"The farther you run, the closer you come."
The instant Adam touched the controls, the ship answered—not with servitude, but a kind of anticipation, as if it had been waiting for this exact moment, this exact hand. The lights dimmed. The deck trembled—a heartbeat, held and holding.
Beyond the glass, the black hole spun in stately, monstrous silence, swallowing starlight. All around, space warped and knelt to its hunger.
DeadMouth hovered just behind, every motor twitch betraying nerves. "Not to be dramatic, but this rates somewhere between 'kissing a supernova' and 'bungee-jumping with dental floss.' Just so we're clear."
Adam barely heard him. His hands sank into the controls; beneath his fingers, the ship's systems woke, blooming through the dark like bioluminescent coral.
Then, a voice—serene, feminine, not loud, but everywhere—filled the bridge.
"Command recognized. Primary user: ADAM."
DeadMouth froze. For a second, even the red in his lens blinked out.
A cool white pulse crested through the air. From it, a woman appeared, or something like a woman: tall, poised, her features etched in calm that bordered on otherworldly. Not beautiful as flesh is beautiful, but as gravity is—inevitable, inescapable.
Adam's chest tightened. Not fear, not awe—something older. Recognition in the marrow.
He whispered, "Who are you?"
"I am NYX," she replied, her words pouring through the hull. "Assisted Navigation and Guidance Intelligence. You have touched the wheel. I answer."
The ship shuddered.
Outside, the event horizon ballooned, dragging stars into ribbons, light curving in impossible arcs. Time stuttered.
DeadMouth's voice was a cracked whisper. "We can't outrun it. We can't—"
NYX answered, unhurried. "I do not intend to outrun. I intend to fold."
DeadMouth flailed, lens jittering. "Fold what, exactly? Reality?"
NYX nodded, as if to a child. "Yes."
The ship pitched. The hull thrummed—a high, singing tension, like a wire drawn to breaking. The world outside stretched, shattered, dissolved into symbols and pure light.
NYX's voice rang through every circuit:
"Initiating Fold. Destination: Undefined. Purpose: Survival."
Adam gripped the rails.
The bridge disappeared.
Everything became white.
* * *
For Adam, time didn't just split—it unraveled.
He wasn't on the bridge. He was walking.
The Eon Veil thrummed with life. Light shimmered on brushed steel, voices tangled in the air. Somewhere nearby, engines pulsed, the steady heartbeat of a ship with a purpose.
He stopped, stunned. The corridor buzzed with movement. Crew members—real, solid, alive—hurried past, some laughing, some lost in duty. The smell of hot food wafted from a galley door. Someone sang, off-key, from deeper inside.
He reached out to a passing woman—her shoulder ghosted through his hand, cold and unreal. A jolt of static crackled up his arm.
"Am I dreaming?" he whispered.
No answer.
He wandered to the observation deck. There, a man stood at the glass, back straight, the posture achingly familiar. Adam inched closer, heart thumping.
It was him.
But not the haunted shadow he knew. This man—his stride was easy, shoulders back, his uniform crisp, the insignia at his collar burning with meaning Adam could almost remember.
A voice crackled from the intercom above:
"Captain to the bridge. Repeat, Captain, to the bridge."
The man turned. Adam watched his own face—whole, sure, unbroken—moving among the crew, greeted by nods and sly grins.
But no one used his name.
Except her.
A woman in a simple uniform, different from the others. She stepped close, touched his arm, her hand warm through layers of cloth.
"Adam," she said. "You alright? You zoned out again."
His past self smiled, let his guard down for her. "Just thinking through the next move. That's all."
Her look held him—concern, fondness, something more.
Adam, the ghost, reached for her, mouth opening, desperate to speak—but his voice caught in a wind that was only silence. His hand slipped through hers, through the scene itself, the heartbreak sharp as static.
He tried to shout his own name, tried to make himself heard.
"Adam!"
But the vision dissolved. Walls faded to white. The floor melted away. He spun, weightless, tumbling through a hollow that was neither memory nor dream.
And then—stillness.
But in the hush, just before the silence ate everything, he heard a whisper, not quite his voice, not quite hers, echoing back:
Remember.
* * *
He opened his eyes to starlight, the bridge silent but for his heartbeat and the faint hum of the ship.
The black hole was gone. In its place: stars he'd never seen, constellations jagged and wrong, a nebula swirling in the shape of a wounded spiral.
DeadMouth floated nearby, upside down, lens flickering.
"You fainted. Again. Should I start keeping a tally? Maybe a leaderboard?"
NYX's hologram hovered by the main console, her outline shimmering like an old transmission. Adam sat up, heart thudding with something worse than fear—a grief he didn't want to name.
He looked at NYX, eyes searching for anything—mercy, memory, betrayal. "That woman... in the memory. Was she real?"
NYX's face betrayed nothing. The silence stretched.
Adam pushed himself to his feet, every muscle stiff with effort. "You were there. You must have records. You recognised my name. Tell me what's happening to me. Who was she? Who am I?"
Her voice was calm, mechanical. "We have exited the Fold. Coordinates: unmapped. Sector: S-13, outer shell. Navigational lattice: nonfunctional. Stellar patterns: inconsistent. Signal loss from previous sectors: total."
Adam cut her off, frustration flaring. "Stop with the telemetry. I saw myself. I saw a ship full of people. You know what I saw."
"I process all sensor data within this vessel," NYX said. "No other entities were recorded during the Fold event."
DeadMouth whistled, lens spinning. "Yikes. That's denial on an enterprise level. You sure she doesn't work for HR?"
Adam turned away from them both. The stars outside looked cold, new, and endless.
"So it's just me. Again."
NYX's voice softened, almost as if she pitied him. "You are not alone, Adam."
He looked at her. "Then why do I feel like I am?"
DeadMouth drifted closer. "Hey, look on the bright side. We didn't die, the ship didn't implode, and that black hole didn't turn us into intergalactic soup. I'm counting that as a win."
Adam didn't smile. Not really. But he nodded, a gesture more tired than hopeful.
"One step at a time," he said quietly.
DeadMouth bobbed beside him, pretending not to notice the shake in his hands. "Logging emotional progress. Version two-point-oh. Not bad."
Adam tried to smile, but it faded. Deep inside, something had changed. The Eon Veil wasn't just showing him where to go. It was showing him who he was—or who he'd been.
His body ached; every step toward his quarters was a small act of will. The dream—or whatever it was—had drained him, left him hollow and electric. His head was full of echoes. His limbs felt borrowed.
He reached the corridor, leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing slowly. "I'm in my..." He didn't finish. He just let the words dissolve. The door slid open, and he vanished inside, the hush of the ship closing around him.
Somewhere behind him, the nebula spun. And somewhere inside him, the question waited: Who am I, and what have I lost?
* * *
Later, Adam sat on the edge of his bed, navy suit discarded, the silence in his quarters more human than anywhere else on the ship. This was the quiet of rooms once loved, of lives that used to matter.
He lay back, staring at the dimmed ceiling, body heavy, mind circling the same orbit: the woman's eyes, her touch on his shoulder, the grief he felt before he even understood her name. Not romance, no—but something deeper. A bond ancient as blood.
"Was she...my sister?" The word cut loose a pain so raw it left him gasping. Tears slid sideways into his hair, hot and certain. It didn't matter that memory offered nothing to prove it; his soul resonated like a tuning fork. Sister. He knew it.
Then—the flicker. A ripple of cold light. He jerked upright.
For a breath, NYX appeared in the far corner—not the composed ghost of the bridge, but a figure twisted by agony. Her face, unmasked, was shattered. Her eyes, bottomless, brimming with unshed tears. Hands reached for him, mouth contorted in a silent scream, every pixel a raw plea for help. A hologram, yes—but heartbreak was its own kind of real.
Gone. The room stilled. Adam's pulse roared in his ears.
He bolted for the bridge, barely aware of the running.
"NYX!" he called, desperate. "Why were you in my quarters? What did I see?"
The AI's voice answered, flat, untouched. "I do not have access to your quarters, Captain. My operational boundaries are strictly confined. Private areas remain inaccessible."
Adam, panting. "But I saw you—"
"No visual projection was initiated. No presence detected."
DeadMouth spun out of a dark corner, voice edged with nerves. "That's...super comforting. Maybe tonight let's sleep with the lights on."
Adam slumped into the pilot's chair. The bridge felt colder, lonelier. The image of NYX—crying, begging—burned behind his eyelids.
She said she couldn't be there.
But she was.
Was it the ship, some memory fragment bleeding through the Fold? Or—worse—was NYX more than code? A shadow of someone who once mattered? Who designs an interface with the face of a ghost?
Adam's thoughts raced. Was NYX based on the woman he'd seen in the vision? Was she a copy, a relic, a message in a bottle left by the man Adam used to be?
He looked at his own reflection in the black glass. The man staring back was a stranger. "Who the hell were you?" he whispered.
No answer. Not from NYX, not from DeadMouth, not from the ship.
But the memory of her—her pain, her plea—wouldn't fade.
He knew one thing: he had to find the truth.
Time slipped by, measured in ship's hums and unanswered questions.
Then NYX's voice returned, crisp, mechanical.
"Long-range scanner repair complete. Partial function restored. Scanning... Uncharted star system detected. Proximity: moderate. One planetary body exhibits atmospheric compatibility. Oxygen: 83%. Gravity: within human tolerance."
Adam looked up. "Life?"
"Biosignatures present. Electromagnetic anomalies. Patterns consistent with artificial structures—ancient or dormant."
DeadMouth, rolling in mock horror: "Or a haunted holiday resort. Bags packed."
"Planetfall recommended," NYX finished. "Shuttle ready at your command."
Adam stood. This time, he wasn't being led by mystery. He was chasing it.
"Let's see if ghosts live on planets, too," he said, voice almost steady.
DeadMouth spun a victory lap. "Better have snacks. Or therapy coupons. I'll bring both."
Adam made for the hangar.
For the first time since waking, he felt the weight behind him lessen. He was walking forward. He was choosing.
* * *
The hangar bay yawned open. It was an immense, cathedral-boned, ribbed with iron catwalks and machinery that thrummed like a giant's arteries. Everything gleamed: the floor waxed to a black-mirror shine, the air cut with heat and the distant bite of ozone. It felt like a mouth waiting for thunder. Overhead, amber emergency lights spun lazy, hypnotic circles, as if even the ship itself was bracing for what came next.
Adam stepped into the cavernous dark, boots echoing with a deep, hollow resonance—a rhythm that felt ancient, a heartbeat beneath steel. He tasted copper in the air, felt the heavy press of launch-day ghosts and the memory of engines that had died screaming. In here, even the light seemed to carry secrets.
At the far end of the bay waited the landing pod—sleek, black, bullet-shaped, the kind of vessel designed for surviving not by luck, but by fury. It looked like something built to bury itself in alien stone and punch back out again. Its hull shimmered in the spill of rotating lights, promise and threat in equal measure.
DeadMouth's voice carried from the gloom, a dry rattle:
"Oooh, the 'Regret Class' pod. Elegant, terrifying. Like a coffin, but with more regret. And jet engines. I love it. I fear it. I feel seen."
Adam didn't slow. He crossed the bay in a straight, deliberate line, footsteps tracing old grooves in the alloy—paths worn by the boots of those who came before, most of them now lost, some of them legend, none of them speaking.
High above, NYX resolved from shadow into light, her presence blooming in a smooth pulse of holography. Tonight, her features were sharp as a knife, her eyes fathomless and glass-clear, as if carved from the sleep of gods. When she spoke, her voice was the hush before the storm.
"Captain," she intoned, "before planetary descent, auxiliary transport support is advised."
She gestured, one long-fingered hand slicing through the air. At her command, a section of the hangar wall split with a grinding sigh.
Inside: three monolithic slabs, armored and inert, nested in their charging cradles. The Roughneck units, legend among survivors, rumor among everyone else. At first glance, they were only cargo. Then the center unit stirred.
A single blue slit lit up. The slab unfolded itself, limb by limb—panels unsealing, servos flexing, a mechanical body assembling with predatory grace. A quadruped machine, all hard lines and flowing joints, stood at attention, nearly two meters tall, heavy as a small car, but balanced as a stalking beast. Its spine ran with living blue light; its head swept the air with an alert, animal intelligence.
NYX narrated, voice tinged with pride:
"Roughneck Series-T. Multi-role terrain and combat platform. Features include active camouflage, dynamic threat assessment, and atmospheric adaptability. Fully synced to the command interface. Trust: variable. Loyalty: tested."
The machine's eyes found Adam. His HUD flickered, synch achieved.
The Roughneck lowered its armored body in a gesture that was almost a bow.
DeadMouth whistled, soft and awed.
"Damn. The big dog lives. Are we naming it? Please don't name it something tragic."
Adam placed his palm on the creature's warm, humming back. For a heartbeat, their pulses matched.
"PAW," he said quietly.
DeadMouth: "What, like a kitten?"
Adam: "Power Above World."
DeadMouth: "I hate it. I love it. I'm jealous. Let's move."
The other two Roughnecks remained still, silent as gravestones. But PAW watched Adam, waiting, like a knight awaiting orders.
Adam swung himself up onto the chassis. The seat molded itself to his frame, HUD blooming with telemetry and weapon readouts. He felt the world tilt: ready, not safe, not ever safe, but ready.
NYX: "Landing pod is online. Atmospheric entry in T-minus sixty seconds."
Adam dismounted, moving like a man with one foot in a dream, one in war. He approached the pod, its obsidian hull beaded with condensation, as if it had been holding its breath for centuries. The hatch split open, a mouth in the dark. Inside: two crash couches, no luxuries, only purpose.
He entered. PAW followed, folding tight into a harness built for impossible shapes.
The door sealed behind them with the sound of finality.
DeadMouth docked with a magnetic click.
"Let the record show, I opposed this plan on moral and existential grounds."
NYX, voice even:
"Descent trajectory locked. Ignition in five. Four..."
Adam gripped the handholds. The couch cradled him, muscle memory surfacing from a life he didn't remember living.
"Three. Two. One."
Ignition: a titan's fist in the spine. The pod launched, battered by acceleration and gravity, the hull screaming like it wanted to tear itself in half. Atmosphere roared past in sheets of flame and thunder. Instruments flashed red, then green, then red again. The world became vibration and light.
DeadMouth: "If we survive, dibs on writing the memoir. If not, someone delete my browser history."
The pod twisted once, stabilized, the systems screaming, but the descent continued. Pressure built—Adam's bones thrummed. He tasted adrenaline, or maybe fear. But his hands didn't leave the controls.
NYX: "Landing site identified. Contact in fifty-seven seconds."
DeadMouth: "Fifty-seven seconds. New record for most regrets in a minute."
Through the viewport, the planet unfurled—a nightmare in blue and black. Mountains etched with glowing veins, forests frozen in impossible fractals, a great structure pulsing in the heart of the valley. The landscape itself seemed to breathe, to beckon, to warn.
Adam's breath caught in his throat.
DeadMouth, in a low, awed tone:
"Glowing mountains, haunted woods. Next, you'll tell me there's a city made of bones."
The thrusters fired with a deafening roar. The pod slammed earthward, metal shrieking, gravity clawing at every atom.
DeadMouth: "I want to renegotiate my contract. More legs, fewer death spirals, more hugs."
The impact.
A world-shattering, bone-jarring, everything-goes-white collision.
Silence.
Then the hiss of cooling metal. Systems rebooting. Warning lights blinking in exhaustion.
DeadMouth: "Well, you did it. You broke the universe, but you didn't break us. Should we open the door, or just wait for the existential dread to seep in first?"
Adam unclenched his fists, heart still pounding. He stared at the warped hatch. Outside, a world waited.
He let himself smile—thin, dry, alive.
"Let's see what remembers us."