The first thing he noticed was the cold.
It clung to him like a second skin, seeping into his bones, refusing to let go. His breath came in shallow bursts, each exhale a pale cloud that curled and vanished in the dim light. The pod hissed around him, seals breaking with reluctant sighs, and the vapor that spilled out was colder still. He shivered, though he could not remember the last time he had known warmth.
His eyelids felt heavy, as though frost had gathered on them. He forced them open, and the world swam into view—blurred shapes, dull lights, the faint outline of a chamber that smelled of metal and dust. He tried to move, but his limbs resisted, stiff and uncooperative. The cold had settled deep into the muscle, into the marrow. He clenched his fists, slowly, until the joints cracked like ice breaking on a frozen lake.
The pod's glass was fogged, but he could see his reflection faintly in it: pale skin, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes that caught the light in a way that unsettled him. He did not linger on the image. He was more aware of the sensation of air filling his lungs—thin, metallic, sharp enough to sting. He coughed once, the sound echoing too loudly in the silence.
With effort, he swung his legs over the edge of the pod. The deck plating met his bare feet with a shock. It was colder than the air, colder than the pod, a biting chill that made him flinch. He pressed his toes against it anyway, grounding himself in the sensation. The metal seemed to hum faintly beneath him, a vibration so subtle he wondered if it was imagined.
He lowered his hands to steady himself, palms brushing the rim of the pod. A crackle of static leapt into his skin. He hissed and pulled back instinctively, shaking his fingers. The sting lingered, sharp and electric, as though the ship itself had reached out to remind him he was not welcome. He touched the metal again, slower this time, and felt the faint prickle of energy crawl across his skin.
The chamber was quiet. Too quiet. He listened, straining past the sound of his own breathing. There was no hum of engines, no footsteps, no voices. Only the faint wheeze of air recyclers, struggling against time. The silence pressed against him, heavy and absolute.
He stood, unsteady at first, then straighter. His body felt wrong—too light in some places, too heavy in others. His balance wavered, as though his muscles had forgotten how to obey. He took one step, then another, each footfall sending a cold jolt up his legs. The deck vibrated faintly beneath him, irregular, like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
He reached the wall and pressed his palm against it. The metal was icy, numbing his skin almost instantly. He left his hand there anyway, as though the contact might steady him. The wall felt alive in its own way, humming faintly, whispering of systems still clinging to function. He closed his eyes and let the sensation anchor him.
When he opened them again, he looked around the chamber. Rows of pods lined the walls, most dark, some shattered. Frost clung to the edges of the glass, and the floor beneath them was slick with condensation. He stepped carefully, his bare feet slipping slightly on the damp metal. The cold bit into him with every step, but he welcomed it. It reminded him he was awake.
He reached one of the dark pods and brushed his hand across the glass. Dust smeared beneath his touch, leaving a streak. Inside, there was nothing. No body, no trace of who had once occupied it. Only emptiness. He moved to another. This one was cracked, the glass fractured into a spiderweb of lines. He peered inside and saw only shadows.
The silence deepened. He realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale. The sound was too loud, too human, in a place that felt abandoned.
He turned back toward his own pod. The vapor still curled from its edges, dissipating slowly into the stale air. He touched the rim again, felt the static crawl across his skin, and pulled his hand away. He flexed his fingers, watching the faint tremor in them.
Cold. Static. Silence. These were the only truths he had.
He lowered himself to the floor, sitting with his back against the pod. The chill of the deck seeped into him, but he did not move. He drew his knees up and rested his arms across them, listening to the faint hiss of the recyclers. His breath fogged the air in front of him, fading quickly into nothing. He watched it vanish, over and over, as though it might carry meaning if he stared long enough.
His body ached. Not sharply, but with a dull heaviness that spread through every limb. His shoulders felt weighted, his spine stiff, his legs reluctant to obey. He flexed his toes against the cold deck, feeling the sting of contact, the way the metal seemed to bite back. He rubbed his arms, chasing warmth that never came.
He closed his eyes again, just for a moment. Behind them, there was nothing. No memory, no dream, no sense of who he had been before this moment. Only the cold, the static, the silence.
When he opened them, the chamber had not changed. The pods still lined the walls, silent and empty. The air still smelled of metal and dust. The ship still waited, patient and indifferent.
He pushed himself upright again, hands braced against the pod. The static leapt into his palms once more, sharp and insistent. He gritted his teeth and held on until the sting faded. Then he let go, flexing his fingers, and took another step forward.
The cold followed him. The silence pressed closer. And though he could not name himself, though he could not explain why he was here, he knew one thing with certainty: he had awoken, and the ship was waiting.
He lingered at the threshold of the cryo chamber before stepping out. The door had groaned open reluctantly, as though the ship itself resented his leaving. Beyond it stretched a corridor, long and dim, lined with panels that flickered weakly when he passed. The air was colder here, sharper, carrying the faint tang of rust and something stale, like water left too long in a sealed container.
His bare feet met the deck with a dull slap, each step sending a chill up his legs. The metal felt uneven, as though warped by time, and every so often he thought he felt a faint tremor beneath it, like the echo of a heartbeat. He pressed his hand to the wall for balance, and the static returned—small sparks crawling across his skin, sharp enough to make him flinch. He pulled back, shaking his fingers, then touched the wall again deliberately, as if daring it. The sting was the same.
The silence was heavier here. In the chamber, it had been the silence of emptiness. In the corridor, it was the silence of expectation. He could hear the faint wheeze of the recyclers, the occasional groan of stressed metal, but beneath those sounds was something else: the weight of absence. His mind filled it with imagined echoes—footsteps behind him, whispers just out of reach, the creak of doors that never opened. He turned more than once, certain he would see someone there. Each time, there was nothing.
He moved slowly, one hand trailing the wall, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The corridor stretched on, branching into side passages sealed by heavy doors. Some bore markings he did not recognize—symbols etched into the metal, faded by time. He paused at one, tracing the lines with his fingertips. The grooves were shallow, worn smooth, but he felt the cold bite of the metal as though it were fresh. He wondered what they had meant, and to whom.
The air grew thicker as he walked, heavy with dust. He coughed, the sound startling in its volume, and the echo carried down the corridor like a warning. He froze, listening. Nothing answered. He forced himself to keep moving.
The corridor widened into a junction. Here, the ceiling arched higher, and the walls bore panels that had once glowed but now sputtered faintly, casting uneven shadows. He stepped into the space cautiously, scanning each passage that branched away. The silence pressed closer, and he felt the weight of the ship around him—vast, hollow, waiting.
He chose a passage at random and followed it. The floor here was slick with condensation, and his feet left faint prints in the grime. He imagined others had walked here once, boots striking the deck with confidence, voices filling the air. Now there was only him, and the sound of his breathing.
A door stood half open ahead, its frame bent as though forced. He slipped through the gap and found himself in a larger space. The ceiling rose higher, and rows of tables stretched before him, bolted to the floor. A mess hall, though long abandoned. Dust coated every surface, and trays lay scattered, some overturned, others still resting where they had been left. He approached one and brushed the surface with his hand. The dust smeared, revealing the faint outline of utensils long since corroded.
The air here was different—staler, heavier. He thought he could smell something faint beneath the dust, something sour, though it was so faint he could not be sure. He imagined meals once served here, voices raised in conversation, the clatter of trays. The silence now was unbearable in comparison.
He sat at one of the tables, the metal cold against his skin. He placed his hands flat on the surface, feeling the roughness of corrosion beneath his palms. The static returned, faint but insistent, crawling across his skin. He pulled back quickly, flexing his fingers. The sensation lingered, as though the ship itself had left its mark on him.
He looked around the hall again. The emptiness was absolute, but his mind filled it with ghosts. He could almost hear the scrape of chairs, the murmur of voices, the laughter of a crew that no longer existed. He closed his eyes and listened, letting the imagined sounds wash over him. For a moment, he almost believed them.
When he opened his eyes, the hall was still empty. Dust, silence, cold metal. Nothing more.
He rose and left the hall, stepping back into the corridor. The silence followed him, heavier now, pressing against his thoughts. He moved on, deeper into the ship, each step carrying him further from the chamber where he had awoken, further into the mystery of the vessel that seemed to wait for him alone.
The corridor narrowed as he moved deeper into the vessel. The air felt heavier here, as though it had been trapped too long, stale and reluctant to circulate. His footsteps echoed faintly, a hollow rhythm that seemed too loud in the silence. He slowed his pace, listening, half‑expecting another set of steps to answer. None did.
The walls bore doors now, smaller than the heavy bulkheads he had passed earlier. They were arranged in rows, evenly spaced, each with a narrow panel beside it. Most were sealed, their surfaces coated in dust. A few stood slightly ajar, shadows spilling from the gaps. He paused at one, pressing his hand against the panel. The static leapt into his skin again, sharp and insistent. He pulled back with a hiss, shaking his fingers, then pushed the door open.
The room beyond was small, functional. A bunk was bolted to the wall, its mattress sagging and brittle with neglect. A locker stood at its foot, the metal door hanging slightly open. A desk sat against the opposite wall, its console dark, its surface thick with dust. He stepped inside slowly, the air colder here, the silence deeper.
He ran his hand across the desk, leaving a streak in the dust. The texture clung to his skin, dry and gritty. He rubbed his fingers together, watching the particles fall back to the surface. The room felt lived‑in once, but only in memory. He could almost imagine someone sitting at the desk, tapping at the console, rising from the bunk. The absence was louder than any presence could have been.
He turned to the locker and pulled the door open. The hinges groaned, the sound startling in the quiet. Inside, uniforms hung in tatters, their fabric brittle and discolored. He touched one, and it crumbled beneath his fingers, falling away like ash. He let the fragments drift to the floor, then looked up.
A mirror was fixed to the inside of the locker door. Cracked, its surface fractured into a spiderweb of lines, but still reflective enough to show him what he was.
He froze.
The face staring back was pale, almost too pale, with sharp angles and a faint, unnatural sheen to the skin. His hair was uneven, blond at the roots but faded at the ends, strands clinging to his forehead. His eyes—he leaned closer—were silver, reflective, catching the dim light in a way that unsettled him. They did not look human. Not entirely.
He raised a hand to his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw in the mirror. The skin felt smooth, too smooth, as though it had been shaped rather than grown. His fingers trembled as they moved lower, brushing the gem embedded in his chest. It pulsed faintly beneath his touch, cool and unyielding. The reflection showed it clearly, a dark shape at the center of him, as much a part of his body as bone or flesh.
He pressed his palm against it, feeling the chill seep into his skin. The pulse quickened for a moment, or perhaps he only imagined it. He pulled his hand away and stared at the reflection again. The mirror did not lie. He was not what he remembered being. If he remembered anything at all.
He stepped back, the bunk creaking beneath his weight as he sat. The mattress sagged, brittle and unwelcoming. He stared at the floor, dust swirling faintly in the air with each breath. His body ached, heavy and unfamiliar. His hands shook when he flexed them, the static still lingering in his fingertips.
The silence pressed closer. He thought of the other rooms, the other doors lining the corridor. Each one might hold another mirror, another fragment of truth. Each one might hold nothing at all. He imagined the lives that had once filled these quarters—voices, laughter, arguments, the small routines of existence. Now there was only dust, silence, and him.
He rose again, slowly, and closed the locker door. The cracked mirror vanished into shadow, but its image lingered in his mind. He touched his chest once more, feeling the gem beneath his skin, and whispered to the empty room:
"What am I?"
The silence gave no answer. Only the faint wheeze of the recyclers, the groan of the ship settling into itself, and the cold that never left him.
He stepped back into the corridor, the door closing behind him with a hollow thud. The rows of quarters stretched on, each door a promise of more emptiness. He walked past them, his footsteps echoing, his reflection still burning in his thoughts. He did not know his name. He did not know why he was here. But he knew this: he was not human. And he was not here by accident.
The corridor bent downward, the incline subtle but steady, leading him deeper into the vessel. The air grew heavier as he descended, carrying with it a faint tang of chemicals—sharp, sterile, and out of place in the dust‑choked silence. He followed it, one hand brushing the wall for balance, the static prickling across his skin with every touch. The sensation had become familiar now, though no less unsettling. It was as if the ship resented his presence, reminding him with each spark that he did not belong.
The doors at the end of the passage were larger than the others he had seen, their surfaces marked with faded symbols. He pressed his palm against the panel, and the metal shuddered before yielding. The doors parted reluctantly, releasing a stale breath of air that smelled of antiseptic and age.
The medbay stretched before him, rows of diagnostic beds lining the walls. Their monitors were dark, their surfaces coated in dust. Cabinets stood open, their contents scattered or spoiled, glass vials shattered on the floor. The air was colder here, sharper, as though the room had been sealed for too long. He stepped inside slowly, his bare feet slipping slightly on the smooth deck.
He moved between the beds, fingertips brushing the cold metal frames. Some still bore restraints, their straps stiff with age. He paused at one, running his hand along the surface. The static leapt into him again, sharper this time, crawling up his arm until his shoulder ached. He pulled back with a hiss, shaking his hand until the sting faded. The silence swallowed the sound quickly, leaving only the faint hum of the recyclers.
At the far end of the room, a console flickered weakly when he touched it. The screen stuttered, lines of fractured code crawling across it before collapsing into static. He pressed his palm against the surface, and for a moment the display steadied. Names scrolled past—dozens of them, corrupted and incomplete. He tried to read them, but most were broken, letters missing, fragments dissolving into nonsense. Still, the implication was clear: this ship had once carried a full medical staff. None remained.
He turned away from the console and found a mirror fixed to the wall beside one of the beds. Larger than the cracked one in the quarters, its surface was mostly intact, though streaked with dust. He wiped it clean with his hand, leaving a smear across the glass, and stared at himself again.
The silver eyes caught the light, reflective and unnatural. His skin was pale, almost translucent, the veins beneath faintly visible. He raised his hands, turning them over, studying the lines of his palms. They looked human enough, but the texture was wrong—too smooth, too even, as though shaped rather than grown. He flexed his fingers, listening to the faint creak of joints that felt both natural and engineered.
He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling the gem beneath his skin. It pulsed faintly, cool and unyielding, as though it had a rhythm of its own. He leaned closer to the mirror, searching for some trace of familiarity, some fragment of recognition. None came. The reflection was a stranger's.
He whispered to it, his voice barely audible in the silence.
"What am I?"
The mirror gave no answer. Only the silence of the medbay, and the faint hum of a ship that seemed to be waiting.
He lingered there, staring at his reflection until the cold bit too deeply into his skin. Then he turned away, moving back through the rows of beds. He opened a cabinet, finding only shattered glass and the faint smell of chemicals long since spoiled. He closed it again, the sound echoing too loudly in the empty room.
The medbay felt wrong. Not just abandoned, but expectant, as though it had been left ready for him. The beds were empty, the staff gone, but the room itself seemed to wait. He could not shake the impression that he had been placed here deliberately, in this body, on this vessel.
He stepped back into the corridor, the doors closing behind him with a hollow thud. The silence followed, pressing closer with every step. He did not know the ship's name. Not yet. But he knew this: he was not human. And he was not here by accident.
The corridors sloped downward again, wider now, the walls lined with conduits that hummed faintly when he brushed them. The static was sharper here, crawling up his arm in jagged bursts that made his muscles twitch. He pulled his hand away quickly, but the sensation lingered, as though the ship had left its mark beneath his skin.
The air grew warmer as he descended, though not with comfort. It was the warmth of machinery left idle too long, stale and heavy, carrying the faint scent of oil and scorched metal. He followed it, his footsteps echoing in the widening passage, until the corridor opened into a vast chamber.
Engineering.
The space stretched high above him, a cathedral of steel and silence. Catwalks crisscrossed the air, ladders climbing into shadow, pipes and conduits weaving like veins through the walls. At the center loomed the engines—massive structures of metal and glass, silent now, their surfaces coated in dust. They looked like bones, the remains of something that had once lived and breathed but now lay dormant.
He stepped onto the grated floor, the metal biting into his bare feet. The vibration here was stronger, a faint pulse that seemed to come from deep within the ship. It was irregular, uneven, like a heartbeat struggling to remember its rhythm. He stood still, listening, and for a moment he thought he could feel it in his chest, syncing with the gem embedded there.
He moved slowly along the catwalk, his hand trailing the railing. The static leapt into him again, sharper than before, crawling up his arm and into his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and held on, forcing himself to endure it. The sting became a thrum, steady and insistent, as though the ship were speaking to him in a language of sparks. When he let go, his hand trembled, the sensation still buzzing in his fingertips.
The silence here was different from the corridors or the medbay. It was not the silence of abandonment, but of waiting. The engines loomed in stillness, but he could not shake the impression that they were listening. He imagined the roar they must once have made, the vibration shaking the entire vessel, the heat of power coursing through every conduit. Now there was only the faint pulse, the ghost of motion.
He descended a ladder to the lower level, the rungs cold and rough beneath his hands. The floor below was darker, the shadows deeper. He moved between the bases of the engines, their surfaces towering above him. Dust coated everything, but when he pressed his hand against the metal, he felt warmth. Not much, just enough to remind him that the engines were not dead. Not yet.
He leaned against one of the housings, closing his eyes. The vibration was stronger here, pressing into his skin, into his bones. He imagined it as a heartbeat, slow and irregular, but alive. He pressed his palm against his chest, feeling the gem there, and for a moment he thought the rhythms matched. His breath caught, and he pulled his hand away quickly, unsettled.
He opened a panel at random, the latch stiff with age. Inside, wires and conduits sprawled in tangled lines, some frayed, others intact. He touched one, and the static surged into him violently, sharp enough to make him stagger back. His vision blurred for a moment, silver light flickering at the edges. He blinked until it cleared, his breath ragged. The wire still hummed faintly, as though mocking him.
He closed the panel and stepped back, his hands trembling. The engines loomed above him, silent but not dead, waiting for something he could not yet give. He felt the weight of the ship pressing down, the silence thick with expectation.
He climbed back to the catwalk and stood at the center of the chamber, staring at the engines. The faint pulse echoed through the floor, through his body, through the gem in his chest. He whispered into the silence, though he did not know why.
"I hear you."
The words vanished into the vastness, swallowed by steel and shadow. The engines did not answer. But the pulse remained, steady and patient, as though the ship had all the time in the world.
He turned away at last, his footsteps echoing on the grated floor. The static still lingered in his skin, the warmth still clung to his palms, and the pulse still throbbed faintly in his chest. He did not know the ship's name. Not yet. But he knew this: the vessel was not dead. And neither was he.
The climb back to the upper decks was long, the corridors twisting upward in weary spirals. His body ached with each step, the cold still clinging to his skin, the static still lingering in his fingertips. The silence pressed closer the higher he went, as though the ship itself were holding its breath.
The bridge doors parted reluctantly, releasing him into a wide chamber. The air was colder here, sharper, as though the ship had sealed this place away. The viewports stretched before him, revealing the scatter of stars—cold, indifferent, endless. He stood for a long moment, staring out, his reflection faint in the glass. Pale skin, silver eyes, the gem at his chest. A stranger's face staring back.
The consoles around him were dark, their surfaces coated in dust. He brushed one with his hand, leaving a streak. The static leapt into his skin, sharper than before, crawling up his arm and into his chest. He staggered, clutching the console, and the gem pulsed in response. The screen flickered, lines of fractured code crawling across it before collapsing into static.
He pressed his palm flat against the surface. The sting deepened, sharp and insistent, as though the ship were demanding more. He gritted his teeth and pushed harder, pressing the gem against the console's edge. The contact sent a jolt through him, silver light flickering at the edges of his vision. The console flared to life.
Symbols scrolled across the screen, fractured at first, then steadying. He could not read them all, but fragments resolved into words, clear and deliberate.
Designation: Mother of Invention.
Class: Paris‑class heavy frigate.
The words struck him like a blow. His breath caught, his chest tightening as though the ship itself had pressed its weight against him. He whispered the name aloud, his voice barely audible in the silence.
"Mother of Invention."
The syllables lingered in the air, heavy with meaning he could not escape. His mind, sharpened now to perfect recall, flooded with knowledge. He knew this ship. Not just as a vessel of the UNSC, not just as a Paris‑class frigate. He knew it from Red vs. Blue.
The memories came unbidden, vivid and merciless. He remembered the first time he had seen it on a screen, the flagship of Project Freelancer, sleek and formidable, a stage for betrayal and ambition. He remembered the characters who had walked its halls, the experiments carried out in its labs, the secrets buried in its databanks. He remembered every detail, every line of dialogue, every scene. His mind replayed them with flawless clarity, eidetic and unyielding.
And yet here it was. Not pixels on a monitor. Not fiction. Real. Solid beneath his hands, its databanks confirming what his memory screamed.
The Mother of Invention.
He pressed his hand harder against the console, desperate for more. The ship resisted at first, the screen flickering, lines of code collapsing into static. He leaned in, pressing the gem directly against the surface. The pulse in his chest quickened, syncing with the faint hum beneath the deck. The console flared again, brighter this time, and data spilled across the screen.
Crew manifests. Mission logs. Fragments of orders. Most were corrupted, broken into nonsense, but enough remained to confirm the truth. This was the ship. The ship from Red vs. Blue. The ship that should never have existed outside of fiction. And he was standing on its bridge.
His eidetic mind replayed the memories mercilessly. He saw the Freelancers training in these halls, the Director's voice echoing through the ship, the experiments that had broken lives in the name of progress. He remembered Carolina, Wash, Maine, York. He remembered the betrayals, the losses, the endless cycle of ambition and ruin. He remembered the ship's destruction, its fall into legend.
And yet here it was. Whole. Waiting.
He pulled his hand away, trembling. The console dimmed, the light fading until only the faint hum of power remained. He pressed his palm against his chest, feeling the gem pulse beneath his skin. It had answered the ship. Or the ship had answered it. He could not tell which.
He turned back to the viewport, staring at the stars. The reflection in the glass stared back—pale, silver‑eyed, marked by the gem. He whispered again, though the silence swallowed the words.
"What am I?"
The question echoed in his mind, sharper now, heavier. He was not human. He was not chance. He was tied to this ship, to its impossible presence here. His eidetic memory offered no comfort, only clarity. He knew too much. He knew exactly what this ship was, and that knowledge made his existence impossible.
He stood there for a long time, the stars cold and endless before him, the name echoing in his thoughts. Mother of Invention. The words felt like a key, but to what, he could not yet know.
The silence pressed closer, heavier than before. The ship seemed to wait, patient and indifferent, as though it had all the time in the world. He pressed his hand against the console once more, feeling the static crawl into his skin, the gem pulse in response. The databanks whispered fragments of truth, but none that could answer the question burning in him.
He closed his eyes, letting the name repeat in his mind, flawless and unyielding. Mother of Invention. A ship that should not be here. A ship that was. A ship he had once known only as fiction, now made real. And he was bound to it, as surely as the gem was bound to his chest.
When he opened his eyes again, the stars had not changed. The silence had not lifted. The ship had not answered. But he knew this: his existence was no accident. And the Mother of Invention was the proof.