unprovoked."
"Yeah, you look real unprovoked."
I back off fast, not eager to test the margins of that AI assessment.
More sandstone outcrops litter the base of the forest. I break several—silver, lead, gold. I fill my inventory until I'm nearly dragging with weight, then make a beeline for the surface.
Climbing back into the pod, soaked and panting, I drop the haul into storage and let myself breathe.
I finally have everything I need to build a foundation. To build anything.
No more drifting.
Time to put down roots.
I swim just a few meters below the surface, finding a shallow plateau near the pod. Flat. Stable. Should keep the structure just below the water, out of direct exposure to whatever this planet calls "weather." I don't know if it rains acid or hurls fire-fish sideways, but I'm not taking chances.
The builder pings softly in my hand, and I queue up the Foundation.
The moment I confirm the build, a dull hum resonates through the water. Glowing blue nanite-covered scaffolding forms in the open sea, nanobots welding metal into shape like it's just another Tuesday.
The platform settles into the seabed with a satisfying clunk, grey, complete with reinforced crossbeams and hard anchors.
Then I pull up the blueprint section of the habitat builder and my eyes narrow.
That's it?
No rooms. No prefab modules. No living quarters. No anything.
Just... a foundation, and some tubes.
"Are you shittin' me?"
I flick through every category again, like maybe the interface just forgot to load something.
Nope. All I've got is the builder equivalent of an empty sidewalk.
"You can preload foundation segments, but not a single room!?"
I stare down at the structure, a perfect useless slab of metal doing absolutely nothing.
"Great. Fantastic. I'll just live on this. Lay back, let the sea take me, watch the wildlife circle like vultures. Real estate dreams come true."
I close the menu and swim off, still muttering.
If I can't build a room, maybe I can find one. Somewhere out there, there has to be tech I can scan and reconstruct. I keep low as I head back to the kelp forest.
It's not long before I spot something new among the twisted vines—wreckage half-buried in stalks, half tangled in creepvine.
I move closer, scanning the fragment.
Mobile Vehicle Bay Fragment: 1/3
Okay. That's something. I dig around the area. Find another. Then a third.
"Blueprint Acquired."
But no vehicles nearby. No Seatruck or Seamoth. No Prawn Suit or even a Snowfox. Just scrap.
I surface and check the sun. That actually took quite a while.
I push deeper, following the slope of the ocean floor as it starts to open up—wide, flat, and red.
The kelp falls away behind me, replaced by swaying fields of low crimson grass. It's vast and Vibrant. Like a blood-covered plain beneath the sea.
"Short-range scans suggest this biome supports extensive biodiversity
both above and below the surface."
That's ominous.
I keep my scanner ready. The wreckage out here is different—larger, more mangled. But deeper too, I have to frequently ascend, gasp air, then dive again.
I swim through a collapsed cargo platform and find scattered fragments.
Bioreactor Fragment – scanned and stored. Could help power the base. If I had one.
Laser Cutter Fragment – could be useful for sealed doors or salvage.
Then—
Seamoth Fragment Fragment: 1/3.
Finally.
My heart actually skips. A small submersible. If I can find the rest...
The ocean stretches out ahead of me. Wide. Dark. Waiting.
But for the first time since the crash, I've got a lead.
By the time I make it back to the pod, the sky above the waves has gone dark. Faint stars shimmer through the thin atmosphere, filtered through high-altitude clouds and residual smoke from the Aurora. The world's gone quiet. Even the ocean feels still—as if it's holding its breath.
I climb inside, stow the scanner, and collapse against the curved wall.
The completed Seamoth blueprint glows faintly on my HUD, waiting. A compact, single-occupant vehicle. Fast. Agile. Capable of operating at depth. more importantly, it supplies it's own air. If I can get the parts, the materials, and a Mobile Vehicle Bay set up, I can stop relying on air and fins alone...
Note to self: make fins.
But not tonight.
I lie down on the narrow bench slash storage container at the back of the pod—the closest thing to a bed I have. The hum of the onboard systems is steady now, a soft, constant reassurance that something around here still works.
I exhale slowly.
Tomorrow, I'll start hunting for the last components I need. Titanium, glass, power cells, lubricant... all of it. I'll build the bay. Then the Seamoth. Then maybe I can stop playing the victim to this dammed sea.
The pod lights dim automatically as I close my eyes.
The pod lights dim automatically as I close my eyes.
/ VITAL SIGNS: STABLE /
/ RECORDING SUSPENDED — USER UNCONSCIOUS /