1-003: January 12th, 2089 - 8:00 AM

January 12th, 2089 - 8:00 AM

Her corpse hit the pod doors with bone-snapping force, her limbs bent at impossible angles, skin scorched and flaking away. For the briefest moment, through the heat-warped glass, Ethan saw her face—or what remained of it. Blackened. Hollow. Her eyes had been burned down to empty sockets, the skin around them bubbled and split like molten wax.

The impact crumbled her into ash and smoke, and a second later, the shockwave hit.

The explosion roared against the pod like a god’s fist. The bulkhead shrieked. G-forces surged without warning. The Core pitched downward in a violent, spiraling dive. Ethan was thrown back into his harness so hard his brain rattled in his skull.

His vision flickered. Blood vessels screamed behind his eyes. He tried to call out—tried to breathe—but his jaw wouldn’t move, and his lungs felt caved in. The world smeared into a tunnel of fire and static.

The descent didn’t stop. It just got faster, and faster, louder, and louder brighter, and brighter—until the pressure crushed the light out of him, and everything went dark.

January 12th, 2089 - 8:02 AM

Ethan’s eyes snapped open to the blare of alarms. His head throbbed. Every breath came shallow and sharp, and smoke stung his eyes as it leaked from scorched panels overhead. The pod was still falling—violently, uncontrollably—judging by the way the cabin shook and rattled around him.

CELESTOS-4-2: “Vital signs stabilizing. Congratulations on not dying.”

O2: [■ ■ ■ □ □ □ □ □ □ □] 39%

HP: [■ ■ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □] 42%

Red lights pulsed across his cracked visor, and the viewport showed only streaks of fire and debris tearing past as the escape pod hurtled through the atmosphere. He reached for the console out of instinct, but the controls were already fried, panels sparking and flickering under his gloves.

The AI’s voice returned, maddeningly calm.

CelestOS-4-2: “Impact imminent. Calculating survival probability… Please wait.”

A jaunty little tune with a piano, and string accompaniment played as the HUD displayed a blinking “please wait.”

His stomach lurched as the pod bucked sideways, another bit of debris clattering against the pod. He caught flashes of other escape units spiraling towards the planet below..

CelestOS-4-2: “Survival probability: 23%. Please comply with standard safety procedures and brace accordingly. And remember, no matter how short the rest of it may be, Celestitech is not liable for injury or loss of life.”

Ethan gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay alert, fingers clenched around the seat grips, hanging on for dear life. Then the escape thrusters fired. The force slammed him back, bones rattling as the pod tore free of its own spiraling and stabilized in its descent toward the surface.

The impact came a second later. The pod struck the ground with a deafening crunch, throwing Ethan forward in his harness and rattling his bones. For a moment, everything went dark again—not from unconsciousness, but because the pod had buried itself so deep that earth and debris sealed off the light. He held his breath, afraid he might pass out again, but then—mercifully—the emergency lights flickered on, casting the interior in a dull red glow.

Ethan gasped—sharp, shallow, wrong. His chest burned. The pod’s interior was wrecked—panels blown out, wires sparking, smoke curling in the dim lighting.

He pushed himself up, every movement an effort. His limbs felt like lead, trembling under their own weight, and his ribs flared with pain, each breath raw and uneven.

CelestOS-4-2: "Alert: Atmospheric containment breach detected. For guidance on handling critical oxygen loss—or tips on maintaining a healthy work-life balance—please refer to your Celestitech Employee Handbook. In unrelated news, congratulations on surviving impact."

Suppressing the rising panic, Ethan forced himself to scan the ruined pod. His gaze swept across the debris until it landed on a half-buried emergency patch kit wedged beneath a warped panel. He didn’t remember it being there before, but questioning it could wait. Wrenching free from the seat restraints, he stretched toward it, fingers fumbling as he pried it loose. His chest tightened with every breath, time slipping away like the thinning air in his suit; beside which, who even knew what was in the air on this planet.

He ripped open the emergency kit and grabbed a sealant patch, ignoring the rest of the supplies as they scattered across the pod. Pressing it carefully over the crack in his visor, he smoothed it along the edges until the adhesive activated. The material bonded almost instantly, turning transparent as it sealed to the visor. It wasn’t a permanent fix, but it would hold—for now.

CelestOS-4-2: "Warning: Severe physical trauma detected. Initiating emergency stabilization protocol."

A sharp jab struck his thigh, and a wave of cold fire surged through his bloodstream. Whatever cocktail had been injected, it worked. The pain in his ribs dulled to a background throb, and the mental fog lifted enough to function again.

O2: [■ ■ ■ □ □ □ □ □ □ □] 25%

HP: [■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ □ □ □ □] 67%

CelestOS-4-2: "Congratulations! You are now 63% more functional. Please be advised: Side effects may include nausea, dizziness, and a false sense of confidence."

Ethan exhaled sharply and muttered, “I’ll take my chances.”

He shifted his weight toward the hatch controls and tapped the screen, but it remained dark. The manual override lever was stuck. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the handle and pulled. It didn’t budge. He tried again, harder this time, muscles straining as the harness dug into his sore ribs. Still nothing. Growling under his breath, he threw his full weight behind the motion.

With a harsh metallic snap, the hatch blew open, and a blast of dry, superheated air rushed into the pod. He staggered forward, catching himself against the frame, his vision swimming as he adjusted to the sudden brightness.

Outside, a desolate wasteland stretched across the horizon. The ground was cracked and lifeless, a patchwork of scorched earth and crumbling rock beneath a red sky. In the distance, what remained of the main ship smoldered in ruin, its shattered hull jutting from the sand like a grave marker.

A dust storm coiled on the horizon like a living thing, churning the sky into a seething mess of red and brown. Each gust whispered warnings, dragging the storm closer. Across the valley below, the other dropships lay exposed, tiny metal scars against the earth’s skin.

Ethan’s suit ran another scan as he walked, every step crunching against brittle ground. Pain lanced through his ribs with each movement, but he kept going. Stopping wasn’t an option.

CELESTOS-4-2: “Analysis complete. Projected atmospheric compatibility: 53%. In accordance with Celestitech Risk Mitigation Policy 7.4, expendable assets are required to perform manual testing when instrumentation is unavailable.”

A short, humorless laugh escaped his throat. “That’s not happening.”

His oxygen warning continued blinking at the edge of his HUD, a quiet but constant reminder that time was running out. He needed to find a refill, and fast.

O2: [■ ■ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □] 24%

HP: [■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ □ □ □ □] 67%

And then CelestOS made everything worse.

CelestOS-4-2: "Mission Update: [Find the Veslaya Project team.] All senior command personnel have been removed from operational capacity. Per Celestitech Chain-of-Command Continuity Protocols, Acting Captain designation has been transferred to Ethan Cross. Full CelestOS operational functions and mission parameters are now accessible. Please note: Command privileges do not include override authority on automated corporate directives."

Ethan stopped. His breath hitched as the words processed.

No. No, no, no.

His heart pounded in his ears. All senior command personnel. His hands curled into fists, knuckles white beneath his gloves, fingers digging into the soft padding.

“That— that can’t be right,” he rasped. “There were four of us in the pods. Four.”

CELESTOS-4-2: “Alert: Telemetry failure due to EMP. Crew presumed missing; fatalities unconfirmed. Command authority defaulted to nearest living crew: you.”

Ethan’s gaze swept past a tangled mess of ruptured piping and torn paneling spilled from the breach—twisted coils of metal, snapped conduit, and a jagged support rod still fused to a scorched chunk of hull. It registered, but only distantly. His mind was focused on survivors

He turned back toward his own wreckage, scanning the horizon for any sign of life—movement, a flicker of motion, even the briefest shadow. But there was nothing. Only smoke rising from twisted metal and the scattered remains of the ship.

Still, he didn’t let the silence stop him. He set off at a limping run toward the main impact zone, pain forgotten beneath the pounding of adrenaline and the fragile hope that someone—anyone—was still alive. Hell, he’d even take that smug bastard Patel, if only to punch him in the face.

Ethan staggered across the cracked terrain, one arm wrapped tight across his ribs, the other shielding his visor against the swirling red dust. His body protested with every motion, but he kept moving, dragging breath after breath into scorched lungs.

The drop ship had carved a jagged trench into the scorched terrain, its frame mangled and half-buried two hundred meters from the AI Core’s impact site. Built by CelestiTech for single-person transport, the sleek vessel wasn’t designed to survive a crash like this. Now it lay crumpled and smoking, one landing strut jutting from the soil at a crooked angle, twitching with arcs of residual current.

Ethan’s breath rasped inside his helmet, his pulse thudding in his ears. He broke into a limping jog across the cracked earth, pain flaring with every step. “Reyes!” he shouted, knowing the sound would barely carry beyond the suit. “Come on, man—answer me!”

There was no reply. Only the groan of strained metal and the steady hiss of escaping gas.

The hull had split open along the side. Ethan climbed over the twisted wreckage of the stabilizer fin, heat bleeding through his boots as he stepped carefully onto the warped structure. It shifted under him but held.

The hatch had blown wide on impact, its seal warped and locking clamps fused into slag. He ducked inside, shoulders brushing melted bulkheads, smoke instantly obscuring his vision. His HUD flared with warnings—high temperatures, unstable air quality—but he pushed forward, waving a hand instinctively as if he could clear the haze.

Inside, the drop ship was a collapsed lung. The pilot’s chair had been ripped free and jammed against the back wall. Panels hung like torn metal skin, some sparking, others melted to uselessness. The stench of scorched circuits and blood filled the filtered air.

“Reyes!” Ethan shouted again, louder now. His voice echoed inside his helmet, swallowed by the smoke. “It’s me—Ethan! Say something!”

A wet cough answered from the forward section.

He surged toward the sound, crawling over collapsed supports and twisted consoles. The tight space forced him to move awkwardly, half-climbing through the debris. Finally, he found Reyes.

He was pinned beneath the shattered remains of the forward controls. One leg was crushed beneath a support strut, and his helmet was split open, the visor completely gone. Blood streaked down the side of his face, pooling beneath his head in slow, viscous smears.

“Shit,” Ethan breathed. He dropped to his knees, hands hovering over Reyes’s broken frame. “Hey. Hey, stay with me, alright? I’ve got you.”

Reyes’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dazed. Blood pooled at the corner of his mouth, and when he tried to speak, only a broken rasp came out.

“Hey man…”

Without hesitation, Ethan reached for the emergency injector still clipped to Reyes’s harness. The casing was intact, and the port on his collar was accessible. He drove the injector into place and pressed the release.

Nothing happened.

Ethan stared at the injector, his thumb still pressing down on the release. He pulled it away and looked—hairline crack along the side. The fluid inside had already leaked out.

“No… no, come on.” He tried again anyway, uselessly jamming it back into place.

Reyes coughed wetly, blood bubbling past his lips. His eyes barely moved, but they found Ethan’s for a moment—just long enough to understand.

Ethan swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

Ethan frowned, pulled the injector back, flipped it over—and felt his stomach twist. The needle was bent. The canister’s seal had cracked. The entire thing was busted beyond use.

“No, no, come on—don’t do this,” he muttered, shaking it in vain. “Dammit. It’s broken. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Reyes coughed again, the sound low and wet. “That… that was your plan?”

Without wasting another second, Ethan reached for his helmet interface. The HUD flickered as he activated voice command protocols.

“CelestOS—status of emergency medical inventory in Core pod.”

CELESTOS-4-2: “One Class-B Emergency Stabilization Injector remains available. Contents stable. Would you like to upgrade to Celestitech Plus™ for monthly refill plans and deluxe packaging—”

“Shut up! Mark the location. I’ll be back.”

Reyes blinked, confused. “What?”

“There’s another vial in the AI Core,” Ethan said, already rising to his feet. “You’re not dying now, you hear me? Not like this. I’ll be right back.”

Then he turned and ran.

Outside, the air had grown hotter, the temperature gauge on his suit spiking rapidly. Above him, the sky churned with clouds thick as mud, streaked with flickers of red lightning that pulsed behind the haze. He swapped out his oxygen canister as he moved, the new tank hissing into place and restoring just enough to keep him alive—but not enough to feel safe.

O2: [■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ □ □] 77%

HP: [■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ □ □ □ □] 64%

Behind him, the wreckage hissed. And then, like something exhaling, the flames around Reyes’s pod surged—and something moved through the fire. Something burst through with impossible speed, dark and rippling, like a living shadow coalesced into muscle and momentum. It didn’t roar. It didn’t screech. It moved in silence, a mass of clawed limbs and trailing ash, surging directly for him.