It was still early—too early for even the sun to stretch fully over the ridge. A thin mist hung low across the forest floor, curling through the scrap-metal streets of the village like a sleeping breath.
Markus tightened the straps on his bag with a sharp zip, slinging it over his shoulder.
"Already heading out?" Sam yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he leaned against the doorway.
Markus nodded. "Yeah. The sooner I get it fixed, the faster I can get out of here."
He adjusted his belt, checking the knife at his side.
"You sure you don't want me coming along?" Sam asked, tone casual—but his eyes carried the weight of concern.
"It's too dangerous," Markus replied. His voice was steady. Cold, even. "I'll be faster on my own."
Sam exhaled, giving a crooked smile. "Worth a shot, I guess. Then hurry up—before the girls wake up. Otherwise, escaping the village'll be impossible."
Markus snorted. "You've got a point."
He started down the path, his boots crunching against the dry ground.
"Wait," Sam called.
Markus paused.
A small object flew through the air—he caught it with one hand.
A respirator.
"One of the few that still works," Sam said, scratching his head. "Oxygen gets thin the further you go from the village. Especially near the wreck."
Markus studied it for a moment, then nodded. "Thanks."
"Nah. I should be thanking you." Sam's voice turned quiet. "Thanks to you, we all have a chance of getting out of here."
Markus gave a small smile, tucking the respirator into his bag before turning toward the forest path.
He left without another word.
The trees eventually gave way to rock, and the forest faded behind him. Wind whispered across the barren stretch of red earth. A desert of jagged dunes and cracked stone, stretching far in every direction.
For two days, he marched.
Dust clung to his clothes. The air thinned. Water rationed. Meals taken in silence. At night, the sky bled with unfamiliar stars. The wreck always in the distance—like a sleeping giant swallowed by the sand.
But by the end of the second day… there it was.
Massive.
Broken.
Dead.
Markus stopped at the edge of the crater where it had fallen.
"…This is it."
After circling the hull for nearly an hour, Markus found it—a torn ventilation shaft barely wide enough to crawl through. He grunted as he slipped inside, metal groaning beneath his weight.
Inside the Voyager 30, the air was still. Dry. Like the ship itself had forgotten how to breathe.
Darkness clung to every corner. His flashlight cut through it just enough to show the ruined walls—panels ripped out, wires dangling like dead veins. The once pristine floors were warped and uneven, forcing him to step cautiously. Twice he nearly dropped through rusted grates, only saving himself by grabbing onto a broken pipe.
"Damn that was close" Markus says as he pulled himself up.
He shoved open sealed doors one by one, his gloves tearing against the warped metal edges. With each step, the silence screamed louder. No voices. No hum of life support. Just him… and ghosts.
Old advertisements flickered on cracked wall screens—echoes of smiling families, luxury dining, deck parties. All long gone.
He passed through a shattered observation deck. The glass was mostly gone, leaving only twisted frames and a panoramic view of the wasteland beyond.
Hours passed.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. His boots echoed through empty corridors. Still… nothing useful.
He finaly came to the command bridge
Markus shoved the last rusted door aside and stepped into what remained of the bridge.
Or rather, what was left of it.
The entire room had caved in. Crushed like tin, the once-proud command deck reduced to a broken tomb. Bits of shattered glass crunched beneath his boots as he stared at the wreckage in silence.
He forced himself forward, scanning every corner, every panel—until his eyes landed on what he'd hoped wouldn't be there.
The beacon.
Smashed. Useless. Half-buried under a steel girder and covered in old, dried blood.
"…No."
He stood there frozen for a moment.
Then clenched his fist.
And slammed it into the wall.
"DAMN IT!!"
Another punch. Then another.
Blood smeared across the bent paneling as he struck it again and again, knuckles splitting open against the unyielding steel.
"If it was that easy…" he growled through gritted teeth, "They would've been saved years ago!!"
His voice echoed into the emptiness.
He stood there—chest heaving, hand shaking, blood dripping down his fingers.
Then silence.
Markus lowered his arm, his head hanging low as the weight settled in. He turned around without another word and limped back the way he came.
The journey back was long. Painful. And quiet.
The wind howled through the open wastes, carrying sand across his path like waves. His water ran low by the second day, his legs growing heavier with each step.
The wind howled behind him as Markus stepped into view of the village gates. Dust clung to his boots, his scarf half-torn, and every muscle in his body screamed for rest. The sun blazed overhead. It had been two long days with barely enough water to ration between steps. His eyes were dry. His throat, cracked.
But he was back.
A sharp whistle rang out from one of the lookouts. "Markus is back!!"
Suddenly, the quiet little village came alive.
Children rushed first, bounding across the path with wagging tails and wide eyes. One of them tried to grab onto Markus's arm, and nearly got carried along as he staggered toward the center. Adults followed behind, waving and clapping, voices rising like a tide.
"Hey, you're alive!"
"You actually made it back?!"
"About time, soldier boy!"
Markus blinked. "I… yeah, I made it."
Sam was the first to reach him. He clapped a hand on Markus's shoulder, nearly knocking the wind out of him. "Look at you, still breathing! Not bad!"
Markus tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He looked around at the cheering crowd, then lowered his gaze.
"Bad news," he said flatly. "The beacon's gone. The whole bridge was crushed. I thought—" He gritted his teeth. "I thought there might be something left… but it's done."
The villagers didn't flinch.
"Yeah, we kinda figured," one of the older men said with a chuckle.
Markus's brows furrowed. "Then… why are you all acting like this?"
"The chief still wants to talk to you later," someone chimed in. "But first—we're throwing a celebration!"
Markus stared at them. "A… what?"
A young demi-cat girl tugged on his sleeve with a bright grin. "A party! For you!"
Markus opened his mouth, but no words came. He failed. He didn't save anyone. He didn't even come back with a plan.
Yet—
They didn't seem to care.
He was guided toward the village center where tables had been pulled together and decorated with whatever scraps they could make festive—shimmering cloth, woven vines, and strings of shiny salvage hung between houses like makeshift streamers. There was fruit laid out in bowls, and a few jugs of something sweet-smelling. A girl placed a cracked wooden cup in his hand before he could protest.
He looked at the spread—mangos, bright berries, pale melons, all foraged and saved… and they gave it to him.
"I shouldn't be the one eating this," he muttered.
"Cheer up already!" Sam shouted, pushing him down into a chair.
The music started—not fancy, just two villagers banging on a barrel and a hollow pipe like drums, while another strummed a hand-built string instrument. It was off-key. But lively.
Kids danced barefoot in the dirt. A few elders chuckled from their seats. Even the women who normally kept to themselves were laughing and passing out fruit slices.
"MARKUS! CATCH!"
A melon slice flew through the air.
He caught it just in time, blinking at the strange speckled rind.
A group of girls waved from across the table. "Eat it, soldier boy!"
He sighed, then smirked.
"Fine… but only because I'm starving."
He bit into the fruit. Sweet. Cold. Somehow… perfect.
The laughter, the sounds of dancing feet, the clink of cups, the shimmer of dusk catching in everyone's eyes—it all slowly chipped away at the weight in his chest.
Markus sat back, fruit in one hand, cup in the other. His gaze drifted toward the stars.
"…I'll get us out of here," he whispered to himself. "I swear."
But tonight—tonight, he'd let them smile.
The last of the laughter faded into the quiet hum of nighttime cicadas. Lanterns were being snuffed one by one, and the flickering fire pit near the village square now smoldered low with dying embers. Most of the villagers had gone to sleep.
Iris stayed behind, slowly stacking empty cups and brushing crumbs off the tablecloth. Her movements were automatic, focused, like she didn't want to think too hard.
Markus approached from the side, hands tucked in his pockets.
"Hey… I didn't see you at the party."
Iris didn't look at him right away. She gave a small shrug. "I didn't want to get in the way."
"You wouldn't have," Markus said softly, picking up a few plates to help. "You really wouldn't have."
She hesitated. "…I'm not really good at the whole crowd thing."
As they worked side by side, Markus caught a glimpse of her arm when her sleeve shifted—purple bruises traced across her pale skin. His eyes narrowed.
"Hold still a sec," he said, reaching out.
"H-Huh? Wait—!"
Before she could pull away, Markus gently rolled her sleeve up, exposing the marks. His expression darkened.
"Where did these come from?" His voice dropped. "Don't tell me they're from work. Iris—who did this?"
Their height difference made it easy—her feet nearly lifted off the ground as he leaned in protectively.
"Let me go!" she snapped, smacking his arm. Her cheeks were burning red. "Stop it!"
He released her instantly, startled. She turned to run.
But he grabbed her hand.
"Iris… what happened?"
She froze. Her shoulders stiffened.
"Don't touch me!" she shouted—and slapped him hard across the cheek.
The sting crackled across his face. His head turned slightly from the force.
Silence.
Then her breathing hitched.
Her tail lowered. Her ears drooped. She looked at her own hand in horror.
"I… I'm sorry…" she whispered, and before Markus could say anything, she ran off into the shadows between homes.
Markus stood there a moment, rubbing the red mark on his cheek.
"…I'm the one who should be sorry."
Just then, a group of girls huddled nearby whispered sharply, unaware he could hear.
"That hussy… always drawing attention."
"She thinks being quiet makes her special?"
"I swear, she should just disappear already."
Markus turned.
He didn't say a word. Just stared.
Their breath caught in their throats.
His glare burned straight through them. Cold. Merciless. Not anger… but judgment. His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, wolf-like… feral.
One of the girls collapsed to her knees, dry heaving. Another screamed and bolted. The rest scattered like frightened deer.
They had felt death. And it was wearing Markus's expression.
He blinked once and rubbed his temples.
"People like that… aren't worth the air they breathe."
"Markus!"
He turned.
Aaron jogged over. "The chief wants to speak with you."
"…Got it." Markus exhaled and followed.
—
The chief's home was dimly lit with a single oil lamp. The old man sat behind a desk built from salvaged steel and weathered wood. His face was wrinkled, but his eyes held a deep clarity.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Come. Sit."
Markus obeyed, lowering into the creaky chair.
"Listen," he said right away. "I know you're all hopeful. But there's nothing I can do. Without a functioning transmitter or proper power—"
"That won't be needed," the chief interrupted calmly. "Tell me, Markus. If you had enough power… could you reach your comrades?"
Markus sat forward, his voice low and steady.
"If I had enough? Then yes. Without question."
The old man gave a slow, satisfied nod. "Then follow me."
—
They walked to the living room. A thick rug lay sprawled across the floor. The chief knelt and pulled it aside, revealing a trap door.
He opened it and gestured silently.
Markus climbed down first, boots thudding against packed dirt.
They moved through a narrow, torchlit tunnel. Roots jutted out of the walls. It smelled of soil and time.
"Where are you taking me?" Markus asked.
The old man only said, "You'll see."
Eventually they came to a wall of tangled thorns. Markus pushed through it—and found himself at a dead end.
But not just any end.
Embedded deep in the wall was a stone, glowing faintly. Its veins pulsed with light.
"That's the stone," the chief said quietly. "The magic core. It's been powering this whole zone since the crash."
Markus's eyes widened. "Why show me this?"
"Because I want you to use it. To boost your beacon."
Markus shook his head. "That's insane. You'll lose your protection—your water, air filtration… This place will become desert in five days."
"I know that," the chief snapped. Then his voice softened. "But we're running out of time anyway. It's already dying. Maybe twenty years left. Maybe less. But this… this gives us a real shot."
Markus looked at the stone, hesitating.
"…If I do this, I can only buy you two weeks of time. After that…"
"Can you promise your people will come?"
Markus looked the old man in the eye. "I can promise that."
The chief gave a long exhale… then reached out and carefully pulled the stone from its cradle. The air around them immediately shifted—thinner. Colder.
He placed it in Markus's hands.
"Then you better get started."
—
Markus burst through the trap door minutes later.
"Sam! Aaron!"
His voice roared through the quiet night.
A few lights clicked on. Confused villagers stirred.
"Get out here! Now!"
"Markus, it's late!" Sam shouted, half-dressed and groggy as he stumbled from his hut. "What is it?!"
Markus didn't slow down. His voice was sharp—serious.
"Get it ready. It's time!"
That was all he had to say.
Aaron's ears perked. Sam's jaw clenched. Without another word, both of them bolted across the village grounds, their feet pounding the dirt as they sprinted toward the shed that housed the old distress beacon setup.
"Yes, sir!"
They threw open the doors. Dust exploded outward.
Inside, their makeshift lab glowed with soft blue light. Wires and salvaged parts ran across the walls like vines. At the center sat the beacon, its outer casing now reinforced with patchwork plating. The magic stone Markus had been given was already mounted in the energy core. It pulsed faintly—slow, but strong.
"Power's stable!" Aaron called, sliding over to the controls.
"Signal array extended!" Sam shouted from the far wall, flipping open a relay panel.
Markus stepped in last, slamming the door shut behind him.
He set his hands on the console. "Everything's in place?"
"Yeah!" Sam grinned. "This baby's got enough juice to punch through the upper atmosphere and ping anything within our solar system!"
Aaron smirked. "All thanks to the magic core. We'll only get one shot at this, but it's gonna be loud."
Markus nodded, voice calm and final. "Alright then…"
The three stood around the console.
The tension was thick. Time slowed.
"Three…" Markus said, finger hovering above the ignition switch.
"Two…" Sam added, tightening a bolt on the frame one last time.
"One…" Aaron finished.
Click....
The magic stone glowed violently—its radiant pulse sending a shockwave of energy through the entire system. Sparks arced across the relay coils, and the machine began to hum, low and deep, like the growl of a giant awakening from slumber.
Panels rattled. The beacon's antenna extended fully, casting its signal far beyond the sky.
Markus snatched the radio mic from its cradle. His hand trembled slightly—just for a second—before he brought it to his mouth, jaw clenched with resolve.
"This is an SOS. I repeat—this is an SOS!"
Markus's voice cut through the static like a blade.
"My ID is 305," he spoke into the mic, each word pressed with urgency. "Name… Markus Sentryon. Soldier. Angel Squad."
His hand gripped the edge of the console as warning lights began to flash.
"I am alive… I repeat, I am alive! I don't have much time—track this location—!"
HSSSSSSHHH
The machine screeched. Metal screamed as the beacon overcharged, sparks flying like wildfire.
"If anyone hears this… we need extraction!" he barked, raising his voice over the sound. "The core we used to send this message won't last more than two weeks! After that…"
He looked toward the village in the distance, his voice low and sharp—
"…this place becomes a graveyard."
Suddenly, the stone cracked.
"GET DOWN!" Markus roared, grabbing the glowing core and diving behind the wreckage.
BOOOOM!!
The ship's remains erupted behind him in a blinding flash, sending debris and smoke into the sky. The shockwave rattled the valley, shaking trees and blowing dirt across the outskirts of the village.
Coughing through the settling dust, Sam raised his head from behind a slab of metal. "You in one piece?"
Markus groaned, sitting up and brushing ash off his jacket. "Barely…"
Aaron shielded his eyes from the smoke, peering at the smoldering crater where the beacon had once stood. "Do you think anyone heard that?"
Markus stared at the sky, his ears twitching with the static of silence.
"…Let's hope."