The silence lingered long after the map dimmed. It pressed into him, weighty, absolute, as though the entire chamber were holding its breath. He stayed kneeling there for what felt like hours, staring at the fading lines burned into the wall. Blue beacons. Red markers. Yellow warnings. Out there.
The bar hung slack in his hand. His knuckles ached where he had gripped it too tight, but he didn't remember loosening them. His chest still rose too fast, his ribs sore with the effort. The smell of the failed assembly clung to the air: that sour, chemical tang of protein burned into nothing. He couldn't banish it.
He shut his eyes. Behind his lids, the image of the thing returned—the twitch of limbs without form, the hollowness of sockets where eyes should be, the collapse into ash. His stomach lurched. He rolled onto his side, gagged, spat bile onto the floor. Nothing more came. There hadn't been anything more in him for days.
The machine did not speak again. No reassurance. No commands. Only silence, patient and eternal.
He stayed there until the cold from the floor crept through his skin. Then he forced himself upright.
The map still burned in his memory. There were paths he hadn't taken, sectors of the complex the assembler had highlighted but not explained. The blue beacons pulsed there, beyond the walls he had explored. Water, perhaps. Ice. Something to drink, to live.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started walking.
The corridors stretched longer than he remembered, each step carrying him deeper into the forgotten veins of the base. Dust lay thick here, undisturbed. His footprints marred it, the only signs of movement in centuries. The walls were scarred with age, hairline fractures running like veins through metal plating. Pipes dripped condensation in places, frozen into stalactites that glittered in the pale emergency lights.
He passed door after sealed door. Some bore markings he didn't recognize—glyphs etched into alloy, flaked and worn. Others had collapsed entirely, leaving only rubble and twisted frames. Once, he tried forcing a half-open panel wider with the bar, but the effort sent a bolt of pain down his arm. He let it go. There was no point.
Still, he pressed forward. The glow strips overhead flickered with uncertain life, guiding him in stuttering intervals. His shadow stretched, broke, returned. His breath fogged in the air, too visible, too fragile.
The silence was deeper here. Even the hum of the assembler seemed distant, as though muffled by layers of forgotten stone.
He nearly missed it.
A door halfway buried in dust and debris, its surface scorched black. Unlike the others, it trembled faintly as he passed, as though something inside still lived. He stopped, bar tightening in his grip. For a moment he only stared, waiting. But the tremble came again—a low vibration, subtle, almost a heartbeat.
He pressed his hand against the surface. Cold. Beneath, a faint rhythm pulsed against his palm.
He stepped back, unease rising. The map's lines had traced this way. This was no accident.
"Open," he said aloud, voice cracking.
The door hissed, a seam splitting down the center. Dust fell in cascades. The panels ground apart with a shriek of metal. Beyond lay darkness.
He raised the bar, heart pounding. One step. Then another.
He nearly missed it.
A door halfway buried in dust and debris, its surface scorched black. Unlike the others, it trembled faintly as he passed, as though something inside still lived. He stopped, bar tightening in his grip. For a moment he only stared, waiting. But the tremble came again—a low vibration, subtle, almost a heartbeat.
He pressed his hand against the surface. Cold. Beneath, a faint rhythm pulsed against his palm.
He stepped back, unease rising. The map's lines had traced this way. This was no accident.
"Open," he said aloud, voice cracking.
The door hissed, a seam splitting down the center. Dust fell in cascades. The panels ground apart with a shriek of metal. Beyond lay darkness.
He raised the bar, heart pounding. One step. Then another.
The room beyond was small, circular, walls lined with compartments stacked in rings. Most had caved in long ago, contents buried under dust. But some still held.
He coughed, waving a hand against the cloud stirred by his entry. When it settled, his eyes widened.
Suits.
Not clothes. Not armor. But environmental suits, sealed and rigid, their surfaces dulled with age. They stood in their compartments like empty sentinels, helmets opaque, chests marked with Atlas sigils he did not yet recognize.
His legs wobbled. He reached out, fingertips brushing the nearest suit. The fabric crumbled in places, stiff and brittle. But beneath, layers of composite still held, cold and heavy to the touch.
Breath hitched in his throat.
"Support," the machine's voice said, sudden and close. He flinched, bar rising instinctively. But the words only echoed from hidden speakers, calm and unbothered.
"Environmental support located. Integrity: partial. Recommend reclamation."
His hand trailed down the length of the suit. The weight was immense, the promise heavier still. To walk outside. To survive.
He dragged it from the locker. Dust cascaded in waves. The helmet clattered against the floor, rolling once before settling. He knelt beside it, lifting it into his hands. The visor was opaque, but as he turned it, faint lines of HUD symbology flickered alive, ghost lights across the glass.
He almost dropped it.
Alive.
The suit still breathed, after centuries.
It took hours. Maybe more. Time had little meaning here. But he forced himself through each step with aching precision.
First came the underlayers, cracked with age but pliable enough once warmed against his skin. Then the torso shell, heavy plates buckled and strapped, seams hissing faintly as they reconnected after centuries apart. The gloves clamped tight around his wrists, stiff at first, then adjusting with a mechanical sigh.
The helmet last.
He held it in both hands, staring at the faint glow within. His reflection stared back, warped across the curved visor: hollow eyes, pale skin, hair matted and thin.
Would this be the last face he saw?
He lifted it. Lowered it. For long moments, he only breathed, listening to the silence pressing closer. Then he pressed it down.
It locked with a hiss, sealing around his neck. Darkness swallowed him, then blossomed with HUD symbols, faint but real.
Air hissed through filters. Cold, metallic, but clean. He gasped, chest heaving, lungs flooding with something other than dust and decay. He coughed once, hard, then laughed—hoarse and broken, but real.
Alive.
The map had promised more. He followed its directions now, step by halting step, until the corridors ended in a heavy bulkhead. Larger than the others, marked with faded symbols. The lines of the map converged here, glowing faintly in his memory.
He stopped, bar resting against his shoulder, helmet fogging faintly with his breath.
The bulkhead towered above him, meters thick, scarred and rusted. Yet its seams pulsed faintly with power, alive despite the centuries.
He touched it with a gloved hand. The hum was stronger here, vibrating through his bones.
Behind it lay the unknown.
He had seen nothing of the world outside. No sky. No soil. No stars. Only the machine's map, sketching possibilities into darkness.
He pressed his forehead against the cold alloy, eyes shut. His body shook—not from cold, but from the weight of choice. To stay here was to starve. To step beyond was to risk annihilation.
But the smell of ash still lingered in memory. The failed assembly. The twitch of a body that never was. And the map had shown blue beacons waiting. Water. Life. Continuity.
He drew a slow breath, filters rasping in his ears. His hands clenched into fists.
"Open," he whispered.
The bulkhead groaned. Ancient pistons fired with tortured screams. Dust fell in torrents. The seams split, light bleeding through the cracks—white, cold, alien.
Air rushed past him, drawn outward in a violent gust. His body lurched forward, boots scraping against the floor as the void pulled. The suit held, seals straining but intact.
The doors inched wider. Beyond them, only blinding brilliance.
He staggered forward, each step a war. The machine's voice echoed faintly in his helmet.
"Threshold sequence: complete. External environment accessible. Proceed with caution."
The light grew until it consumed everything, burning his vision white.
His foot crossed the line.
And the world beyond revealed itself.