event horizon

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<b>DISCLAIMER:</b> Event Horizon is intended for a mature audience.(18+). An in-depth explanation of sensitive content is available below. You will be required to confirm you are 18+ before continuing. As with other choice-based games, every decision you make matters. Here especially. There are no guarantees of survival for your character or any of the crew. For this reason, guides have been provided through a menu option. <span class = voice>Choosing to view the guides will spoil the game for you. Proceed with caution.</span> For any questions, comments, concerns or bug reports, please send a message to either the development blog linked through game interface, or send me an email at bfor.if@gmail.com Thank you for your patience and patronage. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item>[[View content warnings. (Highly recommended)|cw1]]</div> <div class = choice-item>[[Continue without reading content warnings. (Not recommended)|ageconfirm]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<div id="container"> <div id="header" onclick="toggle(this)"> <span id="header-text"></span> <div class="menutoggle"><span id="zero"><i class="fa fa-ellipsis-v" aria-hidden="true"></i> </span> <span id="one" style="bottom:-180px;"> <div class="menu-flex"> </div> </span></div> </div> <div id="story"> <div id="passages">  </div> </div> </div>  <script>function toggle() { var x = document.getElementById("one"); if (!x.style.bottom ||x.style.bottom === '-180px') { x.style.bottom = '0px'; } else { x.style.bottom = '-180px'; } }</script>

<<replace ".menu-flex">><<include "menu-flex">><</replace>> <<replace "#header-text">><<include "header-text">><</replace>>

<script>var myDiv = document.getElementById('passages'); myDiv.scrollTop = 0;</script>

<<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>00</b> go back</div>'>><<run Engine.backward()>><</link>> <<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>01</b> settings</div>'>><<script>>UI.settings()<</script>><</link>> <<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>02</b> profile</div>' 'profile'>><</link>> <<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>03</b> codex</div>' 'codex'>><</link>> <<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>04</b> guide</div>' 'guide'>><</link>> <<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>05</b> saves</div>'>><<script>>UI.saves()<</script>><</link>>

Event Horizon || $gamechapter || $timeline

PROFILE: <<nobr>><div class = proceed> <div class = proceed-item><<link "Return to game." $return>><</link>></div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>Codex:</span> <i>Didn't feel like sending you in blind- called in some favors and got you some information. No need to thank me- I'd actually rather you just don't mention it. Seriously. Or I'll send whatever's lurking in those halls after you. -Jun</i> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Dossiers|codex_char]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Factions|codex_faction]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Miscellaneous|codex_misc]]</div> <div class = choice-item><<link "Return." $return>><</link>></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $gamechapter = "...">> <<set $timeline = "...">>  <<set $name = "...">> <<set $title = "...">> <<set $last_name = "...">> <<set $fleet_title = "">> <<set $earth_origin = false>> <<set $space_origin = false>> <<set $fleet_origin = false>> <<set $background = "">> <<set $occupation = "">> <<set $engineer = false>> <<set $officer = false>> <<set $psych = false>> <<set $botanist = false>> <<set $spy = false>> <<set $pilot = false>> <<set $tech = false>> <<set $gender = "">> <<set $person = "person">> <<set $HeShe = "they">> <<set $HimHer = "them">> <<set $HisHers = "their">> <<set $plural = false>> <<set $Tgen = false>> <<set $skintone = "">> <<set $height = "">> <<set $build = "">> <<set $haircolor = "">> <<set $hairtexture = "">> <<set $hairlength = "">>  <<set $sanity = 0>> <<set $eris_approval = 0>> <<set $alexandra_approval = 0>> <<set $hector_approval = 0>> <<set $natalie_approval = 0>> <<set $jun_approval = 0>> <<set $jayden_approval = 0>> <<set $tycho_approval = 0>> <<set $hector_flirt = 0>> <<set $natalie_flirt = 0>> <<set $jun_flirt = 0>> <<set $jayden_flirt = 0>> <<set $hector_RO = false>> <<set $natalie_RO = false>> <<set $jun_FWB = false>> <<set $jun_RO = false>> <<set $jayden_RO = false>>  <<set $mc_seeker = false>> <<set $mc_skeptic = false>> <<set $mc_prophet = false>> <<set $mc_heretic = false>> <<set $mc_alter = 0>>  <<set $erispast_ally = false>> <<set $erispast_friend = false>> <<set $erispast_enemy = false>> <<set $erispast_lover_req = false>> <<set $erispast_lover_unreq = false>> <<set $alexpast_ally = false>> <<set $alexpast_friend = false>> <<set $alexpast_enemy = false>> <<set $alexpast_lover_req = false>> <<set $alexpast_lover_unreq = false>> <<set $mc_13 = 0>> <<set $mc_antares = 0>> <<set $mc_self = 0>> <<set $mc_other = 0>>  <<set $eris_dead = false>> <<set $alexandra_dead = false>> <<set $hector_dead = false>> <<set $natalie_dead = false>> <<set $jun_dead = false>> <<set $jayden_dead = false>> <<set $tycho_dead = false>> <<set $has_jacket = false>> <<set $question_scene = false>> <<set $spy_revealed = false>> <<set $spy_suspicion = 0>> <<set $airlock_stabbed = false>> <<set $airlock_stabbed_letgo = false>> <<set $airlock_shot = false>> <<set $airlock_letgo = false>> <<set $airlock_peace = false>> <<set $mc_wounded = false>> <<set $natalie_attacked = false>>  <<set $CWT3_warning = false>> <<set $CWT3_skip = false>> <<set $choice = 0>> <<set $cdxtimeline = 0>>

//FOR CHOICES: <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[next]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[next]]</div> </div><</nobr>> // GLITCHED VER: <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='FLASHING TEXT'>[[next]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='FLASHING TEXT'>[[next]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>> ----------------------------------------------------------------------- // FOR PROCEED SECTIONS: <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|next]]</div> </div><</nobr>> // GLITCHED VER: <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='FLASHING TEXT'>[[Proceed.| next]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>> ----------------------------------------------------------------------- // FOR INCREASING/DECREASING STATS: $(stat) to Math.clamp(($stat) (+ or -) (value), 0, 100) ----------------------------------------------------------------------- // FOR GLITCHED TEXT: <span class="glitch" data-text="alt message">non glitch text</span> ----------------------------------------------------------------------- // FOR LINEAR SECTIONS: !!DELETE passage()!! <<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>> Text here. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>> Text here. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>> Text here. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>> Text here. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|NEXT][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>> ----------------------------------------------------------------------- // FOR CODEX/CHARACTER DOSSIERS: <<link "Click me!">> <<popover 'opaque'>>\ TEXT \<</popover>> <</link>> //FOR WEIRD PRONOUN STUFF <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>>

Event Horizon containts a significant amount of sensitive content. Please review the following list before continuing. Your mental health comes first, and if at any point you are uncomfortable, please stop reading and take care of yourself. The game will be here if you would like to come back to it. <b>As of the current update, there are content warnings for:</b> <span class = voice><b>Horror content.</b></span> Event Horizon is foremost a work of cosmic horror. Cosmic horror is defined as a sub-genre of horror that emphasizes the fear of the unknowable and incomprehensible. During the game, you may encounter instances of the uncanny valley and usage of text effects to create an unsettling effect. Furthermore, body horror is present in the game. Body horror often involves gore, and altering the body in a manner meant to be unsettling. This includes descriptions of: too many or too few features, visibly altered features (including those rended altered by trauma), and the uncanny valley effect. <span class = voice><b>Significant and graphic depictions of violence and bodily injury.</b></span> This includes: general depictions of blood, injuries and gore, evisceration (mutilation of the torso, disembowlment), eye trauma, mouth and dental trauma, suffocation (includes strangulation and drowning), descriptions of medical proceedures, torture, immolation. <span class = voice><b>Depictions of altered mental states.</b></span> This includes: depersonalization and dissociation, hallucinations, intrusion into the mind and mind control, paranoia, psychotic states, amnesia and memory loss, implied self-harm, and suicidal thoughts and ideation. <span class = voice><b>Other potentially sensitive content.</b></span> This includes, but is not limited to: nausea and vomiting, needles and "needle-like" as a descriptor, drug and alcohol usage, nudity, mild sexual content, and significant usage of profanity. Flashing ("glitched") text is present, but used sparingly. <i>As of the current update, there is an option that includes two scenes with explicit and graphic self-harm. This scene is in Timeline 3 (Amnesiac), and is only seen through a violent resolution of the airlock conflict, choosing "let go", and then refusing the choice ("no. i won't. i can't). The next menu will give the option to toggle a content warning for the choice, as well as an option to skip the scene entirely.</i> If there is <i>any</i> other content you feel requires a warning, please let me know through any of the contact methods linked in the game page. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[I confirm that I am 18 years or older, and have read and understood the content warnings.|cw2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[I am NOT over 18 years of age, or I have read the content warnings and would no longer like to proceed.|home]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = voice><b>Event Horizon</b></span> (e-vent ho-ri-zon): <i>noun</i> (astronomy): a theoretical boundary beyond which no light or other radiation can escape; <i>noun</i> (physics): a boundary or point beyond which events cannot affect an observer; <i>noun</i> (colloquial): a point of no return. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><h2><span class = voice>Part I: Arrival</span></h2><<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|ch1start][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[I confirm that I am 18 years or older, and have chosen to continue to the game without reading content warnings.|gamestart]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[I am NOT over 18 years of age, or I would like to read the content warnings.|home]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

This choice concerns the Timeline 3 content, as mentioned before. It is restated below. <span class = flashback><i>As of the current update, there is an option that includes two scenes with explicit and graphic self-harm. This scene is in Timeline 3 (Amnesiac), and is only seen through a violent resolution of the airlock conflict, choosing "let go", and then refusing the choice ("no. i won't. i can't). The next menu will give the option to toggle a content warning for the choice, as well as an option to skip the scene entirely.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[I would like for the Timeline 3 scene to have a content warning tag, but I DO NOT want to skip the content.|gamestart][$CWT3_warning = true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[I would like for the Timeline 3 scene to have a content warning tag AND to skip the content.|gamestart][$CWT3_skip = true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[I understand that there is potentially triggering content that includes self harm in Timeline 3, and DO NOT want a content warning, OR to skip the scene.|gamestart]] </div><</nobr>>

<<set $gamechapter = 'Arrival'>><<notify>>Wake up.<</notify>>You woke up to the sound of an engine’s roar about four hours ago. Now, the only thing distracting you from that deep reverberation is the knowledge that every part of the machine responsible for keeping you alive was built by the lowest bidder. Nowhere was that more obvious than in the fact that <i>you shouldn't be awake right now</i>. In an ideal world, the drug induced and cryogenically maintained Sleep would have lasted until about, well, now. You sigh, the sound amplified by the helmet's microphones. <span class = flashback><i>At least it was just four hours, not days, weeks or, hell, months</i></span>. After all, you've been cooped up in this tiny cabin for about four and a half Solar years. Out of the tiny viewport in front of you, the imposing gray bulk of a Solar Defense Force ship hangs in the orbit of some equally grey moon. Deep in your gut, butterflies stir. <span class = flashback><i>Nervousness? Or excitement?</i></span> The cheap, tinny voice of the onboard computer makes you flinch, blasting the few words that could possible reassure you right now. "Ten minutes until disembarkation on the…" A cut off name. Static instead of an answer. The heart rate monitor blinks in an insistent red as your blood pounds in your ears. You shake your head, as if to clear some invisible cobwebs. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[This is only getting more nerve-wracking by the second...|tAll-01-namechoice][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[This kind of stuff only happens in pulp sci-fi novels...|tAll-01-namechoice][$choice to 2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

GUIDE: <<nobr>><div class = proceed> <div class = proceed-item><<link "Return to game." $return>><</link>></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><<if $choice is 1>> Your pulse threatens to drown out the roar of the engines. Every second you draw nearer feels like a step towards the gallows. <p><i>Shit.</i> You're really fucking nervous.</p><</if>> <<if $choice is 2>> Part of you whispers warnings, begs you to be cautious, but right now? You feel like a little kid, a giant grin plastered across your face. <p>This, this is too good to be true.</p><</if>> <</nobr>>Ten minutes. Better start thinking about your introductions. You have an idea of your mission. And this, this is important. You can't afford to fuck it up. Start out nice and easy. Your name. <i>What's your name?</i> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You know your name, how could you forget?|t1-t2-01-nameknown]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Wait. What's your name?|tAll-01-nameunknown]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $timeline to "Crewman">> Your name is <<textbox "$name" "">> <<nobr>><div class = proceed> <div class = proceed-item>[[Confirm name.|t1-t2-01-programselect]]</div> <</nobr>>

You rack your brain, blind in panic.<<notify>>WAKE UP.<</notify>> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item><span class = voice>[[(who are you? who am i?)|t3-01-start]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> [[No. You know who you are.|t1-t2-01-nameknown][$sanity += 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><<if $sanity == 100>>Calmer now, more confident. You know who you are.<</if>> <<if $sanity < 100>>Calmer now, more confident. You know who you are. At least, you think you do.<</if>><</nobr>> Your name is <<name>>, and you're headed to this ship because you were chosen for the Failsafe Program. And the Program chose you because… <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You are a soldier, and the Program needed trained combatants.|t1-t2-01-soldier]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You are a scientist, and the Program promised work on the forefronts of science.|t1-t2-01-scientist]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You are trained in a specialized field. The Program required your expertise.|t1-t2-01-specialist]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

::Widget Setup <<widget "name">><<print $name.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>> <<widget "combine-name">>$title <<print $name.toUpperFirst()>> <<print $last_name.toUpperFirst()>> $fleet_title<</widget>> <<widget "SetPronouns">><<nobr>> /* Usage... (defaults to male) */ /* for "he": <<SetPronouns>> or <<SetPronouns "m">> */ /* for "she": <<SetPronouns "f">> */ /* for "they": <<SetPronouns "b">> */ <<switch $args[0]>> <<case "f">> <<set $HeShe = "she">> <<set $HimHer = "her">> <<set $HisHers = "her">> <<set $person to "woman">> <<set $plural to "false">> <<case "b">> <<set $HeShe = "they">> <<set $HimHer = "them">> <<set $HisHers = "their">> <<set $person to "person">> <<set $plural to "true">> <<default>> <<set $HeShe = "he">> <<set $HimHer = "him">> <<set $HisHers = "his">> <<set $person to "man">> <<set $plural to "false">> <</switch>> <</nobr>><</widget>> <<widget "HeShe">><<print $HeShe.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>> <<widget "HimHer">><<print $HimHer.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>> <<widget "HisHers">><<print $HisHers.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>>

<<set $timeline to "Amnesiac">><<set $cdxtimeline to 3>><<notify>>Wake up.<</notify>><span class = voice>(no! this… this can’t be possible!)</span> A particular fear settles into your bones. One that tells you that you've been here before. That you know how this story begins and ends. It feels like rage, burning in the back of your throat. It feels like sorrow, the pit of despair that deepens with each passing second. It feels like regret, knowing that which you cannot put into words, something that will hurt like opening old wounds. The scars you have no recollection of receiving. You don't even know your own name. <span class = voice>(my name… my name… what’s my fucking name?)</span> And that, that one thought that flickers briefly to life before falling mute once more, that is not the voice you assign to yourself in your mind. Someone else entirely, familiar and… not. You try to set your mind straight, try to stay calm- but it's too late now- the monitor in front of you tells a different story. Lights, yellow- then orange- then red. An alarm. The red light is pervasive now. Without the light from the now closed porthole, all you can see is red. <span class = flashback><i>red. the doctor in crimson scrubs stands behind the guards. he laughs as they drag you away.</i></span> That memory is… not yours. Or is it? A lifetime ago, that much, you know. Not this lifetime, where this pod is your whole existence. You try to set the facts straight, clinging to what you know. You’re on a droppod. You’re headed for a Solar Forces ship. You’ve been in storage for four and a half years. Something isn't right. Something doesn't add up. Something is wrong with you. <span class= flashback><i>they grab your head, forcing it down onto the table. a needle at the base of your skull. turned over just as roughly. a tourniquet. one three. blackened flesh. one three. a long needle. one three. fire in your veins. a scream. one of them. one three.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[(no... stop... please.)|t3-01-pod][($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[(thisisntrealthisisntrealthisisntreal)|t3-01-pod][($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[(what are you who are you)|t3-01-pod][($choice to 3)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The Solar Defense Force always required soldiers. Always. You did your patriotic duty, you signed your life away. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You are a new enlistee.|t1-t2-01-passage1][$engineer to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You are a veteran officer.|t1-t2-01-passage1][$officer to true]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Contrary to what most think, it isn't just soldiers who serve the Solar Defense Force. Deeply pocketed donors and the promise of the bleeding edge drew you to serve. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You are a psychologist.|t1-t2-01-passage1][$psych to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You are a botanist.|t1-t2-01-passage1][$botanist to true]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The specialists are those that keep the Solar Defense Force running. Anyone can pick up a gun and fight. Not everyone knows how to fix the drive on a frigate, or run thousands of points of navigational data. That's where you come in. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You are- to put it lightly- not supposed to be here.|t1-t2-01-passage1][$spy to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You are a pilot.|t1-t2-01-passage1][$pilot to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You're a bit of everything.|t1-t2-01-passage1][$tech to true]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><<if $engineer == true>><<set $occupation to 'combat engineer'>> <<set $title to 'Lance Corporal'>>This is only your second deployment. You're an engineer, and spent your first deployment rebuilding in the Belt. If you're being honest, you really don't know what to expect from this mission.<</if>> <<if $officer == true>><<set $occupation to 'executive officer'>><<set $title to 'Master Chief Petty Officer'>>You've served humanity for a long time- coming out of the reserves for the Program. You're here to join the ranks of leadership, specifically to oversee the daily operations on the bridge. And here you were, thinking you'd finally gotten away from war…<</if>> <<if $psych == true>><<set $occupation to 'psychologist'>><<set $title to 'Dr.'>>You'll be working alongside a medical doctor- maintaining the well-being of soldiers and conducting further research on trauma and the effects of space travel. Academia is brutal- you never were able to have your work published. So now, you're here, for better or worse.<</if>> <<if $botanist == true>><<set $occupation to 'botanist'>><<set $title to ''>>They- meaning the Solar Defense Force- needed scientists. Seeing as you weren't getting anywhere with your PhD studies, your put your name in the system, went through bootcamp. And you were surprised when you were selected. What could a warship possibly need with a botanist?<</if>> <<if $spy == true>><<set $occupation to 'liaison officer'>><<set $title to 'Warrant Officer'>>You are an intelligence officer, or spy, if you'd prefer. In the system, you're a liaison officer. Your patrons are wealthy, well connected and quite powerful, and must have been banking on this mission happening. Either that, or they pulled some strings to get you here.<</if>> <<if $pilot == true>><<set $occupation to 'pilot'>><<set $title to 'First Lieutenant'>>Pilots are hard to come by these days. Given what happened at the end of the war, it's even harder to find ones that have military experience. Usually, ships this size have rotating crews of pilots. You must be joining one of them. You can only hope it's not the graveyard shift.<</if>> <<if $tech == true>><<set $occupation to 'technician'>><<set $title to 'Technical Sergeant'>>You served for a while, a good soldier. Never the best, never promoted particularly high, though never overlooked for medals and awards. You're a jack of all trades, master of some. You were surprised when you were chosen for the Program, even more surprised to be joining this mission.<</if>><</nobr>> A first impression is most important. And there will only be one chance to make one. Especially on a mission like this. The ship draws nearer now, pulling closer and closer. At this range, your head spins. The ship is smaller than you recalled. And though it's painted in the standard Solar Defense Force gray, there is much that the standard paint fails to conceal. You’ve spent a lot of time around ships- bootcamp drilled the different classes of ship so far into your head you could list the technical specifications of a patrol craft in your sleep. But the craft in front of you is unlike any ship you’ve ever seen. Not as large as a cruiser, but far bulkier than a blockade runner. Every Solar Defense Force spacecraft you’ve ever seen has been armed to the teeth- but this ship is at least visibly- completely unarmed. If you're going to be completely honest, it looks more like a cargo ship than any sort of military ship. The pod rotates with a heart-stopping lurch, and skirts dangerously close to the bridge. Reflected starlight shines off her gleaming black windows. You lean forward, face pressed against helmet visor, helmet visor pressed against viewport, harness straps digging in as you strain your neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the ship identification No name has been burnt onto her bow. No art adorns her forward bridge. The names of her commander’s crew aren’t anywhere to be found. With a shudder, the pod begins to decelerate. Your eyes catch more and more of the ship's surface. With each passing second, the craft becomes more mysterious. No personal touch. Only the Solar Defense Force insignia and her designation.<span class = voice><i> SF-001-X</i>.</span> No Local Group Republic regalia. Not a single national crest of Earth. Not even a Wanderer sigil. The slate gray paint yields no answers to you. It simply gives you more questions. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-t2-01-originselect]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

A stealth mission? If so, against whom? Who else even operates ships this far out in the System? Few dare traverse this close to the Kuiper Belt, save for the few who choose to live out here, where the sun is just a mote of light in a hazy beam and days and years pass indistinctly, adrift without light or warmth. Perhaps a cooperative mission? It’s wishful thinking. After all, it took the near extinction of the human race, the razing of Earth itself, to get the far-flung nations of humans who took to the stars and settled other worlds to work together. Ten years ago, the remaining nations of Earth had united with the estranged Local Group Republics and the exiled Wandering Fleet in a desperate defense against the greatest threat. The Enemy. But when the Enemy was driven back, and the fires had gone out, the unity did not last. The nations of Earth and the Republics settled back into their perpetual infighting; the Fleet took to the void of space once more. It's been a long time since you've heard from Earth, and just thinking of it makes you… <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Sad; Earth, despite its many flaws, was still your home.|t1-t2-01-factionearth][$earth_origin to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Curious; raised on one of the colony worlds, you've only ever seen Earth through a telescope.|t1-t2-01-factionLGR][$space_origin = true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Apathetic; perhaps even angry. You come from those banished to the expanse of space|t1-t2-01-factionfleet][$fleet_origin to true]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You were born and raised on Earth, the homeworld of all humanity. And until recently, all life. This revelation didn't change the fact that you're proud of your upbringing, as citizen of Earth, and more specifically… <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[The United American Commonwealth|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Williams') and ($background to 'Earth, the United American Commonwealth'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Collected Central European States|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Dreschner') and ($background to 'Earth, the Collected Central European States'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[America del Sur|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Bolivar') and ($background to 'Earth, America del Sur'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Eastern European Hegemony|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Resnik') and ($background to 'Earth, the Eastern European Hegemony'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Oceanic Monarchies|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Powers') and ($background to 'Earth, the Oceanic Monachies'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The East Asian Confederacy|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Sun') and ($background to 'Earth, the East Asian Confederacy'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Free West|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Lapointe') and ($background to 'Earth, the Free West'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Arabian Sultanate|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'el- Amin') and ($background to 'Earth, the Arabian Sultanate'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Sahara|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'al- Hashim') and ($background to 'Earth, the Sahara'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Ivory Coast Democratic Republic|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Kader') and ($background to 'Earth, the Ivory Coast Democratic Republic'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The South African Empire|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'van der Maas') and ($background to 'Earth, the South African Republic'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Khanate Republic|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Uzun') and ($background to 'Earth, the Khanate Republic'))]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The freedom of the Local Group Republics was offset by the chaos found in their juvenile societies and governments. Where there was not chaos, order became oppressive and all powerful. You grew up on one of these polarized worlds, more specifically… <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[The Dominion of Apollo|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Koronis') and ($background to 'Local Group Republic, the Dominion of Apollo'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Venusian Republic|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Aphro') and ($background to 'Local Group Republic, the Venusian Republic'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The United Martian Front|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Pyrrhos') and ($background to 'Local Group Republic, the United Martian Front'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Belt|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Tiberius') and ($background to 'Local Group Republic, the Belt'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Zeus|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Hypatia') and ($background to 'Local Group Republic, Zeus'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Republic of the Moons of Saturn|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Themistokles') and ($background to 'Local Group Republic, the Republic of the Moons of Saturn'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The United Trans-Uranic Nations|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Ianthe') and ($background to 'Local Group Republic, the United Trans-Uranic Nations'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Hades` Gate|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Kerebros') and ($background to 'Local Group Republic, Hades` Gate'))]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Kuiper-Oort Federation|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Origen') and ($background to 'Local Group Republic, the Kuiper-Oort Federation'))]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You have never visited Earth for anything but the defense of it. Your people are forbidden to set foot on that planet. Most planets, actually. The only time your people have taken to the ground was to protect land that they will never hold a right to. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if $engineer == true>> <div class = choice-item>[[You grew up a cadet aboard a minor military ship.|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Latens') and ($background to 'Wandering Fleet, the Black Fleet'))]]</div><</if>> <<if $officer == true>> <div class = choice-item>[[You were born to officers and raised on one of the flagships of the Black Fleet.|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Fastus') and ($background to 'Wandering Fleet, the Black Fleet'))]]</div><</if>> <<if $psych == true>> <div class = choice-item>[[You were born to professors on one of the smallest ships in the Gray Fleet, raised in academia.|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Incursus') and ($background to 'Wandering Fleet, the Gray Fleet'))]]</div><</if>> <<if $botanist == true>> <div class = choice-item>[[You studied science and got your green thumb on a farm ship in the Gray Fleet.|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Folium') and ($background to 'Wandering Fleet, the Gray Fleet'))]]</div><</if>> <<if $spy == true>> <div class = choice-item>[[Officially, you grew up on one of the many merchant ships in the White Fleet.|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Jussum') and ($background to 'Wandering Fleet, the White Fleet'))]]</div><</if>> <<if $pilot == true>> <div class = choice-item>[[You were born and raised to fly, like the rest of your siblings aboard one of the pilot-community ships.|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Volatilis') and ($background to 'Wandering Fleet, the Black Fleet'))]]</div><</if>> <<if $tech == true>> <div class = choice-item>[[You were just one of the many born and raised on the largest ship in the White Fleet, a residential center among the stars.|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Dextra') and ($background to 'Wandering Fleet, the White Fleet'))]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[You were born and raised on a small residential ship, like most of the Fleet. Nothing special.|t1-t2-01-passage2][(($last_name to 'Praesegmen') and ($background to 'Wandering Fleet, the White Fleet'))]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><<if $last_name is 'Williams'>>The <i>UAC</i>- a powerful state encompassing what used to be the United States of America, Canada, Mexico, and much of Latin America. Well, at least it used to be powerful. Subjugated states broke free, formed their own nations. And today, your home is a fractured battleground, reeling from decades of war.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Dreschner'>>Europe, always the battleground. Always the one to be left with all the damage and none willing to clean up. The war carved trenches into your homeland again, destroyed hundreds of years of progress. The memory of smoke over the fields, of cities shattered, of the Enemy slowly advancing over the annals of history, leaving nothing untouched. Leaving <i>nothing</i> untouched.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Bolivar'>>The brave, the bold, the free. Those who declared their independence from the UAC and won it. Though the war did not pierce deeply into your home, the aftershocks were still felt. Cities still fell, chaos still reigned in the streets. Every facet of your homeland was tested, every ounce of your strength. And you came out stronger for it.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Resnik'>>War on two fronts- not counting a constant spaceborne assault- is a daunting endeavor. There is a reputation to be maintained, that of the deadly winter and fighters who are just as cold blooded. And the Enemy froze in the winter, thawed in the summer, laid siege to your home in both seasons, regardless. Your ancestors would be proud, guerrilla in the rubble.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Powers'>>Luck is escaping the brunt of war, fires on the fringes, a brief campaign of island hopping. Luck is not being left with the ruins of civilization while relatively unharmed. The cries for your homeland to do something. relying on now-ancient loyalties and former colonial ties to rebuild. A time for a nation to decide between blood of the covenant, or water of the womb. For now, a state of unease, undecided on how- or even if- to help.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Sun'>>Fighting spread along the borders quickly. Threatened to split an already fragile union between titans of industry, massive centers of population perpetually teetering on the edge of war. Conflict instead strengthened the bonds, uniting the nations into an impressive war machine, capable of driving back the Enemy. Wherever they reared their ugly head, there was a Confed battalion ready to strike them down. And now, your homeland stands poised to spearhead the future of Earth.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Lapointe'>>A heritage of resistance, Old World powers ushered into a new era. A history of brilliant philosophers, art and revolution and inspiration- "we shall not go quietly", your ancestor's defiant cry into the night. And yet. A dark stain, one that creeps into every facet, found in the very foundation of the civilization. One of a silenced people, of atrocities committed in the dark. The destruction of the war brought a new start for your homeland. Hopefully, a better one.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'El-Amin'>>The cradle of civilization, the seat of some of the greatest empires. Stretching from the ancient lands of Persia and Babylon to the graveyard of empires. A land of rich histories, literature and art and science. And all of those applied to war. Legends of soldiers armored in wicker and wielding curved swords, invaders and the invaded. The builders and re-builders. Hoping this will be the last time.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Al-Hashim'>>The Sahara is a beautiful place. Unforgiving, harsh, stark. As alien and inhospitable as the conquered planets. But beautiful nonetheless, with oases dotting the expanses of vast sand, havens of hope. And towering, glimmering cities, punching their way through the dunes. Growing organically, turning sand to glass. A land untouched by war. Poised to rise.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Kader'>>A country of spaceports and industry, of abundant resources and newfound prosperity- one born of the industrialization of space, base of operations to the Corporation. The home of the massive space launches that kickstarted the growth of the Local Group Republics. A nation hotly contested and perpetually defended. Not even the Enemy could take the land. Not even the Enemy.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Van Der Mass'>>There is a power in being an Empire. A legacy that spans thousands of years, one of conquest and colonies and a new founding strength. Your people, under one flag at last. A power to rival the greatest of Europe or Asia or the Americas. Proud warriors and brilliant scholars, the tip of a spear that drove the Enemy back from those foreign lands that begged for your home's assistance. Some kind of cosmic retribution in the way they pleaded for the strength of an invading army.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Uzun'>>Named for the greatest empire of Earth, the conquest that stretched from Mediterranean to Pacific, the lands brought under one banner, one ruler. And now, a collection of cities dotting the high steppes and vast caravans of migratory peoples, an homage to the nomads who conquered this land. Spaceports, surrounded by farms, a blending of the new and old, traditional dress and modern attitudes. A beauty in the way a hash landscape raises a strong people.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Koronis'>>Close to the sun, close to the center. A shipbuilding planet where the Order reigns supreme, the birthplace of those tattooed acolytes that line the streets to worship the sun. The ring of metal in the thin air is pervasive, as ubiquitous as the searing heat. A land where the sun never sets, staining the sky gold, casting deep shadows, as striking and bold as the geometric tattoos etched into your skin, reminders of your now former loyalty to the Order.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Aphro'>>The final colony world, a stunning near-Earth. Perhaps the most impressive of the terraforming efforts, turning the land of acid and flame into rolling hills of farmland, punctuated with craters and hot springs. Named for the goddess of love, but little love is found. Instead, perpetual war. Cruel overlords seeking to exploit every centimeter of the planet, and those that would defend the land and those who settled it. Civil war, seeming endless. Burning fields of crops. Your home, aflame.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Pyrrhos'>>The first colony world, and the most powerful. A culture of pride and war, where the Order gained little traction, was turned into the worship of war itself. Your devotion in the rivulets of blood that soak into the dry soil, stain it a deeper red. Your devotion in service, in each of the milestone tattoos that adorn your body, the band around your neck and wrists, the uniform of a soldier. A society of sprawling cities, havens to those who escape the uniform, trading it for the excitement of music you feel in your chest, neon lit alleyways and the thrill of the chase.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Tiberius'>>The Belt… the one place where a person can truly breathe free. Unless you're a part of the Order, nobody is going to bother you out here. Living amongst the dense asteroids was a dangerous upbringing, but one that afforded you a freedom like no other. And an appreciation for that freedom. Funny, then that you would serve the military of some other nation…<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Hypatia'>>King of the gods, king of the planets. Of course, you can't actually settle on the planet. But the moons- both artificial and natural- provide ample enough land, and space stations make for excellent city stand-ins. A proud people with their own traditions, a respect for the mythology that shaped their origins. A haven for the Order, though their traditions have been adapted, turned into something almost unrecognizable.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Themistokles'>>Being a gas giant, it's impossible to settle on Saturn. What's not impossible, however, is the conquest of its vast system of moons. Your people pride themselves on the impossible, inching closer to the planet on a series of artificial rings and moons. One day, the impossible will be conquered, the Republic of Saturn flag waving proudly in the light refracted through those mighty rings.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Ianthe'>>It's quiet out here. The forgotten colony, the lost colony. Not as successful as the glimmering artificial rings of the ambitious dwellers of the moons of Saturn, not as alluring and magnetic as it's Plutonic neighbor. A tight knit community, despite the distance between them. Borrowed moons and a local fleet of ships. Hard living makes for a strong people.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Kerebros'>>In mythology, Hades is the god of the dead- his counterpart, for whom the planet was named, is the god of that which is hidden, and wealth. Fitting that your home is one of spectacular riches. Platinum and gold lined halls, furnished with exotic alloys of meteorite, shimmer in the waning light. Your people belong to the Order, one and all. They sustain you. And in return, you decorate your skin in lines that shine like the wealth they covet, kneeling in prayer to a distant sun.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Origen'>>Out here, there isn't much of anything. Habitable land, sunlight, warmth. Those banished from the banished, castoffs from the Fleet and Order. Tattooed men and women with dark eyes. Adapted to the lack of light, to the fading sun, to a life where every sunbeam is a luxury, every figment of heat conserved. Asteroid dwellers, dug tight into those inhospitable rocks, tiny farms and factories, learning to fly the family ship as a child, the soaring feeling of spaceflight, the warmth of a deep hearth.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Latens'>><<set $fleet_title to 'of the <i>Polemos</i>'>>The cadets of the Black Fleet are mightier than any army of Earth. That is what they tell you. The greatest leaders, from the Unifier of the Fleet to the Undying Father- once cadets, once soldiers of the Black Fleet. And you follow in their footsteps. Not of the same rank or station, but an arm of the might of the Black Fleet nonetheless. Glory is yours for the taking, newly minted soldier.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Fastus'>><<set $fleet_title to 'of the <i>Erebus</i>, Sword Arm of the Eternal Fleet'>>The strength of the Black Fleet- though smaller than the armies of Earth and the Republics- is unrivaled. The greatest leaders come from the exalted lineages of soldiers and heroes; the Unifier once bore the name of a vessel of the Black, the Undying Father himself carries a lineage that traces back to the first warship. And you- you follow in their footsteps. An arm of the might of the Black Fleet. A hero in your own right.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Incursus'>><<set $fleet_title to 'of the <i>Intrepid</i>, Seeker of Hidden Truth'>>The Gray Fleet is unknown to most. That is their strength. Secrecy affords opportunities that cannot be found elsewhere. Avoids the confines of ethics or funding. If it can be done, it will be done. No matter the cost, financial or… other. And you are a product of this education. An expert in the folds of the mind, the many, many things that separates human from not. And what is not human but looks like one, does everything but think like one.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Folium'>><<set $fleet_title to 'of the <i>Actaeon</i>, Keeper of Leaf and Earth'>>You are a rare case. Grew up among the White Fleet, trained in the Black. And now, you serve the Gray. Fitting that you serve them now, somewhere between the military and residential. Science, research, advancement- always the priority. An opportunity overlooked by those bound to land, used to reaping its benefits without considering the impossibility of life. A welcome escape from both of those past lives.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Jussum'>><<set $fleet_title to 'of the <i>Numus</i>, Keeper of Orders'>>If there is one thing that the Fleet can create, it is anonymity. You are nobody, you can be nobody. You needed to be intact, so they just gave you a new name, a new story. But you know the rumors. And the truth. The Gray can rewrite you, down to your memories, down to your personality. They can make new of old, give you a blank slate. If that is what the mission requires, so be it.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Volatilis'>><<set $fleet_title to 'of the <i>Noble</i>, Wings of the Eternal Fleet'>>Pilots are the lifeblood of the Fleet, their training a necessary evil. Whole communities raised to fly, conditioned for the direction of the science, military and body of the Fleet. The importance imparted on them from youth, the knowledge that any mistake could spell disaster. Your education was that of the Black Fleet, the commanders, the dogfighters, the aces. And you, the sole survivor of a doomed wing, your brave siblings falling, glowing comets with wings of fire.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Dextra'>><<set $fleet_title to 'of the <i>Helios</i>, Hand of the Eternal Fleet'>>You were once nobody. Most people on the <i>Helios</i> are. That's the nature of the White Fleet. Those many who are necessary for the function of the Fleet, the mechanics and farmers and teachers and shipmakers. The people that hold it all together, let the heroes do their work, there for the homecoming and the victory parade; there for the funerals and tears. The nature of the White Fleet is this: start as nobody, nothing. And rise, rise, rise. Until you are someone.<</if>> <<if $last_name is 'Praesegmen'>><<set $fleet_title to 'of the <i>Novus</i>'>>There are many, many ships. Not all of them carry a beautiful legacy, not all of them are exalted and carry with them titles and honor. You learn to keep your head down, until duty calls, and you too can rise to heroism, to glory.<</if>><</nobr>> <<nobr>><<if $earth_origin == true>>You were almost lucky to call Earth home. Your brothers and sisters in arms back at home had formed the largest part of the fledgling Solar Defense Force. The lion's share of fighting happened elsewhere, tearing apart governments and families and entire planets. Leaving much to be picked up. Earth escaped by virtue of its established cultures and borders; strength in tradition. Although, not perfect. The cracks began to show. Environmental issues, coupled with the nations splintering off after the fires of war had faded, led to both infighting and widespread global conflict. Weary of the fighting, you decided to eschew your national pride and take to the stars.<</if>> <<if $space_origin == true>>Though widespread in scale, the Local Group Republics united briefly, filling many of the roles that the Earthbound Nations couldn’t. Belt pilots and Hades’ Gate navigators flew ships built by Dominion shiplayers; the Martian war machine was unleashed in its full and terrifying glory. The war ravaged your homeland, leaving the ground scarred and ruined. You watched worlds get torn asunder, whole colonies wiped off the face of existence. You watched the first toeholds of civilization outside of Earth fall, and try to pick themselves up once more. Conflict grew from the scars of conflict, and you left your home to soar again amongst the stars.<</if>> <<if $fleet_origin == true>>As a member of the Wandering Fleet, you were part of the smallest contingent of fighters. The Fleet seemed every day to grow smaller and smaller, suffering heavy losses while never once receiving help from their planet-bound brothers and sisters. Anger and discontent grew rapidly, a constant reminder that those amongst the Fleet would be treated like the exiles that first founded them. Still, the might of the Black Fleet, an army as fanatical as the Enemy itself, became storied commandos famed for ferocity. The greatest minds of the Gray Fleet deconstructed the Enemy, learning exactly how to defeat them. And the White Fleet lent every child of the void to the ranks of the Solar Defense Force. The war left the Fleet… empty. Derelict ships hang in empty shipyards, the people are few and far between, their haunted eyes barely raising from the decks as they come and go on ships once teeming with life. A ghost of glory. You left that ghost behind, praying for it to haunt you no longer.<</if>><</nobr>> These days, little remains of the vast armies deployed to protect humanity. The might of the Solar Defense Force fell as soon as it rose- serving now as a peacekeeping force. And for what the Solar Defense Force now lacks in power, they make up for with a cult of personality. A ruthless machine of propaganda, giving those who abandon their homeworld for the scattered military space stations and life amongst the ranks an almost mythical quality. Legends of the former Marshals, their defiance and strength and infallibility, their refusal to give up on humanity, the way they united every human under a single banner. The fallen romanticized, memorialized, made into martyrs. Heroes- one and all. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if $fleet_origin == true>><div class = choice-item> [[Except for the Fleet. Those exiled remained as such. Forgotten, discarded.|t1-t2-01-passage3][$choice to 1]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[You never cared for the propaganda. Soldiering is a job, always has been, always will be.|t1-t2-01-passage3][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Heroism was... enticing. Enough to convince you to take to the stars.|t1-t2-01-passage3][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><<if $choice is 1>>The Fleet is not without flaws. That much is certain. But the Fleet always, always, <i>always</i> took care of their own. It didn't matter, born or assimilated, if you joined the Fleet, you were the Fleet. And everything outside that… transactional. The Solar Defense Force doesn't honor Fleet dead, Earth doesn't allow their nations to sell to the merchants of the Fleet and the Republics ban Fleet citizens from even stepping foot on their worlds. Unwanted. Discarded. And here you are, headed straight for one of their ships, to serve their cause.<</if>> <<if $choice is 2>>At the end of the day, propaganda is just that. Propaganda. Soldiering pays well, and interplanetary work keeps you away from the worst of your homeland. A means to an end, no matter how humble either turn out to be. The Solar Defense Force needed the manpower. And here you were, a warm body asking for nothing but a warm meal and a bunk. A means to an end. Except now, you're hurtling towards an unfamiliar ship in the depths of space. And that… that is more than you signed up for.<</if>> <<if $choice is 3>>A dreamer, always. You had to be, what with the war and the hell that followed in its wake. Living with stars in your eyes and stories in your head. For each tale of desperation and fear, there were three of impossible odds conquered, heroic last stands, fearless leaders and selfless troops. The good side of humanity, the hope that comes together when people do- united by a common cause. And there was no greater cause than this: saving humanity. Your role was small. But something about the ship that demands your attention tells you that your role is about to become much, much larger.<</if>><</nobr>> The Solar Defense Force still has a pull that attracts recruits from the furthest reaches of the Solar System- and a problem. When war breaks loose, it spreads to the military of the abyss. Riots, mutiny, small scale wars started over issues hundreds of thousands of millions of miles away. Before the decision was made to separate the factions, conflict threatened to tear apart even the flagships of the Solar Defense Force. From then onward, ships were clad in the livery of their nations, pride and nationalism wrapped up into artful propaganda. And this ship carries no such markings. A gut-wrenching lurch, the feeling at the top of a rollercoaster, the pause in the air before falling- before the pod drops, taking your stomach with it. As it spirals along the length of the ship, you gather a certain understanding as to why it's best to be unconscious for this part of transit. Through the fogging visor of your helmet, you can make out the airlock lights, dim blinking red, perched almost precariously near the aft of the ship. Violent shudders and a change in the roar outside your window tell you that the pod is making its final descent, orienting the front hatch with what you presume to be the airlock. Magnetic landing gear, like the claws of some vast, mechanical bird, reach out for purchase on the slick, shimmering gray hull. Anxiety pushes your heart to your mouth as you draw closer and closer, with no sign of the airlock's opening. The landing gear grazes the hull. The hull ripples like disturbed water, parting like a wound in skin. The… skin… separates slowly, like the layers of petals on some macabre flower, like the gaping maw of some untamed beast. The ship itself opens, revealing layers upon layers of skeleton wrapped in thin metal. Like muscle covering ribs, you think, before the thought of the ship having <i>ribs</i> and <i>muscle</i> turns your stomach like the spiraling approach. In a cascading wave, bright like the sun turned liquid, pure and painful white light rushes through the porthole as the final layer of the metallic epidermis tears, your pod rushing into the vacuum. Swallowed whole. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='wake up'>[[Proceed.|t1-t2-01-passage4]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = voice>(wake up. you are not safe here.)</span> The sound of your ragged breath wakes you. In utter darkness, like your eyes are still squeezed shut. Like you're still hiding, like you're still stifling a scream, like… <span class = voice>(it's not safe here.)</span> Spots swim in your vision. You blink vigorously, shake your head. The single, pervasive thought remains. <span class = voice>(it's not safe here. i cannot keep you safe here.)</span> <<nobr>><<if $fleet_origin is false>>And before you can address the voice that grows ever more insistent- <span class = voice>(you are not safe here; i cannot keep you safe here)</span>- the whisper in someone else's voice, rough and unfamiliarly accented- a rush of air greets you. <span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span>. A red light flashes, the edges of figures in the murk illuminated by the strobe light, shining crimson reflected off metal and clinging to the contours of clothing. A gathering crew in the airlock.<</if>> <<if $fleet_origin is true>>And before you can address the voice that grows ever more insistent- <span class = voice>(you are not safe here; i cannot keep you safe here)</span>- the whisper in someone else's voice, rough and familiarly accented, a voice you feel like you somehow <i>know</i>- a rush of air greets you. <span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span>. A red light flashes, the edges of figures in the murk illuminated by the strobe light, shining crimson reflected off metal and clinging to the contours of clothing. A gathering crew in the airlock.<</if>><</nobr>> <span class = voice>(you are not safe here; it's not safe here; i can keep you safe no longer.)</span> Across the control panels in front of you, lights flicker. Blink once, twice, a third time. Slower each time, like the light does not wish to leave you. Before they snap out of existence, leaving you in the dark again. <span class = voice>(beware the shadows. you are not safe)</span>- says the whisper, deepening the pit of fear in your stomach, until it threatens to swallow you whole. The landing light, pale yellow, fluorescent <span class = voice>(under this light, the living appear as dead, sallow skin and lifeless eyes)</span>, illuminates the cramped space. Enough space for the transported and their equipment, enough room for a rescuer, if a rescuer is deemed necessary. The pod computer breaks the silence. Gives you a date and time, welcomes you back to consciousness, reminds you that this pod will require a manual disconnect, and that help is available if the paralytics have not yet worn off. It says nothing about ominous voices in your head, nothing about being paralyzed with the terror that comes with hearing a voice that shrieks at you now- <span class = voice>(I CAN KEEP YOU SAFE NO LONGER)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>You have been afforded few luxuries in your storage. And though the drugs in your veins are now nothing but a blurry memory, your limbs still move slowly, your fingers atrophied by years of disuse, made clumsy by the thick gloves. All the better for the important task that lies ahead. Because if you fuck this up… Well- you'd rather not think about the consequences. The way that long term cryogenic storage works is simple enough. Make the body a closed circuit of cryogenic liquid, an implanted pacemaker that circulates the fluid around your critical organs, cooled from the inside out. Your heart rate slowing to a tenth of the norm while your brain is calmed by heavy sedatives, your body taken from you by the paralytics. A continuous dose of this drug cocktail, the body in a constant cycle of waking up and slipping under. Known as the Sleep to most, a term coined by the Republic colonists in transit, back when the Republics used to be the Corporation. It is said that there are some who wake and cannot slip back into Sleep. It is said that when these Sleepwalkers are "awoken" they are worse than the Enemy. That their panic and the drugs drive them mad, men and women with sleepy and wild eyes who are little more than frightened animals, baring their teeth and speaking in the forbidden tongue of of the universe, babbling rants that hold nothing but paranoia, their skin icy, their lips blue and every single movement rigid and tight. As if they never left the pod. As if they can never leave the pod. And some horrible part of your mind tells you <span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span> that <span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span> your eyes are just as wild, your voice just as raw, your fate the same. To never leave this pod. <span class = voice>(leave this place you are not safe here)</span> And part of you knows that it would be better to face your fate upright. So you fumble with the harness, with the cryogenic leads. Pulling them from the wall with Herculean effort, your muscles screaming in the new and sudden gravity. You follow the instructions dutifully, though every part of you craves freedom from this strangling suit, the mask on your face heavy and suffocating, fighting the intoxication of the oxygen that floods your senses. With a satisfying click, you are released, falling and barely catching yourself. At long last, standing on numb legs, staggering forward. Left, right, left. The marching cadence of bootcamp in your uncertain steps. Left, right… And falling, the world fading to velvety blackness punctuated by the stars you're seeing. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><span class = flashback><i>Fuck.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>It feels like another eternity and a half until the darkness and ringing in your head clears enough for you to manage pushing yourself up off the deck. Another eternity from sitting to standing, pulling your dead weight up until you stand on unsteady legs. Collected the best you can be, you stumble towards the hatch. <span class = voice>(i cannot keep you safe any longer)</span>, the voice whispers. sorrowful, filled with regret. The bright red exit handle lies beneath your gloved hand. Your mind races, your pulse in your fingertips, each rapid beat of your frantic heart threatening to shatter your ribcage. You turn the handle, and listen to the hiss of the pneumatics as the hatch slowly rises. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-t2-01-passage5][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

To say the airlock is overwhelming would be an understatement. Devoid of color, the white walls and halogen light makes your first steps like stepping onto the surface of the sun. The scale doesn't help, the vaulted ceiling arching far overhead, the back wall an eternity away. Gravity drags at you, threatening to reintroduce your already exhausted body to the ground. You beg your shaky legs to hold as you step forward. Forward, one foot at a time. Towards destiny, the blurry splotches of the crew becoming clearer with each step. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[This is a new start. Not a great one, but a new start nonetheless.|t1-t2-01-captgreeting][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[This is the biggest risk you've ever taken. This is a bad idea.|t1-t2-01-captgreeting][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[This isn't right. Something isn't right...|t1-t2-01-captgreeting][(($choice to 3) and ($sanity += 1))]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><<if $choice is 1>>You wanted, more than anything else, to escape the mundane. <span class = voice>(be careful who you trust)</span> And so far, this has lived up to your wildest dreams- and then some. Excitement replaces nerves as you near the collected crew. <span class = voice>(be careful, be careful. she is here. i am sorry)</span><</if>> <<if $choice is 2>>Something about this ship is… wrong. <span class = voice>(i cannot keep you safe. turn back.)</span> And yet, you find yourself drawn forward. One step at a time. Until your nervousness threatens to overwhelm you, standing in front of the collected crew. <span class = voice>(she is here. i am sorry.)</span><</if>> <<if $choice is 3>>This ship was massive from the outside. And the crew is tiny. This space is too large. This space was meant for something else. The pulse in your ears seems to echo in the walls of the ship, the beating heart of an organism whose sole intent is to eat you whole. The warning. <span class = voice>(i cannot keep you safe)</span> You are drawn forward, each step closer to the gallows. To fate or destiny or maybe just your death.<</if>><</nobr>> And here, standing in front of you, is the assembled crew. Fewer than you expected and certainly less put together than you expected. Six disheveled crewmen, the beating heart of this still unnamed ship. Their slow approach, apprehension in each step matched by yours in turn, anticipation and excitement and that nervous pit in your stomach deepening, broadening, until you stand before an assembled semi-circle of soldiers, squared away in everything from dress uniforms to work uniforms to causal clothing. From this uneasy standoff, a tall woman in a stunning dress uniform stands out. <span class = voice>(do not trust a word she says. she is dangerous)</span>, whispers the whisper, voice frantic and shrill. Desperate. A uniform vaguely familiar and altogether alien. She calls to you. Her words raspy and yet somehow smooth, though indistinct. <<notify>>You cannot trust her.<</notify>>And this is it. Your first introduction to your commanding officer. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if (($engineer is true) or ($officer is true))>><div class = choice-item> [[Military recognizes military. The proper thing to do is salute.|t1-01-soldiergreeting]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[This is strange, but nothing you haven't done before. A proper and formal introduction.|t1-01-confidentgreeting]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Oh. Shit. You're less prepared than you think. Time to wing this introduction.|t1-01-unsuregreeting]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[(do not trust her the woman who carries darkness in her palm and a knife of bone she lies to you she lied to me she loved me and hurt me regardless)|t2-01-start]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You snap to attention, as best you can. The clumsiness and the new and sudden exhaustion of your limbs renders the crisp gesture into a poor facsimile of military manners. You hope she understands, though the quirk in her eyebrow and the curious glance tell you otherwise. Nonetheless, she returns the salute. She returns the salute with her left hand. Her right is hidden and guarded, seen only in the briefest of glances, the slight shift of the cloak draped over her shoulder. The sight of it coats your tongue in static, builds pressure in your ears, feels like fire, like electricity, like the deep ache of torn muscle, like pain incarnate. And when her eyes catch yours… The world tears apart. Memory and light and shadow, the whisper growing to a scream <span class = voice>(not safe here not safe here not safe here not safe here not)</span>, though your jaw is clamped shut. Dark eyes, squeezed shut, but still seeing. Always seeing <span class = voice>(not safe here)</span>. And then. Let go. Silence in your head. The captain's curious gaze, head cocked to the side. The first words she speaks to you are the command to dismiss you, spoken with all the authority of an experienced commander. "At ease, soldier." Though you don't <i>feel</i> at ease. You feel quite the opposite, still thinking about the… moment. When you looked and saw, not sure of either the looking of seeing, just the whisper that tells you that you are not safe here. And your musings are broken again by a wavering voice, that of the captain. A decided contrast to the authority she carried earlier. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-passage1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

"My name is <<combine-name>>, reporting for duty." Your voice is muffled by the helmet and the mask over your nose and mouth. You hope that she can hear you, can understand you. Something tells you that you wouldn't want to be misunderstood by her. A feeling exacerbated by her slow, careful approach and appraisal of you. Cautious and curious all the same, your usually good reads on behavior and body language all coming up… wrong. Moves like a soldier, or a dancer, stiff but graceful, defensive and yet magnetic. Guarded, daring you to make the first move. And yet, no further greeting rises to your lips. Something... isn't right… <span class = voice>(i can keep you safe no longer)</span> Every sense is ignited as she draws near. Your hair stands bolt upright, goosebumps spreading to every inch of your skin, accompanied by their familiar uncomfortable shiver. Though it's not cold. This close, the uniformed officer burns. Like fever, like a wildfire, like a star. She extends her left hand. Her right sleeve hangs empty. The touch of her fingers ignites the same fire in you. A awkward handshake, static coursing through your veins and nerves. The clasp of her hand like iron. Branding you, even through the insulated glove. Her eyes don't just meet yours. They look straight through you. <span class = voice>(run.)</span> The voice screams, loses cohesion until it is a cry of anguish and fear. Her voice is almost a snarl, almost a whisper. She leans in close, making sure each word is perfectly clear. "I've heard only good things about you, <<name>>. Your response dies in your throat. The chorus of screams grows louder. <span class = voice>(she will hurt you)</span>, it says. <span class = voice>(she will show you no mercy)</span>, it says. "For your sake- and for everyone else's, you’d better live up to your reputation." She backs off, letting go of your hand at long last, though the heat of her grasp refuses to fade. Her final words to you, spoken over her shoulder as she turns to leave, are spoken in the same dangerous tone as her whispered threats. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-passage1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

For all the preparation you tried to do in the pod, nothing could have readied you for this. The voice you keep hearing or thinking or imagining, the strangeness of the ship, the strangeness of this crew. All of that leads you here. Speechless in front of your commanding officer, in front of your new siblings in arms. Your fumbling attempt at an introduction dies in silence, muttered through the suffocating mask. A curious expression crosses the captain's face; she slowly shakes her head and stifles a small frown. And then, she approaches you. Sizes you up, examines you with a piercing gaze that lingers after her eyes have already moved on. Nervousness sets your heart pounding in your chest, the steady beat of a drum increasing in tempo as she draws nearer. Something isn't right, something is terribly, horribly wrong. <span class = voice>(i can keep you safe no longer)</span> The hand she rests on your shoulder threatens to melt the insulated suit. Like fever or wildfire, the captain burns. You squeeze your eyes shut as the voice in your head reaches a screeching crescendo, howling like a wounded animal. The same guidance, to run, to hide, to do anything but let her close. You can see the captain through your eyelids. Her silhouette burns like light escaping the edges of an eclipse. Everything about her holds that same slightly surreal edge, from the way she carries herself <span class = voice>(soldier of the fleet, acolyte to war)</span> to the way she speaks. Almost robotic, like she's practiced this exact conversation <span class = voice>(she has seen it. she knows)</span>. Each words is measured, carefully selected with a moment's pause. Reassurances spoken like threats. "You've been Sleeping for, what, four years now? And my ship is a quite a sight to see, isn't it?" Her razor-sharp glare cuts straight though you. As does her threat, any warmth- as if there was any to begin with- leaving her words. "You'd better wake up soon. I have high expectations for you. And you don't want to disappoint me. It… wouldn't be good for your health." She pats your shoulder, as if to reassure you. Each touch sends static coursing through your veins, leaving a metallic taste in your mouth. And she smiles, the expression removing none of the intensity from her eyes. Like she didn't just threaten you. Like the voice in your head hasn't stopped screaming. And in a saccharine tone, spoken just barely over her shoulder as she turns to leave, she adds a final few words. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-passage1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $cdxtimeline to 1>>"Welcome aboard." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Words that fall flat in the silence of the airlock. Words that should hold weight. But linger, almost an echo. Welcome aboard. Welcome to an unwelcoming place. Where a greeting is a threat. Where a threat is a promise. And nothing was explained to you. Not the name of the ship, not the name of her captain, not the name of any of the crew. The crew that gathers, with exception of her and the blue-clad crewman, both of whom set off down the hall, evidently done with their introductions. And the gathering crew has no explanation for you either, a crewman in causal clothes returning quietly with your meager luggage, and the other two wrapping arms around you for support. Before you set off, a woman in white looks you over, her eyes narrowing in almost suspicion. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>"You have got a good grip on them, yes?" <<if $earth_origin is true>>Her accent surprises you, thick and present in every word. It’s familiar, from the somewhere in the Collected Central European States.<<elseif $earth_origin is false>>Her accent surprises you, thick and present in every word. It’s unfamiliar, though you think it might be from Earth, her speech almost too formal.<</if>> The crewman on your left readjusts the positioning of their shoulders, wrapping an arm tighter across the center of your back. You do not lean on their shoulder; they're quite mismatched with the much taller crewman on your right. With your head resting against the side of his chest, the rumble of his deep voice can be felt in your bones. "No, I'm just going to drop them, right onto our lovely airlock floor." If looks could kill, the tall man would be <i>very</i> dead. But he just laughs, unflinching. "Nat- you know I'm kidding, right? I'm the very image of caution!" His deep laugh shakes your whole body, and the crewman on your other side snorts as the woman in white's brow only furrows deeper, a snarl curling her lips. Before she composes herself. Smoothing the front of her coat, setting her jaw, and responding coolly. “Follow me, then. It will be your heads if you drop them." And in the silence following that threat, you set off. The two crewmen carrying you don't rush to follow the woman out of the airlock. A long, broad hallway lies before you, shadows pooling wherever the main artery is punctuated by smaller corridors, veins and capillaries. Carried forward, like you've had too much to drink on shore leave. Walking when you can, dragged when you cannot. And in this awkward manner- half dragged, half upright- you pass the first of these deep hallways. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-hallwaynightmare][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<notify>>Listen to me. Trust me.<</notify>>Abandoned. <span class = voice>(except for the eyes that stare back at you)</span> Dark. <span class = voice>(except for the glowing jaws of the beast, beckoning you closer)</span> Quiet. <span class = voice>(except for the screaming)</span> Peaceful. <span class = voice>(like dying)</span> You lurch out of the grasp of the crew, lunging into the darkness. No light follows you. The shadows welcome you with open arms. <span class = voice>(we are loving, trusting. we do not hold hatred and fear and mistrust like this crew.)</span> Each step takes you deeper, nearing the heart, nearing the eyes nearing the talons nearing the embrace. <span class = voice>(come closer, darling. your home is here)</span> Footsteps behind you. The tall and short crewmen. Fright on their faces, a mask of terror. Yelling at you to move, to come back to them. <span class = voice>(don't listen, darling. don't you want to stay?)</span> And you stagger forward, one shaking footfall at a time. <span class = voice>(don't you leave me yet, darling. not when we have so much to do.)</span> <span class = voice>(won't you come closer? won't you come and see?)</span> And you see. <span class = voice>(for the first time, for the last time)</span> The tall man is crystallizing, his movements as slow and sluggish as yours, skin shimmering with a layer of ice, breath hanging as a cloud in the air, frost spreading with each stride towards you, his expression threatening to shatter his face. And the short one is falling apart. Oozing blood, half blind, the remaining eye clouded with crimson, every facet of their horrified expression pulled too tight, too far by the wounds. In the same way that their body is barely held together, clothes clawed to pieces, all of it, all of it, all of it stained a magnificent maroon that falls in sheets. <span class = voice>(don't you see? they hide these things from you, they would lie to you, they would hurt you. i wouldn't <i>hurt</i> you, darling.)</span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[get out of my head.|t1-01-hallwaywilling1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[why should i trust you?|t1-01-hallwaywilling2]]</div> <<if ($sanity > 0)>><div class = choice-item> [[have to know more. have to go further.|t1-01-hallwayunwilling1][$sanity += 1]]</div><</if>> <<if ($sanity >= 2)>><div class = choice-item> [[i understand|t1-01-hallwayunwilling2][$sanity += 2]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = flashback><i>get out get out get out get out get out</i></span> Your prayer, your mantra, dragging unresponsive legs forward, pulling against the shadows that grasp your shoulders, drag you backwards, cry out at you, stay stay, why don't you stay? You cannot stay, you limp forward, the only thing you know, crying from the exertions of it, each step through quicksand, sinking into the floor, reaching out for the bloody and frostbitten hands that dare not reach further into the shade, lest they too are dragged forward. Your hand brushes the frostbitten one. The world shudders as light surges down the hallway, and the illusion shatters. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='wake up'>[[Proceed.|t1-01-hallwayhector1]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

Though there is warmth in the voice, there is something… else. Conjured images of a coiled snake, a loaded gun pointed at you. One wielded by you, cold metal against your chin, a smile on your face as someone else's fingers pull the trigger, the click of an empty cylinder. The next carrying a deadly payload, like the question that lingers in your mind. <span class = flashback><i>why should i trust you?</i></span> And the voice is quiet. A frustrated rumble in your ears. <span class = voice>(this is destiny, my child. would you not trust fate? would you not trust me?)</span> <span class = flashback><i>i don't.</i></span> Seething rage, blinding, suffocating, a weight on your chest and pressure in your ears. Overwhelming. The light surges back to life, you stagger, falling as you reach for the frostbitten hand, hearing nothing but the voice in your ears that swears in the name of that thing you refuse, fate. Illusion shattered. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='trust me'>[[Proceed.|t1-01-hallwayhector1]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $timeline to "Timeline: turn back.">><<notify>>Good job.<</notify>>In the dark, stars twinkle. Like the one that illuminates home, illuminates life. It tells you: you would be safe. It tells you: I will not hurt you. It tells you: come closer, darling. Come closer, come closer, closer, closer, closer. And you obey, by all the stars in heaven, you obey. Forward- one footfall at a time. Encouragement, praise, welcoming arms <span class = voice>(too many arms)</span> reaching out for you. An embrace that promises warmth, promises safety, protection, haven. <span class = voice>(death. brutality. hell on earth)</span> Further, into the deep, into the deep toward the two pinpricks of light that blink, fix on you curiously, ask you to come closer without needing to speak. The eyes of an animal. Or- something not <i>quite</i> human. Human enough for the warning to return, to say again: <span class = voice>(i cannot keep you safe.) (please.) (please don't do this)</span> But you have to. It promises that it won't hurt you. You just have to <i>know</i>. Forward- one footfall at a time. Arms wrap around your waist <span class = voice>(please)</span>. Tear you from the embrace of the abyss. A shattered illusion, light soaring back to the world. Falling. <span class = voice>(rising)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='return.'>[[Proceed.|t1-01-hallwayhector2]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $timeline to "don't listen. run.">><<notify>>Good. Come closer. Come see.<</notify>>There has not been much in your life that you have understood. The circumstances of your past were not kind for you to end up <i>here</i>, here of all places. But here, here you are safe. <span class = voice>(you would be safe in my arms, dearest.)</span> It understands, it truly does. <span class = voice>(you are not safe)</span> It beckons you forward, and by all the stars in heaven, you follow its summons. Come closer, dearest, it whispers, voice twinned, voice a thousandfold, a chorus of welcome. It wants you to come closer, to see with your own two eyes. In the dark, stars twinkle, a pair of glowing eyes that blink slowly, soften at your returned gaze. A face in the dark, handsome and beautiful and otherworldly and, above all else, familiar. Reassurance, you know he would never hurt you. You can trust him. <span class = voice>(you are not safe)</span> A body, materializing out of the dark, a phantom, a shade, a shadow of your past, a premonition of your future. <span class = voice>(he will hurt you)</span> But the man whose eyes are as dark as the shade, rimmed with gold and tears, he does not hurt you, he reaches out to you. Sweeps the ornate hood off his face, the scars on his temples a pure and rich darkness against his pale skin. A kindly expression on his face as he removes your helmet and mask, brushes cold fingers across your lips and chin, smiles with sharp teeth and a hunger in his eyes. Promises you in a voice like a chorus of a thousand singers, out of time and out of key, a deep and dissonant hum, a reverberation that echoes in your ears. <span class="glitch" data-text="(i will save you. i will free you.)"><span class = voice>(i can save you. i can free you.)</span></span> <span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span> And he embraces you and it is like being touched by a long-reaching arm of the sun; he burns, he burns. And the burning hits your mind and you see, you see a supernova in the form of a man who was not meant to be this way but was reforged for this destiny and perhaps he could reforge you into something great, too. But you are torn from the fires by strong arms around your waist, which shatter the illusion and there is still a shadow in the halls who sneers and bares needle-sharp teeth, eyes too dark, expression furrowed in hatred for the one who stole you from him. You will not forget his face. You can't. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='return.'>[[Proceed.|t1-01-hallwayhector2]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

The hand you hold is not frostbitten. The eyes that fix carefully on you are not bloodshot and pale blue, empty. Warmth in the arms that wrap around you, pull you forward, hold tight. Tight enough to keep the abyss at bay. The voice that you perceive as depth in your chest is not that of the shadows in the hall. Warmth, less the raging wildfire, more the crackling hearth. A kindness in the way that he tells you that you're going to be alright, that you'll be fine and still holding tight. Refusing to let go. A grasp on the helmet releases, the sudden and new atmosphere, a strong hand taking the mask off your face. Taking a deep breath with the encouragement of the man whose grip, but not vigilance, has relaxed. You sit on the floor of the main hallway, white and drenched in light. You rest in the arms and across the legs of a crewman whose face is framed with a short beard and long, curly hair, his skin a rich tan with golden undertones, alight with a dazzling smile as you examine him. A hand brushes your shoulder, and though you can't make out the face of the soldier who stands above you in the brightness of the hall lights, something tells you that you'd find no nightmare in their visage. They ask, and the deep voice, the one from the airlock that teased the woman in white, repeats. "Are you okay?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Yes.|t1-01-hallwayyes]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[No.|t1-01-hallwayno]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[...|t1-01-hallwaymaybe]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $timeline to "Crewman">> You are dragged into the light. Physically, falling backwards into the main hall, and mentally, the dark cloud clearing from the edges of your perception. But the dark still beckons and you, you are so very willing to answer its call. You twist out of your captor's grip, lunging back down the hall. And falling. Not like before. But physically, a full on tackle from a crewman whose weight pins you, prevents you from moving towards that inviting darkness, toward the hand that welcomes you. A scream with a raw voice. Yours, or perhaps not, as you writhe in frustration at the retreating shadows, whose embrace is now a missed opportunity, a hanging cloud of disappointment. Your helmet is wrenched almost unceremoniously from your head, the mask taken with slightly more care. The hallway is bright, and the voice that speaks to you is too loud in your ears. "No. No, no, no…. don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare. You're stuck with me. I'm not finding out what sent you down that hallway, and neither are you." You are gathered into a protective huddle, sitting in the hall with the pair of crewmen, who, at this point, are probably sick of your shadow-chasing escapades. A firm pair of hands on your shoulders, and looking into the stern face of a man whose expression softens, as if he couldn't bear to to stay cross for long. Long, curly hair and a short beard frame his golden-brown face, and he sighs deeply. "Are you okay?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Yes.|t1-01-hallwayyes]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[No.|t1-01-hallwayno]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[...|t1-01-hallwaymaybe]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

"Yes, I'm okay, I'm alright, I'm alright." "Good. That's what we like to hear." He sweeps your hair our of your face. It's grown long since your pre-transit buzzcut. "How about we get you up and moving, huh?" You nod in agreement, your heart in your throat. The shorter crewman asks a question, lost in the deafening silence of the hall. But the tall man answers, speaking to both you and the other soldier, whose hand rests on your shoulder. "Well. Natalie is going to be pissed. That- there's no doubt about. What with the helmet and mask and the little excursion we took. So, like I promised. Up and moving." Except, your legs won't move. Tired or scared, weighed heavily with anticipation of the end or something worse than the end. And there is no wavering in the warmth of the man who you sit with awkwardly. "Should have guessed as much. Would you rather us continue our slow walk together, or would you prefer I carry you the rest of the way?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Walk|t1-01-hallwaywalk]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Carry me.|t1-01-hallwaycarry]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Carry me? (flirt)|t1-01-hallwaycarry-flirt][$hector_flirt += 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

"I- I don't think so." A deepening look of concern crosses his face. "Something that the medic can fix with her tools, or something to talk about over a warm drink later?" A pause, considerate. "Either way, here's neither the time nor place. We need to get you up and moving, okay?" You nod, and he gives you a small, reassuring smile. The shorter crewman asks a question, lost in the deafening silence of the hall. But the tall man answers, speaking to both you and the other soldier, whose hand rests on your shoulder. "Well. Natalie is going to be pissed. That- there's no doubt about. What with the helmet and mask and the little excursion we took. So, like I promised. Up and moving." Except, your legs won't move. Tired or scared, weighed heavily with anticipation of the end or something worse than the end. And there is no wavering in the warmth of the man who you sit with awkwardly. "Should have guessed as much. Would you rather us continue our slow walk together, or would you prefer I carry you the rest of the way?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Walk|t1-01-hallwaywalk]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Carry me.|t1-01-hallwaycarry]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Carry me? (flirt)|t1-01-hallwaycarry-flirt][$hector_flirt += 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Incoherence. Your mind racing a mile a minute. Shaking, shivering as if the arms that hold you are icy. Things linger in the hall, a thousand eyes watching you. Waiting for you to come back. You should go back. Those shadows are safer than these arms. Those shadows aren't capable of hurting you like he is. "Look at me, hey, hey… Just. Calm down, look… I'm not going to hurt you." He holds his hands up. "See. Not going to hurt you. I promise." You lean forward, your forehead resting on his shoulder, your face in his chest. His hands, square and warm rubbing your back, a measure of comfort against the darkness pressing in. "We need to get you out of here. Come on, let's get up and go. You'll be safe every step of the way, I promise." The shorter crewman asks a question, lost in the deafening silence of the hall. But the tall man answers, speaking to both you and the other soldier, whose hand rests on your shoulder. "Well. Natalie is going to be pissed. That- there's no doubt about. What with the helmet and mask and the little excursion we took. So, like I promised. Up and moving." Except, your legs won't move. Tired or scared, weighed heavily with anticipation of the end or something worse than the end. And there is no wavering in the warmth of the man who you sit with awkwardly. "Should have guessed as much. Would you rather us continue our slow walk together, or would you prefer I carry you the rest of the way?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Walk|t1-01-hallwaywalk]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Carry me.|t1-01-hallwaycarry]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Carry me? (flirt)|t1-01-hallwaycarry-flirt][$hector_flirt += 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You raise your arms like an indignant child, and are pulled almost unceremoniously back to your feet. An arm around your waist and another around your shoulder, the familiar slow walk down the long hallway. The shorter crewman carrying your helmet and mask, your gaze fixed on the floor, not the too-bright walls and harsh lights of the ceiling. A ways down the main artery, and then. A sudden stop, a turn into one of the smaller veins that feeds it. A familiar darkness lurks at the end, gives you a too-sharp smile, a blink with those brilliant eyes, reaching out a hand, creeping closer as the shadow bleeds away. Dismissed with the echoing snap of automatic lights, driven back by the mere presence of those who almost carry you. Until you come to a second stop, facing a red-trimmed door. A small placard reads: <i>N. Konigsmann, Medical Lieutenant.</i> A smaller note, handwritten, reads: "Please knock before entering. Thank you.". Signed with the medic's name, sans rank. And, true to the note, the tall crewman knocks on the door. "Our medic has a uh… interesting reputation. I would suggest caution around her. She won't hurt you- well. At least, not intentionally. Come back to us in one piece, alright?" The door hisses open. Silhouetted in the frame, the medic stands with arms crossed. "You are <i>very</i> late." "Yeah, Nat, I know. Late, unthinking, what's a simple nav to do a medic's job." The medic gives him a withering glare. "Do not waste my time, De La Cruz." "You're not even going to drag Jayden into this? I didn't take on this task alone and you're bothering <i>me</i> about it? They're literally right there-" A sense of indignity lends his voice an extra octave or two as he complains about his apparently blameless comrade. "Sergeant-at-Arms Grey left, shortly after you opened your mouth." She grins, a sharp and dangerous smile. "It is just you, me, and that new crewman who you are holding so very kindly for me." "Son of a bitch…" "The language is rather unnecessary, Warrant Officer De La Cruz. Follow me." De La Cruz grumbles- something about <i>Senior</i> Warrant Officer and the rank structure- and readjusts his support of you. Together, you step into the medical bay. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-passage2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You gesture to your tired legs, a sheepish smile, one that you hope communicates inability, rather than unwillingness. He just nods, scooping you up and, in one swift movement, carefully places you across his shoulders. your dangling fingers are met by those of the shorter crewman, who mutters something indistinct. "I'm not <i>showing off</i>. You'd know if I was showing off, trust me." The second crewman begins to speak, but is cut off. "Don't go there. That was a bet, not my idea." Their argument is cut short by the appearance of a red-framed door. By the shorter crewman drawing a sharp breath. Both soldiers reaching to touch a small silver plaque beside the door. "It's a good-luck thing. When you meet the medic, you'll understand. She's a bit frightening, but I promise she won't hurt you. At least, not intentionally." He takes your hand, stooping to press your fingertips against the engraved metal. Before knocking, and stepping back. The door hisses open. Silhouetted in the frame, the medic stands with arms crossed. "You are <i>very</i> late." "Yeah, Nat, I know. Late, unthinking, what's a simple nav to do a medic's job." The medic gives him a withering glare. "Do not waste my time, De La Cruz." "You're not even going to drag Jayden into this? I didn't take on this task alone and you're bothering <i>me</i> about it? They're literally right there-" A sense of indignity lends his voice an extra octave or two as he complains about his apparently blameless comrade. "Sergeant-at-Arms Grey left, shortly after you opened your mouth." She grins, a sharp and dangerous smile. "It is just you, me, and that new crewman who you are holding so very kindly for me." "Son of a bitch…" "The language is rather unnecessary, Warrant Officer De La Cruz. Follow me." De La Cruz grumbles- something about <i>Senior</i> Warrant Officer and the rank structure- and readjusts his support of you. Together, you step into the medical bay. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-passage2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Your heart skips a beat at the idea of him carrying you. In fact, this whole time, you're surprised at how collected you've been. What with him pulling you back from the darkness and into his arms, unmasking you, reassuring you. Not even the nightmares could dissuade you. So, of course, you're going to take this opportunity- you'd be a fool not to. "I wouldn't mind if you carried me." He grins, scooping you from the ground in one swift movement. "Ask, and you shall relieve." Effortless, that's the best way you could describe the way he moves. Not a single sign of strain or stress, held securely in broad arms, a gentle rock from side to side with each step down the main hall. Your senses burn, creeping thoughts sneaking their way back in as you turn down a deep side hallway, but here, in the crewman's arms, there is a measure of safety, of light and warmth. Taken away from you as sudden as the shudder that comes over him, standing in front of a red-trimmed door. He swears under his breath, pulls you closer. The shorter soldier places their palm over the the plaque beside the door, bows their head, as if in prayer. "It's for luck. The medic is rarely a friendly face. She won't hurt you, at least, not intentionally. Just- come back to me in once piece, alright? Would hate to lose you before we're even properly introduced." He nods to the short crewman, who knocks and steps back. The door hisses open. Lurking in the frame is the medic, arms crossed. "De La Cruz, you hopeless flirt. Late again. Perhaps, if you would make decisions with your brain instead of your-" "Yeah, okay, Nat, I know. Late, unthinking, what's a simple nav to do a medic's job." The medic gives him a withering glare. "Do not waste my time, De La Cruz." "You're not even going to drag Jayden into this? I didn't take on this task alone and you're bothering <i>me</i> about it? They're literally right there-" A sense of indignity lends his voice an extra octave or two as he complains about his apparently blameless comrade. "Sergeant-at-Arms Grey left, shortly after you opened your mouth." She grins, a sharp and dangerous smile. "It is just you, me, and that new crewman who you are holding so very kindly for me." "Son of a bitch…" "The language is rather unnecessary, Warrant Officer De La Cruz. Follow me." De La Cruz grumbles- something about <i>Senior</i> Warrant Officer and the rank structure- and readjusts his support of you. Together, you step into the medical bay. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-passage2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span> If there was ever a place that felt <i>wrong</i>, based on a first impression, it'd be the medical bay. Icy cold, so much so you swear you see your breath linger in the air. Hospital beds and curtains on one side, closed and labeled cabinets next to a door with an unreadable placard. And what looks like a morgue on the other side. Slabs of cold metal, an array of equipment with sinister looking attachments, everything bright silver and stainless, illuminated with brilliant white that sharpens the already severe angles. And this is where you're led, towards a taped off area, a sterile zone, an inhospitable zone. Carefully placed by the tall crewman, who gives you a once over, the expression on his face one of unhidden concern. The medic's order is one of both surprise and with undeniably sinister undertones. You are to be strapped down, as the medic explains briefly, to make the process more pleasant for both you and her. Unceremoniously, you're placed on the slab of stainless steel, as cold as the rest of the medbay, so sold you can feel it through the suit's substantial insulation. The sound of the straps tightening against the suit is too loud, the only thing you hear other than your own breath, coming in panicked staccatos. The medic's voice is calm. You're nowhere near calm. The tall crewman is dismissed. Just you and the medic now. <span class = flashback><i>Wonderful.</i></span> The medic seems almost uncomfortable. Something about the way she moves about the place, gathering the supplies she needs. Occasionally tapping her chest and legs, checking a vest and pockets in a uniform she does not wear for supplies she does not have. And you're struck with a realization. Between rank and behavior, the medic is- or, rather, was- likely a field surgeon. Which does not bode well for you, to say the least. A collection of ominous tools rest on the table she drags beside you. She dons rubber gloves with a snap, flexing her hands before standing to loom over you. A raised hand, and your entire body flinching away from her touch. The medic shakes her head, taking the suit diagnostic unit from its brilliant red pouch on your chest. Leaning against the table, she examines the screen, compares whatever is displayed there with a handwritten notebook and a stained manual. Your heart rate climbs as she double and triple-checks the books, her expression a carefully maintained neutral that betrays nothing to you. She taps your shoulder, then pulls the external leads. A brief alarm that coincides perfectly with a pang of terror. When she looks at you next, she gives her best impression of a smile. It comes out as a grimace. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-medlook]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span> There is a dawning and altogether new type of horror in whatever she has seen but you have not. The hopelessness, the helplessness. At her mercy, and at the mercy of the procedure. The warping of the truth, whatever the truth may be about those rumors of Sleepwalkers and those who live their lives praying again for the Sleep would have you believe that this, whatever <i>this</i> is, is your fate. The facts are this: the team of scientists who invented long-term cryogenic storage earned all manner of accolades, their accomplishment hailed as man's next giant leap; allowing a distant and human future far beyond the reach of the first and only star whose light humanity has known. Their hope turned them a profit, with the spacefaring corporations learning how to cut corners and market until taking a cryogenic nap was just as common as taking a interplanetary transit. Which is to say- still dangerous and frightening, leaning into a gray area that- despite the sleek advertisement and celebrity endorsements- borders on the realm of science-fiction. Turning one's body into a closed system, circulating liquid ice with a second, artificial heart is a complicated procedure. One with a survival rate of roughly eighty percent, in a normal situation. Your situation, as you have been reminded, time and time again, is anything but normal. There's a checklist of things that could possibly go wrong. And you think you've checked every fucking box. Waking up too early, the voices, the hallucinations with the captain and the hallway, the loss of your helmet and mask, and now, this. The medic's concern. All items to be checked off. A not-so subtle reminder- every part of the machine keeping you alive was built by the lowest bidder. The medic collects herself. Puts down her books. And for the first time, you look directly into the medic's eyes. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[That... that was a mistake.|t1-01-medlookbad]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Something isn't quite right...|t1-01-medlookneutral]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Damn it- you didn't think she was going to be hot. (flirt)|t1-01-medlook-flirt][$natalie_flirt += 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

If you hadn’t found the medic frightening before, you sure as fuck do now. There is no color. A cruel trick of the light, or a hallucination from whatever drugs may remain in your system, or anything else, anything to convince you otherwise, to distract from the fact that there is no iris, only a hazy gray pupil. You cannot look away. With every passing second, her gaze bores deeper. A whisper arises. <span class = voice>(the eyes of the enemy)</span> And with the frantic whisper, you tear your eyes away from hers. Not that the rest of her face is any more comforting. As pale as her uniform, features angular and sharp, like she was carved from marble, like she was born from a block of ice. Her hair is nearing frost-white, blond shot through with colorless streaks. Colorless and cold, ethereal, but not like an angel. Like an alien. Her gaze, indistinct but lingering on your face, is turned by something in the far corner of the room. And your heart drops further. Her neck is scarred, deep, dark marks somewhere between blood and charcoal. Broken at perfect near-right angles, carving their way towards the back of her neck. Precise, surgical. Your observations are ended as the medic covers the scars with a gloved hand. And your horrific curiosity reignited by similar marks in the gap between glove and sleeve. And your morbid curiosity can only deepen, deepen like her scowl, twisted downwards like the corner of her mouth. A different scar, one that starts at her chin and carves its way up her cheek. Pale and organic, without the protractor-perfect angles of the ones that mock you from her neck and arm. A wound she does not mind wearing openly. A warning, perhaps. Something feels wrong. Something else, other than the pure lack of color, is <i>wrong</i> Fear rises, a coiled snake. Something is wrong. And you are entirely at her mercy. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-helmetask]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You wished for a face to go with the name. And what you got raises more questions than it answers. A blank slate, literally. The medic is paper-white, bone-white, nearing translucent. Her eyes are the same. Colorless, a smooth and solid white, save for a cloudy gray pupil. A gaze that burns into yours, as hot as the sun. When you can bear to tear your eyes away, back to the rest of her face, you swear the gaze lingers. Her features, aside from the strangeness of her eyes, are oddly pleasant. Strong lines and sharp angles, as if she were carved of marble or ice, and as timeless as the statue she resembles. Neither young nor old, but simply present. In the harsh medical lighting, almost ethereal. Like a cold and avenging angel. Before you can make sense of where that image came from, her attention is turned suddenly to something in the corner of the room. Your heart drops, a cold sense of dread as you catch a glimpse of scars on her neck. A deep, rich reddish color stained with soot or bruise. Perfect near-right angles, wrapping around her neck, plunging towards her spine. Too clean, too perfect to have been accidental. Someone did that to her. The glimpse of similar marks in the gap between glove and sleeve as she covers the scars on her neck with a hand, knowing of your stare, raise more questions. A brief moment of alarm, found in her scowl as she turns back to you. A scowl deepened by another scar, worn openly. Twisted by a scar from chin to cheekbone, pale and organic, different from the protractor-perfect lines that beckon your curiosity towards her neck and arm. Something about the marks is wrong, something is <i>off</i> about her. Something isn't right- the way she covers the dark ones and has no such qualms about the one on her face. The way she retains no color, cold and pale porcelain skin. Marred only by the scars, inviting your curiosity and denying it. She has no answers for you. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-helmetask]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Is that feeling in your gut fear or excitement? This wasn't your intention. But there's something about her that's left you awestruck. A strange beauty, one that shimmers and shifts with the light. Pale marble and silver, empty eyes that fix on yours, have you holding your breath without fully realizing it. You look over her face, intent to memorize it, intent to know her. In this lighting, she is ethereal, an angel when the harshness of the medical lamps catches the edges of her features. Strong features, angular, sharp, like she was sculpted, dramatic shadows falling around her haunting eyes and the furrows of her brow, under shapely cheekbones and the corner of her mouth, a spectacular contrast, chiaroscuro, dark against light. There is little color in her face, yes, but the ghosts of freckles and slight redness to her cheeks and ears lend some semblance of life to the porcelain skin. Her hair is slicked back and equally pale, a small curl escaping to rest on her forehead. And her gaze is shifted by something in the corner of the room, and you are distracted momentarily by the sharpness of her jaw and the lines of her neck. The lines that are mirrored by stunningly dark scars, somewhere between blood and char. Perfect angles, wrapping around her neck, clawing their way towards her spine and the base of her skull. Her hand lingers on those scars, as if she can feel your eyes on them. Similar marks appear in the gap between glove and sleeve. You wonder how far those scars travel, whether they cover more of her skin, how she got them. You are certain of one thing. They are not natural; someone did that to her. You wonder how someone could bring themselves to hurt her in such a permanent way, to mark her skin. It's not as if she doesn't bear other scars- there is a raw and organic scar that curls the corner of her mouth into a permanent scowl- but these are hidden, a mark of shame- pretending as if they do not exist, as if nothing every happened. It lends a certain and particular sadness to her expression, something you see but cannot describe, something that lingers in the way that the harsh line of her mouth softens to almost a smile. You hope- maybe foolishly- the smile is for you. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-helmetask]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The medic considers you for a moment, before reaching towards your face. You flinch as she draws near, but she simply picks up a stand of your hair, considering it for a moment before dropping it. Your hair, four years grown out from the pre-transport buzzcut fans out on the table beneath you. A question rests on her lips. "Tell me, what happened to your helmet, crewman?" Her tone is soft, and still somehow cold. Searching for blame, rather than an answer. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You were panicking, and the other crewman took it off of you.|t1-01-helmetaskgood]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You don't know, it was all a blur. (lie)|t1-01-helmetasklie]]</div> <<if $sanity >= 4>><div class = choice-item> [[There was something in the hallway. They took it from you when they pulled you away.|t1-01-helmetaskins]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

You take a moment to compose yourself, come up with an answer that might satisfy the medic's query. "I was panicking. Turned down the wrong hallway and freaked out, I guess. De La Cruz and the other crewman removed the helmet so I could calm down and breathe." The medic is angry, cursing both of their names. "Those <i>idiots</i>. I appreciate your honesty. I truly do." She pats your shoulder awkwardly. "However. Your comrades just made my job about a thousand times more difficult." A pause. "I am very sorry." <span class = flashback><i>Fuck.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-passage3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You need a moment to compose yourself. If you even can. You need an answer that satisfies the medic and ends this line of questioning, but at the same time- you don't know what happened to you. One moment, looking down that hall. The next- "I don't know what happened. I went down a wrong hallway and… and… I don't know. I was back in the main hall. I wasn't wearing my helmet anymore." You hope that's good enough of a lie. But the medic swears, cursing the names of the crew in a frustrated hiss. "Fools. Both of them. Thank you, for your honesty." An awkward hand on your shoulder, a vague attempt at comfort. "Your fellow crew just made my job much more difficult." She pauses. "I am so very sorry." <span class = flashback><i>Fuck.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-passage3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You know what you saw. You know what you felt. The question is whether she knows. Whether she believes. Something about the eyes, the way the whispers become a low hum around her, a murmuring stream of consciousness. All of which warn you. Tell you not to tell her, that she'll think you're crazy, that it would be so easy for her to deem you unfit for service and then what- your mission would fail and "<<name>>. What happened? I need an answer." Her voice carries and edge like a scalpel, as cold as the medical bay, as cold as death. "I saw something, in the side hallway. It- it called to me. I answered. I- I- I answered the call." Your voice takes on a venomous edge of its own, a bile bitterness. "They wouldn't let me near. They wouldn't let me follow. They wouldn't." There is no change in expression in the medic's face. "Your comrades took a risk. And I do not believe the odds remain in your favor. I will do my best. But there is a chance you have done too much damage." "I am so, so very sorry." <span class = flashback><i>no… how could you, how could you?</i></span> <span class = voice>(foolish, foolish, foolish. do not trust the shadows. do not trust the light.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-passage3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>The apology weighs heavy on your chest. An emptiness that feels like fear, but so very distant that it just resounds as empty. You want to just close your eyes, to wake in a quiet and warm bunk somewhere far from here. Somewhere kinder than this. The medic is busy, and your suit laid bare of tubing and harness, ready for whatever comes next. A sudden glint catches your eye- and you feel cold metal press against your throat. Instructions with a hint of malice. “I would advise you not to move. Unless you would like to be buried in this suit.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Your blood runs cold. Cold as ice, cold as the medical bay. A blade pressed against your collar, the muscles of your neck and jaw and muscles you didn't even know you had, clenched. The tip of the knife kisses the soft skin between chin and throat for the briefest of moments, and you draw a sharp breath. Before the pressure is released and the blade glides from neck to hip. And like that, you're free of the suit. But the medic swears in a litany of anger beneath her breath. Presses the cold blade into the crook of your arm, severs the sleeve from the rest of the suit. She prepares an IV, some concoction of painkillers and sedatives. Which don't work on you. You feel everything. You know how the system works. You watched all the videos and a live version of the procedure. But they put you to sleep before they perform the procedure. You shouldn't be awake right now. Yet, here you are, watching the medic through a haze. There are a series of ports in your bare chest, from what you can see when you raise your head. Most of them are on the sides of your chest, silvery bright under this light. One lies at the center of your chest, just below your sternum. The branching mess of tubes that link port to port all lead there. And then, into your body. The central processing unit. And it's damaged, leaking fluid onto your body, fluid that burns like fire, so cold it registers as boiling hot. The medic tests the integrity of this tubing, gently tugging on it. The fog descends as she rifles through datapads, the black bound book and her instruments. "This might hurt." She changes her mind. "This is going to hurt." With one swift movement, she tears the leads from your body. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>In an instant, you're blind with pain. A surge of agony, like a river breaking its banks, like a bolt of lightning. All your senses alight, and yet so far detached from you, as the medic just looms like a raincloud. You like to think you begged her for help. <span class = voice>(you're dying.)</span> You try to roll over to your side, try to grab at the wound that’s tearing you in half. <span class = flashback><i>I’m dying…</i></span> You can’t. <span class = voice>(you were restrained, remember?)</span> The straps across your limbs prevent you from moving too far. So you thrash against the restraints instead. The IV is torn from your arm, and the last of the medicinal cocktail dissipates. <span class = voice>(it's not like it was helping you, anyways.)</span> Awake, then, you'll face down death. Your chest, ventilated to the outside world, heaves. With each spastic breath, the pain deepens and broadens. Your body alight with it. <span class = voice>(this is the end)</span> The world warps, distorting in front of your eyes, growing dimmer with each passing second. A nightmarish haze of agony. <span class = voice>(this is the end. try to relax. it'll make it easier on you and me)</span> <span class = flashback><i>come on just stay awake please please stay awake</i></span> You cry out, voice taut with pain. Your ears are met with silence, but your throat burns, raw. <span class = voice>(don't fight it, darling. just let go.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The medic does nothing, just watches. Just fixes those cold, dead eyes on you, waits for something. <span class = flashback><i>help me do something do anything just please help me pleasepleaseplease</i></span> The dark is closing in. <span class = voice>(the dark can save you. let it.)</span> <span class = flashback><i>no please no no no no no no please… please…</i></span> The medic is joined by another figure, this one familiar, an aura that flickers like the edges of a flame. They watch for a time as you fight, as you fade. One turns to the other, gives an order, their words a thousand miles away and underwater, barely distinguishable through the rush of blood in your ears. A descending haze. <span class = voice>(you have no choice. submit. let go.)</span> You give into the haze. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>><<notify>>Don't be afraid. I only mean to help.<</notify>> <span class = flashback>an obelisk. a throne, a throne room. the tree with its roots spreading to touch every corner of the universe, bone white against something evil and dark and viscous, something that burns like the sun, something reaching out for you with tendrils of smoke rising, curling, pulling you down, down, under the waves until you take a breath that sets your throat and lungs aflame and</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-medbaywake][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

For the second time today- it couldn't have been <i>that</i> long, after all- you wake up. This time, you’re resting in a hospital bed, not hurtling through space. Thankfully. Unfortunately, you feel like you're still on that stomach-lurching approach. Propping yourself up sets the world spinning, dotted with gray and black and blurry color and light. From your somewhat elevated position, you can see most of the medbay, with its off white walls and tile floor. Slightly less foreboding than the first time you saw this place. No less sterile, even your own private haven of clean linen caries that soulless sterility, as colorless as the medic and just as cold. It's at least a little more welcoming than the morgue adjacent other half of the room, barely concealed with stained curtains. The good news- the drugs are wearing off. The bad news- the drugs are wearing off. With consciousness comes pain. A fuck-ton of pain. Radiating from the center of your chest, following lines that branch off to where other ports must have been in the sides of your torso. As you move, sharper lines of pain leap out at you, sharp and crawling across your skin. Specifically- up your neck and down your right forearm. Curiosity, in this case, is something a little more than morbid. Like looking at a car wreck, like watching the field medics as they recovered the wounded. The sheet across your body is pulled back by a shaky left hand (you don't dare use your right after that first bright jolt of agony). Your chest is heavily bandaged, bound from armpit to where your ribs end. The cream-colored gauze is stained through with rust-colored blood. And the rest of your upper body is covered in a thin and somehow still sticky film of blood, sweat and what you assume by the blue-ish tint as cryogenic fluid. Apparently, it would have killed the medic to have cleaned you up after she did whatever it is that she did. Disgusted, but curious, you feel along your neck for whatever wound carves its way up towards your chin. Your fngers are greeted by a ridge of stitches, from near your collarbone to almost your chin. Your memory is blurry, just the recollection of the touch of the cold scalpel and the medic's threat. But she wouldn't have hurt you. Right? Right? A final check, summoning your courage to turn over your right arm, to see whatever mess you know lies for you across the underside of your forearm. With a single movement, as swift and confident as you can manage with your muscles and skin both screaming at you, you turn over your arm. And you really, really wish you hadn't. Needle marks and bruises, like someone (or something) was grasping your arm, holding tight as they started an IV or gave you an injection, spread across the skin of your inner bicep and upper forearm, right above a single uneven line of black suture which divides your arm from crook of elbow to wrist. The stitching, clean at first, grows sloppy and sloppier, until it ceases altogether- terminating in bandages. You flex your forearm, wincing as fresh blood adorns the off-white cloth. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[This is going to leave one hell of a scar.|t1-01-medbaywake2][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[So, this is what a jigsaw puzzle must feel like...|t1-01-medbaywake2][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[This is all too much right now.|t1-01-medbaywake2][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>A twinge of frustration, a wave of anger. The medic's handiwork is sloppy at best. Risky- no- dangerous, at worst. The gash from stars only know what on your neck, and the blood on your chest and arm. She left you a mess, a bloody mess. Something tells you that beneath your bandages, your body fared no better. The longer you look, the worse it gets. The frustration, the pain, the need to know what exactly lies under those bandages. You know what you need to do. You need to get out of here.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You are a <i>mess</i>. Shaking your head and groaning with the twinges of pain that shoot down your neck, you come to the conclusion that you feel more like a broken pane of glass than a person. A second conclusion drawn as you shift to a marginally more comfortable position. This could have been a lot worse. You could have not even woken up. You're awake now though. And damn, do you need a shower. That's motivation enough to get up, right?<<elseif $choice is 3>>You're seriously considering just going back to sleep. Just being done with this bullshit. You fall back on the pillow, cursing your rotten luck. From waking up far too early in the pod, to your horrifyingly strange introduction to the captain, to the shadows in the hall to whatever the <i>fuck</i> happened when the suit was removed to now. Waking up once more, covered in blood and sweat and carved up like a cut of meat. The day's events culminate in this, propped upright in a hospital bed, considering your escape. Better get moving, before anything else awful can happen.<</if>> The plan in your head comes together impeccably, almost too well. It goes like this: <span class = flashback><i>Step one: get out of bed. Step two: shower. Step three: find some clothes. Step four: get the hell out of the medbay. Step five: find out why you're here.</i></span> A little basic, sure, but it's best to keep it simple, more room to adapt to changing events, variables unaccounted for. You've accounted for everything, right? Right? And with that assurance, you're shifting your weight to get up. Before you're struck down with a sudden and horrible realization. You have left something unaccounted for. The medic. Where the hell is the medic? A quick and almost frantic search tells you this: she's nowhere in your line of sight, though she's likely around here somewhere. A certain sleek piece of fabric draped over the corner of your bed tells you that much. Careless or deliberate, you don't know. But that's the medic's jacket. The jacket on its lonesome tells you only one thing- the medic has been here. It doesn't tell you whether she's here right now; she's still nowhere to be seen. A bedside table on wheels blocks your view, stacked high and precarious with piles of paperwork and datapads. Almost like she never left, recalling the device she fussed over before your procedure went south quick. Pushing the cart away with a weak arm, you finally spot her. Laughter rises to your lips, stifled by the knowledge that the only thing holding your throat together is a couple dozen stitches. Her current appearance is <i>quite</i> the contrast to her aura of cold professionalism. Every ounce of the intimidation she carried evaporates with the way that she slumps in the chair set up to monitor your sleeping body, drooling, jacket-less, hair loose and hanging to cover her face, still somehow clutching her tablet and a pen. Not for long, as she slumps further forward and snores loudly, the tablet falling from her grip and clattering to the floor, the pen still held in a tight writing grip. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[And... there goes that laughter you were holding.|t1-01-medbayescape1][($mc_wounded to true) and ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[No distractions. This is funny but... no distractions.|t1-01-medbayescape1][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Is this what people mean when they say hot mess? (flirt)|t1-01-medbayescape1][($choice to 3) and ($natalie_flirt += 1)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>The falling tablet was the final straw, either that or the snore or the pen still gripped in her hand. You burst out laughing, the only sound in the medical bay, loud enough to where the medic should have woken. With the laughter comes the horrible feeling of the stitches in your neck pulling tight, unbearably tight. And then suddenly loosening. Something you pray isn't blood (and yet, you know it is) runs down your neck, a warm line against your cold skin, and your laughter fades quickly. Step two and a half: fix the stitches in your neck.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You can afford a smile, nothing more. Nothing more- seeing as you don’t trust the stitches in your neck enough to talk right now, much less laugh. And you'll need the energy and effort for something much more difficult: getting out of bed. Here goes nothing.<<elseif $choice is 3>>If she was pretty when she was otherworldly, she's damn beautiful when she's more down-to-earth. Something about the vulnerability of it, you think. About trusting someone enough to sleep around them, about the devotion it takes to stay on watch until sleep came to take her. The little gestures, the jacket on the corner of the bed. The way you could have sworn you had woken briefly as she placed it over you. And there goes your train of thought. Which is unfortunate, considering you've got <i>quite</i> the task ahead of you.<</if>> <<if $mc_wounded is true>>Time to focus- or, rather- refocus. The medic is out of the way. You have three objectives. Showering, fixing the damn stitches, and getting out of here.<<elseif $mc_wounded is false>>Time to focus- or, rather- refocus. The medic is out of the way. You have two objectives. Showering, and getting the hell out of here.<</if>> A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. In your case, it starts with using all your strength and a mighty warcry (a grunt of pain) to swing your legs out of the hospital bed. The floor is cold under your bare feet. The world spins, dizzyingly fast, as you rise, and you resign yourself to leaning on the bed, eyes squeezed shut begging the universe to just let you get up and move. Mercifully, the world resolves itself, coming to a stuttering halt as you reopen your eyes. A more welcoming sight, staring directly at the medic’s discarded jacket. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Take the jacket.|t1-01-medbayescape2][($has_jacket to true) and ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Leave the jacket.|t1-01-medbayescape2][$choice to 2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>The jacket is a smooth, synthetic material, lighter than it looks. You slip your arms into the sleeves, admiring the way the silky liner rests on your bandaged back and chest. What you don't admire is the staining on the sleeves. Somewhere between rust and ink. Your blood. Still. Free jacket. And a comfortable one, too. You understand completely why she wears this all the time. Meaning (hopefully) she won't mind you re-appropriating it for your walk across the medbay.<<elseif $choice is 2>>It’s not your jacket. Doesn’t stop you from picking it up to examine it. Your first observation: this thing is fucking disgusting. The jacket’s brilliant white color is dampened, especially on the sleeves, by splatters of some dull substance. It takes you a moment before you realize what the stain, halfway between rust and ink, is. Your blood. Dealbreaker. You let the coat fall back to the ground.<</if>> <<nobr>><<if $mc_wounded is true>>You pull yourself up to your full height, stretching for what feels like the first time in forever. You admire, briefly, the warmth the jacket provides against the cold of the medical bay. <<elseif $mc_wounded is false>>You pull yourself up to your full height, stretching for what feels like the first time in forever. You shiver, feeling the cold of the medical bay against your skin.<</if>><</nobr>> So far, so good. Your next move is obvious. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if $has_jacket is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You're returning the medic’s favor- and her jacket. (flirt)|t1-01-medbayescape3][($natalie_flirt += 1) and ($choice to 1)]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[You're sticking to the plan. Shower, clothes, escape.|t1-01-medbayescape3][($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Your plans have changed- you're going to find a mirror first. Your wounds require inspection.|t1-01-medbayescape3][$choice to 3]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Time to explore a bit.|t1-01-medbayescape3][$choice to 4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>You know you probably shouldn’t. Actually, you know that this mission is probably more dangerous than your escape plan. The voice in the back of your mind is screaming at you to stop. Telling you that it's not worth it. But it's too late- you're already in motion, beginning the long, slow walk over to where she's slumped in her chair. Slow and steady. Don't want to jeopardize anything by being an idiot before you even have a chance to speak to her.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You know this- you are nothing without a plan. You set out to find the shower, leaning heavily on the environment to move. And realizing, after almost no time whatsoever, that you're in much worse shape than you thought. In no condition to be upright, much less escaping the medbay. You've gone too far to turn back. And the sight of the metal cubicle you know houses a shower, just across the room, galvanizes your resolve. You'll get there, if it kills you to do so. Well, maybe not if it kills you, but the sentiment is still there. The resolve is still there. One small step for man, one giant leap in the direction of the shower. <<elseif $choice is 3>>Would your mother have scolded you for being vain? Absolutely. Is it still your top priority? Absolutely. Testing your stiff limbs for the first time in literal years, you advance across the room, leaning on damn near everything in the room to move, agonizing inches at a time. All the while, searching for your elusive prize. As you've nearly given up hope, you spot it, standing out to you from across the room. It calls your name, beckons you to look and see what's happened. Your now prized mirror, perched precariously on a countertop. If you squint, you can pick out your tiny reflection. Now, you just have to get over there. Easier said than done.<<elseif $choice is 4>>The second you realized that you could- in fact- stand, the entire plan went out the window. You need answers. Something tells you the medbay is an <i>excellent</i> place to start looking. A cursory look through the datapads and paperwork doesn’t give you any new information- just health reports, scrawled in near illegible handwriting. Things you already know or don't have the technical knowledge to make head nor tail of. Meaning you need to look further, widen your search a little bit. The blue glow of a terminal screen draws your attention, like a moth to a lamp. A promise of information, inching closer, leaning on damn near everything in the room, your quest for knowledge undermined by your shaking legs. You steel yourself. Anything for information. One step at a time, one inch at a time, if that's what it takes.<</if>> Sadly, it doesn't take long for you to realize that you might have set your aim a bit too high. Shaky legs become tired ones, become leaden ones, become useless ones as you limp towards your objective. And you're falling. Again. Your last desperate attempt to catch yourself ends poorly, in a cascade of noise and metal and the sound of you hitting the tile. The cacophony and your subsequent complaints are- from your limited perspective and experience- enough to wake the comatose and raise the dead. <<if $has_jacket is true>>This time, you can't help but laugh at your predicament. Here you are. Laying flat on your back in the medical ward of some haunted and mysterious spacecraft, trying to escape the clutches of a doctor who makes Frankenstein look sane and ethical, wearing nothing but said doctor's stolen jacket, bandages and ill-fitting underwear. Add in the whole “woken up too soon from cryosleep” and "mysterious voices telling you it's not safe" and "something that lurks in the hallways and calls you <i>darling</i>" and it’s less like any sort of actual mission, and more of a space opera.<<elseif $has_jacket is false>>This time, you can't help but laugh at your predicament. Here you are. Laying flat on your back in the medical ward of some haunted and mysterious spacecraft, trying to escape the clutches of a doctor who makes Frankenstein look sane and ethical, wearing nothing but bandages and the system's most uncomfortable underwear. Add in the whole “woken up too soon from cryosleep” and "mysterious voices telling you it's not safe" and "something that lurks in the hallways and calls you <i>darling</i>" and it’s less like any sort of actual mission, and more of a space opera.<</if>> Of course, no space opera would be complete without drama- yours is provided by the sleep-slurred voice of the medic, accompanied by the sounds of someone half-awake and turning the whole medbay over as they look for something. That something is <i>you</i>. A very exasperated (dare you guess- angry?)- “You have got to be <i>fucking</i> kidding me!” Followed quickly by a question- “I cannot have <i>lost</i> them- how would I have <i>lost</i> them?" That's your line and cue. Time to do something. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Time to stay put, actually.|t1-01-medbayescape4][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Time to run!|t1-01-medbayescape4][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Time to hide.|t1-01-medbayescape4][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>Dossiers</span> <i>A who's who of this damn crew. If a file's redacted or locked, you're S.O.L. - sorry. I don't make the rules, I just glean code and pull files. Remind me to re-encrypt everything before Eris loses her mind. -Jun (and Jayden- because they told me they'd put me in the pit if I didn't credit them for "borrowing" files)</i> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> <<link "Eris Akakios">> <<popover 'opaque'>>\ TEXT \<</popover>> <</link>></div> <div class = choice-item> <<link "Alexandra Drake">> <<popover 'opaque'>>\ TEXT \<</popover>> <</link>></div> <div class = choice-item> <<link "Hector De La Cruz">> <<popover 'opaque'>>\ TEXT \<</popover>> <</link>></div> <div class = choice-item> <<link "Natalie Konigsmann">> <<popover 'opaque'>>\ TEXT \<</popover>> <</link>></div> <div class = choice-item> <<link "Jun Asuka">> <<popover 'opaque'>>\ TEXT \<</popover>> <</link>></div> <div class = choice-item> <<link "Jayden Grey">> <<popover 'opaque'>>\ TEXT \<</popover>> <</link>></div> <div class = choice-item> <<link "Tycho Crncevic (?)">> <<popover 'opaque'>>\ TEXT \<</popover>> <</link>></div> <div class = choice-item> <<link "Matthias Rigel (?)">> <<popover 'opaque'>>\ TEXT \<</popover>> <</link>></div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>Factions:</span> <i>Know your enemy, and all that shit. You can thank Hector for this one. Man's a walking encyclopedia, and might actually have an encyclopedia hidden somewhere for good measure. I would've asked Natalie but she's about a decade behind, and half of what she told me turned out to be bullshit anyways. -Jun (graciously assisted by Hector)</i> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Earth|codex_faction_earth]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Local Group Republics|codex_faction_LGR]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The Wandering Fleet|codex_faction_fleet]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>Miscellaneous:</span> <i>Group effort right here. Most of this will be- well- messy if I'm being honest. Crapshoot whether you'll get a viable doc or a jumbled mess of redaction and spelling errors. Have fun! -Jun (and the rest of the crew)</i>

<<if $choice is 1>>No use in fighting or running. You can't do either, and you're quite certain that this was the worst idea you've had in a long time, anyways. You resign yourself to stay laying on your back, waiting for the medic to find your exhausted body.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You’re reminded of your drill sergeant in training. Her voice echoes in your head- that one phrase that she used time and time again. <i>Hit the legs, recruit!</i> She'd either be laughing or proud of the effort you undertake to pull yourself upright, getting your wobbly legs under you and moving forward, a limping gait turned into the slowest jog, looking for an escape route. Time to get the fuck out of here!<<elseif $choice is 3>>There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that you’d be able to run from the medic. Not in your condition. And fighting her is, unfortunately, not an option. Talking is also out of the question. Naturally, this leads you to what seems to be the best course of action. You're going to have to hide, and fast. You spy the dark recess of an open cabinet. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start. The tile is freezing, and your legs uncooperative as you inch your way towards your shadowy salvation.<</if>> "Would you be so kind to explain to me what it is that you are doing currently?" The medic’s voice, clear and sharp in contrast to her disheveled appearance, cuts through the medbay, freezing you in place. You look absolutely ridiculous, and quite possibly more disheveled. In no condition to be on a mission to escape. “I have no idea what you were trying to accomplish. I am not angry. Just disappointed." Her tone certainly reflects that, and you feel a twinge of guilt. "What were you thinking? Why are you out of your bed?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if (($has_jacket is true) and ($natalie_flirt > 0))>><div class = choice-item> [[You just wanted an excuse to talk to her. (flirt)|t1-01-cc1][($natalie_flirt += 1) and ($choice to 1)]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[You just wanted to clean up.|t1-01-cc1][($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You needed to see yourself in a mirror.|t1-01-cc1][($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You need answers. Now.|t1-01-cc1][($choice to 4) and ($question_scene to true)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>Damn. This is awkward. You were hoping less for an interrogation and a little bit more for a meet-cute, where you could graciously give back her jacket and maybe chat it up a bit. It's time to improvise. You shrug off the medic’s jacket, holding it out to her. “I'm only up because I wanted to give this back to you.” She looks taken aback. Confused, maybe even a little offended. She takes the jacket, smoothing out the creases before placing it on the table. There is a softness to her tone and expression, through both are quickly stifled. “You were going to drag yourself across the entire medical bay to return a dirty jacket?” And thus, continues the interrogation. You can only nod, face burning hot. A curious expression crosses her face, and she nods slightly, her face reddening ever so subtly. "I appreciate the gesture. However, we have more important business. Follow me."<<elseif $choice is 2>>Best to just tell her the truth. No point in lying. “I just wanted to shower. I’m sorry.” The medic sighs. "You could have just waited. Would have saved us both the trouble and this mess." As much as you don't want to admit it, she's right. You could have just waited. It would have saved you the bruises already forming on your arms and legs. "Follow me."<<elseif $choice is 3>>Now's your chance. No matter how dumb it sounds, you can find out the extent of your wounds right now. Summoning your confidence, you tell her most of the truth. “I just needed to see myself in a mirror.” You cringe inwardly, the words carrying that vain connotation, rather than the medically curious one you were aiming for. The medic, however, doesn't't even react. Just walks over to the cabinets, rifling through the drawers until she finds a plastic backed hand-held mirror. She presents it to you as if it were a loaded handgun. You barely recognize the face staring back at you, ashen with dark circles under your sunken eyes. Blood drips from your nose, and more sticks to your lips and chin. The matted mess that is your hair bushes out from around your head, so dirty you couldn’t tell the color if you tried. Your chin and jaw and neck are all bruised, and the seam of the stitches in your neck stand out, bright against your battered skin. A tear leaves a shining trail through the grime on your cheek. The medic’s hand covers your reflection, pushing the mirror down. "It looks worse than it is. I promise. You will look and feel better when you are clean." She takes the mirror from you, laying it face down on a table. “Follow me.”<<elseif $choice is 4>>“I don’t <i>want</i> anything. I <i>need</i> answers.” Cliche, but still true. You need answers. You hope your tone was authoritative enough to convey that sense of urgency, that you're not joking, that you're deadly serious. You <i>need</i> some answers before you do anything. “I can do that.” Another surprise, this one very much welcome as the medic relents somewhat. “But…” You groan. There goes your master plan, always, always, always, a damn catch… The medic laughs, rolling her eyes. “It is simply some paperwork and a shower. I already took all the blood samples I needed.” You really hope she's serious. You're in no mood to be led on. "Follow me."<</if>> You're quite unable of following. And apparently, she's forgotten that much. All you can do is watch as she strides away, across the medbay, opening a sleek metal cubicle and ushering your absent form to enter. The look on her face at your absence is one of pure and utter bewilderment. But you're still clinging to the edge of the table for dear life, your legs shaking with just the effort of holding you upright. Annoyance, then acceptance flash in her expression, as she doubles back for you. Awkwardly, you set off for the relief of the shower. Where she leaves you, telling you stay put (like you're going to try to escape again), returning with a tray of instruments in gloved hands. A little less than gently, she unwinds the bandages that entomb your chest, letting the rust colored gauze drift to the ground. You want to look. And at the same time, you know you'd be horrified at what you'd see. So- you look anyways. A patchwork of scabs and stitches close a spiderweb of wounds, the largest being a ragged hole beneath your sternum. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest, threatening to rip the stitches. You swallow hard, burying the emotion and bile that rises in your throat. And turn your attention to your arm. Which is somehow worse. A ragged, ugly wound that drips blood and something else, something vile smelling and unnaturally blue, onto the floor. The rest of your arm is covered in blossoming bruises, poisonous purple and green, tinted yellow at the edges. The medic interrupts your impromptu examination with the shock of her cold hands. She is more careful with this gash, wrapping it carefully in a heavy, rubbery dressing. “I will fix it as soon as you are all cleaned up.” She tries to reassure you, but her voice is weak. “I promise.” She starts the water, and turns away. You strip down the last of your undergarments, and close the shower door. You’re finally alone. Here, in the shower, you finally have a better sense of your body. No more having to worry about anyone seeing you, judging you. Here you can relax, even if it’s just for a minute. It took you a long time to be comfortable in your body, that of… <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[a man.|t1-01-ccgenderm]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[a woman.|t1-01-ccgenderf]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[neither man nor woman.|t1_cc2][($gender to "nonbinary"), ($choice to 1), ($Tgen to true)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You have always been considered a woman.|t1_cc2][($gender to "female") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You were not always considered a woman.|t1_cc2][($gender to "female") , ($Tgen to true) , ($choice to 5)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><<if $gender is "female">> <<SetPronouns "f">> <<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">> <<SetPronouns "b">> <<else>> <<SetPronouns>> <</if>><</nobr>> <span class = flashback><<nobr>><<if $choice is 1>>It didn’t matter much what you are or were. Neither suited you well; you didn’t feel the need to check either box, adhere to either stereotype. You simply exist as you are. Just you, as you. Forging your own identity, one day at a time.<<elseif $choice is 2>>Your father leaned over you, calling you ‘son’ as he taught you. He taught you how to be a man, what being a man means. To be strong, to be brave and resilient. To be humble, to be open and vulnerable. His voice is familiar, his face familiar- both nearly the same as yours. And despite the years, the lessons remain- you’re a man because he taught you.<<elseif $choice is 3>>You stood quietly in front of the table where your parents sat. Head bowed, as if expecting some divine punishment. A confession, a question. Your new name, chosen for yourself. Flinching away from the arm of your father. He pulls you close instead. Tears in his eyes, saying he’s so proud of his son, that he loves his son, no matter what.<<elseif $choice is 4>>“You can’t do that, you’re a girl.” Bullshit. You are your mother's daughter, brave and bold and indestructible- you picked yourself up, kept moving, kept your head high. You know they whispered behind your back, questioned if you were right, if you were good enough. And you always were. Because being a woman made you strong. So impossibly strong.<<elseif $choice is 5>>You stood quietly in front of the table where your parents sat. Head bowed, as if expecting some divine punishment. A confession, a question. Your new name, chosen for yourself. Flinching away from your mother as she stands. She pulls you close instead. Welcomes her beautiful daughter with open arms and an "I love you, I'm so proud of you.".<</if>><</nobr>></span> Away from the medic’s prying eyes, you inspect the cuts that divide your skin, splitting the otherwise smooth surface. It hurts, both physically and mentally to see your skin like this. Before, it was almost perfect to you, a wonderful shade. If you had to, you’d describe it as: <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Pale|t1_cc3][($skintone to "pale") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Olive|t1_cc3][($skintone to "olive") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Tan|t1_cc3][($skintone to "tan") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Umber|t1_cc3][($skintone to "umber") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You have always been considered a man.|t1_cc2][($gender to "male") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You were not always considered a man.|t1_cc2][($gender to "male") , ($Tgen to true) , ($choice to 3)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>A byproduct of your childhood, you’d always been as pale as a ghost. The freckles mixed in with your complexion add some color, as does the slight rosiness in your cheeks and nose- but at the end of the day, it’s not much. At the end of the day, it suits your features rather well, like the subject of a marble masterwork sculpture.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You were often told you had a golden glow. That you looked like you were from the old Mediterranean, maybe Arabia, even. With the spread of humans across the solar system, that’d be almost impossible to confirm, but you like to think that you were descended from some ancient Greek god or goddess. You’d certainly look the part.<<elseif $choice is 3>>You’d heard all the comparisons growing up. Coffee, milk chocolate, and all sorts of spices. You’d just laugh, rolling your eyes. You grew sick of those comparisons, insisting for them to come up with something new, something original. At their confusion, you’d laugh. You know they’re jealous. When you look absolutely statuesque, rendered in tones of bronze and gold, it’s impossible not to be.<<elseif $choice is 4>>Your friend was a painter, and you, his diligent model. He would render you as a gilded statue, as a deity. One color of the many used stood out to you. <i>Umber.</i> A deep, rich brown, underlaid with russet undertones. You were transformed on the canvas, losing yourself in the shadows and midtones, reemerging with the highlights. A walking masterpiece.<</if>> The water shuts off, with a sudden snapping noise, leaving you standing awkwardly in the cubicle. The door opens. a hand, holding a clean white towel, is proffered. When you emerge, wrapped as best you can, you clear your throat, trying to pull the medic’s attention up from her tablet. “I can promise you, it is simply a bit of paperwork, and a basic medical evaluation. We will be done shortly, and you can be on your way. There is a meeting later. You would not want to miss it." You groan. “Couldn’t this have been done earlier? Like, when I was asleep, earlier?” She shrugs. “I needed for you to be conscious. Ethics, procedure, that sort of thing. Nothing personal.” You <i>highly</i> doubt she cares for either ethics or procedure. She doesn't give you the chance to argue though, leading you by the arm towards a station set up against the back wall. She directs you towards a measuring tape, recording your height. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Short|t1_cc4][($height to "short") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Average|t1_cc4][($height to "average") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Tall|t1_cc4][($height to "tall") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>Most everyone towers over you. You refuse to be intimidated by that. Always using your height as an advantage. Nobody ever saw you coming. <<elseif $choice is 2>>You’re of thoroughly average stock. Thankfully. You were the supply sergeant's favorite- they never had to make an adjustment for you. Which always meant you walked out of supply with a little something extra, for your gallant service as neither the tallest nor shortest in the room.<<elseif $choice is 3>>Always the tallest in the room. Always. Somehow, you doubt you were meant for service in space- your head brushes all the bulkheads, and if you're not careful on the engineering deck, you're likely to slam your head into something solid, metal, and expensive.<</if>> The medic points at the scale next. Dutifully, you step on. You look down at your body, trying your best to ignore… well. Your body. You guess the best way to describe it is <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Thin|t1_cc_break][($build to "thin") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Average|t1_cc_break][($build to "average") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Muscular|t1_cc_break][($build to "muscular") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Heavyset|t1_cc_break][($build to "heavyset") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>Just skin, muscle, and bone. Thin. Light. A runner, not built to fight. You ran for as long as you could, you ran as hard as you could. The fighting still caught up.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You're somewhere in the middle. Some muscle where drills developed it, some fat where discipline wore thin. A persistent gauntness, hidden in bony elbows and knees, exposed knuckles, and hollow, tired eyes.<<elseif $choice is 3>>You worked out to forget what it felt like to be weak. You were plenty strong, but now you looked the part. Deep down, you had your doubts. Doubts that could be crushed with more time in the gym, more time training.<<elseif $choice is 4>>The bulk you put on was protective, muscle and fat built to defend you. Built to endure a war and come out on top. And you endured, you survived. And still, there is always that sneaking suspicion- your body cannot protect you forever.<</if>> And thus concludes your physical examination. You're led to sit, still clad in your towel. The medic pulls up a second chair, sits in front of you and reaches for your forearm, flipping it so the grotesque wound faces upward. Gloved hands unwrap the rubbery binding, and you're met again with the sight of the ragged wound. “I am truly sorry about this. An accident, and one that happened late in the procedure, at that. I was exhausted, and should have checked my assistant's work more carefully, so that these would have held. Please, allow me just let me fix them. Hold no blame on my partner, let me undo her error.” You nod, though your curiosity has been piqued. Her partner, her assistant. The second figure who stood over you, who apparently helped you as you laid dying. Who really, really fucked up your arm. Whose identity remains completely unknown, though you have your suspicions. Nevertheless, you allow her to numb the wound and stitch it up, cursing the sharp pricks of pain that still shoot up your forearms. <<if $MC_wounded is true>>“Another thing…” You tilt your head upwards, showing the reopened wound on your neck, one that oozes slightly with the movement. The medic’s shoulders slump in disappointment, and she curses briefly under your breath before telling you to hold as still as you can. You’re thankful that she remembered to numb your neck as she fixes the ripped stitches. And with your wounds repaired, she leaves you once again. And returns, proffering you a bundle of clothing. A thin white jumpsuit, undergarments and a pair of sock-like shoes. Her directions are simple, to dress yourself to the waist. She turns away as you change as quickly as your tired body will allow. Half dressed, she wraps your chest and arm with fresh bandages, then directs you to finish getting ready.<<elseif $MC_wounded is false>>And with your wounds repaired, she leaves you once again. And returns, proffering you a bundle of clothing. A thin white jumpsuit, undergarments and a pair of sock-like shoes. Her directions are simple, to dress yourself to the waist. She turns away as you change as quickly as your tired body will allow. Half dressed, she wraps your chest and arm with fresh bandages, then directs you to finish getting ready.<</if>> You stand ready to leave, at long last. She stops you. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1_cc5]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

“You are almost free to go. I just need to cut your hair.” You give her an incredulous look. “You know how to do that?” The medic laughs, pale eyes flashing. “It was born of necessity. Steady hands and good with scissors, I suppose. Cutting hair is easier than removing bullets at any rate. Just- do not ask for anything crazy- I am good, but I am no miracle-worker.” Wonderful. You really hope she's not joking about the steady hands and good with scissors bit. You sit back down as she hands you a mirror. Your hair, now that it’s clean is: <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[black|t1_cc6][($haircolor to "black") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[dark brown|t1_cc6][($haircolor to "dark brown") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[light brown|t1_cc6][($haircolor to "light brown") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[auburn|t1_cc6][($haircolor to "auburn") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[blonde|t1_cc6][($haircolor to "blonde") , ($choice to 5)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>As dark as the abyss or a raven's wings. So dark the highlights come up blue-ish.<<elseif $choice is 2>>The color of a deep, rich forest or dark earth. Warm, lending that warmth to your visage.<<elseif $choice is 3>>Somewhere between brown and blond. The color of antique bronze, slightly oxidized.<<elseif $choice is 4>>Red, though not a fiery one. More like the embers of a dying flame.<<elseif $choice is 5>>Pale gold, and just as shiny. Like a crown resting on your head.<</if>> You run your fingers through your $haircolor hair, feeling the texture. It’s: <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[straight|t1_cc7][($hairtexture to "straight") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[wavy|t1_cc7][($hairtexture to "wavy") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[curly|t1_cc7][($hairtexture to "curly") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[coiled|t1_cc7][($hairtexture to "coiled") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>Your hair hangs like a curtain, straight and thin, though still somehow unruly.<<elseif $choice is 2>>Your hair is a mess sometimes, voluminous with loose waves that currently rest on your shoulders.<<elseif $choice is 3>>Your hair can be unruly, or downright a mess, as the currently tangled state of your hair indicates.<<elseif $choice is 4>>When your hair gets long, it becomes almost like a cloud. You wonder what type of cloud it currently resembles.<</if>> The medic doesn't give you much time to make up your mind. The haircut you're going with is: <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[a buzz cut|t1_cc_complete][($hairlength to "buzz cut") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[something short and neat|t1_cc_complete][($hairlength to "short and neat") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[something short and wild|t1_cc_complete][($hairlength to "short and wild") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[shoulder length|t1_cc_complete][($hairlength to "shoulder length") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[just a trim|t1_cc_complete][($hairlength to "long") , ($choice to 5)]]</div> <<if $hairtexture is "coiled">><div class = choice-item> [[not a haircut at all- you'd like your hair braided.|t1_cc_complete][($hairlength to "braided") , ($choice to 6)]]</div><</if>> <<if $hairtexture is "coiled">><div class = choice-item> [[not much of a haircut at all- you'd just like your hair shaped up a little bit.|t1_cc_complete][($hairlength to "natural") , ($choice to 7)]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>You run your hands over your scalp. No more long hair. Just smooth $haircolor stubble, a perfect buzz cut.<<elseif $choice is 2>>Short, military, clean. It suits your $hairtexture $haircolor hair. And it suits your job. You’re a member of the Solar Defense Force, after all.<<elseif $choice is 3>>Take the standard issue Solar Defense Force haircut. And make it a little bit more interesting. Undercut sides and a longer top, left unruly. You run your hands over your newly cut hair, admiring the way that your $hairtexture $haircolor hair looks.<<elseif $choice is 4>>Chunks of your hair fall to the ground. You hope it turns out okay. A glance in the mirror confirms your suspicions. The slightly out of regulation cut suits your $hairtexture, $haircolor hair, and it's still long enough to be pulled back into a ponytail in order to meet regulations.<<elseif $choice is 5>>You’re fond of the long hair. The medic cleans up what she can, and lets you inspect her handiwork. She hands you a few hair ties, and you dutifully pull your $hairtexture $haircolor hair back into a bun- for now.<<elseif $choice is 6>>As it is, your hair is fine. But it's a bit inconvenient. You asked the medic if she could braid your hair, and to your surprise, she not only agreed, but did a damn good job of it too. The $haircolor braids look good on you.<<elseif $choice is 7>>The beauty of hair like yours is that it doesn't look at all bad- or break any regulations- when it's in its cloud-like state. All you need to do is trim up some of the more damaged ends, give it some shape. A wonderful combination with your $haircolor hair.<</if>> You’re more than pleasantly surprised by the quality of the haircut. The medic takes the mirror back after giving you a moment to admire the way it looks. You stand, and the medic doesn’t try to stop you this time. In fact, she walks away, to an intercom on the wall. “It is time for you to leave. You have quite a bit of catching up to do, something Sergeant-at-Arms Grey will be assisting you with.” “Wait.” Your train of thought disappears as suddenly as it arrived. "You have a question?" The medic's tone rises quizzically, as does an eyebrow. You've got time for one question. Make it a good one. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Not a question- you're thanking her for patching you up.|t1-01-nataliequestion][($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You're going to ask about her name.|t1-01-nataliequestion][($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You're going to ask about the second figure, her partner or assistant.|t1-01-nataliequestion][($choice to 3)]]</div> <<if $question_scene is true>><div class = choice-item> [[She promised information. You're getting it.|t1-01-nataliequestion][($choice to 4)]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[Just come up with something, something witty and clever...|t1-01-nataliequestionalt]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>“Not a question. Just… thank you. For patching me up and everything, you know?” And you made this awkward as all hell. Wonderful! “No thanks necessary. I am just doing my job.” Her response is impersonal. Cold. The warmth, the attention to detail is all gone, swept under the veil of professionalism. And to think, you almost had a good thing going.<<elseif $choice is 2>>“It’s just… I think I caught your name earlier, but I’m not sure. The other crewman called you Nat. is that correct” What little color there is in her face drains, like she’s seen a ghost. “No.” and then, hastily. “I am Medical Lieutenant Natalie Konigsmann- you will call me Lieutenant Konigsmann.” She looks sick to her stomach, and shuts down the conversation in favor of focusing on the intercom. Something about that nickname hurts. You make a mental note to avoid it in the future.<<elseif $choice is 3>>"You mentioned someone else helped you with the procedure, and I vaguely recall seeing someone else standing over me. Who were they?" The medic's expression changes to something dangerous, conspiratorial. "The captain possesses some medical knowledge, and makes up for the gaps in that knowledge with a very particular… curiosity. She presides over most medical operations. An extra hand, if I require it." The captain, of all people. Something is off. But before you can continue down the line of questioning, she's already turned back towards the intercom. Leaving you with more questions than answers.<<elseif $choice is 4>>“Earlier, you said you’d tell me about the mission. I’m cashing in on that promise- what do you know?” She smirks. “I am quite sure you can ask your ‘tour guide’ all about our top of the line ship and illustrious mission.”. Her smirk spreads to a grin and then to a laugh. Through her dry laughter, she adds “I know about as much as you do, anyways.” Wonderful! Wasted your only question on a dead fucking end.<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-jaydenintro]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The original thought that flickered across your mind is long gone now, a fleeting idea lost in a heartbeat. So you stand there, looking as dumb as you feel. The medic is getting annoyed with your silence. A second, worse, idea crosses your mind <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Just say it. What's the worst that can happen?|t1-01-nataliequestionalt1][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Better just to stay quiet on this one.|t1-01-nataliequestionalt1][$choice to 2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>“Our newest crewman is awake and functional. Somebody come get them.” Her tone is commanding, prompting a quick response from the other end of the line. When she walks by you, en route to collect her jacket, she’s all business. Cold as the medical bay, as serious as the business end of a scalpel. She leans against the edge of the counter, cuffing the sleeves of her pink undershirt. She catches you staring. “Never learned not to stare? You know, the rest of the crew does not see this side of me. And if you told them that I am more than just my job, they would never believe you.” She smiles, but your blood runs cold. “They would think I scrambled your brains for a laugh.” That's not horrifying whatsoever. Memories of a whisper, you are not safe here. And that judgment seeming to hold true. Truth be told, you couldn’t care less about being caught staring. It was the scars that stood out to you. As dark and geometric as the ones etched into her neck. Spiderwebs, lightning bolts, complexes of deep crimson, covering both forearms and hands. Marks that are <<if $fleet_origin is true>>reminiscent of those carried by Legionnaires.<<else>>almost entirely unfamiliar.<</if>> You wonder how far the marks go, and by the shifting of the collar of her bright undershirt as she fixes her hair, you catch a glimpse on her upper chest. Marked the same as the rest of her. Just as mysterious. Your visual investigation is ended by the donning of her jacket, fastening the zipper and snaps all the way to her chin. All the scars disappearing under the discolored white fabric. You're startled by a knock on the door. The medic stands at her full height, saluting you sharply. You stand to return the gesture, before being pulled into an icy and impossibly strong handshake. With your hand locked in her frozen grip, she whispers to you. A warning. Or a threat. “Try not to make a habit of being in here, understood? There is only so much I can do for you.” Released and reeling, she walks away as if nothing happened, opening the door from a panel on the wall. A figure stands at attention in the doorway. “Lieutenant Konigsmann? Reporting for duty.” The medic, Konigsmann, dismisses the soldier. “<<name>>. This is Sergeant-at-Arms Grey. They will be escorting you around the ship and preparing you for the meeting.” Sergeant-at-Arms Grey motions for you to follow them, and together, you step out into the dull white hallways. The door slides quickly shut behind you. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>“Y'know, if she could slam that door, I think she would.” There's one thing that you've noticed time and time again. On this ship the military facade that everyone carries is very thin- a departure from the uptight and strictly "sir, yes, sir" and "aye, ma'am" attitude worn by damn near everyone in your training cycle. It makes you wonder- is everyone here actually military, or just pretending to be? Nevertheless, the sergeant's comment is funny, and painfully true. You know damn well if Konigsmann had a door, she'd be slamming it in your face, specifically. “So, do you want me to call you Sergeant-at-Arms Grey, or…?” “I mean, technically, you can, and probably should, but I’m as much Sergeant-at-Arms as she is Nat.” Grey points over their shoulder, back towards the medical bay. “Just call me Jayden.” “That, I can do. Pleasure to meet you, Jayden. I’m <<name>>.” You extend a hand, which they shake enthusiastically. Jayden laughs. “Finally, a ‘pleasure to meet you’- not a ‘you’re finally here’ or a ‘why are you late?’” Their voice is familiar, familiar enough for an apology. “Look- I'm sorry about the whole 'running off into the shadows' thing from the hallway, earlier.” They laugh. "Hey, don't worry about it. We all get a little creeped out by those halls. A trick of the light and the empty space. The ceilings are a lot taller and there's more ventilation, so you tend to imagine things a little bit easier anyways. You should have seen Hector, when he was first brought aboard…" You decide to change the subject. “What are we supposed to be doing now?” “We’re making you a dress uniform real quick, then, we’re gonna go meet the rest of the crew.” Jayden smiles reassuringly, and you make eye contact for the first time. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>For such an upbeat person, they sure don’t look the part. Pale scars warp their rich black skin, tugging at the skin of their cheeks and nose. An especially deep scar divides the left side of their face, turning the brown eye a staggeringly bright green-blue. Further deep scars cross the bridge of their nose and other cheek, rest on top their brow and dig into their neck. They, quite simply, look like they've been through hell and back. Jayden must have noticed your double-take at their appearance. “I’m not as scary as I look. I promise. Just unlucky, you know how it is.” Their voice, quiet and soft, catches you off balance. “I… it’s okay Jayden… I didn’t mean to stare or make you uncomfortable.” You hope your apology is enough. They seem a bit happier now. “I get that a lot. People cross the street when they see me. Or they get really sad. I don’t know which one I hate more.” Another change of tone, another change of subject . “Come on then- I’ll give you a tour while we go to my office.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-hallbet][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if $choice is 1>>Before you give yourself time to reconsider, you've already started speaking. “Are you actually a doctor?” You wish there was some way to describe the medic’s expression. If you had to guess, it lies at the intersection of anger, disgust and confusion. Without a doubt, this is one of the worst ideas and decisions you've made. Maybe ever. Something about this woman tells you that if she really, really wanted to, she could kill you and make it look like some tragic accident. And from the way her expression hardens, she's planning that accident right now. “And what makes you think that? Ungrateful, even after I saved your life? Suspicious of my appearance, of my methods?” The medic’s voice is calm. Too calm to be undercut with such potent anger. You decide that it’s in your best interests to apologize. Profusely. The medic's laughter cuts your apology short. "I scared you, did I not? I am not a doctor. I was a field medic. And much, much better at killing than medicine." The silence following her statement is uncomfortable and deafening. A mutual decision is made in that silence to ignore everything that was just said.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You bite back your terrible, terrible idea. The medic just looks at you, beckoning you to speak. “Well? Cat got your tongue?” Then, more angrily: “Just spit it out already!” You shake your head. The medic returns to the intercom. You can't help but feel as if you've dodged a bullet.<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-jaydenintro]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The central hallway is vaulting, white ceilings stretching up far beyond your reach. Most ships are tiny, claustrophobic, and dim. Everywhere you look, there’s clean white paint and light. “It really is weird, isn't it?” Jayden voices your confusion out loud. “I’m figuring out how it all works, you know. There’s a lot going on behind those panels. A lot you can’t see, a lot you won’t notice.” They gesture down the hall, where pooling shadows indicate branching hallways. “That way to the everything. The medbay’s at the back, same as the labs and damage control.” You follow Jayden, barely listening as they list off facilities on each perpendicular hall. “To save power, the side hall lights and auxiliary hall lights are off unless there’s motion.” A burst of light down the nearest hallway turns both of your heads. “And… sometimes they just do <i>that</i>. Hector and I have a bet with Jun about who or what haunts this ship.” “The thing from the hallway…” Jayden shakes their head. “I don't think so- there's gotta be a logical explanation. So Hector and Jun ran the code. Took them about three days, a lot of the systems are redundant and locked down tight. Still don't know how they got into them but they say there’s no anomalies that would result in the lights coming on randomly. I think it’s the first officer stalking around. Hector’s money is on the medic. And Jun thinks it’s the captain. Couldn’t get Nat in on the bet and none of us were brave enough to make a wager with command, so- how about you?” <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You don't bet.|t1-01-office]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You'll take the bet.|t1-01-hallbet2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>“It has to be the captain- I don’t know how to explain it- but… something about her is just a little bit <i>too</i> off.” “I know exactly what you’re saying. Whenever she’s around…” Jayden looks around, like she could just appear out of thin air. “Respectfully, that woman scares the shit out of me- I wouldn’t be surprised if she was lurking somewhere. Gonna have to talk to Jun about splitting that wager though. They drive a hard bargain."<<elseif $choice is 2>>“I don't know- I haven’t even <i>seen</i> the first officer yet. She seems the slinking type…” “Just so you know- if we’re right about this- it’s a seventy-thirty split in favor of me, got it?” You roll your eyes, extending your hand to make the deal official.<<elseif $choice is 3>>“The medic… if there was ever someone who wanted to creep around the ship as quietly as possible, it’d be her.” “Following Hector’s logic, huh? Personally, I just think he wants to get to know her- he's the type to want to know everything about everyone, but I get where you’re coming from. Hector should go for a fifty-fifty split though, so your money is a bit safer with him.”<<elseif $choice is 4>>“All Hector would have to do is convince the medic to do is to ‘accidentally’ get caught once. He could split the winnings, take all the credit. He’s got everything to gain, and only his money to lose.” “I like the way you think!” Jayden laughs, shaking their head slightly. “That’s a new one though- Hector sneaking around.”<<elseif $choice is 5>>“Think about who has something to gain from this- Jun could make a lot of money carrying this mess on… besides, I haven’t even seen Jun. How would I know if they were behind this?” “You would know if you’d met our pilot. You'd also know they're not the type to sneak around. Trust me- you’d <i>know</i>”.<<elseif $choice is 6>>“How do I know it’s not you- pranking the new recruit to get some easy money. How do I know if you know more than you’re letting on? My money is on my ‘tour guide’.” “That’s an… interesting… take. I’ll give you that much. But there are easier ways to get your money.” Jayden sighs. “To each their own. I’ll let the others know after the meeting.”<<elseif $choice is 7>>“What if it’s not a someone? What if there really was something in that hall? I swear I saw something… <<if $sanity >= 4>>no… I saw someone. He spoke to me, he's real and tangible, I touched his hand."<<else>>I swear I keep hearing things, too. A whisper.”<</if>> “You’re headed down a dark path there, huh? If you keep looking into those shadows, your mind will come up with something to see or hear. And you won't like how it looks or what it has to tell you.” At your surprised expression, they laugh. “I'm kidding of course- I’ll put you down for interdimensional anomaly.”<</if>> Jayden directs you down the next hallway. You watch the slow wave of light preceding your way to Jayden’s office, the shadows slowly being driven backwards. “After you, <<name>>” The door to the quartermaster’s office is the same gray sliding panel as the medic’s door. There's a similar plaque with their name and rank, and a separate title, crossed off and replaced with a different one- Quartermaster. Beneath it, a mess of colorful notes and drawings, from damn near everyone on the crew. Some kind, some crude, some artfully decorated and others still a mess of chicken-scratch handwriting and scribbles. The door hisses open, and what lies behind is surprisingly more inviting. It looks lived in, a direct contrast to the sterile medbay and haunted halls. “You’ll have to forgive the mess. I've, uh, I've been a bit busy.” Mess is probably the best way to describe the room. Jayden, the self-declared quartermaster, has covered every available inch of the room with <i>something.</i> An impressive arsenal of weaponry covers the facing wall, all locked behind wire cages. Below, overflowing cabinets spew armor and space suit parts. A whole array of electronics rest in and on a tool chest pushed haphazardly to the back wall. An open filing cabinet reveals yards of fabric, hanging, rolled, bunched, however it would fit. Jayden’s desk is angled across the back corner, a simple metal thing just as occupied as the rest of the room. They head there, picking their way across the floor. “Watch where you step- I've done a little, um, <i>modification</i>.” Jayden’s not kidding. The quartermaster has ripped up the floor, wall and ceiling tiles. Cables and wire bundles coil like snakes on the floor, pipes and beams hold up makeshift flooring. “Jayden- why?” You point to the sizable gap in the floor, edges still glowing white hot from a torch. The space whispers to you. Beckons you closer. To get on your hands and knees and peer into the depths, to come see that which lies beneath the deck, what horror hides in the space underneath, the monster in its labyrinth, the king on its throne. It is not yet strong enough to walk above the decks. But you could help it. You could find it, could fuel it. The heat and light both drain from the room, as ascending fog of dark dread. From which, a disembodied hand reaches up, punching through the gloom. Black-stained fingers, a gradient of decay. It grasps the edge of the gash in the floor, each finger leaving a glowing white mark. A second hand, pale arms, something dragging itself from the underbelly of the ship. Jayden's voice shatters the apparition, drags you back to the warmth of the quartermaster's office. “Same reason for the gizmos and gadgets- it’s war, and we need every advantage we can get. I’m learning how this ship works by taking it apart.” Your face must have betrayed your confusion. “What? I got permission- kinda.” “Why am I here, again?" <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-office2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

“Alright, Jayden. Count me in.” “Really? I mean- I’ll tell Hector and Jun after our meeting. They’ll fill you in on the wagers.” “Hey- just between you and me- who’s your money on?” <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[The captain.|t1-01-office][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The first officer.|t1-01-office][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The medic.|t1-01-office][$choice to 3]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Hector.|t1-01-office][$choice to 4]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Jun.|t1-01-office][$choice to 5]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Jayden.|t1-01-office][$choice to 6]]</div> <<if $sanity > 0>><div class = choice-item> [[Something... else.|t1-01-office][$choice to 7]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

“Oh, shit- that’s right. Yeah, you need your uniforms. That’s my job.” They get to work, gathering fabric and tools, muttering something about a service record. Jayden tosses their materials onto the desk, clearing some of the mess on the floor. They beckon you over. “Okay, this might be awkward, but I don’t have a lot of space, so I guess we’ll make it work.” Awkward is an understatement. In the tiny space they've set aside for you, movement would be awkward- if not impossible. You choices are to get comfortable with the quartermaster, or find out what exactly is in that pit. You decide on the former. You didn’t hear Jayden’s question the first time, spoken directly into the lapel of your jumpsuit. Now, with their arms and tape measure around your chest, Jayden asks again. “Where are you from?” <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if $earth_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[Earth.|t1-01-office3][$choice to 1]]</div><</if>> <<if $space_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[The Local Group Republics.|t1-01-office3][$choice to 2]]</div><</if>> <<if $fleet_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[The Wandering Fleet.|t1-01-office3][$choice to 3]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[None of your business.|t1-01-office2alt][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Wherever you want me to be from... (flirt)|t1-01-office2alt][$choice to 2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>“I’m from Earth-wait, why is this important?” Jayden lets you go to grab a roll of blue fabric. “Uniform regulations. You Earth people in navy blue, Republic people wear black, Fleet people get gray. Medical cases get white, like what you're wearing now, and what the medic <i>might</i> be wearing later. There's another special case, but you don't see them anymore. Shame, those red uniforms were really something, too.”<<elseif $choice is 2>>“I’m a colony kid. LGR- why do you want to know?” Jayden lets you go to grab a roll of black fabric. “Uniform regulations. Earth people in navy blue, Republic people, like you and me, wear black, and Fleet people get gray. Medical cases get white, like what you're wearing now, and what the medic <i>might</i> be wearing later. There's another special case, but you don't see them anymore. Shame, those red uniforms were really something, too.”<<elseif $choice is 3>>“The Wandering Fleet. Do you need a vessel name or…?” “Nah, you’re fine.” Jayden lets you go to grab a roll of gray fabric. “Dunno if you have ‘em but, we follow uniform regulations. Earth people in navy blue, Republic people wear black, and Fleeties-<i> you</i>- get gray. Medical cases get white, like what you're wearing now, and what the medic <i>might</i> be wearing later. There's another special case, but you don't see them anymore. Shame, those red uniforms were really something, too.”<</if>> Your turn to ask a question. “Hey, Jayden. Where are you from?” Your question catches Jayden by surprise. They look up from the fabric they’re cutting, pointing with the scissors to the flags that hang above their desk. “I’m from a Republic- the Moons of Saturn. More specifically, from Hope, on Titan. It was a frontier town when I left, a smoldering wreck when I returned.” They shake their head. “Now, it’s the capital. Crazy how things can change so fast.” The material now cut, they place it into a fabricator, the machine whirring to life under Jayden’s control. “We've got a few minutes, and I need to give you the right information for your uniforms. What’d you do before this? How’d you serve the Solar Defense Force?” <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if $engineer is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a combat engineer, trained in high-tech violence.|t1-01-job1]]</div><</if>> <<if $officer is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a soldier. Infantry, then reserves, then, finally, leadership.|t1-01-job2]]</div><</if>> <<if $psych is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were- and still are- a doctor of psychology.|t1-01-job3]]</div><</if>> <<if $botanist is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a botanist, studying at the Apex School for the Sciences.|t1-01-job4]]</div><</if>> <<if $spy is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a liaison officer, sent here to manage communications, supplies, and general operations.|t1-01-job5]]</div><</if>> <<if $pilot is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a pilot, the best of your squadron.|t1-01-job6]]</div><</if>> <<if $tech is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a bit of everything, a technician if you want to be formal.|t1-01-job7]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>“I don’t see why this is important, Jayden. I just need a uniform.” They roll their eyes. “It’s for uniform regulations, bulkhead. When you’re on an interplanetary ship, you need color codes. So where the hell are you from?”<<elseif $choice is 2>>“Are you flirting with me or just making small talk, quartermaster?” “It's a little early to be flirting with me, I'm still on the clock.” Jayden won’t meet your eyes. They’re cute when they’re flustered. “Look, hotshot- it’s for uniform regulations. You’re part of an interplanetary crew. I need you looking the part, got it?” “You never answered my question, Jayden…” "Yeah, and you didn’t answer mine, <<name>>. Where are you from?”<</if>> Jayden doesn’t have time for your messing around. “Come on- it’s not like I’m asking for the nuclear launch codes or your password. Just where you’re from.” <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if $earth_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[Earth.|t1-01-office3][$choice to 1]]</div><</if>> <<if $space_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[The Local Group Republics.|t1-01-office3][$choice to 2]]</div><</if>> <<if $fleet_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[The Wandering Fleet.|t1-01-office3][$choice to 3]]</div><</if>> <<if $choice is 2>><div class = choice-item> [[None of your business.|t1-01-office2alt][$choice to 1]]</div><</if>> <<if $choice is 1>><div class = choice-item> [[Wherever you want me to be from... (flirt)|t1-01-office2alt][$choice to 2]]</div><</if>> <</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I was a combat engineer. 21st Combat Support Battalion." “Combat engineer, huh? Yeah, I think I saw your file somewhere around here…” Jayden hurdles their desk, leaping into a haphazardly placed rolling chair before opening a laptop buried in a mountain of metal scraps. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. You're curious, and Jayden seems open enough to questions. “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. “What’s up?” “I haven’t seen scars like those- and I don't mean to pry but… how?” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “If you don’t mind me asking, that is…” They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy can do things to you that you can’t imagine.” You nod. You were too young to see combat in the First War- instead spending your early teens as part of a local militia. A final defense force for your home, against the tides of Invaders, against the Enemy. You had heard the legends of the Enemy. You had never faced any yourself. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “You've never actually been in combat? Against the Enemy or otherwise?” Embarrassment rises to your cheeks, and you inspect your boots rather than meet Jayden’s gaze. “Hey now- nothing to be embarrassed about <<name>>- Cap handpicked everyone on this crew, so you have to be here for a reason, right? I mean, there’s always a need for a combat engineer.” “Handpicked? You mean to say that she chose <i>me</i> for this mission? Why?” “The Distinguished Service Medal- after two years service. Countless recognitions from your commanding officers. Service in the prestigious 21st Combat Support Battalion, and promotion in those ranks. You’re either very good at your job, or ruthless and dedicated to gaining rank. Either way, you belong here.” With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Curious, you take one down from the wall and inspect it. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, obviously meant for durability over time. Carbon fiber reinforces the knees and elbows, and there’s pockets meant for sturdier padding on the chest, shoulders and shins. “Combat modifications, if you want them.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can do any modifications. Including a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part? “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Not that impressive, with the bronze buttons and single breasted cut of an enlisted soldier. But still… there’s something about the slight padding in the shoulders, clean colors and crisp lines that screams authority, that cries power. You remember wearing the uniform for the first time, realizing that you stood on the shoulders of giants, a cog in the finest fighting machine ever assembled. Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. One familiar, one not. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I did a lot for the Forces. All grunt work until now, though." “That's right, you're our new executive officer. You served in the First War, if I’m not mistaken...” Jayden hurdles their desk, leaping into a haphazardly placed rolling chair before opening a laptop buried in a mountain of metal scraps. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. You think you know all too well what those scars are from. You just want to make sure your hunch was right. “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. You take a shuddering breath. “What’s up?” "I've… seen war. I've seen scars like those- I have a few of my own… but...” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “Is it from… what I think it is?” They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy… you know what they can do to a person. You know all too well, don’t you?” You nod. That’s all you can do. You saw combat in the First War- just a grunt, slogging through the trenches of Earth. Your promotions came on the battlefield, rising through the ranks out of necessity. Where one soldier fell, you rose to take their place. A war of attrition, taking its toll on everyone. Including you. Especially you. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “You were one of the field promotion officers, right? I’m sorry. There were… too many of those...” The deep pit of guilt in your chest threatens to make its presence known, and you inspect your boots rather than meet Jayden’s gaze. “My commander at the end of the war was like that too, <<name>>. There’s a reason you were promoted all those times. There's a reason that the captain picked you, of all people, for this mission. You’re meant to be here.” “The captain chose… me? There’s a thousand other people more qualified. More well suited to this mission… to going back out into active service.” “The Survivor’s Cross. Eight field promotions. Hero of Earth. You deserve this; that’s what the records say. You are a hero, <<name>>. Even if you don’t believe it.” With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. It’s been a while since you've worn one of these, reminders of darker days and those long, cold nights. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. Carbon fiber reinforces the knees and elbows, and there’s pockets meant for sturdier padding on the chest, shoulders and shins. “Combat modifications, as I’m sure you’re well aware of.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can do any modifications. Including a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part? “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Like the one you wore for that ceremony, with the gold buttons and double breasted cut of an officer. The officer’s uniform never quite fit right on you. The medals on your chest belong to the dead men who fought beside you, the rank on your collar to the whispered promotion made with final breaths. You bowed your head that day, Hero of Earth, Survivor. And yet you were none of those things. Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. One familiar, one not. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I'm a doctor of psychology, and I've been working as a consultant for the Solar Defense Force for some time now." “The psychologist… Sorry, you’re gonna be working with Lieutenant Cold.” Jayden hurdles their desk, leaping into a haphazardly placed rolling chair before opening a laptop buried in a mountain of metal scraps. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. The question burns in your mind. Professional curiosity, a measure of reassurance while your question is answered. “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. “What’s up?” “I've only seen scars like those a few times. I… I worked with a soldier who had...” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “Jayden… I’m so sorry. How did this happen, if you don't my asking?” They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy can do things to you. You know that, don't you?” You nod. You’d never stared down the tides of the Enemy. But you saw what they left behind. Shells of soldiers, husks of heroes. Broken men and women, flotsam and jetsam on the tides of war. You tried to put those pieces back together, dispel the nightmares. Let the sun rise again on those shattered warriors. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “You’re an expert in your field- a researcher, a professor, a true academic. How’d you end up here? Why the military?” Embarrassment, or maybe indignance, rises to your cheeks, and you inspect your boots rather than meet Jayden’s gaze. “What’s there to be embarrassed about? Cap handpicked everyone on this crew, so you have to be here for a reason, right? You’re going to be working either with her, or on her, I’m guessing.” “Handpicked? You mean to say that she chose <i>me</i> for this mission? Why?” “The captain needs… support. She must have seen something in you. You’re here for a reason, even if that’s not clear now.” With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Curious, you take one down from the wall and inspect it. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, obviously meant for durability over time. There are numerous pockets, meant for padding or armor plating, but all left empty. “Combat modifications, you’re part of the science team, so you don’t get them.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can add some combat mods, or do any other modifications. Including a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part? “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We’ve got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Not that impressive, with the silver buttons and single breasted cut of an enlisted soldier. You’re not technically a soldier, but rather a “uniformed specialist”. Thus, the strange medium of enlisted and officer and neither. Military customs don’t fit right, and neither does any uniform you’ve ever worn. Maybe it’s a point of pride to some, but to you? The uniform is just another suit of clothes. Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. One familiar, one not. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I'm a botanist. Really taking full advantage of the military sciences program." "Congrats on the degree by the way- graduation was just a few days before your report date, wasn't it?” Jayden hurdles their desk, leaping into a haphazardly placed rolling chair before opening a laptop buried in a mountain of metal scraps. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. The question burns in your mind. You're no medical doctor, but you've been around injuries before. Theirs… theirs are quite unlike anything you've seen before. “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. “What’s up?” “I've seen my fair share of wounds, but none like yours. Are.. are those…” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “Jayden… I’m so sorry. Are those like the ones from all the rumors about…" They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy can do things to you. You know that, don't you?” You nod. Your past is complicated. You've shouldered a rifle, slogged through the trenches of Earth and fought in the silence of space. You were broken by war. Somewhere in the vast expanse of space, when you were the only survivor, bleeding out slowly. It would have been kind to die, to not be alone to pick up the pieces. So- you became something different to escape, putting your past far behind you. And here you are now. Headed right back to war, staring down the barrel of a gun once again. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “For a botanist, you've got an awfully long combat service record." And there it is. Your secret, laid bare for the world to see. You find yourself unable to meet Jayden’s gaze. “You were trying to leave that life behind, weren't you? And here you are, tossed back into it. The captain handpicked all of us for a reason. You seem to be the best of both worlds- a scientist and a fighter." “Handpicked? You mean to say that she chose <i>me</i> for this mission? There are so many more who would be better, who are more deserving than me.” “You were a soldier first- from the medals, a damn good one too. Your service record tells the story of someone who wouldn't run or back down. But after the war, you disappeared, showing up in academia a few years later. That looks like running away to me. And this, tossing yourself into cryo so you wouldn't have to repay your scholarship. You've been running for a long time, haven't you?” You mutter something along the lines of agreement. "Something happened, during the war, didn't it? Something that you can't run from. Something you had to face. And now, you're facing it all over again, aren't you?" Another short nod, unsure of where this is headed. "I understand. And- I'm sorry. When the time comes, we can face it together, okay? You don't have to fight alone anymore." With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Familiar, memories of your old suit, olive and stained, patched and maintained with the remnants of other suits, belonging to less fortunate souls. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. You've seen it pushed to its limits. There are numerous pockets, meant for padding or armor plating, but all left empty. “Combat modifications, as I'm sure you're familiar with. You’re part of the science team, so you don’t get them.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can add some combat mods, or do any other modifications. Including a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part?" “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Just as you remembered it from the formal discharge ceremony. Only now, worn with a different rank, and the silver of a warrant officer or "uniformed specialist", not the bronze of the enlisted soldier. Your medals, your awards, pinned to the chest, the colorful ribbons and bright metal shining under the office lights. And the medal they draped around your neck, the one meant for survivors. The one that felt like a slap in the face. And here you are, reopening old wounds. Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. One familiar, one not. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I'm a liaison officer, doing double duty as a comms officer. Honestly- just an accountant with a handgun." "Huh. We don't do much liaising out here, but comms might be helpful. If we ever run into anyone else wandering the Gap, that is.” Jayden hurdles their desk, leaping into a haphazardly placed rolling chair before opening a laptop buried in a mountain of metal scraps. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. The dossiers gave you all the information you needed to know. Didn't answer every question you had, however. You technically know how Jayden got their scars. You want the confirmation, the whole story. “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. “What’s up?” “I've seen my fair share of wounds, but none like yours. Are.. are those…” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “Jayden… I’m so sorry. Are those like the ones from all the rumors about…" They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy can do things to you. But you knew that, don't you?” You nod. You knew. You know more of the crew's dirty secrets than you let on. Things that could ruin them, things that could turn the crew against each other, could start a mutiny or a riot, could derail this mission. Come to think of it, you barely know your mission. Infiltration, confirmation, then what? At least your position on comms would give you a better chance at figuring out what's going on before the rest of the crew. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “I'd think you would have had a more… exemplary record, but this is interesting, honestly." Time to distract, to start building your "character". Your cover was meticulously planned, everything- and you mean <i>everything</i>- done with reason. You look down, taking a deep and shuddering breath. You force yourself to avoid Jayden’s gaze. “Someone's got a secret, huh?" Hook, line and sinker. And thus, the character is built with Jayden's trust. "Look. I'm not who you think I am." The truth, technically. "My file is classified and redacted. I was spec-ops. I wasn't fighting the Enemy in the war. So the Forces gave a chance to restart. To atone. Gave me a new file, new training, a new job." Also technically the truth. Except you serve no government- just the highest bidder. Jayden grins. "Alright, I dig the mystery. And now, the captain's choice makes sense. You, me, everyone else- all handpicked for this mission. The best of the best." You echo them. "Handpicked. Chosen for this mission, elevated above our peers. The captain has faith in us, that we can accomplish our mission." "Damn straight." Jayden's grin tells you the lie has found a place in their mind, where it might grow to be the only truth they know. With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Familiar, you've been around enough military supply and surplus to know the lookbooks of the every nation well. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. Endlessly modifiable, with numerous pockets, meant for padding or armor plating, but all left empty. “Combat modifications, as I'm sure you're familiar with. You’re part of the bridge team, so you don’t get them.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can add some combat mods, or do any other modifications. Including a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part?" “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Your most perfect and impressive lie, the uniform of a soldier who fit in, who might as well be another face in the crowd, someone who can hide in plain sight. The silver of a warrant officer, with enough ribbons and medals to be convincing of a soldier who had never quite risen to the top. Sure, your old uniform and life had been a bit flashier, but it wouldn't have given you this anonymity. A fair trade, though not an easy or painless one. Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. One familiar, one not. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I'm a pilot. Not much else to say. I fly spaceships." "Oh, Jun's not going to like this one. But- and this stays between just you and me- they need the help. They're not a damn robot, they need to sleep <i>sometime</i>.” Jayden hurdles their desk, leaping into a haphazardly placed rolling chair before opening a laptop buried in a mountain of metal scraps. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. You have an idea of what happened. You've seen scars like that. But those were just rumors. These are a bit more real than rumors. “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. “What’s up?” “I've seen my fair share of wounds, but none like yours. Are.. are those…” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “Jayden… I’m so sorry. Are those like the ones from all the rumors about…" They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy can do things to you. But you knew that, don't you?” You nod. You know. The soldier's tales were ones of pure and unadulterated terror. Of dead men rising rising from the mud, their fatal wounds shrugged off, cracks in their skin filled with poison ink, legions of corpses marching on the entrenched living. The dead men who were not dead yet. And when they fell, they would rise again in the morning, searching mindlessly for a rifle, waiting for the order to charge at their living and now former comrades. You were lucky, you just flew the ships. You were unlucky. The last of your wing. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “You and Jun have a lot in common. Both trained at prestigious flight academies, both court-marshaled, both- " You draw in a sharp breath. They stop. And apologize. “I'm so sorry." And suddenly, you know what else you have in common with the pilot. Your role as wing commander, your responsibility for each of those pilots, your siblings in arms. Your responsibility for each and every one of their deaths. And your unlikely survival. Which you blame only yourself for. You laugh grimly. It's not particularly funny, but you've got no other way of expressing your incredulity. "How do you get two wing-killers on the same mission, co-piloting for each other? Has to be some fucking divine trick, thinking this is fucking funny, or something." "If it's any condolence, each and every one us was chosen, handpicked for this mission by the captain. She obviously sees something in you, beyond these records." "Handpicked? This is the first time I've been picked for something other than the butt of some cosmic fucking joke. I don't know what your captain wants with a wing-killer. Most captains would rather have me in the fucking brig than on the bridge." "Well. You're here now. You have a chance to change your reputation. To be a hero again. The captain obviously believes in you. And that's good enough for me, alright?" The look they give you is filled with determination and hope. With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Familiar, you've been flying long enough to know a good flightsuit by heart. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. Endlessly modifiable, with numerous pockets, meant for padding or armor plating, but all left empty. “Combat modifications, which you might be familiar with. You’re part of the bridge team, so you don’t get them.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can add some combat mods, or do any other modifications. You might like some of them, I know Jun's come to me about flight mods before. But I can also give you a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part?" “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Like the one you burnt after that damn ceremony. When they gave you and the rest of your wing that useless medal. And you looked over the faces of the families of the dead, the only one living, standing in front of a formation of wreath-framed photos. And you sobbed because you should be another photo and bundle of flowers, not dressed in gold for gallantry and leadership, not adorned with colorful ribbon and shimmering medals, not anointed with titles and honor. That night, you destroyed the medal, drove a knife through it in a blind rage. That night you destroyed your uniform, drenched in fuel and burnt it, reveled in the flames and heat. And when the firemen and police and EMT's came, they found you in soot stained clothes, your face streaked with charcoal, a broken knife in hand. Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. One familiar, one not. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I did a lot for the Forces. All grunt work, whether I was boots on the ground or working on a ship." “A soldier of many talents? Be still my beating heart!” Jayden hurdles their desk, leaping into a haphazardly placed rolling chair before opening a laptop buried in a mountain of metal scraps. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. You think you know all too well what those scars are from. You think you've seen what caused them. Your friends and comrades wore similar ones, once. “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. You take a shuddering breath. “What’s up?” “I've… seen too much war. I've seen scars like those- I have a few of my own… but...” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “I'm so sorry Jayden, I'm so sorry. Is it from… what I think it is?” They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy… you know what they can do to a person. You know all too well, don’t you?” You nod. That’s all you can do. You saw combat in the First War- just a grunt, slogging through the trenches of Earth. When they pulled away from Earth, you got pulled with. To the stars, learning a new skillset, how to board and fight on ships, how to repair them. As the war grew ever more bloody, you took on more and more roles. Learned to navigate the stars and take control of a bridge, to patch wounds and calm racing minds. Anything to keep fighting, anything to save those you loved. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “You've got a very long and impressive service history. Surprised you weren't promoted higher. The Academy would've loved an officer like you." That's what everyone tells you. Truth be told, you were never one for leadership. That's complicated though, and a little painful, too. You inspect your boots rather than meet Jayden’s gaze. “Never wanted that command, huh?" Jayden sees right through you. "I get it. They wanted to make me a captain." They laugh, putting you at ease somewhat. "Could you imagine that? Me, a captain?" “Could you see me as an officer?” You're curious. Always wondering if you made the right decision, to turn down the commission and promotions. “From your record, yes. You'd make a tremendous commander, you could lead anyone to victory. From what I've seen of you, no. I think you care a bit too much to be an officer.” With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Your familiar uniform, one that you've worn nearly every day you've been in the Forces. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. Carbon fiber reinforces the knees and elbows, and there’s pockets meant for sturdier padding on the chest, shoulders and shins. “Combat modifications, as I’m sure you’re well aware of.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can do any modifications. Which I feel you might really appreciate, given your engineering prowess. That offer also includes a few mods that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part? “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. The standard of the enlisted soldier with bronze hardware. You would be unremarkable alongside the many others who wear that uniform. Except you're far, far more decorated than any of your counterparts, with more awards than most of your commanders. Each hard-won, bearing the mark of hard work or sacrifice or survival. You were one of the many, and yet stood out like a sore thumb. Hero of Earth, and Hero of the Republics. Your comrades joked that it'd be one more re-deployment until you wore the illusive Hero of the Wandering Fleet medal. You were just thankful to be moved to reserves after your sixth tour. Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. One familiar, one not. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

You’re greeted by an audience and a wolf-whistle when you step out from behind the screen. Jayden, in their dress uniform, and two others- all dressed in black. On one end is the man from the hallway, De La Cruz, his black uniform adorned with the silver of a warrant officer and a full ribbon rack, awards pinned all the way across his chest and draped around his neck. His hair is slicked back and beard trimmed, though both very much still out of regulation. He gives you a rakish grin and a joking half-salute as you approach the collected soldiers. Jayden is on the other end, likewise dressed in a pure black suit, hemmed with red- the mark of Special Forces. Bronze hardware, indicative of an enlisted soldier adorns their uniform, as do an equally impressive amount of medals, nearly half a dozen with vibrant colors to complement the braided cords looped under their arm and resting on their shoulder. The third soldier is unfamiliar. But they whistle again, giving you a bright grin and a wink. Their uniform, also black, is somehow more decorated than both Jayden's and De La Cruz's. Except it's in the gold of a commissioned officer, and they wear a garnet colored ribbon around their neck. The Hero of Earth medal, it's presence dwarfing the many others pinned to their chest. An award with a very serious and particular connotation, one completely opposite to the way they look you up and down with dark and striking eyes, completely opposite to the faux-hawk haircut, pierced nose and partially shaved eyebrow. Thankfully, De La Cruz speaks up. "We've met before, just under different circumstances. Hector De La Cruz, at your service." Hector is as you remember him. Warm, kind, and beyond charming. He extends a hand for a handshake, smoothly pulling you into a half-hug afterwards. "So, this is the proper introduction I promised you. Nice to see you up and moving" Jayden laughs. "I forgot you met Hector, I'll be honest. Nice to have the two of you reconnect." And the third crewman takes their turn to speak, pushing off of where they rest on Jayden's desk to a more attentive position. Their voice is silky smooth, carrying an accent, <<if $last_name is "Phyrros">>one that you recognize almost immediately as Martian in origin.<<else>>one that should, hypothetically tell you more about this officer, other than the fact that they're from somewhere in the LGR's.<</if>> "And that leaves just me to introduce myself. Saving the best for last, of course. My name is Jun Asuka. I don't think I've met you yet, I don't think I could forget a face like yours, no. But I've heard a lot about you. Rumors, mostly, what I could coax from Natalie, and what these brave souls have discovered, sneaking into the medical bay. It's a <i>pleasure</i> to finally meet- in the flesh- the crewman everyone's been talking so much about." They extend a hand for a handshake. Instead of the formal gesture, however, they press your hand to their lips, smiling as they release your hand. “You look good in uniform." <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Of course you do. (flirt)|t1-01-mtgnightmare][($choice to 1) , ($jun_flirt += 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[So do they... actually, all of them look good in uniform. (flirt)|t1-01-mtgnightmare][($choice to 2) , ($jun_flirt += 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Just thank them and move on.|t1-01-mtgnightmare][$choice to 3]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Roll your eyes.|t1-01-mtgnightmare][$choice to 4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>><i>Alright, flyboy, two can play this game.</i> Though you're not nearly as disarming as Jun, nor do you have the shock value of a well-timed hand kiss, you can certainly make a first impression. Confidence, in this case, is your weapon. "Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?" Jun raises an eyebrow. "Merely an observation. You're rather easy on the eyes, the uniform suits you." Hector groans at the pun, and Jayden covers their face with their hand. Jun playfully shoulders Hector in the chest, with the taller man feigning hurt at the contact. Jayden receives a more pointed glare, and just rolls their eyes in response. Their response is an elbow to the arm, and a quick: "Oh, won't you two just get a room already." To which, Jun doesn't seem surprised or embarrassed, just looks you up and down again, a look that says that Jayden's comment could be taken as a suggestion, if you're interested. Jun's certainly interested, if you're game. They wink, before composing themself. "We really ought to be going- don't want to keep beloved Natalie and our command staff waiting too long, what with their proclivity for knives and vengeance."<<elseif $choice is 2>>You don't know where to focus your attention. All- and you mean <i>all</i>- of them look damn good in their uniforms. Black uniforms and the countenance of a soldier, contrasted with the deliberate ignorance or defiance of regulation, contrasted again with they way that they look at you, the feeling of Jun's lips on your skin still burning in the front of your mind. "You know, I can see the gears turning in that head of $HisHers." Jayden's voice, the tone lighthearted, poking fun at your bewildered silence as you try to formulate something to say. "Oh, of course, the engineer can see the gears turning." Hector, reaching across Jun to ruffle Jayden's hair, met with an indignant noise and Jun lunging under his outstretched arm as the pair jokingly bicker. Jun places a hand on your shoulder. One that finds its way down the lapel of your jacket, pausing to adjust one of the medals hanging around your neck, before returning to your shoulder. "My apologies, I came on a little strong for a first meeting. I can be an acquired taste, though I hope you don't find me to be an unpleasant one." They turn their attention towards the bickering soldiers who are now fully play-fighting across Jayden's desk, a pile of assorted electronics falling. Jun squeezes your shoulder, mutters something indistinct before shouting at the two. "Have you two truly forgotten about our meeting or new recruit? We shouldn't keep either waiting. The meeting will greet us with knives, if we're late. And $HeShe might too- depending on how long you two make $HimHer- no - us wait around."<<elseif $choice is 3>>This was a little too much. You draw back your hand, stunned. "Thank you for that?" Immediately, Jun is apologizing, hands raised slightly. "I'm sorry, that was a poor choice. I made too many assumptions, too bold, too soon. Please, forgive me." Charming, and the apology seems sincere enough. However, you've got places to be, people to meet, and a nice, long nap to take. "It's okay, Jun. Can we just get on with the whole meeting thing?" "I don't think you need my permission. We are guests in our quartermaster's office, after all." Jun gives a pointed glance to Jayden, who's standing with their arms crossed, staring off into space. They startle, but get what Jun's proposing. "Alright, looks like we've got a meeting to get to."<<elseif $choice is 4>>You're not interested in picking up what they're putting down. Friendly or not, the kiss on the back of the hand and the outright flirting was too much. Way too much for a first impression. You cross your arms, and give them a withering expression, one that says: <i>are you fucking kidding me?</i> "Oh, someone's playing hard to get, huh?" "I'm not <i>playing</i> anything. Not interested." And to your surprise, Jun relents. "Then, please, forgive me. I made a poor decision, and that was inappropriate of me to assume." Jayden breaks the awkward silence ensuing. "Okay, cool. We've got a meeting to go to. Don't think the captain's going to appreciate us being late."<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-mtgnightmare1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>Why do you deny me? I can show you beautiful things. I will show you beautiful things.<</notify>>Forward. That is your destiny, your objective. You were denied, time and time again. But here, now, you can finally see for yourself. You can finally see for yourself. You can finally see. <span class = voice>(there is nothing worth seeing. turn back.)</span> <span class = voice>(before it is too late)</span> Forward, deeper into the gloom. Forward, into a descending fog. Into a vein that feeds an artery, the floor slick and the walls dripping. Growth, like some decay-fueled fungus, a mold growing on old, uncleaned bones, carrion being consumed and recycled into something new, something different, something beautiful. You see it for what it is. You can finally see. <span class = voice>(it is too late)</span> Amongst the darkness that consumes the hallway, tears at the flesh of the wall, the skin of the ceiling and floor, gnaws at the skeleton underneath, there is a brilliant purity. Bleached-bone white. An organic and yet geometric pattern, a familiar sequence, one to one to two to three to five to eight, the familiar perfect spiral, the fractal universe and its ever-growing expanse, perfect in the way that it is logical, perfectly so. Does not carry in the imperfection of life, its redundancy and ultimate organic failure, apoptosis and malignance, the cell that is immortal in that it splits and is mortal in that it is destroyed in the act of creation, one to two to four to eight and eight to none. Perfect copies of the original, or half-copies, or not copies, an unforgivable variation that derives conflict in the body, sickens that which struggles to live, that which sees and feels and is pain and prays for deliverance to a god it invented, something above and perfect because that is organic nature, to be imperfect, to struggle, to divide, to be mortal, to face mortality and struggle more. To die. Imperfect, and yet required. Organics, however rare, however impossible, are the catalyst, the fuel, tinder for the raging inferno that creeps like the mold on the walls. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='wake up.'>[[Proceed.|t1-01-mtgnightmare3]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

Together, the four of you set off towards the bridge, a silent procession that would fit in well at a funeral wake, or some esoteric and archaic military ceremony whose origins have been lost to time. It's a straight shot, down the length of the ship to the bow, where the bridge is sealed with bulkheads and an airlock. Defense mechanisms, should the ship be boarded, a measure of protection for the captain and the rest of the bridge crew, an impassable wall, an opportunity to escape, to continue flying while the invaders are fended off by the rest of the crew. <span class = voice>(these halls will run red with blood. these halls will see life extinguished at the muzzle of a gun, at the point of a spear.)</span> Something shudders down a side hallway. The lights snap on, then off. Then on again. <span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span> You've paused, in the middle of the hallway. The rest of the group has left you behind, the rest of the group doesn't even notice you're missing. Everything is so far away. Everything is quiet, fuzzy around the edges, out of focus, out of reach, out of touch. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='wake up.'>[[Proceed.|t1-01-mtgnightmare2]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>Don't you see, my darling? It is <i>beautiful</i>, is it not?<</notify>>A spark, held between fingers, a hand outstretched. You hold the spark. Or, not-you. Something that looks like you, moves like you. Something that isn't and is all the same. Something with silvery eyes quite unlike and yet reflective of your own, a gaze that fixes on you with hunger. Or doesn't. Hunger is an organic thing, the need to consume to survive. It is organic in this way. It requires, it needs. It does not want. Want is a purely human thing. A question, unbidden to your lips, do you want? Want what? To know, to understand? Do you hunger to know, is it innate and necessary to know what it is that you look at? Or is that the human talking? It is of little matter, your answer is found in watching, not in speaking. You do not dare to look away. Slowly, you dance around one another, a paced circle, slow and steady. Until your back is to the darkness. And not-you stops moving. Not-you looks at you again. Closes distance awkwardly, moving uncertainly, on legs not its own. Un-mirrored. Willing itself forward, learning to wear you as a puppet. An ill fitting one, your skin sloughing off in sheets, replaced with a slowly creeping fungus, white and growing, growing in delicate, gill-like shelves that ripple with pulse and breath and step. With each beat of your heart, roots force new passage in veins, white buds forcing their way through skin and blossoming, red flowers like wounds, like blood through fabric. Every inch of not-you is alive and spreading, new and twisted and beautifully horrible forms. Organic and yet patterned, spiral and sequence as many pronged antlers of saplings burst from your skull and the new growth-skin traverses your throat and your jugular bursts with a many-petaled crimson flower as not-your head is turned upwards towards the empty sky and the mouth hangs open as something with fibrous, chitinous feelers, like tentacles or vines or tendrils force their way past the tongue and teeth with a terrible gurgling cry, spewing spores; creation in destruction. And not-your hands are stretched outward in a bastardization of holy iconography, not-your hands untouched save for the leaves and buds that rest almost delicately by the base of not-your palms, your hands clean of this this corruption, your touch unsullied still. Before not-your head falls downward with that horrible mass like intestines or roots hanging from its unhinged jaw. And still those silvery eyes are fixed on you, through a film of amber blood-sap tears. As you start to decay. Slowly, at first. A darkness spreading. Apoptosis. Programmed death. Functional immortality through corruption; contrast to the broken sequence, to the mortal thing, death, death who cannot be cheated. And it lunges forward. It reaches for you as the hallway behind you comes to life with spores and the darkness growing, evolving to all consuming rot. It reaches for you and you know that for it to touch you would be to be consumed as it was. <span class = voice>(i am death, the creator.)</span> That is what it says to you. <span class = voice>(look upon me. see that i am perfect. beautiful. embrace me. embrace that which is inevitable)</span> You are not sure if you screamed as the blackened fingers brushed your face, disintegrating at the touch. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='wake up.'>[[Proceed.|t1-01-mtgnightmare4]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>Why would you forsake me? I could <i>save</i> you.<</notify>>There is a fire in the hallway. Not-you are alight with it. Writhing as it turns to ash, to dust in a sudden wind. You are not sure if it screamed as it fell. A woman stands behind it. Her eyes are closed in concentration. She holds a spark between her fingers, her hand outstretched. Her eyes open as the spark fades. Solid black, sclera, iris, pupil, as black as the empty and starless void. "Come with me. You're needed on the bridge." <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[What the fuck.|t1-01-mtg][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[What the fuck?|t1-01-mtg][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[WHAT THE FUCK|t1-01-mtg][$choice to 3]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[What just happened? Was that real?|t1-01-mtg][$choice to 4]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Who are you?|t1-01-mtg][$choice to 5]]</div> <<if $sanity >= 4>><div class = choice-item> [[(inevitability... like the orbit of the planets. you are brought here.)|t1-01-mtg][(($choice to 6) and ($sanity += 1))]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>"What the fuck was that?" That's all that comes to mind. You're still reeling, images of decay, of sickeningly sweet rot, of exposed ribs that glimmer like fangs and the blood-slick scales of something serpentine and intestinal, of gills, not of aquatic origin, but those that harbor spores and leech poison, of deadly blossoms and strangling roots. All pushed to the back of your mind, all present and haunting, an afterimage, an echo etched on your mind. No other words or sentiments other than the fading dregs of fear and a lingering paranoia, eyes that watch you from the shadows as the lights tick on slowly. Just empty horror and <i>what the fuck</i>. The woman standing in front of you is calm, despite the raging inferno and nightmare that stood before you just moments ago. "I cannot answer your question. And this is neither the time nor place for answers, anyways. It'd be best if we leave. Now." Her tone, quiet and slightly breathless, still commands your attention and respect. And her suggestion is not, in fact, a suggestion. But an order, one you're wiling to follow dutifully. <span class = voice>(oh, and to think, we were getting off to such a good start, darling. i will be waiting, i promise.)</span><<elseif $choice is 2>>"What the <i>fuck</i> was that!?" That's all that comes to mind. You're still reeling, images of decay, of sickly sweet rot, of exposed ribs that glimmer like fangs and the blood-slick scales of something serpentine and intestinal, of gills, not of aquatic origin, but those that harbor spores and leech poison, of deadly blossoms and strangling roots. All pushed to the back of your mind, all present and haunting, an afterimage, an echo etched on your mind. No other words or sentiments other than the fading dregs of fear and a lingering paranoia, eyes that watch you from the shadows as the lights tick on slowly. Just empty horror and <i>what the fuck</i>. The woman standing in front of you is calm, despite the raging inferno and nightmare that stood before you just moments ago. "I cannot answer your question. And this is neither the time nor place for answers, anyways. We need to leave. Now." Her tone, quiet and slightly breathless, still commands your attention and respect. And her suggestion is not, in fact, a suggestion. But an order, one you're wiling to follow dutifully. <span class = voice>(time and time again, you come back to me. there is a question still on your lips, darling. don't you want to know the answer?)</span><<elseif $choice is 3>>"What the <i>fuck</i> was that!?!" That's all that comes to mind. You're still reeling, images of decay, of saccharine rot, of exposed ribs that glimmer like fangs and the blood-slick scales of something serpentine and intestinal, of gills, not of aquatic origin, but those that harbor spores and leech poison, of deadly blossoms and strangling roots. All pushed to the back of your mind, all present and haunting, an afterimage, an echo etched on your mind. No other words or sentiments other than the fading dregs of fear and a lingering paranoia, eyes that watch you from the shadows as the lights tick on slowly. Just empty horror and <i>what the fuck</i>. The woman standing in front of you is calm, despite the raging inferno and nightmare that stood before you just moments ago. "I cannot answer your question. And this is neither the time nor place for answers, anyways. We need to leave. Now." Her tone, quiet and slightly breathless, still commands your attention and respect. And her suggestion is not, in fact, a suggestion. But an order, one you're wiling to follow dutifully. <span class = voice>(do not play ignorant. not with me, not when i see all, not when i know all. i see the bleak future, i see blood in the halls. i know that when the time comes, you will join me. you will embrace me with open arms.)</span><<elseif $choice is 4>>"What was that? The… thing and the voices and the fire and your eyes…" She looks you in the eyes. Hers are a dull and faded blue, not empty black. Blue like her heavily decorated uniform. If you were going to guess, this is the first officer. She carries that authority of command- the one that the others let down so easily- with confidence. To answer your questions, she simply shakes her head. "This is neither the time, nor place for questions. We have to get out of here. Now." She pauses. "I'm not the best person to talk to about this, either. You'd want to talk to the captain. She's going to be at the meeting. You can interrogate her afterwards." From what you've seen, you have to agree. You'd like to be anywhere but here. A meeting sounds wonderful, answers moreso.<<elseif $choice is 5>> "How did you… Who are you?" "Alexandra Drake." Cool and collected, though slightly breathless, her voice quiet and raspy. "I work with the captain." This must be the first officer. You were expecting someone different, you think. Someone a bit more imposing. Hector or Jayden would both cut a better figure as a first officer than the woman who stands before you. "The fire, the spark… was that you? Or a trick of the light or my mind?" She pauses. Her expression is guarded, her voice measured. "There are things outside explanation. Best to leave it be. I can't answer your questions, I'm afraid."<<elseif $choice is 6>>You stare back down the hallway. It's just empty. But you know it's not. You know it's not, there is something that lives and creates and is beautiful and waiting for you to embrace it. A hand grabs your collar, pulls you downward, until you kneel on the cold tile. The point of a knife directs your gaze upwards, to look in her eyes. Her face is livid, and you feel that knife dig into the underside of your chin. "There is <i>nothing</i> for you there. Nothing. Do I make myself clear?" At your frantic agreeance, she releases you. Sheathes a long, black bladed knife back into a hip holster. Fixes her uniform, one of the deep navy of Earth. "We've been looking for you for half an hour. Your comrades thought you were behind them the whole way, and apparently, you have a history of this behavior, wandering off. It's… not wise on this ship." "Does that mean- all of that, the voices, what they were saying, the… thing- all of that was real?" She pauses. The look she gives you is guarded. "Yes."<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-mtg1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

By the time you are escorted to the bridge, the meeting appears to have begun, the crew nowhere in sight. Well. Not <i>all</i> the crew have gone inside. Natalie, dressed in a blue uniform like that of your warden, waits by the door. If you're not mistaken or currently hallucinating, she looks concerned. Seriously concerned. You're directed to go inside. Natalie reaches out to the other woman, a hand on her elbow, and the two turn away from you and the door, talking conspiratorially. You've been on a few ship's bridges in your time. Like the rest of this ship, it’s unlike anything you've ever seen. The bridge is dark and cool, with only running lights, a handful of terminals and a massive holographic display providing light. From what you can see, the usual amenities are all there. A raised station of prominence for two pilots, and the crew pit below with gunnery, navigation and communication stations. On the upper level, behind and beneath the pilot's level, is a bank of terminals, including the captain’s terminal and space for other officers of the bridge to conduct their non-flight duties, though the terminals they would occupy are dark. This upper level is where you're meeting, around what you assume to be the war table. Making this the war room. <<if $fleet_origin is true>>In Fleet fashion, most of the room is dominated by a projected, holographic starchart, overlaid with pathing charts.<<else>>Most unusually, most of the room is filled with a massive projection, a starchart.<</if>> An unfamiliar one, at that. Several dozen maps are overlaid, with untidy notes scrawled over top of each. Lines form a spider’s web in many colors, long columns of math and unfamiliar formulas fill empty space. Models of ships and satellites and whole planets flash in and out of existence, each just as annotated as the last, a interconnected maze of information. <<if $earth_origin is true>>Information that includes- if your eyes aren't deceiving you- Earth's defensive satellite network, and plans for the Lunar Neutral Site. Broken down in great detail, with blueprints, diagrams, simulated scenarios. Each and every facet explored, examined, dissected. Searching for weaknesses. A single simulation that plays out in a few frames. A indistinct shape striking the Moon, then a rain of similar strikes on Earth. A diagram annotated in red. Casualty numbers. Predicted chance of victory. A declaration of war. By whom, you don't know.<<elseif $space_origin is true>>Amongst those plans are those for space stations. Not the small commercial ones that can be purchased by the everyday citizen. Rather, the systems for artificial moons and rings, like those belonging to the Outer Colonies. A second blinking chart confirms this. The location of every station in orbit, connected with dotted red lines and notes. Particular stations circled in red, numbered, identified. Population and environmental data, demographics, military and communicative significance. Something is being planned here. What that is, exactly, is uncertain. Something in your gut tells you that this data collection isn't altruistic in nature.<<elseif $fleet_origin is true>>This bridge is- at least in part- designed after the bridges of Fleet ships. You know the starchart. You know the pathing maps. Someone is tracking the Wandering Fleet. Difficult, and dangerous, but not unheard of. You know the Solar Defense Force, at least, has a vague idea of where the Fleet is at all times, the condition of a treaty made long before your time. This data is far too precise; this data indicates they're tracking the Gray Fleet. Which shouldn’t even be possible. The only way to track a Gray Fleet ship is to look out a window. Which makes this map an act of sedition. And someone <<if $spy is true>><i>else</i> on this crew a spy and traitor.<<else>>on this crew a spy, and traitor to the Fleet.<</if>><</if>> Before you have a chance to take a closer look, the hologram is deactivated with a hum. Jayden pats the empty chair beside them, and you take it without hesitation or question. The room is silent and still as you wait for Natalie and the first officer to return. Their return is unheralded, with the first officer taking a seat near the head of the table, and Natalie sitting across from Hector. An empty chair is left on Natalie's side, across from you. Somehow, the seat still feels occupied. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-01-mtg2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>From the shadows, illuminated by a single, dramatic overhead light, the captain emerges. Your heart drops, goosebumps rising on your arms and a shiver running down your spine. <<if $fleet_origin is true>>That is not just the captain. That is the Harbinger, in the flesh.<<else>>The captain is an intimidating woman. The touch of drama certainly helps.<</if>> The captain wears what might just be the single-handedly most impressive military uniform you've ever seen. A suit of charcoal gray, trimmed in Solar Defense Force maroon and gold. And while the colors and the cut of the uniform match a Solar Defense Force officer, the rest just… doesn’t. For starters, there’s the cape. And the blade. Relics of a bygone age, no longer standard for all but the highest ranking officers- and even then, uncommon amongst their ranks. The gold-wrapped handle of what’s either a short sword or a long dagger rests at her right hip, almost concealed by the short cape that’s draped over that shoulder. The cape seems to serve more than one purpose; a mark of honor and distinction- and also a camouflage. Her right hand is heavily bandaged and the arm worn in a sling, as a slight shift in the cape reveals. The captain wears no nametag- or any form of identification, for that matter. What she wears instead are medals and rank. The Marshal rank, one taught to you back in bootcamp, embedded into your memory- a semicircle of olive branches completed by three stars, surrounding a downward pointed sword- gold inlaid with black meteorite, combined with a captain’s traditional four sleeve stripes in an elaborate bastardization of uniforms. Around her neck, she wears the Hero of Earth medal, almost ubiquitous with its crimson and gold coloration, a Savior of the Republics medal, silver and deep purple, and one more, made of the same marbled meteorite, hung on a solid black ribbon. The captain, as if it were some calming gesture or compulsive ritual, adjusts this dark medal, running her fingers along what is inscribed but unintelligible along the surface. “And then, there were seven.” The captain's voice silences everything else on the bridge. Even the hum of the engines seems to quiet when she speaks. “This officially marks the start of the first, last, and only mission for the crew of the SF-001-X <i>Nomad.</i>” She continues, as if what she just said was normal, routine. “I was once the Marshal of the Solar Defense Force, representing the Wandering Fleet and, temporarily, Earth. I was once the Adjudicator of the Wandering Fleet. I am no longer either of those things. I gave up those titles for this mission." She does not look at her crew. Her gaze flickers between the empty chair and the door. “If that does not impose on you the importance of this mission, I do not know what will. For that reason, I expect sacrifice, I expect great things from each and every one of you.” She looks at each of you in turn with an expression of unreadable intensity. “My name is Eris Akakios. I was once humanity’s best shot at defeating the Enemy. I am now humanity's only shot at defeating the Enemy. And now, this crew shares my burden.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>“This is the full crew. There are seven of us. It will require full cooperation and understanding from each of you. We cannot afford to fail this mission. So- I advise you, get to know one another. These are the people you will kill for, these are the people you will die for. And in turn, they will kill and die for you." At the captain’s behest, the first officer stands. Military discipline, force of habit, the first officer standing at parade rest. She speaks slowly, in a hoarse and quiet voice. “I am Master Gunnery Sergeant Alexandra Drake. I was from Capitol, in the Commonwealth, back on Earth. I served with Captain Akakios in the First Contact War. It is my honor to serve by her side again." The looks she gives the captain could be mistake for sympathy. Eris holds Alexandra's gaze for a moment too long. Jayden mutters something, almost under their breath, just loud enough for you to hear. “Wanna bet on whether the captain gave her that scar?” You didn’t quite register the scar while Drake was talking. Now, it's all you can focus on, ragged and ugly, as if it didn’t heal quite right, or maybe even at all. Without it, she would have been strikingly beautiful, with sun-kissed skin, piercing blue eyes and dark auburn hair, soft and classical, timeless features. Instead, she looks haunted, the wound warping the lower half of her face and her neck. The scar disappears below her collar, and your thoughts linger on how she came to bear the mark. Part of you doesn’t want to know. Alexandra had remained standing during your brief examination, talking indistinctly with the captain as the rest of the crew shares a single, almost intrusive thought. Their exchange ends with a professional embrace, an awkward hug that lingers a second too long. Alexandra Drake sits back down. The attention is shifted across the the table to where Hector now stands, adjusting the collar of his black suit. He takes a deep breath, and the playful demeanor is gone, the slate wiped completely clean. In its stead, an experienced and serious solider. “I am Senior Warrant Officer Hector De La Cruz. I come from the Ishtar Autonomous Region of the Venusian Republic. I was trained at the Martian Academy of War, and served both the Inter-republic Navy and Solar Defense Force as a navigator. I was the chief navigational officer aboard the Solar Defense Force Dreadnought SDF-09 <i>Broken Arrow II</i> at the end of the First Contact War. I will be resuming my duties as navigational officer for the <i>Nomad</i>.” Hector salutes the captain, who dismisses him soundlessly. As he returns to his seat, Natalie rises. “<i>Former</i> Medical Lieutenant Natalie Konigsmann, at your service. I fought to reclaim my home in the Collected Central European States on Earth, and was removed from active duty shortly after. It is my honor to join the mission of the <i>Nomad</i>, and my duty to care for the crew.” Captain Akakios makes a curious noise at the back of her throat, pausing for a second. The medic locks eyes with the captain- daring Akakios to speak. A standoff, the two women staring intently at one another, but neither willing to say what it is about Natalie's introduction that wounds the captain, nor why Natalie chose conflict. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The standoff is broken by Jayden standing and clearing their throat. Natalie returns to her seat, though her expression is still sour and she glances periodically at the captain out of the corner of her eye. “Sergeant-at-Arms Jayden Grey, reporting for duty. I am from Hope, the capital of Titan, part of the Republic of the Moons of Saturn. I served several tours of duty in the Solar Defense Special Forces with honor and bravery. It is my greatest honor and most important duty to serve aboard the <i>Nomad</i>. My duties are that of yeoman and quartermaster, and I look forward to working with each of you in the future.” Two remain, just Jun- and you. Thankfully, Jun takes initiative, and rises. “I am Major Jun Asuka, of the United Martian Front. I was trained at the Martian Academy of War, and served as wing-commander and pilot for the Martian Navy Expeditionary Force. I was part of the Liberation of Earth and Operation Final Stand. I will be serving as the pilot of the <i>Nomad.</i> It is an honor to serve this fight, and to fly this mission and craft." Your turn, at long last. And you stand. There is weight to having everyone's eyes on you. Each of the crew, and even the shadows are watching you. Most intent however, is the first officer, with her dead blue eyes. You can’t quite read the expression on her face- somewhere between contempt and curiosity. She grimaces, and the captain places a hand on her shoulder. A conversation unspoken. The hair on the back of your neck stands up. <<if $earth_origin is true>>“My name is <<combine-name>> I am part of the Failsafe and Final Stand programs. I spent the last five years in cryogenic sleep before being selected for this mission. I gave my future to the Solar Defense Force, but a long time ago, my home was on Earth, and I served the Solar Defense Force as a $occupation. It is my honor to be joining the crew of the <i>Nomad</i>.”<<elseif $space_origin is true>>“My name is <<combine-name>>. I am part of the Failsafe and Final Stand programs. I spent the last five years in cryogenic sleep before being selected for this mission. I gave my future to the Solar Defense Force, but a long time ago my home was amongst the Local Group Republics, and I served the Solar Defense Force as a $occupation. It is my honor to be joining the crew of the <i>Nomad</i>.” <<elseif $fleet_origin is true>>“My name is <<combine-name>>. I am part of the Failsafe and Final Stand programs. I spent the last five years in cryogenic sleep before being selected for this mission. I gave my future to the Solar Defense Force, but a long time ago, I once flew amongst the Wandering Fleet; today I serve the Solar Defense Force as a $occupation. It is my honor to serve by your side, Adjudicator Akakios.”<</if>> The captain just nods. No further words are spoken, the captain and first officer watching you just as closely as before. Eris walks around the table to stand by your side. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>“I would like to formally welcome <<combine-name>> aboard the <i>Nomad.</i>”. Captain Akakios presents you with the ship’s mission patch. A triangular patch, smooth fabric and plastic, with the silhouette of the ship pointing up, presented as if it were the tip of a spear in a field of stars. Red, black, gray and white, the ship and stars bright against the background of gray space and dark tendrils. A single red eye seems to stare into yours from the top of the badge. A shiver runs down your spine as the captain walks back to the head of the war table. “Now, our mission.” The captain places a metal cylinder into a control panel, and a starchart hums to life, projected from the center of the table. A spectacularly detailed map of the solar system, and… beyond? “This information is classified. This mission is classified. Under penalty of death, there will be no outside communication after this point. You are not permitted to discuss anything that happens during the duration of this mission with anyone outside the crew of this ship, with no exceptions. There will be no media coverage of this mission, there are no official records of this mission. There is no incentive to act a hero- your mission is simply completion of this mission. This ship carries no ship-to-ship communication systems, this ship does not appear on scans. This ship carries a cloaking device capable of rendering it near-invisible to the naked eye. There is no backup, no cavalry. We are completely and utterly alone in this mission.” The captain is pacing, hand on the hilt of her blade. She pauses, leaning on the edge of the starchart, staring into its depths. The lights and lines reflect in her dark eyes, a smile crosses her face, creasing the corners of her eyes. The expression falls from her face as she takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I tell you this because… because I need you to understand our situation. None of you are strangers to impossible odds.” The first officer raises an eyebrow, shooting an accusatory stare in the direction of the captain. The corner of Natalie’s lip curls into a snarl, her pale eyes narrowing to slits. “Currently, we are anchored at the very edge of the Solar System, in Kuiper-Oort Federation space. Tomorrow, we will leave Solar orbit. We will be traversing the Cloud, using the Antares Gap.” Eris winces at the name, turning her back on the starchart. “The journey is dangerous, but not impossible. It will take several months. During that time, it is expected that everyone on board trains for heavy combat, as well as proceed in the areas of study or operation designated on your personal dossiers. We need every one of you in peak fighting condition for what is to come.” The captain’s voice is oddly heavy with emotion, and when she turns back to her crew, the tracks of tears glimmer in the light from the hologram. Her breath comes quicker, her voice beginning to grow hoarse. “Ten years ago, the Chosen, the Enemy, the Invaders, were thought defeated in a decisive blow to their capital ship. I thought I delivered the killing blow myself. I failed my mission.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>>“The Enemy is returning. Their capital ship lies beyond the Cloud, their army is gathering in the tens of millions. We are all that stands between humanity and annihilation.” Eris’ voice is weakening, taking raspy breaths every few words. Blood drips from her nose, and in the low light, it looks more like black ink. “We are to cross the event horizon- to leave the Cloud and the System behind. This ship carries a lethal payload. We are to deliver it to the capital ship. Save humanity, end the nightmare. This is a one way trip. This is a suicide mission.” She leans heavily on the table, head bowed. Alexandra's hand rests on hers, fingers curled around Eris' wrist. When she looks up, blood trickles from the corners of her lips, reddening her mouth with every breath. The hand on the edge of the table is white-knuckled and shaky. Her brow drips with sweat that catches the light from the starchart. Her eyes stare into the brilliant projection, glassy and reflective, unfocused. Her voice is but a whisper, barely audible, rendered incoherent by blood and exhaustion. “You took this mission, blind to the danger. Each of you… is far braver than anyone will ever know. I assure you... this… this is a glorious death, a righteous death. Your names… your deeds will be immortalized in the stars and... enshrined in history.” Alexandra reaches out for the captain, who pushes her away, stands defiantly, her face streaked with blood and tears. “We will leave the Solar System as... just soldiers on a mission. We… we will return only in stories… only in memories… but we will be martyrs for all of humanity.” The captain collapses. You sit in stunned silence as the room descends into chaos around you, present and yet somehow, so far away. Something sits in the chair across from you. A pale man with dark scars, wearing a red uniform. He smiles coldly at you. He burns like a supernova made human, his presence unsettling, unbearably so. Somehow, you can't look away. Jayden puts a hand on your shoulder, tearing your attention away from the figure in the chair. “Welcome aboard the <i>Nomad.</i> And good luck… I think we’ll need it.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-start][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if $choice is 1>><span class = flashback><i>your cries are not heard by the masked and gloved doctors. you know they wouldn’t stop, even if they had the choice. they like this too much, sadists of the highest order. the clamor of their movement drowns out the hum of electricity. through half-lidded eyes, you see the doctors come to attention. she’s here. the director. that empty gaze, that cold gaze.</i></span> <span class = voice>(<i>there will be no mercy for you</i>)</span><<elseif $choice is 2>><span class = flashback><i>no!</i> <i>“prepare subject thirteen for the next round of testing. remember- we can’t afford to lose this one.” the voices sound like they’re in an echo chamber, the way they float around you. they grab you again, dragging you off the table. you cry out, drawing a short, harsh laugh from the hand on your collar. the hand on your collar that lets go, that drops you so that your heavy head rests on too-slick tile. you wish you didn’t know why the tile is slick. you wish you didn't know why they dropped you. the director. the director, whose coldness sweeps the room. her presence is enough to freeze even the boldest.</i> <span class = voice>(<i>you're going to die screaming, aren’t you?</i>)</span><<elseif $choice is 3>><span class = flashback><i>“Sir- subject thirteen is… stable…” which is a lie. you don’t feel stable. the world lurches and spins, unimaginably dizzy and falling further down that murky spiral. your heart pounds in your head, in your throat, in your eyes. you scream soundlessly. your vision comes and goes, the whole world stained a deep reddish-brown-black. “Call the Director. She’ll want to know.” your head falls back to the table. the director. that cold woman, cruel beyond comprehension. beyond humanity.</i></span> <span class = voice>(<i>this is the end… this is how you die</i>)</span><</if>> Like cold water was splashed on your face, you come to again. In a pod, hurtling through space, not the ice and pain of a medical ward. <span class = voice>(who are you?)</span> The answer seems obvious now. The name they gave you. <span class = voice>(one three. subject thirteen.) (no… that can’t be right… your-our-my name… it has to be somewhere around here. it has to be…)</span> There is no name on the monitors. There is no location displayed on the maps. Neither coming nor going. Not even the date, not even the time. An urge, to rip the monitors off the wall, the need to scream and destroy every part of this prison, this ship. You have been a prisoner before. You have been a prisoner long enough. <span class = flashback><i>your hands are bound, palms up, the facsimile of an order prayer. one three, one three in black ink and a hundred track marks leer back at you. you bring the cuffs down on the edge of your cot. the only thing that shatters is your wrist.</i></span> A shattering of the illusion. Real world, as real is this can be. Your breath comes heavy now, drawing the suffocating mask closer. Fists clenched. As if you could fight this. <span class = flashback><i>“Subject Thirteen has been… uncooperative. Director, how do we proceed with an unwilling subject?” “How do we proceed, Doctor?" The voice drips with sarcasm. "We proceed in your area of expertise. Break them.”</i></span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Violence isn’t the answer. Not here. Not now.|t3-01-pod1][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You can break them… they won’t hurt you anymore.|t3-01-pod1][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='rip and tear rip and tear rip and tear'>[[rip and tear rip and tear rip and tear|t3-01-pod1][$choice to 3]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>><<notify>>I'm not <i>bitter</i>, darling. I always knew you had it in you.<</notify>><span class = flashback><i>You never wanted to hurt them. That is not who you are, who you were. You always knew you could. It would be so easy. It was always so tempting. Just lash out. They made you powerful. You could use that power, let go of the storm that rages below your exterior.</i></span> <span class = voice>(<i>you could kill them. it would be easy. it would be over quickly. i could help you forget. it would be… annihilation.</i>)</span> <span class = flashback><i>But you were afraid. So pitifully afraid. And thus, never laid a finger on them. Just resisted. Always resisted. You would run or hide, twist out of restraints and away from their experiments. You found ways to undermine their efforts. You always did. They needed you broken to their will. You didn’t want to break. But you broke nonetheless. They had ways of breaking people. Ones that left empty shells and hollow men and women who shuffled the halls in white and chains, would not even raise their eyes to look at you.</i></span> <span class = voice>(<i>you broke, you split, you shattered. you broke and were put back together by them.</i>)</span><<elseif $choice is 2>><<notify>>I always did like your ruthless side. You are meant for violence.<</notify>><span class = flashback><i>You killed the scientist that came into your cell. The first kill you remember. Scorched into your memory, the horror on his face and the sound it made, the screaming and the tearing. Your strong hands rent apart the bars as easily as they rent the man on the floor. The guards could not stop you. Your rampage was glorious, righteous, beautiful even. You were not afraid. The taste of power, of blood, of another's fear, thick and sweet, ensured that. There were none to stand in your way, none to oppose you. None who could. Or so you thought. They needed you broken to their will. You would fight the cracks at every turn. They had ways of breaking something as strong as you. You remember the way that it felt, slowly tearing you apart. Started with the body. Moved on to your mind… they did things to you that you won't remember or forget.</i></span> <span class = voice>(<i>you broke. split like an atom, torn apart in a supernova’s dying rage. you broke and were put back together by them. made perfect in your destruction.</i>)</span><<elseif $choice is 3>><<notify>>You are a beautiful thing, a perfect thing when you are like this.<</notify>><span class = flashback><i>your teeth cried out for flesh. to sink deep into skin and rip and tear. to taste blood, to taste fear. you could see them through the walls, hear their thoughts, feel their terror as the walked by the mouth of your cell. yes come closer. here. <span class = voice> (i need your help.)</span> <span class = flashback>whimper like the animal you are. draw them closer. pity for the sick thing that curls up at the bottom of the cell, whimpers and cries. come here. yes. come closer. open the door. fire and pain and a deep satisfaction, to take. take whatever you want, the guard gave you nothing. seek the rest. find a worthy foe. or better. find him. the one who screams with power like you. you feel his mind press against yours. come closer. come take it. and you wake. alone. covered in sweat and something that reeks like blood but is not, too dark, too heavy. in your cell again. though, instead of pale white walls, blood splatters every surface. memories of fire and gnashing teeth.</span> <span class = voice>(<i>broken. well and truly broken.</i>)</span><</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-pod2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>You don’t know much of anything, not even yourself. And yet there lingers a sense of familiarity, as if you were meant to carry this weight. A weight that threatens to capsize you, to drown you. A feeling that you can't place, deja vu, jamais vu, scattered fragments of memory, like broken glass, strewn across the expanse of your mind. A whisper trying to put it back together, to tell a story without knowing the setting, scene, or characters. An insistence on pressing forward, no matter what. You’ll find out what’s going on here. Even if your memory betrays you. <span class = voice>(betrays you? it was never on our side.)</span> <span class = flashback><i>you scream. unheard. ghost white walls stare back at you. the sound of the monitor growing insistent, a cry for help ignored by those who sneer, mocking your tied down limbs. you snarl. a caged animal hostile and furious. the medical tone gets louder. the sound of boots on the ground. of a man shouting for help. a prick of a needle. unresting sleep.</i></span> <span class = voice>(you don’t want to go back there. better to forget.)</span> You've been a prisoner long enough. Prisoner to memory, to circumstance, to fate. Cruel, cold fate. You raise your hands, fist balled. Hands that have been shackled, bound at each wrist with a heavy metal manacle. You scream. Not pain. Anger. Anger like the first time, like the last time. <span class = flashback><i>“Subject Thirteen requires sedation until we can begin the final phase, Director.” “We don’t have the resources anymore, Doctor. We’re in the middle of a war- and in case you haven't noticed, we're losing.” “Director. I… I don't think you understand. This is years of work, just… gone.” "Did I tell you the project was over, Doctor? Did I tell you to stop? If you stop, the war might as well be over tomorrow, and we can't have that, can we? I need functional prototypes. I don't care about the cost. Give me results, or you'll be the next one on that fucking operating table. Dismissed."</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><<notify>>It would suit you best to remember. I think you should try, <span class = voice>13</span>.<</notify>>Functional prototype number 13. Cursed from the moment of designation. Functional prototype. Meant you could summon the fires. That's what the others called your collective, so-called "gift". Fires that were not fires. The ice-cold, black bonfire cupped between palms. Glowing sparks trailing down fingers, held between thumb and index, frozen lightning flickering. Looked like fire. Burnt like fire, igniting the nerves in your arms, lancing up, up, up, up until it hit your brain and you held your breath with a sharp, catching inhale as the pain turned to a slow satisfaction as you watch your body burn, both tinder and flame. And yet- not flame, never actual fire, a wildfire without catalyst, without fuel. Pure energy, raw energy, manifesting as a flickering flame. Your palm burns under the insulation of the glove. Familiar, all too familiar. The thrill of adrenaline, waiting for the calmness, for the release of the tension that builds and build and builds. You remember the first time you felt that fire. Terror turned curiosity, pain turned power. You remember the last time you felt that fire. Terror, pain, raised hand of defiance and the inferno that swirled around you as the world burnt, as you burnt. You'll burn this world. Break the bonds, tear the monitors off the wall, set fire to everything, a bitter arsonist. You scream. The fire in your fist hurts now. <span class = voice>(it has never hurt you before. but it hurts me. do you know what it's like to burn alive?)</span> You lash out against the pain, body arching against heavy restraints. The fire spreads to consume your mind. Fever, sickness, fire. Always fire. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><<notify>>Aren't you sick of burning?<</notify>><span class = voice>(it always ends in fire, doesn't it?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-pod3][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<span class = flashback><i>"Marshal Akakios, ma'am- I'm sorry." Your words are soft and quiet, missing the metallic rasp of the helm. A genuine apology. "We're the last ones left, Spartan and me. Valk took out the doors, Fury… Fury didn't make it. It's just us two left. I'm so sorry."</i> <i>The marshal is not a sentimental woman. This, you know. But she puts a hand on your shoulder and on the shoulder of the woman who calls herself Spartan. This, you know to be the end. There would be no show of kindness like this otherwise. This is the end. You steady yourself, though you know the marshal watches the tears well in your eyes. With a quiet hiss of oxygen, she takes off her helmet, jet black and a red so dark it might as well be black, all trimmed with gold, a facade of royalty. Her eyes brim with tears as she presents you with the helmet. A trade. Her unbroken helm for yours, dull gray and black with shattered visor and crushed jaw, spilling electronics and dripping hydraulic fluid. Useless. Evidently, where she's going, she won't need one. Point of no return. This is the end.</i> <i>Her helm is ill fitting, but the seal still holds. The systems still link, the familiarity of the numbers that despite blinking red, critical, danger- are of some comfort, better than the blank screen behind which you watched all manner of horror. Her words are no comfort.</i> <i>Somber. Bitter. "You'll need it more than me. Hold them off as long as you can." A tear falls through broken visor. "I just need more time. Remember the fallen. Fight for them. Fight for each other, for me. We can make this right."</i> <i>Spartan's voice is the one to break the silence that follows. Rough, made rougher by the damage and the helmet. "Ad astra, Marshal. It's been an honor."</i> <i>They said you would recognize the gateway when you would stand before it. The marshal presses a hand to the wall, which is not a wall but in fact this gateway that she spoke of, the one you dreamed of, deja vu, jamais vu. And you cannot follow her as the barrier falls away and the gateway calls, you cannot follow her, though every part of you wants to step through the veil and face the end together.</i> <i>"Don't follow. Don't you dare follow. And don't come back for me. We'll see each other again. I promise."</i> <i>And there it is, at long last. The end. Your final stand. Not much of a final stand. No projectile ammunition, your rifle more useful as a club. Less than a dozen energy cells left. A single grenade. Your knife, trusty as ever, but not enough, not enough to hold off the hordes that you know are coming. The temptation of the gateway. Not to enter, to follow the marshal, but to use as a weapon. It hums with energy, harmonizes with the ache in your bones, tastes like bitter metal, and blinds your senses. Leaves the fires. Makes you a walking weapon. A dangerous weapon, wielding a double edged sword, a weapon whose damage is reflected back on you. A good thing this is a final stand. A walking weapon, yes. But an unstable neutron bomb, a dying star. Waiting to fall apart. Waiting to go supernova or collapse into a black hole.</i> <i>Even the best of weapons has their faults. They can malfunction or be broken or lost. There has been so much lost, so much corrupted or broken, broken and repaired, and made to work again. You, broken and made to work again. Desperation. A final stand. You'll know when it's over, when you can go home. Or it won't matter, you'll be home already, somewhere kinder. Under the marshal's helmet, you sob.</i></span> Under the cryo helmet, you tear up. You're the last one from your squad left, maybe. Spartan might not have made it. You remember her wounds, the way she drifted through the abyss. You wouldn't have been surprised if she didn't make it. The marshal survived, somehow, both ship and the trials that followed. She has answers. If you want to know. <span class = voice>(would you want the answers she will give you? would she recognize you, or me? would she recognize us?)</span> And something in your gut says that you’re headed on a collision course with her. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You know what to do. Trust your instincts, trust these memories.|t3-01-podflashback]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You need answers now. How do you know these memories are correct? If they're memories at all?|t3-01-poddeny]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>You are foolish, to trust memory. How much of what you know is real?<</notify>>All you have to do is get on board the ship. Hold on, just hold on. There must be purpose in your choice of destination, there must be something there for you. Answers. A figure from the hazy past. A future, perhaps. <span class = voice>(a trap. it's a trap. one that i cannot save you from. i cannot keep you safe. i am sorry)</span> And the whisper sounds genuine. Sounds sad. You gasp as the blaze of your nerves cuts out, plunged into darkness, nausea, the world spinning as the pod lurches forward and downward, towards the ship. Velvet shadows press closer and closer, you struggle for air as your throat closes, as you fall. Deeper into the night, into memory. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback><i>The ship is dying as quickly as you are, fading around you. Lights flicker and go out in your wake. Drawing from every source of power left, to keep moving, to find your way out of this maze. Gravity is weaker here. At least it's easier to run now. Each corner, you approach with weapon drawn, raised in shaky hands. Each corner, you take a deep breath and prepare for the raking claws of a shadowy monster, sweet oblivion, peace at last. Except, every husk you've run into has been frozen or mutilated or looks at you with too many empty eyes and makes no effort to strike you down, a haunting gaze that lingers, looks far too human. Dead or dying or worse. Your visor is cracked, but the motion sensors still catch something, the briefest of flickers, a blinking warning. Something lurks down a long, dark hallway. The sound of pneumatics, approaching. Stopping. A blood-curdling scream. Silence. Swallowing back your fear, your heart in your throat. Raising the gun with a shiver of fear, trying to ignore the ammunition warning. One shot, in the literal sense. Your helmet light illuminates a husk on the ground. You approach, pausing before the twisted pile of metal and organics. A horrible feeling of recognition. Crouching to confirm the suspicion that weighs heavy, a pit in your stomach. A steadying breath. Reaching out for the helm that rests on the ground. Dread that rises, bile in your throat. Your extended hand. And the one that meets it.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><span class = flashback><i>One that grabs your wrist.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>><span class = flashback><i>A figure dragging itself upright with a grip like iron and your suspicion confirmed with a sick twist of fate, because the husk is Spartan, or rather, what is left of her. Armor torn from thigh to shoulder, held together by the strained suit underneath, perforated with viscera the bursts to the surface, a sickly reddish color against the dusk-orange and gray of her exoskeleton. Your gaze torn away by the flickering of the helmet light, guttering as she raises her head to look at you. The dimly-lit visor is a sight to behold, the outer layers of steel peeled back, rent apart to reveal the cracked, streaked glass underneath. Liquid sloshes, stains the glass further, drips from an unknown source, occludes the face that you know holds desperation and pure horror. Eyes that beg your help. She begged for you to help. Screamed your name, all of your names, as it sunk claws into her and you froze. You froze. Did nothing but watch as it pulled her away, dragged her into the labyrinth. You like to think you called after her, you fired blindly down the hall, you cried for her. You can help her now. At the very least, you won't leave her like this. You cradle her head in one hand. The other holds the pistol to her visor, muzzle against glass. Heavy and cold in your hand. Finger twitching on the trigger. Her eyes close. You squeeze your own eyes shut as you squeeze the trigger.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>><span class = flashback><i>The sound of the gunshot is lost in that of the explosion that throws your aim skyward. Lost again in the silence that rushes to fill the hallway as it falls away to the emptiness of space. Staring out into the battlefield and its swirling cyclone of spacecraft, each engaged in a battle to the death, while the wounded and scouts limp away into the night. Scouts, like the dart-like fighter soaring past in a swooping circle, dropping a flare on its return. You watch the illuminated red cloud of particulates and light as it drifts soundlessly, catching the light of the distant stars, the distant battle. They were looking for you. They're coming to save you. Rising from the abyss is a white ship, airlock open, crew at the ready. Beckoning you forward. Spartan is light in your arms as you lurch towards safety, the ship rocked with explosions, gravity fluctuating with every step. The stagger breaking into a dead sprint as the hallway before you begins disintegrating into the void of space. Sprinting and screaming, lungs burning with each stride. The skeleton of the ruined ship shattering under the magnetic boarding locks of your rescuers, careening closer and closer and closer and you close your eyes and</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 6>><span class = flashback><i>there is a moment, where you are suspended between it all. life and death. yourself and the thing that grows to replace it. the beginning and end. the void and the ship. there is a moment where you are outside of it all, when the world is still and quiet and the stars are distant and cold and beautiful, not cupped between scarred hands or reflected in dead, empty eyes.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 7>><span class = flashback><i>There is a moment when you fall. When you hit the ground impossibly hard, when gravity and magnetism tear Spartan from your arms, and she reaches out to you as you are dragged away from one another again. Tumbling, striking the wall, and being unable to do anything but watch as the white-hulled ship smashes its way closer, gravity pressing your body to the wall, your armor slowly closing in on your frame, literal tons of carbon and ceramic and steel strangling the life from you and Spartan, pinned to the floor, whose muffled cry reflects accurately that today will be the day you fall into death's embrace, crushed by armor or atomized in the oncoming collision. An embrace you are unwilling to accept, however inevitable. Today, you have decided, is not the day you will die. You have made it too far, you have given too much, you will not die like this. And you summon all your remaining strength. A spear of concentration. Gravity's weight released, your feet barely brushing against the ground, everything coming to a slow. The stars shudder, blurry splotches in your vision, but you gather Spartan once more. One step forward, the shattered ground holding steady under your feet. One step forward, body shaking, tiredness like lead in your limbs. One step forward, and the tightness of your clenched jaw, the strain of every muscle, tears and bloody nose and a scream that is silent in the emptiness of space but nonetheless ignites something within, crying defiance one last time. One step forward, feeling gravity wobble around you, steadying both ships as they continue on their slow collision course. One step forward. The tethered rescue crew drifting to close the gap, reaching for the wounded soldier in your arms. They yell something that you do not hear, static on your radio, soundless words mouthed through a fogging helmet. The emptiness as she leaves your grasp, the way they reach for you, reach for you and cannot touch you. You look back, over your shoulder. Half expecting to see the marshal sprinting from the ship whose slow destruction has begun again. She is nowhere be seen. The magnetic locks of the rescue ship disengage, a tugging against your fast-fading control. And you let it go, resigned to the marshal's fate. This is the end. There is no heroic leap from ship to ship, no final sprint, a desperate act of survival, lunging for the ship that falls away from you. The silence of space is overwhelming, your shaky breaths echo in your ears. This is the end. The enemy’s capital ship detonates, your control shattered at long last. An array of alarms sound, oxygen and suit compromise, and a dozen other, a cacophony of noise in the soundless abyss. This is the end. Not long then. Until you see each and every one of the honored dead. Not long until you see the marshal again. It’s getting harder to breathe, and very cold. You smile, taking one last deep breath as the entire Solar Armada drifts soundlessly overhead. The alarms go off as the suit power fades. You’re finally at peace, drifting alone in the dark. You close your eyes.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 8>><span class = flashback><i>You go gently into the night.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-captgreeting][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>You are foolish, not to trust memory. Who are you, without it?<</notify>>Now is neither the time or place for old memories. You push them down in your mind, bury the past as best you can. Stand, feeling the pull of gravity, despite everything else floating. Shuddering. <span class = flashback><i>you screamed with the strain, but the paths slowed. you held the world in your hands. you held your life in your hands.</i></span> The countdown ticks away above you. Seven minutes until boarding. Your legs are bound at the ankles, your arms at the wrists. Heavy restraints, made heavier by your gravity and the trajectory of the pod. Restraints made for a stronger version of you, one that would have wrestled their way out of the cuffs and bonds by now, one that would have destroyed this pod in blind fury already. <span class = voice>(you killed them, remember?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><<notify>>It haunts you, doesn't it? Would you rather forget?<</notify>><span class = flashback><i>the buzz and faint pain of a tattoo needle on your forearm. a standardized set of numbers. three numbers, inked on you with a stencil. zero. one. three.</i></span> You bring your wrists down on the edge of the platform, expecting the blistering pain of a broken wrist, reminiscent of every other escape attempt that ended in fire and agony. The sound of the brittle metal shattering is music to your ears. The bonds on your ankles you summon the fires for, a burst of energy that frees you from their grasp. <span class = flashback><i>you didn’t mean to kill him. you were horrified you even could. you were frightened. that's your justification. you couldn't have done this, could you have? a burst of flame, brilliant plasma. fear and disgust and nausea, trying to tear your eyes away from his melting body on the floor of the medical ward.</i></span> A cry from your subconscious as the scene floods back, pushed aside as you stand, unsteadily. Your mission is the ship's manifest. Not flashbacks, not memories. <span class = flashback><i>the marshal stands behind you. you were always the best at finding out, you were the most capable. this is what she told you. she told you that this is what you were meant for. she told you you were good at it. you liked to believe her. her praise felt warm like the sun. which didn't help the guilt. the woman tied to the chair in front of you was just a source of information. this was your job. this was your duty. at least, that’s what you told yourself each time you struck her.</i></span> A terminal, mercifully unlocked. Suspiciously unlocked. Blue glow replacing red, files and data forming a stream of information that sprawls out in front of you. All of it useless. A password unknown, files entirely redacted, gibberish and black squares. The countdown ticks away. Five minutes. <span class = flashback><i>five minutes until extraction. the medic's voice is distant, and somewhere, there is gunfire. five minutes, hold on, stay with me please. your hands pressed tight over a wound in your chest, blood oozing from between your fingers. you vaguely recall the impact of a bullet.</i></span> A gasp, all the air leaving your lungs. Twisting like you've been struck, frantically searching the front of your suit for the wound that happened years ago. <span class = voice>(you cannot live in the past if you expect to survive in the present, in the future. let go. let go.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><<notify>>You <i>really</i> need to let go. Fear, memory, it weighs you down.<</notify>>Four minutes. Searching the rest of the terminal. A password protected folder. <span class = flashback><i>"look- if you ever need anything, remember me. our numbers- that's my decryption key. it'll get you into any file, other than the marshal's private ones." “i understand.” you tap your temple. “i can’t forget anything, even if i try, remember?”</i></span> Zero. One. Three. Your number, drilled into memory, lucky thirteen, unlucky thirteen, the name by which you are known these days. Known by all but the woman who the marshal dubbed Fury. Most have long forgone the nicknames, but hers sticks around, lingers like a dark shadow. Close enough to a "real" name anyways, though you've forgotten hers. Not her face, you don't think you could forget her face. Concentrate hard enough, concentrate long enough- and you'd see her ghost. A round face with features hardened by years of fighting, the scar on her cheekbone contrasted with the softness that escapes her helm, cloud-like hair in tiny black coils. Contrasted with the way she was always smiling, at least for you. Warmth and a grin that lights up her amber eyes, ignites a brilliant smile against her rich black skin, warm and dark as a summer night. A kindness not often afforded to you, the way your name rolled off her tongue. Zero. Zero. Eight. <span class = flashback><i>her hands on your shoulders. this is the end. you were given shore leave, a mercy. three days, the first spent in blissful oblivion amongst the nightlife of the many linked space stations of earth. the next two, you were on your own for. fury took you to the surface. took you to see the oceans and a sunrise in what remained of her home. an ancient coast, fought over for centuries. a good place for the end. amongst the ruins and the billions of twinkling stars and the empty moon, you danced. something she assured you would have been spectacular, had the ceiling not fallen, and the marble not cracked but you could see nothing more beautiful than the moment. huddled by the fire you set on the beach, an arm around your waist, a kiss on your cheek, a hug. seven days until the end. a promise to never let go. a promise to meet again, here, by the sea. when it was all over.</i></span> <span class = voice>(did you ever go back? or was there no point, after you-)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>><<notify>>After you <i>what</i>, 13? Tell me. What did you do to her?<</notify>>The numbers open a personnel file. One with serial numbers- most of them crossed out. KIA. Killed in action. Or the more hopeful but no less empty MIA, missing in action. A placeholder for the truth. Zero zero eight is crossed out. KIA. Guilt, as you look at the three that remain. Zero zero one. Zero one two. And you. Zero one three. Selecting the two other numbers gives you redacted personnel files- and a location. <i>SF-001-X, The Nomad.</i> The display is frozen. No countdown, just a flickering red light. You focus yourself. You know those numbers. The two people you'd least like to see right now. They know you're coming. <span class = voice>(they know you're coming.)</span> Your eyes roll back in your head, a sudden rush of gravity buckling your knees. Falling. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-captgreeting][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<notify>>Wake up. NOW.<</notify>><span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span> Evidently, you lost consciousness. And, as is becoming more and more painfully apparent, your mind. You wake on the floor of the droppod. A white strobe illuminates the interior in an intermittent pattern, revealing the truth one blink at a time. Shattered glass on the floor. Blood, falling in a steady drip, trickling from your forehead, mixing with the glass fragments. What did you do? <span class = voice>(what did you do?)</span> Your body aches. Pain at your wrists and ankles, pain in your chest. Torn suit, sleeves darkened with soot. Burst tubes drip toxic blue into the creases of the fabric, viscous and slow flowing, cold to the touch. Cold on the raw skin of your burnt arm, a stinging handprint. And a sneaking suspicion that it would match perfectly with your charred palm. Something- <i>or someone-</i> pounds on the hatch. Wake up call. Rude awakening. <span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span> “Pod occupant- please acknowledge! If there is no response, we will breach the door!” You clear your throat, but no words come forth. Nothing other than the scream, the whisper <span class = voice>(you are not safe here, you are not safe here you are not safe here)</span>. Sparks fly from the corners of the hatch. The heavy metal falls away, revealing a gleaming white airlock. A tall figure is silhouetted against the white. Familiar, and yet… <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-captgreeting1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>You don't know her anymore. You can't trust her. You can't.<</notify>>You don’t know the woman who stares down at you. <span class = flashback><i>"Don't follow. Don't you dare follow. And don't come back for me. We'll see each other again. I promise."</i></span> “Marshal Akakios?” <span class = voice>(she will hurt you as she hurt me. she will hurt you and use you and when she is done with you she will start again you will start again)</span> She pulls you into a hug. She calls you Thirteen. <span class = voice>(that is not the name she knows you by she knows you and she will not help you)</span> Deep down, you feel that awful fire ignite. <span class = voice>(she will hurt you) (kill her. kill the usurper, kill the betrayer.)</span> The marshal backs away. As if she can hear your thoughts, your orders, your conviction. She looks terrified. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You don't want this. You don't want to do this.|t3-01-airlockpeace][$airlock_peace to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[This is your duty. Kill the usurper. Kill the betrayer.|t3-01-airlockviolent]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>Coward.<</notify>>You scramble to your feet, hands raised in front of you. You didn't want to scare her. You don't want to do this. The voice tells you to kill but your body is yours still. You will not raise a hand in anger or delusion. She backs away, eyes wide in terror. A second crewman stands in the doorframe, shorter and stouter. You know her, you know her like you know the Marshal. You scream for them to back away. <span class = voice>(you know what you must do.)</span> You feel <i>strange.</i> Something’s wrong… something’s terribly wrong. Something is terribly wrong with you. <span class = flashback><i>“What do you mean, you ‘fragmented their memory’? Do you know how far this sets us back? How are we to eliminate the threats if they CAN’T FUCKING IDENTIFY THEM?!”</i></span> <span class="glitch" data-text="(KILL HER. KILL THE MARSHAL. KNOW YOUR MISSION. STRIKE HER DOWN.) "><span class = voice>(KILL HER. KILL THE MARSHAL. KNOW YOUR MISSION. STRIKE HER DOWN.)</span></span> “Marshal… Eris… you have to kill me… please. Please. Just kill me.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='COWARD.'>[[Proceed.|t3-01-airlockpeace1]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>Good. You know what you must do.<</notify>>Something in you snapped. You don’t recognize your own thoughts. You don't recognize the insistent whisper, the one that calls you to action. <span class = voice>(you can’t trust them. only trust what you know. you know our mission, right?) (you know our mission. you will do what is necessary. the will of our people. your revenge.)</span> The Marshal’s fear is beautiful to behold. You stand, fists balled. <span class = voice>(this is right, this is necessary. you're doing the right thing. you're doing a good job.)</span> The words come to your lips like you have rehearsed what to say. Burned into whatever is left of your memory. Like you were born for this mission. A title used only in legality and antiquity, for the conviction of criminals and the ceremonies of the Order. “Marshal of Solar Forces, Adjudicator- no- <i>Harbinger</i> Eris Akakios- of the Broken Arrow, the Light-Bringer, the Wrath of the Eternal Fleet, she who is bound sempiternal to the Void Between Stars. For your crimes against the citizens of the Wandering Fleet and the Order of Helios, I condemn you to death. Stand, and face your fate with the nobility you stole from our people.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>This isn't right. Something isn't right. <span class = voice>(these are your orders. this is your destiny.)</span> And in that, there is an assurance. This is right. This is good. This is necessary. The marshal backs into her crew. The fear in her eyes is palpable. There is a thrill in her fear. There is a satisfaction in her fear. It feels good. You feel… good. <span class = voice>(i was right, wasn't i? it feels good to be yourself, doesn't it?)</span> “This is not your fight, Thirteen. This is not who you are.” The marshal is pleading, begging for your mercy. Pleas fall on deaf ears. You can afford her no mercy. This place will burn. <span class = flashback><i>you sit on a grassy hill, watching towering clouds drift lazily across pale blue skies. the sun is warm on your skin. earth. the first, last, and only time you have ever been home, home with a capital "h", home as it is in the stories. the marshal sits beside you, odd, out of place and time in civilian clothes.“this is your fight, thirteen.“</i></span> <span class = voice>(she lies to you. false memory, a cry for help. she will not help you. she would hurt you.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><<notify>>She would <i>hurt</i> you.<</notify>>The captain cannot stand by and watch. And reaches out, brushes against the frayed edges of their psyche, feels the turmoil within. Offers a flicker of shared not-memory, the collective dream, their own promise. And can only watch, fear forming a horrible lump in her throat as those empty eyes focus and un-focus, as they sway on the spot, as they shake their head vigorously, slam the heel of their hand against the cracked helmet. Caution in the words she chooses. "You were not meant to kill me, Thirteen. That's not who you are, that's not who I know you to be." She does not add- <i>"That is who I meant you to be."</i> For the briefest of moments, there is recognition in the frightened gaze. Hope. Replaced by emptiness. Nothingness. A blank stare in pitch black eyes. A snarl from the thing that wears Thirteen's body, an animalistic and yet inorganic noise, low and staticky. A brush of their mind, a howling chorus of agony and rage and all of it directed at <span class = voice><i>Her.</i></span> A sorrow she could mistake for apology. An apology for what she must do. Her own red-tinged memories, her own deathless guilt. They cry for an execution. And stand before the most grim and prolific of executioners. Though it breaks her heart, she will swing her axe with impunity. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-airlockviolent1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>The marshal backs away, shaking her head. “I can’t kill you, Thirteen, I won’t. I…” You cut her off. “I should kill you, Marshal Akakios, for what you’ve done to us.” Your voice is not your own. Your thoughts are not your own. You advance on her, fists clenched tight. <span class="glitch" data-text="(KILL HER. KILL THE ONE WHO BETRAYED US.)"><span class = voice>(KILL HER. KILL THE ONE WHO BETRAYED US.)</span></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>She backs out into the airlock proper. The rest of the crew fans out in an arc behind her. The shorter woman, and another, who you don’t recognize, but is dressed in white, a doctor who carries herself with malice, step up to stand with her. The marshal is crying. “This isn't who you are. I promise you that. I know you, I know your face, I know your mind. This isn't you, Thirteen.” Another name, a whisper on her lips. Indistinct and familiar and entirely alien. Like a homecoming to a place you no longer know. Sending you spiraling, falling in and out of reality. Past and present intertwined, glimpses of a bleak future punctuating the blur of memory. <span class = flashback><i>you’re awake for the procedure. you had to be. your head was shaved to the skin, a line traced in heavy marker. your voice is shrill as they part your scalp. you lose consciousness as your skull is split. you stand alone in an airlock. your shadow is not yours. the marshal, the captain, the harbinger, the first officer, the shadow. they extend hands to you, they extend kindness to you. all but the shadow who whispers in your ear and plants a knife in your back. all but the harbinger who presides, executioner, over this trial. you cannot stand in the hallway. you are not sure if your legs would hold you. red lights, emergency lights. a pulse that briefly lights the stained walls and the pool on the floor. the ship lurching as the bridge is wrenched open. mission failed, she lies in your arms, you hold her as she takes a last gasping breath.</i></span> You stagger forward. You’re on fire. You're on fire. Your voice is too quiet. “Marshal… I’m afraid. Help me… please, please help me..” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><<notify>>She won't help you. She brings only death. She deserves death.<</notify>><span class = voice>(coward. it is kill or be killed. make your choice. will you let her kill you again?)</span> <span class = flashback><i>they sat you down in a bombed-out school, planetside, solid ground beneath your feet. they told you the truth, a lecture, a lesson. your precious commanding officer, exposed for what she really is. a monster, a war criminal. she sent your people to their deaths. as a distraction. she murdered civilians, the children and those who remained to care for them, the old who could not fight, all those who remained, who would or could not raise weapons against the enemy. slaughtered for the fact of their existence. slaughtered at her orders. she deserves to die.</i></span> Your voice. Not your voice. The other, the one that gives orders, that reassures, that questions. Spoken from your lips clumsily, the words not meant for your mouth. "You have to die, Akakios. My mission is to kill you. I will not fail my mission. I will not fail my mission." The marshal's command is a kindness to your ears. She would not dare hurt you, despite your promise. <span class = voice>(coward)</span> You look up to her from your knees. She lifts the helmet from your head, a repetition, an echo. She offers nothing in return, nothing but palms on your temples and thumbs brushing the end of the scar. Offers nothing but an almost-soothing emptiness. “I am not your enemy, Thirteen. I will not hurt you. And I cannot allow you to carry out this mission. Remember our promise? That we'd always find our way back to each other? I'm here now. It'll all be okay.” The marshal’s voice is impossibly loud. <span class = voice>(get out get out get out get out get out get out get out of my your our head get out)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>You grab her wrists. She burns with the same fire as you, a supernova, a maelstrom just beneath the surface. Unconsciousness hits you like a bullet straight to the brain. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-medbaypeace][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

In all honesty, you were not expecting to wake. The medbay is quiet and bright. Your heart races. You're in a medbay. Back where you belong, IV in your arm and dressed in bandages, notes and monitors crowded around you like every other time you woke. Every other time you woke and were not quite yourself. The monitor notes the ticking increase of your heart rate, mind racing as you push the flood of memory back. You don't want to go back. You can't go back. You can't. <span class = voice>(please. please don't.)</span> A woman in white stands over you. Backlit against the harsh light, she looks almost ethereal, almost alien. Sharp features and skin so pale it might as well be translucent, a long, crooked scar curling the corner of her mouth into a scowl, platinum blond hair streaked with white, her entire visage drained of color, devoid of color, save for the dark bags under her eyes. Solid white porcelain eyes, tinged with just a hint of silver-gray. Dead eyes. "You are quite a strange creature, Subject Thirteen." Her voice is high and clear, with the lilt of some old Earth accent. She pauses briefly before continuing. "I have a number of questions for you. I hope only that you have more answers than what the captain and first officer could provide." Your day starts with an interrogation. Your captor sits at the end of your bed. Her sleeves are stained, and though her eyes are tired, her dead gaze fixes on you with a hunger. Her first question is this- "What is your name? Your real name, before you were Subject Thirteen." "What's your name, medic?" You retort, trying to buy yourself time as the memories of medbays and blunt questions swim behind your eyes. "How rude of me, to not introduce myself. Medical Lieutenant Natalie Konigsmann. You may call me Lieutenant Konigsmann." "Konigsmann, what if I told you that Thirteen is the only name I know?" <span class = voice>(you would be lying.)</span> "I would believe you. Your file is completely and utterly redacted. There is something being hidden, from both you and me.". She turns briefly, pulling up her hair. It's been shaved at the nape of her neck. Pale stubble does not hide dark scars, ones that plunge down the back of her neck, hidden away by the high collar just to re-emerge as webs of lightning across the backs of her hands. All geometric lines, unnaturally clean. <span class = flashback><i>the marshal crouches by the bodies. four of them, man, woman, child and unidentifiable. a family, maybe. the first three ran from the fires and you gunned them down as they fled. three pulls of the trigger. the last did not run. the last burned alive. you gave the orders. mortars with their white phosphorus rain, and the burning smoke that curled from the ground, from the craters you descended into to finish off anything that did not choke or burn. they win this way: turning you against your own. you take the child's hand in your own. small in life, smaller still in death. dark scars, like lightning made flesh. all geometric lines, unnaturally clean.</i></span> "Which leads me to my next question, Thirteen. Are-" You cut her off. You cannot live with not knowing, the taste of phosphorus heavy on your tongue. "No. No, I have a question for you, Konigsmann." The medic's glare quiets your insolence almost immediately. "I have a feeling my question will answer yours. If you would hold your tongue for a second, you would understand." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-medbaypeace1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You're sick of the fucking mind games. She will talk circles around you, the diplomat who carries her sharpest knives in her words. It is far too dangerous to talk; with every word she worms her way inward, inward to corrupt the fabric of your very being into something of her creation. You cannot have this. You must complete your mission. Whether or not the marshal wants it, you're bringing a fight. The odds must be in your favor, you must prepare yourself. You cannot lose. You must complete your mission. Hands on the helmet release, the thud of its weight on the floor. The mask over your nose and mouth torn away, taking a deep breath in the new atmosphere. Feeling more yourself with every breath you take, the intoxication of rich oxygen and fear. The marshal dismisses her crew. None protest. She stands with only one other as the airlock hisses, signaling the finality of their retreat. Just you, the marshal and the other woman, familiar in every aspect with the exception of her name or face. "You never were one to fight fair, Akakios. Always had to have the odds in your favor, always had to have the upper hand. Two on one, you think you're in control here, you think you're going to walk away from this?" Advancing with each word, punctuating your sentences with sparks. The two do not stand down, and it both enrages and excites some part of you. <span class = voice>(i hate them. i like it when they fight. makes the killing more… satisfactory)</span> "But you're at the disadvantage here, Akakios, you and your fucking henchman. Two on one, you think you have the advantage, you <i>have</i> to have the advantage, right? No, no, no no no no. No. I am multitudes, legion. I am a people's last wish, I am their dying breath and their final will. I am a Harbinger in my own right, I am the harbinger of your fate." The marshal’s voice wavers, on the verge of tears. A ploy, you know this. As good with her manipulation of emotion as she is as warping the words on her lips. “You’re not. You're no Harbinger, you're no scion of the Order. That is my burden, not yours. You are many things, but you are not a cold-blooded killer, you are not a blind zealot. You're Thirteen, the only volunteer in my unit, a soldier with neither home nor family waiting for you. You're strong and courageous and witty and kind and human. Our unit became your family, your home." Tears fall. Fake tears, but there is part of you that smiles to see her cry. "I don't know know who you are anymore. You're not the person I left. You're not the person I lost." There is truth in her words. You are nothing like the person she knew. You are nothing like the person she buried. "It will make it easier to do my duty. Protecting the crew. I cannot allow you to complete your mission. And if I have to kill you, I will.". Eris speaks quietly. She knows this was inevitable. Shrugs out of the uniform jacket and removes her hat. The tears have already dried. She stands before you, fists raised. A deadly expression, ready to kill or be killed. A sentiment that you hope that is mirrored on your face, flexing your hands, and preparing your approach. Your approach, which is to- <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[rush the marshal- give her no time to act or react.|t3-01-violent1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[wait for her advance, her attacks, then counter.|t3-01-violent2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[fake surrender, then ambush.|t3-01-violent3]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[let go.|t3-01-violent4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>You have an advantage here, one that will save you. Or kill you. Knowledge of how the marshal fights, how she thinks, how she moves. Slow and methodical, testing the waters with calculated strikes, playing chess in the boxing ring or battlefield. A tactician, through and through, capable of enduring punishment and loss, waiting to set up the perfect move, checkmate, knockout, a capitulation that leaves her opponent reeling and bloody. Or worse. The danger lies in the truth- she knows you. Knows that you mirror her, just as methodical, just as calculated. You hit harder. You endure more. You think and adapt faster. But you always fell short in seeing the bigger picture. The tactician in her sees the options that blur before you with clarity. Not one to succumb to emotion like you. You have felt the world from behind her eyes, every possibility, every timeline laid bare before you, raw information in carefully interlinked stories. You know her tendencies. The optimist she tries so desperately to suffocate. Not wanting to believe the worst, ever. How do you beat someone who watches all, sees all, knows all? Take the path untraveled. Do the unthinkable. You beat a tactician with surprise. The approach is simple. Advance while she waits for your first move, dictating the rest of the war in the airlock. But instead of moving a pawn forward, into her carefully laid trap, you're sending a knight over the line. A shaky walk turns into dead sprint. Closing the distance between you and her, the edges of the cavernous airlock fading into tunnel vision. The dead sprint turns into a lunging tackle, a shoulder in her chest. Following the marshal as she falls backwards, the world slowing. She makes no effort to break her fall. The back of her head hits the tile with a satisfying crack. Her body jolts into unconsciousness, eyes half open, empty hands raised in a poor imitation of a guard while you posture up, raising a fist for a final, satisfying, strike. The completion of your mission held aloft. A strike that never falls. The marshal's eyes open. Black eyes. Sclera, iris, pupil. All solid black. A strike that never falls, frozen in time and place. Her hands are around your throat. Time accelerates slowly. Her hands tighten, your punch lands weakly, she smiles as you choke and the world plunges into darkness. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><<notify>>Wake up.<</notify>><span class = flashback><i>"The point of the drill is not for me to kill you. Defend yourself, or we start over." She towers over you, curled up in a ball on the floor with smarting welts and the overwhelming urge to give up. She kicks the thin gray ceramic staff back to you. "Get up. Fight. The Enemy won't give you second chances like I do." "I'm not going to be fighting the Enemy with a flimsy piece of ceramic, Eris. You're wasting your time." Hauling yourself to your feet, readying yourself to be beaten, returned to the floor once more. "Why do you care so much? I'm not even near the front lines." She looks at you like the answer is obvious. "I don't want you to die." Lowers her guard, in more ways than one. Approaches you, reaches for your bruised face, before pausing. Her fingertips brush against your cheek. "I don't think I could live with myself if you died."</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item><span class="glitch" data-text="Wake up.">[[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The look on her face as your vision clears is one of horror. A feeling you know well. <span class = voice>(what have you done? what have we done?)</span> Releasing her grasp, raising her hands. Palms to you. Gentle words, like you're a child or an animal. Gentle gestures, hands extended to you. A show of surrender, an attempt at reconciliation. Unlike the punch you land square on her face. A blow she makes no attempt to block. The crunch of bone giving way under your fist. Raise your hands. Strike again. Strike again, push aside the forearms she holds weakly to defend herself. Strike again. Strike again strike again strike again strike again. Blood on your hands. Bone giving way. Blood on the floor. From her crushed nose, from her ear and swelling eye. Eyes that plead at you through a film of tears. Eyes that tell you to stop. Beg you to stop. <span class = voice>(stop. let her go.) (who are you? let her go. she didn't want to hurt you why are you hurting her?)</span> You're sobbing. <span class = voice>(you're weak)</span> You're pleading. <span class = voice>(you're pathetic)</span> You look at the broken marshal on the floor, who takes heavy breaths with her bruised eyes closing slowly. Who looks up at you one last time as her eyes roll back in her head and you pull her up by her collar and scream into her shirt. "I have to kill you, Eris! I have to, I have to, I have to!" Your voice is raw, your voice breaks. "You understand, don't you? Don't you?" Tears roll down your cheeks. "…Don't you?" <span class = voice>(you're begging, you're begging, you're begging. let me kill you. let me end your life and mine.)</span> And you've let her go somewhere in the chaos, and you tower over her as she once did to you. You cannot give her a second chance; your eyes are fixed on the bone-knife she wears, sheathed at her hip. Shaking your head, squeezing your eyes shut. Gathering strength. Execute your mission. Execute your mission. Kill her, and be done with it. Kill her. Be done with it. The knife is heavy in your hands, too heavy for what it is. Bone and meteorite. Cold in your hands. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>Cold in your back. Sharp ice-pain, ripping your breath from your lungs. The clatter of the bone-knife on the floor. Far away. So very far away. Reeling and staggering, searching for the wound. Finding the handle of a familiar knife. Turning and finding a familiar face. One permanently set in a scowl, dark lips downturned by the scar that parts them. A cruel imitation of a smile, a grimace that holds nothing but malice, reveals nothing but hatred. The chipped teeth and deep scar and perpetual bruising- a cruel portrait, one you painted with a stroke of her knife. Your handiwork, your masterpiece. “Remember me, Thirteen?” The words barely register before she swings with a right hook. The ground rushes up to meet you. So does the darkness. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-violent1RES][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>You have an advantage here, one that will save you. Or kill you. Knowledge of how the marshal fights, how she thinks, how she moves. Slow and methodical, testing the waters with calculated strikes, playing chess in the boxing ring or battlefield. A tactician, through and through, capable of enduing punishment and loss, waiting to set up the perfect move, checkmate, knockout, a capitulation that leaves her opponent reeling and bloody. Or worse. What makes this worse is that she knows you. Knows that you mirror her, just as methodical, just as calculated. You hit harder. You endure more. You think and adapt faster. But you always fell short in seeing the bigger picture. The tactician in her sees the options that blur before you with clarity. Not one to succumb to emotion like you. You have felt the world from behind her eyes, every possibility, every timeline laid bare before you, raw information in carefully interlinked stories. You know her tendencies. The optimist she tries so desperately to suffocate. Not wanting to believe the worst, ever. How do you beat someone who watches all, sees all, knows all? Play by her rules. Beat her at her own game. If she is to be methodical and slow, than you are to be the same. A slow advance, a couple of steps at a time. Testing the waters as you inch closer. Knowing that she will retreat or hold her ground, will not start her own advance until you cease yours. So you pause. Wait for the counter-play, the opening move. The second woman steps up to fill the space between you and the marshal, cracking her knuckles and flexing her hands. The marshal has not laid a trap or carefully planned her moves. She's opening by sacrificing a pawn. You can oblige her that much. Nobody dares a first move. Tension ticks and ticks and ticks and explodes as the marshal strikes from behind you, her long knife whistling by your ear. You smile as the fight erupts. Two on one. The closest they're getting to a fair fight. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The marshal on the offense is a force of nature. She swings the blade with reckless abandon, strikes that threaten to connect with her partner just as often as they narrowly miss you. And to her partner's credit, she moves just as fluidly, improvising off of the marshal's blind fury. You sidestep one strike, feel the whisper of metal against your skin, and get hit by the other, a blow as solid as hitting a wall. Or getting hit with a wall. Your earlier bravado and courage was sadly misplaced; war on two fronts is utterly sustainable in your state. You're growing tired of fighting both assailants at once, tired and wounded. It seems for every time you connect with either of them, they retaliate a thousandfold. You've felt the sting of the knife or the blunt force of a punch more than once now, your blood decorates the floor and the knife and the marshal's face as she descends deeper into her rage. Two options. End the fight now. Or die by her hand. The way she's swinging, there won't be a trial. This is an execution. Your second assailant is your first target. A powerful kick to her chest, catching her mid-swing, off balance. Sending her tumbling to the ground. She stays down, stunned or unconscious, either suits your purposes. You can focus on the marshal now. The blade just barely misses your face as you lunge backwards. She closes the distance with a long feint, a checked blow. Something meant to throw you off, watching the punch and not the knife. Her swing catches empty air as you duck underneath. And you catch the knife wielding hand as it arcs towards your throat. "I haven't seen you angry like this in a long time, Eris. Did I finally get under your skin? Did I finally go too far? Your darling, your dearest, out of control at long last?" You snarl at her, grappling as best you can. The knife inches closer as she screams in frustration. "I don't know you anymore. You look familiar and feel familiar and there's something fucking wrong with you." She says the name again. The one that hurts. The one that causes some part of you pause. A flicker of recognition, however dirty it makes you feel. However empty it makes you feel. You pause then, in this deadly embrace. Knife inching closer, shadow stirring again on the ground. World slow and quiet, watching angry tears trace their way from black eyes. Watching your life come to an end as the shadow stands and draws something from her hip, something that is metal and glimmers and you know to be Alexandra Drake's silver plated revolver. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>You hear Eris scream again, though it's drowned out by the roar of the pistol. Far removed from the impact that sends you spiraling. Knees buckling inward, falling forward, reaching out to break your fall on the tiled ground that approaches much, much too fast. There's blood everywhere. Suit and hands and tile and everywhere there should not be blood. Intensely red and leaping from the wound with each weak pulse, a cry for a medic and shouts of rage. The marshal's protests silenced with a balled fist, pushed aside, sent skidding across the tile floor, her knife and blood bright against the tile. <span class = voice>(what have you done?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>Alexandra stands over you. There is nothing but malice in her blue eyes. Nothing but malice. She smiles, if you can call it a smile. The scar you gave her, splitting her lips and chipping her teeth, turns the expression into a snarl. "Remember me? Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Bullet for bullet, Thirteen." She levels the pistol at you again. Pulls the trigger. Except, this time, it doesn't go off. Just an empty, hollow, click. <span class = voice>(kill me. get it over with)</span> Alexandra laughs. Raises her boot. You'd like to think you lost consciousness before it made contact with your face. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-violent2RES][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>The marshal is smart. To be more precise, a genius, owing to her forgotten background, a scientist long before she was a soldier or politician, a pure tactician, who sees the battlefield like a chessboard, like an experiment. Changes one thing at a time, watches the reaction, adds to her knowledge. Changes something else. The marshal was a scientist, one unafraid of altering herself to better improve her odds of success. You know how she thinks now, all timelines playing out before her, elaborate temporal autopsies, analyzed in seconds that stretch into minutes, time passing at a snail's pace while she thinks, while she buys herself time, trades sanity for a marked advantage over the humanity she tries desperately to reject. Because at the end of the day, the marshal is human. Ruled by her emotions, by her connections. Her sympathies are few and far between but she has always had a soft spot for you. Always. She has told you as much, she has shown you as much. She is afraid of losing you again. She is afraid of hurting you. You have no such reservations. You’ll use her emotions against her. Your advance is not the heroic charge into battle that she was likely envisioning. Instead- slow, stumbling and almost falling with each step. Hoping the mask of confusion you wear is convincing enough to hide your intent. "Eris? Eris, please, please you have to… you have to help me." Lurch closer, see the concern on her face. "What's happening to me? What's… what's wrong with me?" And collapse, at her feet. Half kneeling, half standing, arms wrapped around her legs, head resting against her thigh. Looking up through a film of false tears. And she sinks to your level. In the literal sense. Her emotions are too much of a confused mess to betray anything to you as you reach out to test the waters of her mind. She promises you with a choked voice that everything will be okay. That together, you'll figure this out, that you'll be alright, that she didn't want this for you, that she's not going to hurt you. She lets you pull your embrace tighter, lets you bury your face in her collar, lets your hands fall from her shoulders to her back to her waist. Doesn't care that your fingers brush against the handle of the knife she wears sheathed there. That you smile against her collarbone. Old habits die the hardest. Your gamble paid dividends. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>To say that wearing the knife was an old habit would be discounting the fact that she always wore it. Always. Long robes or casual clothes or uniforms or armor- didn't matter. A practical belt and unassuming sheath for the fixed blade, double edged and razor sharp. Coming to a point like the cut of a gemstone, beautiful marbled metal with a single groove for bloodletting. Practical and symbolic all the same. Same as the handle. It is not ivory, as many would assume from the color. White-ish and accented in gold, with a simple setting of opal at the end of the handle. The shape of it is familiar, the facets organic in nature. Fits a hand like it was meant to be held. <span class = flashback><i>Ritual, tradition, the horror of knowing that these were once things that were deemed necessary for survival but now only bear the appearance of those important roles. An oath made in blood and bone. Knowing the knife she wields is harvested. Not forged. Harvested.</i></span> You wrap your fingers around the handle of the knife. Smooth bone, radius and ulna twisted over one another one final time, bound in wire. A slight rasp against the sheath, drawing the blade slowly, slowly enough to where she might not notice. Not that it matters. You plunge the blade into the marshals back. As deep as the handle allows. The marshal's breath is loud and sharp in your ear, her hands clutch at the fabric of the suit. She shudders as you wrench the blade from where you've driven it, a sudden welling spring of blood that is hot against your fingers. A moment of mercy, with your hand covering the wound, lowering her to the ground, laying her down gently. Eyes wide with pain and fear and betrayal. Looking up at you, pleading with those mournful eyes, begging your mercy. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><<notify>>You did it. You actually did it.<</notify>><span class = voice>(what have you done?)</span> You stare down at her. <span class = flashback><i>You point a gun at her. Tell her this is revenge.</i></span> You raise the blade again. Making sure the job is done right. <span class = flashback><i>That she deserves to die, for what she has done. She asks you what her crimes are.</i></span> You hesitate with knife aloft. The knife is heavy. Too heavy for what it is. Or maybe it just bears the weight of your combined guilt. <span class = flashback><i>You have no answers. You scream through gritted teeth. Your finger wavers on the trigger.</i></span> Your dark heart is heavy in your chest. But you close your eyes. <span class = flashback><i>You close your eyes.</i></span> Let gravity do the work your arms refuse. <span class = flashback><i>Pull the trigger.</i></span> Eris clutches at the handle of the knife, slick with her blood, glossy red, rising and falling with each gasp she takes. You can do nothing but watch. She begs for your help, for a medic. You do nothing but watch. <span class = voice>(what have you done?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>><<notify>>What have you done?<</notify>><span class = voice>(what have you done?) (i killed her. i killed her. i actually did it. i killed her.) (mission accomplished.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>>You hardly have time to celebrate. Your own execution is imminent. Calls for you to stand and walk away, to put your hands up, to surrender, returned with blankness, with emptiness; you look at the woman who draws from a hip holster a silver-plated revolver, who points it at you, who gives you orders that fall on deaf ears. The gunshot echoes in the cavernous airlock. And you fall like the captain, just barely aware of the blood that soaks the front of the suit, as your assassin stands over you. Grabs you, pulls you to look her in the eyes. Asks questions, screams at you, interrogates you as your life slips through your fingers and over your lips. "I should have done that a long time ago, Thirteen. Eye for an eye, remember? Scar for a scar, remember?" Alexandra Drake, who hisses your name like a curse. Still bitter. You give her your best impression of smile. "If I survive this, I'll give you another mark to remember me by. An uglier one, too." A choked laugh as the color drains from her face. The face you scarred, carving through chin and mouth and jaw, leaving your mark in a horribly deep wound from collarbone to nose. You're not sure what hits your first, her raised fist or unconsciousness. Doesn't matter much. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-violent3RES][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>Let go.<</notify>>Let go. Would be… easy. Wouldn't have to worry about marshal-enemy's tricks. Wouldn't have to worry about her shadow, the short woman who eyes you with malice. With hunger. Wants to fight, doesn't share the enemy's reluctance. You could take them both. You could kill them both. Accomplish your mission. Indulge in the bloodlust. <span class = voice>(you don't have to do this.)</span> Let go. Each deep breath is a further intoxication to the blurry images that flash before you, death and glory and gore. You know how it would feel to sink your teeth into her skin. The way it would look to paint the walls with her blood and innards, a gruesome masterpiece. The way it would feel when the life finally slips from her body, watching the stars in her eyes blink out one by one. You can see it, you can feel it, you can practically taste it. The thought brings a deep satisfaction, the familiar ache. The thought makes you sick to your stomach. A sickness you could mistake for hunger. <span class = voice>(i can convince you that this is hunger)</span> It is your nature to hunger. That is how this works, this gift, this curse. Takes and takes and takes, takes and gives alike. Pay with thought, with the withering of skin and bone. Pay with the gaps in your memory and the horror of discovery. Both tinder and flame. It gives you gifts, lures you into deeper waters. Makes the drowning feel <i>good</i>. Things you do not have words for. Things you are not sure you'd want the words for. Euphoria, underlaid with a satisfying pain. An ache in your bones that only makes you crave it more when it is gone. Has you crawling back to it, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolled back in your head. Praying on your knees for release, for deliverance. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item><span class="glitch" data-text="Let go.">[[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><<notify>>Let go.<</notify>> <span class = voice>(i can convince you that this is good for you) (i can convince you to let go) (i can convince you to let go)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class="glitch" data-text="Let go.">[[Proceed.|t3-01-violent4choice][$PassageNo = 1]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<set $airlock_stabbed to true>><<notify>>No. No no no no no no it wasn't supposed to be like this.<</notify>>Everything hurts. Everything hurts so bad, and with every slight movement the pain only gets worse. It would be some relief to curl up into a little ball and sob until the pain goes away, but to do so would be a deathwish. The knife in your back seems to dig deeper with every passing second. Alexandra stabbed you. She stabbed you and you're bleeding out and dying with her knife in your back. She would call it self-defense or hell, revenge, maybe. Find some way to justify it. <span class = voice>(you failed. the marshal lives.) (and we're dying.)</span> You're dying. <span class = voice>(we're dying.)</span> Someone crouches beside you, you who lies face down on the tile, who savors the coldness against your cheek, knowing it will be the last comfort you feel. Fitting that it would be cold. Someone crouches beside you, and the blurred edges of their silhouette blot out the already dimming light. Their orders are a thousand miles away and a rumble in your ears, as if you were caught in an explosion or submerged. <span class = voice>(they're not going to save you.) (why would they give <i>you</i> another second chance?)</span> <span class = flashback><i>That was the promise at least. For most, a second chance. Prisoners and wards of medicine and the repentant acolytes of the Order. Those who faced the Director with boldness, and those who shrunk at her presence and then you. You who recognized her face. Her voice. Knew her name. Chance after chance, the hundred recruits dwindling, walking past dim cells and slate coffins. Left with thirteen. Unlucky thirteen, functional prototype 13. Last of your line and name and title, last of the unit. Maybe you'll be reunited with them, maybe you'll see their faces and say their names. Maybe they'll remember you.</i></span> <span class = voice>(it'd be nice, wouldn't it? to be remembered?)</span> The world slips away, grains of sand through an hourglass. Out of time. <span class = voice>(it would be nice, i think.)</span> You do not go gently into the night. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-medbayviolent]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

In all honesty, you were not expecting to wake. Your wounds and the certainty of the whispers that this was the end had assured you as much. But here you are. The medbay is quiet and bright. Your heart races. You're in a medbay. Back where you belong, IV in your arm and dressed in bandages, notes and monitors crowded around you like every other time you woke. Every other time you woke and were not quite yourself. The monitor notes the ticking increase of your heart rate, mind racing as you push the flood of memory back. You don't want to go back. You can't go back. You can't. <span class = voice>(please. please don't.)</span> A woman in white stands over you. Backlit against the harsh light, she looks almost ethereal, almost alien. Sharp features and skin so pale it might as well be translucent, a long, crooked scar curling the corner of her mouth into a scowl, platinum blond hair streaked with white, her entire visage drained of color, devoid of color, save for the dark bags under her eyes. Solid white porcelain eyes, tinged with just a hint of silver-gray. Dead eyes. "You are quite the strange and violent creature, Subject Thirteen." Her voice is high and clear, with the lilt of some old Earth accent. She pauses briefly before continuing. There is venom in her next words. "I have a number of questions for you. You will answer truthfully, or there will be consequences." Your day starts with an interrogation. Your captor leans on the end of your bed. Her sleeves are stained, and though her eyes are tired, her dead gaze fixes on you with a hunger. Her first question is this- "Why did you try to kill the captain?" <span class = voice>(eris lives. as do you.)</span> "I tried to kill the captain?" "Do not play dumb with me. You would have killed her and died in the process if it were not for me. So- I will ask you this, once again. Why did you try to kill the captain?" "I don't know! I don't even know my own name! Or yours, or why we're on this ship or how I got here or anything- I don't know! I simply don't know!" You retort, trying to buy yourself time as the memories of medbays and blunt questions swim behind your eyes. "I know less than you, Subject Thirteen. Your file is completely and utterly redacted. There is something being hidden, from both you and me.". She turns briefly, pulling up her hair. It's been shaved at the nape of her neck. Pale stubble does not hide dark scars, ones that plunge down the back of her neck, hidden away by the high collar just to re-emerge as webs of lightning across the backs of her hands. All geometric lines, unnaturally clean. <span class = flashback><i>the marshal crouches by the bodies. four of them, man, woman, child and unidentifiable. a family, maybe. the first three ran from the fires and you gunned them down as they fled. three pulls of the trigger. the last did not run. the last burned alive. you gave the orders. mortars with their white phosphorus rain, and the burning smoke that curled from the ground, from the craters you descended into to finish off anything that did not choke or burn. they win this way: turning you against your own. you take the child's hand in your own. small in life, smaller still in death. dark scars, like lightning made flesh. all geometric lines, unnaturally clean.</i></span> "This brings me to my second question, Thirteen-" You cut her off. You cannot live with not knowing, the taste of phosphorus heavy on your tongue. "Who- or what- the <i>hell</i> are you?" The medic quiets your insolence almost immediately, snapping at you. "The grim <i>fucking</i> reaper, the angel of death, whichever you would prefer. I would sooner have executed you, but under captain's orders, you are in my care. You are stuck with me, and I am stuck with you, and I have questions. So hold your tongue for a second and listen." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-medbayviolent1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $airlock_shot to true>><<notify>>No. No no no no please, no. It wasn't supposed to be like this.<</notify>>Everything is numb. Not in the pleasant way, the gradual release of painkillers and spiral into blissful oblivion. But in the way that you can't move and panic fills your lungs just as quickly as the blood. What isn't numb hurts, hurts bad. Teeth loose in your jaw, a dull ache where your nose typically is, vision slowly fading in an eye you know to be swelling shut. And all the cuts and bruises, reminders of your foolish, foolish plan, to fight them both at the same time. Alexandra shot you. And kicked you in the face. Made a mess of you, a mess she'd call revenge. Certainly not an act of defense; she hit the marshal about as hard as you did. <span class = voice>(the marshal still lives.) (and we're dying.)</span> You're dying. <span class = voice>(we're dying.)</span> Someone stands over you, you who lies on your back, who struggles for each breath as they grow shallower, knowing that when death finally comes, it will be a relief. A respite, at long last- an end to the cycle, dying and being brought back as someone else, someone slightly different and altogether wrong. This time, this will be the end. Someone stands over you, and they are familiar but not enough, and you wish it were Alexandra, here to crush the life from your eyes or pull the trigger on that gleaming pistol again. <span class = voice>(they're not going to kill you.) (and even if they were- they'd just bring you back again.)</span> <span class = flashback><i>For all their science and miracles- they couldn't conquer death. Not without significant cost. There were one hundred of you- and thirteen unlucky souls made it. The others, when their bodies or minds succumbed, were discarded. Graphite and lead coffins. Autopsies. Friends laid splayed on tables and their components stripped, tested, and repurposed in the heartless, soulless white labs by red-coated doctors with empty black eyes. They could conquer death. They wouldn't let you die. Brought back, time and time and time again. The only time she was kind to you, always beside your bed when you awoke. Before she pushed further- before she killed you again.</i></span> <span class = voice>(you're hoping this is the end, aren't you? that we're finally going to be let go?)</span> The world slips away, grains of sand though an hourglass. Out of time, at long last. <span class = voice>(finally. we're free.)</span> You do not go gently into the night. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-medbayviolent]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $airlock_shot to true>><<notify>>It's okay. It's going to be okay. I promise.<</notify>>Everything is numb. Not in the pleasant way, the gradual release of painkillers that triggers a spiral into blissful oblivion. But the paralytic way, the way in which you can't move and panic fills your lungs just as quickly as the blood. But you're entirely numb. There are worse ways to die, you assure yourself. You have sent people to worse fates. Like the marshal. The marshal who lies just inside your vision, presided over by the white-coated medic, whose sleeves are already stained red-black. Her frantic, shrill orders come from an eternity away, as if you were underwater or caught in an explosion. The marshal's hand lies just outside your reach, if you could reach her. As if she sought a final comfort in a lost cause, her assassin. <span class = voice>(we did it. we avenged our people. the marshal is dying.) (and so are we.)</span> You're dying. <span class = voice>(so am i.)</span> Someone towers over you, you who lies on your back, who struggles more and more with each breath, growing shallower and shallower. Maybe they're a figment of your imagination. Maybe they're a dying hallucination. Maybe they're an angel or a devil, come to carry you to perdition or salvation. Maybe it's Alexandra, still wielding her silver revolver. Maybe it's Eris. Dead, cold Eris, with her own knife still in her chest, hand extended to her assassin. <span class = voice>(it was our mission- to kill her or die trying. well. here we are. eris is dead. and we're not long after.) (i didn't think it would hurt this much.)</span> <span class = flashback><i>There were times when it was the unit against the world, against the System, against the universe. Thirteen unlucky souls. Representative of the greatest hope of humanity, the lowest of the low raised far above the rest; prisoners and forgotten wards of medicine and the the most devoted of the Order. Misfits and outcasts, led by a woman who was named "Wrath" by her people, and yet had a softer side, a kindness; cried at the funerals and placed flowers on graves and held bloody hands to her lips and said prayers for the dying in a language familiar and forgotten. Who smiled to see your return, who extended a hand to her assassin.</i></span> <span class = voice>(won't be long until you see her again, at least.)</span> The world slips away, grains of sand through an hourglass. Out of time. <span class = voice>(when you see her, tell her that i'm sorry, okay? for everything.)</span> You do not go gently into the night. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-medbayviolent]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>><span class="glitch" data-text="Let go.">Let go.</span><</notify>>You close your eyes. You draw a sharp breath. <span class = voice>(i can convince you to let go)</span> When you open them, time has slowed to a trickle. One grain of sand through the hourglass at a time. Watching the conflict play out with a cast of ghosts. All futures spread before you, a grotesque temporal autopsy. Each ends more poorly than the last, the odds slipping through your fingers. Like sand through an hourglass. Begging you, let go. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> <span class="glitch" data-text="let go.">[[let go.|t3-01-violent4RES1]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> [[(no. i won't. i can't.)|t3-01-violent4RES2]]</div> <<if $CWT3_warning is true>><div class = choice-item> [[no. i won't. i can't. (CW: SELF-HARM)|t3-01-violent4RES2]]</div><</if>> <<if $CWT3_skip is true>><div class = choice-item> [[no. i won't. i can't. (CW: SELF-HARM)|t3-01-medbayviolent]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>><span class="glitch" data-text="Let go.">Let go.</span><</notify>><<set $airlock_letgo to true>><span class = voice>(i can convince you to let go) (i do not need convincing.)</span> An inhuman noise escapes your lips. The world dissolves into pitch black. You feel <i>nothing</i>. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>You're on fire. Every muscle, every bone, every nerve, every exposed patch of skin. The pool beneath your face ripples ever so slightly with your breath. Proof enough that you somehow still live. An aftertaste of iron, the reek of bitter metal. Shallow breaths, feeling the splintered ribs shift and reignite the fires with even the slightest movement. Footsteps behind you. Your executioners. Too weak to fight. Too weak to cry out. Too stubborn to die here, stubborn enough to endure, endure as best as you can. Too weak to fight, but not too weak not to defy death another moment longer. Crawling, hand over hand, dragging uncooperative legs and leaving a dark, slick trail across the broken tile beneath you. Biting back tears as best you can, until your arms give out and you fall to one of your shattered sides and curl up into a pitiful ball and weep. Because you're going to die here. <span class = voice>(we're well acquainted with death, aren't we?)</span> A familiar man sits on the broken tile, though he does not disturb the shards like you did, dragging yourself across fractured ceramic. <span class = voice>(i miss it, you know.) (being alive)</span> The familiarity is an agony like your wounds, as is the guilt. Your apology is quiet on bruised lips. Your apology is empty. You're talking to a ghost. To a nightmare. <span class = voice>(i trusted you. hell, i loved you. look at what you did to me.)</span> "I'm sorry. I was just-" <span class = voice>(following orders? i know. that's what they all say. just following orders. did they order you to forget me? did they order you to strike my name from history? you buried what was left of me in an unmarked grave, you didn't even say your goodbyes. they at least pretended to mourn your "death". did you cry for me? did anyone cry for me?)</span> "I'm sorry." <span class = voice>(you're not sorry. you were never apologetic. your deathbed isn't a good place to start, either. trust me.) (i apologized to everything and everyone when i was dying and look where that got me. trapped in your fucking head. maybe i really am a nightmare.) (eris won't forgive you. you certainly can't forget her. you should have just killed her. you wouldn't have felt a damn thing anyways. it'd be like killing me all over again. trigger pull and empty. remember it in a decade when she haunts you like i do.)</span> He stands, walks away. Looks back over his shoulder with mournful eyes one last time as he fades into oblivion. You go just as gently into the dark. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-medbayviolent][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $airlock_stabbed_letgo to true>><<notify>>If this is the game you wish to play, so be it. Reap what you sow.<</notify>><span class = voice>(i can convince you that you need this)</span> No. No. You don't need this. You need to stand and fight, you need to stand and fight, and the marshal is advancing, and she's drawn a long, cruel knife, one that you know all too well will clean muscle and sinew from bone, was meant for that grim task. Was designed to bleed you dry. She will not delight in killing you. But your death will not be a quick one. You need to stand and fight, you need to fight, you need to fight, and you have no will with which to fight. This, then, is surrender. Eris has enough control not to gut you immediately. The knife's gravity rests in her hands, regardless. You say nothing. You have no words for this. For what you have come to realize, for what you must do, for what you're going to do. The same as she would do to you. It is the noble thing to do, to decline the sweet rot, to walk away from the dark temptation. Repent. It is the right thing to do, regardless of the pain, of the fear that ties your heart in knots. It is the right thing to do. Atone. Take your fate into your own hands. "I'm sorry." You whisper, taking her knife-wielding hand in yours, fingers around a thin wrist, her warmth one that borders on uncomfortable. For a moment, her expression betrays fear. And then sorrow and regret, and a thousand other things. She makes no attempt to stop you. She would make no attempt to do so. This is as much her fate as it is yours. Your hand is the one that guides the knife. Sharp enough to cut with a touch, heavy enough to pierce with just the weight. Something perfect in the way it glides through the layers of your suit, through the layers of your skin and muscle. Deep, shuddering breaths, fingernails dug into her hand. Dare not to cry out, pray not to cry out, do not cry out. The blood is hot. The blade is cold. You thank Eris as you collapse. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Amidst the chaos, amidst the carnage, you are found. That is the promise. From nothing, something- from the infinitesimal particles of stardust adrift on the cosmic tides, creation. That is the promise: that matter, when given enough time and complexity, begins to question that which created it, the forces by which it is governed, consciousness multiplied with each new thought that joins the delightfully discordant consensus of ideas. Where we- the universal, human "we"- came from. Where we're headed. Whether we're truly alone. To join was salvation. A freeing of the mind. From stardust you were born and to stardust you will return. Salvation requires sacrifice. They demanded this of you. This ritual, the slow bleed, is a familiar one. You have never cut this deep before, never not held the knife yourself, never let someone else dirty their hands in this ritual, this slow death. Free the mind of the body. To stardust, you will return. Amidst the chaos, blood slick and shimmering, you are most yourself. Most yourself as the light leaves your eyes. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>> <span class = flashback><i>the light that dares filter through the windows is enough. to see would haunt you, to know would ruin you. the light that dares filter through the windows refract in sacred iconography and geometry, thousands of shades as distant sunlight falls upon the stained glass. in a moment's time, this ship, this cathedral, will face the sun. you will face what you must do. until then- you are met with black hoods and emptiness underneath, gauzy and decaying fabric ghosts with pools of shadow for faces and tattooed hands. eyes that shimmer in the growing light, reflect those too-sharp colors in too many eyes, glimmering fractals of stained glass. pattern repeating, repeating as you walk into the sun. the crowd parts like the shadows, and you are the sun. you stand before them, the flock. you are painted in the gold of the sun as the patterns converge, you are painted in the colors of humanity; crowned in light as the hood is swept from your brow. you are the sun- the system revolves around you in this moment. a human thing, spirit soaring with their incantation, with their affirmation. a human thing, to kill and die in their behest; a servant to the people, a savior, a martyr, a prophet, and augur. their future lies in your hands- three deaths today and immortality forever. you cannot bear to look them in the eyes. the sacrifice is adorned in gold and meteorite and bone, in the wealth of a people, the wealth of an empire, crowned and shackled. you are but a servant to the sacrifice. two deaths. the knife is given to you as the voices around you swell with fervor, faster and faster and louder and louder, lyrical and discordant like the pounding of your heart. the knife is heavy in your hands, gold and meteorite and bone. meant for one thing and one thing alone. the sacrifice is swift but no less brutal, drenched in their blood. gold and meteorite and bone and blood. two deaths and the leaden fear of the third. cold against your skin. the refusal, your body crying one last time to save yourself. dropping to your knees as the chants grow louder and louder and louder again, beg you to do this, beg you to do this. the third and final death. freedom, savior. devotion, martyr. vision, prophet. the future in your hands, augur. carve out your entrails and read them as victory, as strength, as devotion. lead them into the sun. carve out your entrails, and face your future in the pooled reflection. raise the knife. point it inwards. close your eyes as it falls. revel in the dying rays of the sun and your prophecy in the blood on the tile, the reflection of the patterns that brought you here, stained glass, stained hands, icons desecrated, anointed with sinful sacrifice. the reflection of your own face, trying to hide the fear, trying to hide the tears. you are far too young for this and yet- there is glory in your destruction. amidst the chaos, amidst the carnage, you are found. in life, you lead your people in blood-wrought devotion. in death, you lead them into immortality.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>><span class = voice>(what did you see? did you see anything other than reflections, anything other than blood-loss delusions? did you believe the prophecy on your lips?) (which would be worse? blindness, or faithlessness?)</span> You are most yourself as the light leaves your eyes. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-medbayviolent][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

"Listen to me. You have a completely redacted file. No name, no birthdate, no place of origin. No service record. However-" A brief pause, collecting her words, averting her gaze. "The captain spoke highly of you. The first officer stood first watch by your side. Cross-examination of their files with observation of your body draw striking physiological similarities- you carry many of the same marks, many of the same <i>alterations</i>." Konigsmann stands, leaning on the end of your bed. She does not yet meet your eyes. "I ask you this out of medical concern, and, admittedly for some peace of mind. To the best of your knowledge, were you involved in medical experimentation? Are you like the captain and first officer?" She takes a long pause, steadying breaths with an almost white-knuckled grip on the end of your bed. Her next words are whispered, head bowed, as if it were some admission of guilt. "Are you like <i>me</i>?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You killed things like her.|t3-01-medpaypeace2][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You are like the captain, like the first officer. You share some bond with them.|t3-01-medpaypeace2][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You don’t know. You don't remember enough to answer.|t3-01-medpaypeace2][$choice to 3]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You are like her. For better or worse.|t3-01-medpaypeace2][$choice to 4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>"Lieutenant, my purpose was to kill <i>things</i> like you." She winces, looking to the ceiling, rather than meet your eyes. <span class = flashback><i>the familiar recoil kicks hard into your shoulder, one for each pull of the trigger, semi-automatic. three bodies fall noiselessly. you approach, weapon ready. recoil, double-tap of the trigger, confirming the kill. man. woman. child. abomination. inhuman. dead.</i></span> “I didn’t have a choice, Lieutenant. It was kill or be killed. It was war.” "There is always a choice." Her eyes are red with tears. "<i>Always</i>. I can heal, or I can kill. You and I are both killers- but you have never known mercy." For the briefest of seconds, with shadows pooling on her features, you see a grinning skull instead of her face. "I could show you the mercy of death. Or I could do my duty and heal. It is-"<<elseif $choice is 2>>"I'm like the captain, like the first officer." She backs away. She backs away from you, as if you are infected or dangerous or- <span class = flashback><i>one hundred recruits. hospital gowns and bowed heads and long lines in the hallways. bare skin, shaved heads, templates traced onto arms and backs and skulls, outlines and unfamiliar symbols and notes in shorthand scrawl. they needed nothing to keep you in line, but the sergeants and wardens pace with their electric implements and heavy clubs, tell you to turn your face forward. to look down, to look away. your eyes meet those of a silver-marked man, briefly. he smiles wryly, he does not turn his face to the ground. the warden swings their club.</i></span> "I didn't mean to scare you, Lieutenant. I'm sorry." <span class = voice>(are you?)</span> "I fear the worst <i>for</i> you, Subject Thirteen. I truly do. It is likely-"<<elseif $choice is 3>>"Lieutenant, I don't know. I don't know who I am, or where I came from or what's happened to me." The medic sighs. The look she gives you is one of pity. <span class = flashback><i>you're sick, sick and dying. curled into a ball on the floor of your cell, unyielding white walls, cold and padded so you don't hurt yourself. the hurting is left to the doctors in their white hazmat suits. you hate them. you hate her, the director in her slate gray uniform, who sits by you in the cell and asks questions. questions you do not know the answers to. what's your name? who are you? where are you from? why are you here?</i></span> "I don't even know my own name." A burning tear rolls down your cheek. <span class = voice>(would you even want to know?)</span> "I am sorry. I know this must be difficult and-"<<elseif $choice is 4>>"I'm like you." Her shoulders slump in defeat. She meets your stare with tears in her eyes. <span class = flashback><i>it feels… empty. you wonder, is this what dying feels like? curled into a little ball on the floor of your cell, strong enough only to cry. you ache, each stitch a crack in the mirror of your mind. you feel empty, white walls and floor and door and as blank as your mind. someone accompanies you in your pain. never quite real enough, hazy and casting no shadow, a ghost with dark hair and bright eyes, young and scared, nudging at your shoulder, sobbing, tugging at your limp arm and crying into your tattooed palm. begging you, get up, get up, get up please.</i></span> There is nothing you can say to the medic. So you shift awkwardly in the hospital bed, reaching for a scarred hand, to reassure the medic who looks blankly ahead, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her hands are as cold as death, delicate in the way you would expect a surgeon's to be, yet rough with scars and callouses. Yours linger on hers for a moment, before she pulls away. Readjusts her jacket, wipes her eyes, clears her throat. "I am sorry, I am so, so, so very sorry, Thirteen."<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><<notify>>She's back.<</notify>>The hiss as the door opens interrupts the medic, who snaps to attention. A crisp salute, dismissed by a familiar voice. Eris, the marshal turned captain. "Lieutenant Konigsmann, you're dismissed. We need to speak with Thirteen. <i>Privately.</i>" "With all due respect, Captain, I cannot release them from my care." Eris crosses her arms. You know her well enough to know that the next words out of her mouth will be a bargaining attempt. "Fine, Lieutenant. Tell me what needs to happen for their release." "I need them to clean up- a shower, haircut, fresh set of clothes. I need to reassess their wounds. And I need their medical files. Un-redacted." You could mistake the expression on the medic's face for a smile. She's played her chips, raised the ante. It's on Eris to respond in turn. The captain's expression is deadly, narrowed eyes and the slight hum of electricity, her hand resting on the sheath of her knife. The medic doesn't back down, matching her gaze, still smiling. The first officer steps between the two. Alexandra Drake, defusing the tension. <span class = voice>(how delightfully ironic.)</span> "Even if I <i>wanted</i> you to have those files, Konigsmann, they would be of little use to you. Their encryption was outside of my control. It's a waste of your time and mine." "Do not lie to me, Akakios. You are hiding something from me. I will find out, one way or another." Konigsmann hisses, bristling with anger. Eris' eyes darken, she pulls against the arm Alexandra has wrapped around her waist. It falls again to Alexandra, of all people, to be the voice of reason. "Eris. Eris, this isn't worth it. Just walk away, please. Just let it go, for once. It's not worth it." And to your surprise, the captain relents, turning her back and storming away. The first officer addresses the medic now. "You have fifteen minutes, Lieutenant. Use it wisely." She follows Eris out, the door sliding shut behind them. The muffled sounds of an argument follow shortly. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><<notify>>Things will only get worse from here.<</notify>>"We do not have much time, Subject Thirteen. The captain is relentless. She will return." <span class = voice>(i cannot keep you safe.)</span> "Let me guess. I don't want to be here when she returns. You can't keep me safe after that." Konigsmann's expression of barely concealed anger drops almost immediately, twists into an indiscernible one. "If you are trying to read my mind, I would recommend you stop." You must have looked alarmed or scared or concerned or something. "I am joking, of course. It would be foolish of me as a medical professional to assume anyone could read minds." "What happens when the captain returns?" The medic pulls you to stand, your legs shaking. <span class = voice>(you've gotten weak.)</span> "There are two distinct possibilities. She tries you as a saboteur and an assassin, and you are summarily executed. Or she pardons you, and it gets worse." You lean heavily on the medic as you slowly limp your way across the medbay. The air around her is cold, her skin even more so. Dark scars, the sight of them surfacing memories you suppress, time and time again, afterimages of destruction both beautiful and repulsive. "What do you mean, gets <i>worse</i>?" You stop in front of the shower. She squares her shoulders, sets her jaw. Takes a deep breath to steady herself, summoning all her strength, all her courage. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-medbaypeace3][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

"You have been unconscious for ten days. In that time, my colleagues and I have determined only one thing about you. You are- were- an assassin, sent here to kill the captain, and stop the mission. Something about this mission is not right, and strange things have been happening. I am not a superstitious woman- but there is something that is explained only by the captain's presence, and whatever is in your redacted files. Something that has been getting worse over these last ten days." She opens the shower door, pauses with her hand still on the handle. You trace the scars in your mind, every one their almost black branches and the implications of wearing them. "I will give you this opportunity once. I will ask this of you once, and only once, as you have not talked to leadership yet. I speak for the crew on these matters. Do not listen to the lies they will tell you, about who you are and what this mission is. Help the crew, and we will help you. Information for information." "Lieutenant, I-" “Give it some time. Think about it. You were sent here to stop a mission. Perhaps, we share that interest.” She turns away as you discard the hospital gown and step into the shower. In the lukewarm water, you can relax- albeit not much. You find yourself staring at your hands, at your arms, lined with thick scars and faded tattoos. You don't remember much about how you got them- vague echoes of blood and pain, heavy breathing, and an electronic hum. The now familiar ritual, push down the memories, focusing on what remains untouched, focusing on what you know. Regrettably, not much. What you do know is that you’re <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[a man.|t3-01-ccgenderm]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[a woman.|t3-01-ccgenderf]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[neither man nor woman.|t3_cc2][($gender to "nonbinary"), ($choice to 1), ($Tgen to true)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You have always been considered a man.|t3_cc2][($gender to "male") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You were not always considered a man.|t3_cc2][($gender to "male") , ($Tgen to true) , ($choice to 3)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You have always been considered a woman.|t3_cc2][($gender to "female") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You were not always considered a woman.|t3_cc2][($gender to "female") , ($Tgen to true) , ($choice to 5)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><<if $gender is "female">> <<SetPronouns "f">> <<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">> <<SetPronouns "b">> <<else>> <<SetPronouns>> <</if>><</nobr>> <span class = flashback><i><<if $choice is 1>>didn’t matter much what you are or were. neither suited you well; you didn’t feel the need to check either box, adhere to either stereotype. you simply exist as you are. just you, as you. forging your own identity, one day at a time.<<elseif $choice is 2>>father leaned over you, calling you ‘son’ as he taught you. he taught you how to be a man, what being a man means. to be strong, to be brave and resilient. to be humble, to be open and vulnerable. his voice is not familiar, his face less so- though you know them both nearly the same as yours. despite the years and memory lost- the lessons remain- you’re a man because he taught you.<<elseif $choice is 3>>stood quietly in front of the table where your parents sat. head bowed, as if expecting some divine punishment. a confession, a question. your new name, chosen for yourself. flinching away from the arm of your father. he pulls you close instead. tears in his eyes, saying he’s so proud of his son, that he loves his son, no matter what.<<elseif $choice is 4>>"you can’t do that, you’re a girl.” bullshit. you are your mother's daughter, brave and bold and indestructible- you picked yourself up, kept moving, kept your head high. you know they whispered behind your back, questioned if you were right, if you were good enough. and you always were. because being a woman made you strong. so impossibly strong.<<elseif $choice is 5>>stood quietly in front of the table where your parents sat. head bowed, as if expecting some divine punishment. a confession, a question. your new name, chosen for yourself. flinching away from your mother as she stands. she pulls you close instead. welcomes her beautiful daughter with open arms and an "i love you, i'm so proud of you."<</if>></i></span> You rack your brain. Trying to summon some memory, your name, where you’re from, anything. Nothing comes to mind. You settle for staring at your hands, at your arms, at your body. Where it’s not marred, your skin is: <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Pale|t3_cc3][($skintone to "pale") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Olive|t3_cc3][($skintone to "olive") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Tan|t3_cc3][($skintone to "tan") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Umber|t3_cc3][($skintone to "umber") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = flashback><i><<if $choice is 1>>you were pale as the walls that surround you. a clinical white- a doctor's white coat, the researcher’s white gloves. the off whiteness of the straitjacket. a glimpse of your reflection in the metal of the sink. a reminder of the person who died long ago, a stunning canvas for dark, bold tattoos in sweeping patterns from thigh to collarbone and branching down arms, tattoos that have faded away to ashen gray. not much color left in the world. ashen gray and the slight redness of your cheeks and the pale flecks across your face. no other color, a poor, pale imitation of life. not much color left.<<elseif $choice is 2>>she joked that you looked like a demigod, and you told her that she must have been a goddess. her hands were darker than yours, an earthy brown to your olive. you wanted to stay in that moment, with the evening sun staining your bare skin in shades of gold as you danced amongst the broken marble. but the sun always sets. always. mortality, maybe even hubris, caught up in the end. even gods can die.<<elseif $choice is 3>>you didn't think it would end like this. his hands are paler than yours and growing paler, flecked in crimson, violently opposed to the richness of your skin. he told you that you were as beautiful as all the precious metals of his homeworld, that they would have compared you to the gods they cast in bronze and adorned with the richest fabrics. he promised you that you'd walk their halls together as the light faded from his eyes. he would not be immortalized, save for in the recesses of your mind.<<elseif $choice is 4>>the night was gentle on your back. fleeting moments, where the stars seemed so close from the windows, and the days stood still. they painted your portrait in gentle earthy tones, umber and russet and burnt sienna. they told you of all the beauty of color, how the paint was smuggled from the finest suppliers on earth, regaling you with dashing tales of grandeur and deception and daring- all for this moment, sitting for a portrait. the war painted your home in reds and oranges, left it gray and white. no more gentle earth, no more velvet shadows. no more. no more.<</if>></i></span> The shower snaps off. The medic opens the door again, handing you a towel, and gesturing for you to follow. "I apologize for the inconvenience, but we are running short on time. I am making a new personnel file for you. One that the captain or first officer cannot destroy or redact or lie to you about. Consider it a gift, from the crew to you." <span class = voice>(she would buy your loyalty. she promises you things she is ill-equipped to understand.)</span> "Thank you, Lieutenant." <span class = voice>(that desperate? you could just ask eris or alexandra. i'm sure they'd tell you, for a much lower price.)</span> "So, first things first, Thirteen. Height." <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Short|t3_cc4][($height to "short") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Average|t3_cc4][($height to "average") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Tall|t3_cc4][($height to "tall") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = flashback><i><<if $choice is 1>>he towered over you, a mountain of steel and carbon. you’d be lying if you weren’t intimidated the first time you saw him. or any of the rest for that matter. even in your armor, you were small. for you, the playing field wasn’t ever going to be level. not like it mattered. your enemies certainly didn't care.<<elseif $choice is 2>>you stood awkwardly as the armorer measured you. they grinned, exclaiming how easy it was to build for someone who was normal sized. finally. recognition for your service as neither the tallest nor shortest person in the room. even in the suit, you fit nicely into the middle. it was a good thing, not to stand out too much.<<elseif $choice is 3>>you didn’t need a suit of armor to be the tallest person in the room. in fact, with the armor on, you were absolutely massive. your comrades joked that if you had any more metal covering your frame, you’d be a dreadnought. you pretended to be hurt, rolling your eyes and bowing to their level. truth be told, you liked it, maybe a bit too much.<</if>></i></span> The medic points at a scale. Dutifully, you step on. You look down at your body, trying your best to ignore the strangeness of your own body. The best way to describe it is <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Thin|t3_cc_end][($build to "thin") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Average|t3_cc_end][($build to "average") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Muscular|t3_cc_end][($build to "muscular") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Heavyset|t3_cc_end][($build to "heavyset") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = flashback><i><<if $choice is 1>>just skin, muscle, and bone. thin. light. a runner not built to fight. you ran for as long as you could. the fighting still caught up.<<elseif $choice is 2>>somewhere in the middle. some muscle where drills developed it, some fat where discipline wore thin. a persistent gauntness, hidden in bony elbows and knees, exposed knuckles, and hollow eyes.<<elseif $choice is 3>>you worked out to forget what it felt like to be weak. you were plenty strong, but now you looked the part. deep down, you knew it wasn’t enough. wasn’t ever going to be enough.<<elseif $choice is 4>>the bulk you put on was protective, muscle and fat built to defend you. built to endure a war and come out on top. and you endured, you survived. but your body cannot protect you forever.<</if>></i></span> After this test there are others. Ones that are blotted out by the unwilling empty, your mind blacking out and heart rate spiking each time a needle is drawn or the medic looks at you, scribbling down notes. Time runs short, and her pace is dizzying. A moments respite as you finally dress yourself, a thin jumpsuit and sock-like shoes. <<if $airlock_shot is true>>The medic checks and re-checks the bandages covering your gunshot wound. You assure her you are no stranger to wounds of this nature, that you heal quickly, that you've had ten days to rest, and there's plenty of loose metal fragments in your body already. None of those seem to assure her. But she lets you go regardless, noting the wounds on a sheet she adds to your file.<<elseif $airlock_stabbed is true>>The medic checks and re-checks the bandages covering your stab wound. You assure her you are no stranger to wounds of this nature, that you heal quickly, that you've had ten days to rest- far more than you're used to. None of those seem to assure her. But she lets you go regardless, noting the wounds on a sheet she adds to your file.<<elseif $airlock_stabbed_letgo is true>>The medic checks and re-checks the bandages covering your stab wound. You assure her you are no stranger to wounds of this nature, that you heal quickly, that you've had ten days to rest- far more than you're used to. None of those seem to assure her. But she lets you go regardless, noting the wounds on a sheet she adds to your file.<<elseif $airlock_letgo is true>>The medic checks and re-checks the bandages covering your wounds. You assure her you are no stranger to wounds of this nature, that you heal quickly, that you've had ten days to rest, there's plenty of loose metal fragments in your body already, and that your broken bones knit back together about as quickly as any cut. None of those seem to assure her. But she lets you go, noting the multitude of wounds on a sheet she adds to your file.<<elseif $airlock_peace is true>>The medic gives you a once-over, sighing slightly.<</if>> Before you on the counter is an almost complete personnel file. Almost complete. "Thank you, for your patience, for your cooperation." The medic taps the top of the file. "Should I put down "Subject Thirteen" for your name? Or ought I to leave it blank?" <span class = voice>(you had a name once. it was feared, respected. revered.)</span> You nod. “Thirteen is the only name I remember. I don’t know who called me that, but it’s the closest thing I've got to a name now.” “That is an awful name. I would not lie to you on that matter. Given the nature of my colleagues- you will have a nickname by the end of the week. However crude it may be, it will at least be new. And with any luck, we will return your proper name to you." “How, Konigsmann? Eris seemed very, very opposed to you or I finding out.” The medic smiles grimly. “We have ways of extracting information. However, I believe it is in our captain's best interests to keep you like this. I truly think she would prefer you dazed and confused." "Why?" "Control, of course. With you on her side-" <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-shave]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>I'm so sorry.<</notify>>You are interrupted by the sound of the door again. Eris and Alexandra have returned, storming into the medbay, looming like dark clouds. You can practically taste the ozone. <span class = voice>(i can keep you safe no longer.)</span> "Time's up, Natalie." Eris grins. "Do not call me that. I ought to-" "Enough! Both of you!" Alexandra shoves the captain, who's already postured to fight, and glares at the medic. Konigsmann slowly lowers the scalpel in her hand, depositing it onto the counter. It is Alexandra who speaks again- Eris remains uncharacteristically silent. "Your fifteen minutes is up. We request that the patient be released to us. Is there anything else that needs to be done?" "<i>Thirteen</i> needs a haircut. Then, and only then, will I allow $HimHer to leave my care." The medic struggles to retain her composure, speaking through gritted teeth. “Please, Lieutenant, proceed. We will observe, but not interfere.” The first officer gestures, a sweeping motion. She leads Eris away to one of the tables, a hand on the small of her back. You can feel their stares boring into your skull as they wait for the medic to gather her supplies. The captain speaks, her tone inquisitive and commanding all the same. “Shave Thirteen’s head, Lieutenant. That's an order.” Konigsmann does not protest this time. “Aye, ma’am.” <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[(no no no no do not let her do this to you.)|t3-01-shave1][($choice to 1) , ($natalie_attacked to true)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[(it's okay. it's just your hair.)|t3-01-shave1][($choice to 2)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

"You have a completely redacted file, which should neither be legal or possible.. No name, no birthdate, no place of origin. No service record. However-" A brief pause, collecting her words, averting her gaze. "The captain spoke highly of you, despite your attempt on her life. The first officer stood first watch by your side, despite having been the one to dispatch you. Cross-examination of their files with your observation of body draw striking physiological similarities- you carry many of the same marks, many of the same <i>alterations</i>." The medic does not yet meet your eyes. Her tone is decidedly different. "I ask you this out of medical concern, and, admittedly for some peace of mind. To the best of your knowledge, were you involved in medical experimentation? Are you like the captain and first officer?" She takes a long pause, steadying breaths with an almost white-knuckled grip on the end of your bed. Her next words are whispered, head bowed, as if it were some admission of guilt. "Are you like <i>me</i>?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You killed things like her.|t3-01-medbayviolent2][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You are like the captain, like the first officer. You share some bond with them.|t3-01-medbayviolent2][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You don’t know. You don't remember enough to answer.|t3-01-medbayviolent2][$choice to 3]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You are like her. For better or worse.|t3-01-medbayviolent2][$choice to 4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>"My purpose was to kill <i>things</i> like you." She winces, looking to the ceiling, rather than meet your eyes. <span class = flashback><i>the familiar recoil kicks hard into your shoulder, one for each pull of the trigger, semi-automatic. three bodies fall noiselessly. you approach, weapon ready. recoil, double-tap of the trigger, confirming the kill. man. woman. child. abomination. inhuman. dead.</i></span> “I didn’t have a choice. It was kill or be killed. It was war.” "There is always a choice." Her eyes are red with tears. "<i>Always</i>. I can heal, or I can kill. You and I are both killers- but you have never known mercy. <<if $airlock_stabbed is true>>You certainly did not show the captain any.<<elseif $airlock_stabbed is false>>You would not have shown the captain any.<</if>>" For the briefest of seconds, with shadows pooling on her features, you see a grinning skull instead of her face as she leers at you. "I could show you the mercy of death. Or I could do my duty and heal. It is-"<<elseif $choice is 2>>"I'm like the captain, like the first officer." She backs away. She backs away from you, as if you are infected or dangerous or- <span class = flashback><i>one hundred recruits. hospital gowns and bowed heads and long lines in the hallways. bare skin, shaved heads, templates traced onto arms and backs and skulls, outlines and unfamiliar symbols and notes in shorthand scrawl. they needed nothing to keep you in line, but the sergeants, the wardens, pace with their electric implements, tell you to turn your face forward. to look down, to look away. your eyes meet those of a silver-marked man, briefly. he smiles wryly, he does not turn his face to the ground. the warden swings their club.</i></span> "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry." <span class = voice>(liar.)</span> "I fear the worst <i>for</i> you, Subject Thirteen. I truly do. It is likely-"<<elseif $choice is 3>>"I don't know. I don't know who I am, or where I came from or what's happened to me." The medic sighs. The look she gives you is one of pity. <span class = flashback><i>you're sick, sick and dying. curled into a ball on the floor of your cell, unyielding white walls, cold and padded so you don't hurt yourself. the hurting is left to the doctors in their white hazmat suits. you hate them. you hate her, the director in her slate gray uniform, who sits by you in the cell and asks questions. questions you do not know the answers to. what's your name? who are you? where are you from? why are you here?</i></span> "I don't even know my own name." A burning tear rolls down your cheek. <span class = voice>(would you even want to know?)</span> "I am sorry. You did not ask for this and I-"<<elseif $choice is 4>>"I'm like you." Her shoulders slump in defeat. She meets your stare with terror and tears in her eyes. <span class = flashback><i>it feels… empty. you wonder, is this what dying feels like? curled into a little ball on the floor of your cell, strong enough only to cry. you ache, each stitch a crack in the mirror of your mind. you feel empty, white walls and floor and door and as blank as your thoughts. someone accompanies you in your pain. never quite real enough, hazy and casting no shadow, a ghost with dark hair and bright eyes, so young and so scared, nudging at your shoulder, sobbing, tugging at your limp arm and crying into your tattooed palm. begging you, get up, get up, get up please.</i></span> There is nothing you can say to the medic. So you shift awkwardly in the hospital bed, reaching for a scarred hand, to reassure the medic who looks blankly ahead, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her hands are as cold as death, delicate in the way you would expect a surgeon's to be, yet rough with scars and callouses. Yours linger on hers for a moment, before she pulls away. Readjusts her jacket, wipes her eyes, clears her throat. "I owe you an apology then, Thirteen. I am truly sorry-"<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The hiss as the door opens interrupts the medic, who snaps to attention. A crisp salute, dismissed by a familiar voice. Eris, the marshal turned captain. "Lieutenant Konigsmann, you're dismissed. We need to speak with Thirteen. <i>Privately.</i>" "With all due respect, Captain, I cannot release them from my care. On <i>your</i> orders." Eris crosses her arms. You know her well enough to know that the next words out of her mouth will be a bargaining attempt. "I rescind my orders, Lieutenant. I require custody of the prisoner. Tell me what needs to happen for their release." "I need them to clean up- a shower, haircut, fresh set of clothes. I need to reassess their wounds. And I need their medical files. Un-redacted." You could mistake the expression on the medic's face for a smile. She's played her chips, raised the ante. It's on Eris to respond in turn. The captain's expression is deadly, narrowed eyes and the slight hum of electricity, her hand resting on the sheath of her knife. The medic doesn't back down, matching her gaze, still smiling. The first officer steps between the two. Alexandra Drake, defusing the tension. <span class = voice>(how delightfully ironic.)</span> "Even if I <i>wanted</i> you to have those files, Konigsmann, they would be of little use to you. Their encryption was outside of my control. It's a waste of your time and mine." "Do not lie to me, Akakios. You are hiding something from me. I will find out, one way or another." Konigsmann hisses, daring the captain to lash out. Eris' eyes darken, she pulls against the arm Alexandra has wrapped around her waist. It falls again to Alexandra, of all people, to be the voice of reason. "Eris. Eris, this isn't worth it. Just walk away, please. Just let it go, for once. It's not worth it." And to your surprise, the captain relents, turning her back and storming away. The first officer addresses the medic now. "You have fifteen minutes, Lieutenant. Use it wisely." She follows Eris out, the door sliding shut behind them. The muffled sounds of an argument follow shortly. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The medic's anger is quieter. She bristles with it, fists clenched, teeth gritted. She stifles tears, wiping a stained sleeve across her face. It dawns on you that they're already covered in your blood. And from the looks of the glinting metal at the bottom of her sleeve, she intends on getting her hands dirtier. A scalpel, faceted edges catching the medical lights. She stands over you, rage and pity intertwined into an expression of pure hatred. The grim reaper, the angel of death. Her hand over your mouth, the blade on your throat, dug deep into your skin, though not enough to pierce the skin. Not yet. You try to push her away, but her wiry body hides almost unimaginable strength. The scalpel is dangerously close to your pulse. You scream into the palm of her hand as she shushes you, almost gently. "I could put an end to this madness. It would be <i>easy</i>, just a slip of the blade and- over. But you are not worth that trouble, Thirteen. You are not worth the trouble." The medic lets you go. With a disgusted noise, she hurls the scalpel across the room, the bright metal skipping across the floor. She slumps to sit on the floor, head in hands. You thank everything you can remember that you're still breathing, that you made it out of this encounter without another new scar. Her next words are as quiet as they are surprising. “I need your help.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>“What?” "Did I not make myself clear enough? I need your help. You are an assassin. I am no killer, not anymore." The medic looks around nervously. "If we are stuck in this mess together, I would rather you on my side than the captain's. Understood?" "I don't even know who you are, and you've just threatened to kill me. Hell, you <i>tried</i> to kill me! And now you're asking for my help?" The medic nods solemnly. "I understand your apprehension, though I will try to assuage it. My name is Natalie Konigsmann, and I speak for the crew. We share a similar goal." "You want the captain dead, Konigsmann?" "Not precisely. We want answers, and I do not care how those answers are gotten. If the captain happens to die, then so be it. She deserves as much." The medic pulls you to stand, your legs shaking. <span class = voice>(you've gotten weak.)</span> "You could help us. That, of course, depends on what happens when I release you to the captain. She could try you as a saboteur and assassin, order your execution. Or she could pardon you, and everything gets worse." You lean heavily on the medic as you slowly limp your way across the medbay. The air around her is cold, her skin even more so. Dark scars, the sight of them surfacing memories you suppress, time and time again, afterimages of destruction both beautiful and repulsive. "What do you mean, gets <i>worse</i>?" You stop in front of the shower. She squares her shoulders, sets her jaw. Summons all her strength, all her courage. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-medbayviolent3][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

"You have been unconscious for ten days. In that time, my colleagues and I have determined absolutely nothing about you, other than the existence of completely redacted files connected to the number tattooed on your arm. Something about this mission is not right, and strange things have been happening. I am not a superstitious woman- but there is something that is explained only by the captain's presence, and whatever is in those data files. Something that has been getting worse over these last ten days." She opens the shower door, pauses with her hand still on the handle. You trace the scars in your mind, every one their almost black branches and the implications of wearing them. "I will give you this opportunity once. I will ask this of you once, and only once, as you have not talked to leadership yet. Do not listen to the lies they will tell you, about who you are and what this mission is. Help the crew, and we will help you. Information for information." "Natalie, I-" “Give it some time. Think about it. You were sent here to kill the captain. You were sent here to stop the mission. Perhaps, we also share that interest.” She turns away as you discard the hospital gown and step into the shower. In the lukewarm water, you can relax- albeit not much. You find yourself staring at your hands, at your arms, lined with thick scars and faded tattoos. You don't remember much about how you got them- vague echoes of blood and pain, heavy breathing, and an electronic hum. The now familiar ritual, push down the memories, focusing on what remains untouched, focusing on what you know. Regrettably, not much. What you do know is that you’re <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[a man.|t3-01-ccgenderm]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[a woman.|t3-01-ccgenderf]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[neither man nor woman.|t3_cc2][($gender to "nonbinary"), ($choice to 1), ($Tgen to true)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>><span class = flashback><i>they shaved your head roughly. the assistant left shortly after, and you ran your hands over the bare scalp. nothing left but the long scar. you can’t even remember the color of your hair. you’re losing yourself. slowly at first. then quicker and quicker, a feverish pain in your head, a great emptiness. they used to run their hands through your hair, but you only remember the touch. not their voice. not their face. a name, a rush of words and noise. foreign to your ears.</i></span> <span class = voice>(don't let them take this from you again.) (please.)</span> You had sat in a flimsy chair, with a mirror propped up on the counter serving as reference to your reflection. You stand now. The mirror is shattered, the chair on the floor. The scalpel the medic had placed on the counter is in your hands now, your forearm tight across her throat, pulling her head aside. The blade meets your hostage's throat, beads of crimson clashing with the crisp white of her jacket. Your threat is snarled in a voice not entirely your own. "Try it, and I'll give your medic a pretty new scar." Eris just laughs. "Do it then, darling. Let's see what wanton violence you're capable of." You press the tip of the scalpel deeper into her skin. Eris doesn’t react, though the medic shakes in your grasp. More blood. Eris with her wicked smile, delighting in the chaos. "Stop! Eris- what the fuck is wrong with you?" Alexandra, trying so hard to be the hero. Like always. "Stand down, Thirteen. That's an order." Eris' voice is almost panicked. Something changed. You drop the scalpel and medic. Something changed. You back away. The medic presses her hands to the cut. The blood and scars mock you, she dares not look at you, dares not to turn and face the monster who did this to her. Something changed. Eris holds gauze to the wound, Alexandra drags you away by your arm. Rights the chair, props up the mirror again. Sits you down roughly, waits by your side until the medic returns. The medic's hands are as cold as death, but not nearly as rough. She tilts your head up, so that you look into the shattered reflection. Into a face that was once familiar. Now, you're not quite sure who or what you see. The hum of the electric razor drowns out the whispers in the back of your mind. Your reflection blinks, and shifts. <span class = flashback><i>a tall man in deep red robes shaves your hair short, admonishing the child in the mirror for letting it grow so long. a young cadet holds the tiny mirror as you clean the edges of a hasty buzzcut, a last-ditch effort to pass inspection. smooth hands with tattooed palms sweep the hood off your brow and linger on your temples, the hair on your scalp and down the back of your neck bristling with the tangible fervor in the air. the scientists and their soldier escorts strap your arms to the chair and hold your head up as they shave off what little is left of your hair, tracing that long line in marker.</i></span> The captain inspects the long scar, from the nape of your neck to your hairline. Little more than a discolored mark these days, but you remember when it wept blood down your brow, when it burned like the fires in your fingertips. When they cracked your skull open and-<<elseif $choice is 2>>You take one good, long, last look at your hair in the mirror. Years grown out from the buzzed head you sported before you left, and all the years before that, too. The clippers hum to life in the medic’s hand. Locks of your hair fall to the floor. You can do nothing but stare. <span class = flashback><i>they shaved your head roughly. the assistant left shortly after, and you ran your hands over the bare scalp. nothing left but the long scar. you can’t even remember the color of your hair. you’re losing yourself. slowly at first. then quicker and quicker, a feverish pain in your head, a great emptiness. they used to run their hands through your hair, but you only remember the touch. not their voice. not their face. a name, a rush of words and noise. foreign to your ears.</i></span> The captain inspects the long scar, from the nape of your neck to your hairline. Little more than a discolored mark these days, but you remember when it wept blood down your brow, when it burned like the fires in your fingertips. When they cracked your skull open and-<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-ebackground]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

"We request only temporary custody of the patient, Lieutenant. We will not leave the medical bay, we just ask for a private discussion. <<HeShe>> will be returned to you when we're done." The medic just nods, and slinks off toward a doorway across the room. You're led in the opposite direction, to one of the low, slab-like tables. You're offered one of the two chairs, Eris sits on the table as Alexandra rolls her eyes. The captain and the first officer. The marshal and the gunnery sergeant. Figments of your past. Ghosts of your future. Here and now, Eris breaks the silence. "It's been a while, Thirteen. I've… missed you. Where have you been all this time?" <span class = voice>(you know all too damn well where i've been.)</span> Your empty gaze is answer enough for her. “Why are you here, Eris? Why is Alexandra here? What do you want with me?" "Because we were told that you remember next to nothing. When you first woke, the medic said you didn't know your name or where you were, couldn't answer a single question about anything. But you asked for us, by name." "Eris, I was told to kill you." You had to address it, the weight on your chest, the elephant in the room. She shrugs. "Others have tried, and been far more successful. If I held a grudge against everyone who's wanted me dead, then I'd have no time for anything else." "So I'm not being tried as an assassin?" "No. This conversation is not about your present actions- those will be addressed later. I wanted to test a theory. Alexandra agreed, and here we are." "Get to your point, Eris." “You say you remember us, Thirteen. How so? Who was I to you?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You were my commanding officer.|t3-01-ebackground_ally][$erispast_ally to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[We were friends.|t3-01-ebackground_friend][$erispast_friend to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You were my enemy.|t3-01-ebackground_enemy][$erispast_enemy to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[We were lovers.|t3-01-ebackground_lover]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback><i>The dropship was far emptier than you had ever imagined it to be. Meant for twenty, never filled to begin with, but even more empty now. A handful of soldiers in jury-rigged armor. The marshal had given a rousing speech to a silent hangar bay, and then the final orders. You had not spoken one word that day, trying not to cry or vomit. Nerves, mostly, though you had grown as sick as the ashen marshal, with her shaved head and unhealed wounds. Nerves, though anxiety does not begin to describe the staggering odds that decrease with every passing second. You're not coming back. Not this time. The full force of humanity, civilian and military, rallies at the marshal's raised fist, does not go gently into the night, charges into battle alongside you- tens, maybe hundreds of millions. Less than a million were expected to make it, by her calculations. Acceptable casualties; if the assault doesn't go as planned, there'd be no need to report deaths anyways. This was it. The last dreadnought launched, Marshal Akakios' beautiful flagship, would be the tip of the spear. But she would not stand aboard the bridge and herald the final stand of humanity. She sits in the seat nearest the door of a tiny, cobbled together dropship, bent double, as gray as the paint and shivering. Fifty thousand troops form your distraction- slipping under the eyes of the Enemy to strike at their heart. The marshal, you, and whoever else still remained from the Project. The Project meant to end the war. You were a tool in that project. Despite the many, many, alterations, still mortal. That, you know for certain- assured of it by the fates of your siblings in arms, both heroic and gruesome. Like holding their hands as they bleed out in the silent bleakness of the Kuiper-Oort colonies, wounded fatally over an inconsequential asteroid, comforting them, telling them their sacrifice was not in vain, wounded with a horrid finality that lasts forever and is, in the end, completely meaningless. Like taking off their helmet in some hellish trench or crater on Earth, so that their last breath can be from the homeland they died to reclaim, watching a tear track through the blood and grime on their tired face, believing until the last that victory is certain, is inevitable. Like standing over her body and screaming beneath the helmet as she begs for death. Like watching her get dragged away into the inky depths, calling after her, and standing alone. Alone at last. The marshal did not allow you to stand alone. She defied orders and disregarded regulations, she did horrible things. But she did so to end the war, she did so to save a people she loved dearly, who would never know her true contributions. Her true sacrifices. You would have followed her to the depths of hell or the gates of death. You killed for her. You might have died for her.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"You were my commanding officer, Eris. It was a honor to serve you. And, should you have me, I would serve you again." <span class = voice>(you speak of honor like you had any. like she had any. serving her is a death sentence- you, of all people, should know this.)</span> She smiles sadly, reaches out to place a hand on your shoulder. "I would be proud to have you by my side again, Thirteen." Eris looks to Alexandra, who sits with her arms crossed, looking almost bored. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-abackground][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback><i>The end of the world- or all of humanity- for that matter, has a tendency to create strange allies. You don't know what the marshal saw in you, but here you were anyways. Sitting on the floor of her quarters, watching the system pass in the window. She told you to forgo decorum- you need not wear a uniform, you need not call her by rank and title. You've already fucked that up a few times. The marshal- Eris- said to just hang out for a few, give her a chance to change from her work clothes. She says you can sit anywhere, to make yourself at home, to do whatever. Her quarters are more spacious than the cube you call home these days, her window to the stars more akin to an observation deck than the porthole through which you carefully chart the sun. Everything is awash in dull blue-gray, the walls undecorated, her bed and desk pushed to one corner, unmade and messy. Hundreds, maybe thousands of pages of text and sketches, medical records in manila folders, cracked tablets displaying thousands of lines of code- perhaps the only thing characteristic of Eris here, recollections of her doubled role, Scientist-General long before she held the other ranks. Your take her place at the desk, in the chair with a bent frame, and wait. Not long- Eris is perpetually punctual. She emerges from a side door that you had not noticed, a small room offset from the main cabin. "I see you've made yourself comfortable." You gesture around to the mostly empty room. "Not many other places to sit." Eris laughs, almost nervously. "Is the floor not good enough for you?" She sits, back against the bed, staring out the window. Her next question is this: "Would you join me?" You sit carefully by the most powerful person in the entire solar system, perhaps, the most powerful person in all of history. A woman who has whole planets at her beck and call, whose scientists have conquered death, who leads an army of the devout who would worship her as a god- and she asks you to sit next to her, up against her unmade bed. But here you are, looking out at the stars together. "There's a lot I'd like to say to you, Thirteen. Can I start with an apology?" "Why? It's not like you started the war or the Project or did any of this to me. You're just stuck in this mess, like me." Eris looks at you with a look of incredulity, or relief, or maybe both on her scarred face. You've always wondered what happened to give her that mark, whether it was accident or ill-intent or an act of self destruction. The harsh line of it softens when she smiles, though. The facade of invulnerability, of her elevated status, wears thinner and thinner with each passing second. No longer the goddess in red robes, anointed and adorned with gold and blood- but a tired woman in black shorts with holes in them and a t-shirt too large for her thinning frame. Even the tattoos, occult ritual and familial intrigue interlinked in the long lines down her leg and disappearing under the bandages on her arm, seem to lose their mystery. No different from your own, from the undersides of your fingers to your hips. Similar stories, different outcomes. "Thank you." Eris' voice is quiet. Not the orator whose speeches drive military campaigns, whose words inspire a people to rise and fight. "I feel guilty, still, but I don't think I'll ever stop feeling that way." She trails off, looking to the stars. You follow her gaze, looking out to the bleak expanse.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback><i>"What do you see when you look to the stars, Thirteen?" "They taught me to look for the sun, instead. But I imagine that somewhere out there, there's another Earth, or something like it. There'd be more people like you and me, more of those who were just supposed to look for their sun." You shrug. "I suppose you were taught the same, though." "My mother told me how to find constellations, like they would on Earth. She always said they were the stories of great heroes and deeds, that those myths survived thousands of years and billions of miles, that they were a kind of immortality." Eris shakes her head, smiling sadly. "It would have been much better just to look for the sun, I think. Might have saved me some pain, down the line." Together, you sit in silence in the pale starlight. Eris looks to the the stars, and they are in turn reflected in her dark eyes, beautiful and strange and otherworldly. Flotsam and jetsam pass, casting long shadows across the room. "It gets scary sometimes, doesn't it?" You murmur in affirmation. She continues. "I didn't think it'd be like this. I don't think I would have chosen this path if I was going to walk it alone." "Me neither." Stars twinkle in and out of view, and you watch them, turning your face away from the sun. "We've got a lot in common, you and I. If you'd forgive me, I just-" Eris cuts herself off with a sigh. "It's so damn lonely, doing what we're doing. I figured you needed a friend, to share the weight of the world, to have your back. As much as I'm ashamed to admit- I want someone in my corner too. I trust you. And I need a friend."</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>"You were a friend to me, Eris. That much, I know." Eris winces. You continue, tentatively. "I don't want to bury another friend. I'm sorry about what happened in the airlock, I really am. I hope you can forgive me." <span class = voice>(liar.)</span> "I don't have much of a choice, do I, Thirteen? We've lost enough friends- and I wouldn't want to lose you." <span class = voice>(between the two of you, you've killed more than enough of your friends. what's one more?)</span> "You had <i>friends</i>, Eris?" Alexandra feigns surprise, rolling her eyes as Eris glares at her. <span class = voice>(oh alexandra, how i've missed you antagonizing eris so…)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-abackground][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback><i>You feel empty. His blood is on your hands. And in the more literal sense, not just your hands. It's everywhere. It stains your skin, it drips from your armor, it haunts you still. His last words still echo in the recesses of your mind, as do his screams. The emptiness is replaced with rage as the marshal walks into the armory. She did this- everything other than pulling the trigger. "Eris, can we talk?" "Of course." Her tone is cold, clinical. Reminiscent of the scent of antiseptic, of crimson suited doctors and the prick of a needle. You throw a punch instead, aiming to knock that fucking scar off her face, make her already broken nose a little more crooked. She sidesteps easily, your swing catching nothing but air. "Really, Thirteen? If you have an issue, use your words." Eris scolds you, though her voice drips with sarcasm. "Go on. Air out your grievances. Maybe I'll listen." "I hate you, Eris. Every single decision you make gets someone killed and you just-" You gesture furiously at her. "You just go on like nothing happened! I'm not the one who should have literal fucking blood on my hands! It should be you- it should be you!" You wish you could have gotten under her skin, could have done anything to wipe the blank look off her face. But she just stands there in her pristine armor, arms crossed, looking bored. She waits for a moment, composing herself. Level. Even. Still. Almost casual. "I told you not to get attached. That's the reality of war and command. People die. You have to move on. You, of all people, have that luxury- you can just forget. I could ensure that you forget." The emptiness lurches back into your mind. The dizzying chasm where pieces of your memory used to be, all half-remembered images in blurry lighting, the sound of someone's breathing, the sound of a gunshot. Silence and then the buzz of static and then ringing in your ears as you stare at her boots, familiar in the worst way, in the way that you had stared at your bloodied reflection while she lamented that she had gotten them dirty on your teeth. "I'm not going to forget this, Eris. I'm not. I won't stand idly by and let you get away with this- killing our own makes us no better than the fucking Enemy. I gave you everything. My dignity. My humanity. My mind and body. My life, Eris. I can't do this anymore. I can't bury more friends because of you. I won't."</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>> <span class = flashback><i>"Are you done? Or are you going to keep grandstanding until the blood dries? You haven't even given me a chance to defend myself. Would you attack a defenseless foe so ruthlessly?" "Fuck. You." "Hit a nerve, Subject Thirteen?" Eris' tone is saccharine, delighting in your anger. A predatory grin creeps across her face, dark eyes glinting. "You volunteered for this, remember? Oh, wait. You can't remember. Something isn't working up here, isn't it?" She taps her temple. "Something got fucked up in your little brain and all of a sudden the only things you know are that fucking number and that you like killing." Eris paces a circle around you. Her anger feels like fire at the edge of your senses, and you know it's only a matter of time before she loses her temper. Lives up to her title, Wrath. "Do you know what it takes, to rebuild someone after they lose their memory? You're a very, very fucking expensive experiment. I could have had half a dozen more soldiers- but I chose you." She sneers at you as she closes the gap. You back away as best you can in the cramped armory, until your back hits the wall and Eris puts a condescending hand on your shoulder. The other rests on her knife. "You were perfect, you know that? Unquestioning, ruthless, efficient. I can't have this happen again, you know that?" She talks to you in the same tone one would use for a disobedient child. "You were perfect, and look where you are now- crying over a dead man who you barely knew. Wouldn't you like to forget? Wouldn't it be easier- peace of mind for you, a return on investment, a higher yield for me?" Her presence is suffocating. She continues. "We can't do this again. I need my assassin back, I need you. We can walk away from this, and forget about that mission and . Or-" Eris drives her knife through the wall, the edge skimming your brow on its trajectory, leaving a stinging in its wake. "We could always just talk to the Director again, about that memory of yours. The decision is yours." "You wouldn't. You promised me- you promised me that the experiments were over." Your voice is shaky. Just the mention of the title sets panic racing through your body. "I'll do anything to win this war. If that means killing you, or this unit, or the Fleet itself, or whole planets- I'll do it."</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>She knows. She remembers, just as well as you. "Look, Thirteen. I'm sorry." The whisper laughs, a shrieking cackle rising in pitch and fervor until it's screaming again. "Sorry won't save you, Eris. I remember what you did. All those charges- they're real. You're a murderer and a war criminal. There's a damn good reason I was told to kill you." Eris is irate. Her hand drifts down to the knife at her hip. "So are <i>you</i>! So is Alexandra and half of the fucking crew! It was necessary to win the war. The war is over- we have to move on." "Or what, you're going to sic the Director on me? She's <i>dead</i>." "And who killed her?" The medbay falls silent, save for the pounding of blood in your ears. Alexandra, who has been sitting back and watching the chaos unfold, looks exceptionally bored as she breaks the silence. "Are you two finished, or am I putting one or both of you in handcuffs?" If looks could kill, Alexandra would be dead. Eris and her dead-eyed glare would have dropped her on the spot. The first officer remains less than fazed. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-abackground][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback><i>It was a such foolish thing, a risky thing. Getting caught would be disastrous for the both of you- especially considering her status as your commanding officer. It was slow at first, stolen glances, intertwining your fingers with hers in the dim light of a transport. Sneaking around, heart pounding. Knowing the blind spots of cameras and where the shadow pools enough for a moment alone. Cautious conversations, double meanings and hidden intentions. The end… sped things up. There are things you tend to overlook when the doomsday clock ticks down your final seconds, formalities discarded for the sake of feeling something before there is nothing left to feel. You were emboldened, as was she. The way you saw it, the odds you’d live to face the consequences of your actions were low enough to risk it all. Doom lurked around every corner, every mission felt like the last. And you sought the comfort of her arms before each coming finality, like every moment would be your last together. Her dropship had a rougher landing than yours; the engines sputtering to a halt as metal scraped on metal. A shuddering sigh of relief, releasing the breath you held cautiously, praying for a safe return, or even just a return. Images of fire and shrapnel flicker across your vision; the jerky flight pattern and fading lights make your heart drop in your chest. But her ship rests in pieces on the hangar floor. You think you screamed as it struck the ground. Alongside the rescue teams, you rush forward, your muscles screaming as you tear the hatch from its hinges. Desperately grasping at hope, plunging into the smoke-filled cabin. Eris sits on the floor of the dropship, her helmet nowhere to be found, blood trickling from her brow. The rest of the crew hangs, unresponsive in their harnesses. Her armor is dented and streaked with dirt and smoke and oil. And even in this mess, she is beautiful. Looking you dead in the eyes, a thousand yard stare that softens when it reaches you. Tear tracks in the grime, red-rimmed eyes that, in a gruesome way, complement the blood caked under her nose and along her jaw. But the world stops when you look at her, the medical and fire teams moving in a blur around you as she reaches out a half-armored hand. And you take it, pulling her from the wreckage of ship into the wreckage of your arms. Amongst the chaos, you stand alone. Just you, you and her. Her battered face in your hands, gentle as you can manage with the armor. A brief moment of just staring, summoning all your courage. In front of the whole solar system, you kiss the Marshal of the Solar Defense Force.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>> <span class = flashback><i>You return to your cabin, mind still lingering on the kiss. A single message waits for you at your terminal. Private correspondence from the marshal, one single line: We need to talk. You know where to find her. Slinking though unused corridors, taking the most clandestine route to get to her private quarters. Your heart pounds as you knock on her door. She answers almost immediately, standing in the doorway, arms crossed. The door slides shut behind you. Eris glares at you for a moment longer. You open your mouth to explain yourself, but she cuts you off. "Do you have any idea what you have done?" Her dark eyes flash with anger. "There were already rumors and accusations and I can only lie and evade for so long." "Do you think I care? We're all going to be dead soon- you've said as much." If she wants to be standoffish- you can certainly reciprocate. "I have appearances and a reputation to maintain. I can't be seen with you. Not like that." "So that's why we're having this conversation in your quarters?" You feign being hurt, and watch as Eris' face reddens. "Fuck you." You laugh. "Is that a proposition? I thought you were done with me, but you're giving me mixed signals here, Eris." She rolls her eyes. "If you would just shut up for-" You interrupt her, watch as she struggles with words for a second. "Make me." Eris takes your challenge personally. You forget just how strong she is, pushing you until your back hits the wall. She smiles, wrapping her hands around your throat. You gasp and splutter for air, practically lifted off your feet. Eris is painfully close, and the lack of oxygen and presence of her clouds your thoughts. "Is this what you wanted? I could kill you right now, for your insolence and trespass." The words are angry, barely a whisper over the pounding of your heart. The look in her eyes is not anger. You choke out your next words "That's… a funny thing to say… when… half an hour ago… you… you were kissing me." She drops you with a disgusted noise. You slide down the wall, throat stinging with every deep breath you take. Eris paces across her room, a habit of hers you know to be of desperation- torn between decisions and the paths she sees with clarity. Trying to plan her next move. She stops, standing over you. "We can't keep doing this. Can't keep meeting like this, to bicker and fight and be blind with anger and then-" She gestures exasperatedly. "I can't do it anymore." "So this is it? We're just- through, like that? I risked everything on seeing you again. I thought I lost you." Seething anger seeps into your bones. You stand, ready to confront her. "Did none of this mean anything to you?" "You are everything to me! You have no idea what I have sacrificed for you- you will never truly understand." "Prove it. If you love me, then fucking prove it. Make me understand." You don't know what inspired the courage, but here you are, staring down the most powerful woman in the entire system. Asking her to show you, in the same way you have shown her, time and time again the depths of your devotion to her. "I never said anything about love." Eris kisses you. She kisses you until you are just as breathless as when she choked you. Until the rage in her eyes is replaced with a different intensity, until she pushes you against the wall again, and her hand finds your throat again, but this time everything is welcome and all too familiar. The cycle starts again, an angry lust, a sinful sacrament, devotion in flesh and blood. Promising that this can't happen again, and yet you find yourself in her bed. Knowing that this is wrong but wanting it more and more, the burning kisses you plant on the long, cool lines of the tattoos on her thighs and hips and chest. Knowing that this will be the death you seek, her hands in your hair and the way she says "I love you" with her lips on your neck, says it like a prayer, says it like each word will be her last.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-ebackground_lover1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

Thinking about Alexandra hurts. An almost classical beauty, sun-kissed freckles and a softness to her features, auburn hair in a perpetual cycle of escaping the bun she has it tied up into. Her eyes are devoid of emotion, gaunt and hollow, a faded blue. They match the rest of her countenance- cruel. The scars beneath her eye, short and deep, are your fault. The scar that splits her lips, carves up the bottom of her nose, dark and rough and ragged, plunging down her neck to rest just below her collar is also your fault. "I know you remember me. I don't think you <i>could</i> forget." Her voice is rough, gravelly. It used to be a whisper. Also your fault. You're the one who put the knife through her throat. "How many times are we going to try to kill each other, Alexandra?" Alexandra smiles with chipped teeth.<<if ($erispast_lover_req is true) or ($erispast_lover_unreq is true)>> The expression feels almost predatory. As if she truly believes the next words out of her mouth. "Until one of us is dead."<<elseif($erispast_lover_req is false) or ($erispast_lover_unreq is false)>> "Until one of us is dead."<</if>> In a perfect world, you'd be joking. You'd laugh, maybe. But you damn near killed her. And it <i>haunts</i> you. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-abackground1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You look at your lover. Your worst kept secret. You can't find the words for it, as she waits for you to speak. Waits for you to say it out loud, as condemning as the kiss. "We were lovers." As sure as an admission of guilt. Eris smiles sadly. Alexandra's expression is one of anger. She is the first to speak. "You didn't tell me about this, Eris. Didn't think to mention it at all?" Eris retorts. "It was ten years ago, Alexandra. Ten years, and all we did was fuck. There was nothing to it then, there is nothing to it now." <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[It wasn't "nothing" then. It doesn't have to be that way now. (RO)|t3-01-ebackground_lover2][($choice to 1) , ($erispast_lover_req to true)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[She's right. For what it was, it's been too long.|t3-01-ebackground_lover2][($choice to 2) , ($erispast_lover_unreq to true)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>"Liar." Eris turns back to you sharply. "Excuse me?" "I loved you, Eris. You were everything to me, I would have followed you to my death, I would have venerated you as a goddess or a saint or a martyr- <i>I loved you</i>." She is bitter, she looks at you with disgust and anger and in that moment, you understand her title, Wrath. "You're delusional. You're fucking delusional. I was your commanding officer- they would have court-marshaled me for abuse of power. What we were doing was <i>wrong</i>. As much as I'd like, I cannot change that. And I can't do it again. I won't." "It's really convenient that you've started caring about what's right and what's wrong now, Eris. Real, real fucking convenient. You promised me-" "I promised you <i>nothing</i>! You should have known those were empty words, you should have known. I couldn't go through with it." "Obviously you couldn't. But maybe if you had, maybe I'd have a fucking memory. Maybe I wouldn't have been told by a little fucking voice in my head to kill you." Eris looks at you with a blank expression. Shock and disbelief and the dregs of anger. Her mind is guarded heavily when you reach for it. Alexandra slips an arm around her waist, gently turns the captain away from you. <span class = voice>(is she scared of us? i know she's scared of me.) (she wasn't- not always. she loved me, at one point. but alexandra… she turned eris against me- and tried to turn her against you.) (eris still loves you. eris has always loved you. always.) (this is all alexandra's fault.)</span><<elseif $choice is 2>>"If it's any assurance, Alexandra, I have no current plans with Eris." Her continued glare tells you that she took no assurance from your statement. "It was a long time ago, and she's right. It was just sex." You address Eris, whose face is red, who cannot completely meet your eyes, whose look of regret is likely connected to the sentiment you share. "I liked your company, Eris. I liked your body more. So unless you'd like to go back to the old days of hooking up on the bridge, I think we're through." "That's enough from you. We're through. Happy, Alexandra?" Eris' voice shakes, ever so slightly. "We need to talk. Later." Alexandra backs down, though the bitterness remains. <span class = voice>(oh alexandra, your heart is going to be the death of you. as in. i'm going to kill you again.)</span><</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-abackground]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback><i>It was a training session, of all things. Not the heat of battle or some personal quest of vengeance. You damn near killed her in a training session. You were supposed to be safe, or as safe as one can be, considering the knives were sharp, and the weapons loaded with live ammunition. As safe as one can be, running on pure adrenaline and whatever else it is in your veins. As safe as one can be, regardless of that little bit of yourself that takes things too far, each and every time, gets you in trouble you have to be bailed out of. Usually by the heavy combat specialists, who train in partners on the mats slapped down in the empty room you've commandeered to be a training room. You hang back, still recovering from the thrashing you took several missions ago, a persistent ache as your bones knit back together and the wounds close slowly. There's a twinge of jealousy as you watch them spar, all rippling muscle on stocky frames, strong and quick, far beyond your physical prowess. The foremost of that group is Alexandra Drake, the former soldier from Earth, whose past hangs like a storm cloud over her head, lingers like a shadow at her heels. They say she's dangerous, that her sadism runs deep, that what she did was utterly unforgivable. There are rumors she faced execution- before the Project intervened. They say she's dangerous, but isn't everyone? Wasn't that the point of the Project? You watch as she grapples with another specialist, the loose-cannon of a grenadier, dodging their attacks and taunting them. She lets them tantalizingly close, and then sweeps their legs, follows with heavy ground strikes or an almost playful headlock. She makes fighting look easy, like she was born to do this. "Who's next?" Alexandra cracks her knuckles. None of her compatriots respond. "Come on- none of you?". She groans exasperatedly. "Seriously?" You have a terrible idea. "If nobody protests- I'll fight next." You volunteer yourself, your heart threatening to shatter your already cracked ribs. Alexandra laughs. "Okay, Lucky. Let's see just how lucky you are." And thus, your fate is sealed. You walk to the mats as the rest of the combat specialists whisper and smirk. Alexandra, after briefly rummaging through her bag, presents you with a sheathed knife. As long as your forearm, too short to be a sword, but much larger and heavier than a normal knife. The snickering gets worse as you nearly drop the weapon, unprepared for the weight. A crowd begins to gather. "I figured I'd make it fair, Lucky. Seeing as you're typically too far away from the front lines to get your hands dirty, I've provided us with weapons. You do know how to use a knife, right?" She's discarded the sheath for her knife, and you mirror her. The blade is a coated black, silver peeking through on the razor sharp edge and every little chip and scratch. Her teasing seeks to rile up the crowd, the commotion causing rest of the unit to make their way over. Your commanding officer elbows her way to the front. You expect her disapproval, calling off the fight before it even starts. "Valk! What're the odds on this one?" The marshal herself is invested, turning to ask the resident oddsmaker for her expert opinion. There's a quiet excitement in the air before she responds. "Two hundred to one, roughly. Alexandra's favored, though if anyone wants to bet on an underdog, here's the time and place. I'll take bets if anyone has them." Money exchanges hands, discolored bills and a few tokens being given to the Earth woman. The marshal gestures with open hands. The fight is not only official, but a betting matter. They're here to see you get your ass kicked. At least you can try to put on a good show.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback><i>This close, Alexandra is all the more impressive. Like her brethren, she's built for combat. Quite unlike the wiry thin scouts or the more variant body types of the medic pair and the handful of other specialists who make up the unit. No- the pure soldiers are all thick and dense muscle, strong shoulders and arms and core and thighs. She stretches almost lazily, and you catch yourself staring. Fighting her seems almost pointless- just by the way she's built, she's got a marked advantage over you- who's already wounded, and certainly not meant for front line combat. A reminder not to pick fights you've got a two hundred to one chance at winning. "To first blood, or to surrender, either works for me. Anything goes, but no dirty tricks. Fair? "Yeah, sounds fair." You hope you sound braver than you feel. She smirks before she settles into a fighting stance. Holds the knife low in a backhanded grip, tucked against her forearm. She makes the first move, closing ground, light on her feet, advance and retreat, teasing you with a quick flash of the blade, one you barely see coming, one you have to duck. She's much faster than you. Your heart is in your throat, adrenaline roaring in your veins. You cannot win if you play her game- you simply can't keep up with the feints and the doges and footwork. You take a more defensive stance, the most simple one taught to you in basic training, grounded and careful, a high guard. She circles for a bit, occasionally lunging in to test your blocking. Every time, you just barely fend her off, with the clash of metal and a prayer. She backs off more, daring you to make a move. Hell, she lowers her guard. It's a trap and you know it, but you're already in motion. In your best imitation of her, you lead with a feinted stab at her chest. Except, you don't have time to make the second strike. Alexandra counters, slipping inside your guard and delivering a precise cut. The black steel drags against your jaw. You stagger away, dropping the knife, blood already pouring from the gash on your face. "That's first blood. Have you had enough? Are you gonna go sulk in some dark corner and cry now, or are you going to stand and fight?" Her mockery makes your blood boil. Your second terrible idea, snatching the knife from the ground and standing to face her again from behind a film of tears and the descending red haze. You refuse to submit. To prove her point. You will not quit. Not like this.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><span class = flashback><i>You grit your teeth, let your anger simmer a little while longer. "You ready, Unlucky?" She teases you from outside your range. This time, it's your turn to go on the offense. Rushing her with knife held high, an overhead blow that streaks by her shoulder, the missed opportunity leaving you open to her retaliation- a swift stab that tears your shirt and grazes your abdomen. She walks away as you press your palm to the oozing cut. Dares you to continue. You ball your other hand into a fist, let the anger fuel your next move. A flurry of attacks, swinging the knife with reckless abandon and throwing punches that barely faze Alexandra. She absorbs the punches, slips every strike, fighting with an effortless calmness; chaining together blocked strikes with precise counterattacks. Your frenzy is lost on her, a lunging stab at her torso missing her back by just inches as she uses your momentum against you, catching your arm and pivoting. Disarmed in a single twist of your wrist, both knives in her hands. "You can always surrender, you know. Might be a good idea." Alexandra shrugs. Your third terrible idea. You're completely unarmed and already wounded and fueled by pure spite. You throw yourself at her once more, a reckless rush, your only chance. Alexandra anticipates your charge and prepares, sinking her stance to absorb the impact and send you reeling. You squeeze your eyes shut as you make contact, your entire body weight against her, determined to send her to the ground. In a split second, the fast paced, stand-up knife fight turns into an arduous war of attrition, wrestling for control of the blade that lies just inside your reach. The first to wield it successfully wins- this you know. Both your hands wrap around her wrist as she closes her hand on the handle, turning her arm- further and further and further until it snaps. With a hiss of pain, she relinquishes the knife to you. A victory short lived. Her broken arm is clasped across your neck, she pushes you flat to the ground, a knee in your back. The world constricts, already going black. She pulls tighter and tighter and everything is spinning and you have a knife in your hands and. And you lash out blindly, and from the cut-off scream and the sudden release of her choke, you know you've hit her. She falls beside you and in a flash, you're astride her, the knife held in both hands, striking down at the blurry, bloody mess in front of you until your arms grow tired and the rage has left your body and you are left staring at the mess you have made. The blurry, bloody mess that used to be Alexandra's face and neck. The knife clatters to the ground. Many arms drag you away. The unit medic and the ship's medical crew are called in, the commotion lost on you, still numb with her blood on you. Still remembering what her eyes looked like, whites slowly filling with blood, glazed over and still fixed on you. Remembering what the rest of her face looked like. How you took your stitches with no anesthetic, still numb with her blood on you. How they made you look at her when they brought her into the medical ward, how you retched and vomited at the nightmare you'd created, vowed never to look her in the eyes again.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-abackground2][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

You half expect to see the nightmarish visage when you dare look Alexandra in the eyes again, the consequences of your actions, personified. "Still feel guilty after all these years?" She does not tease you this time, instead, there is a gentle undercurrent to her question. "How could I not be? It's the first and maybe only thing I remember about you, Alexandra." "Do you remember what happened after?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Not much changed- we remained distant.|t3-01-abackground_ally][$alexpast_ally to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[We became friends.|t3-01-abackground_friend][$alexpast_friend to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[We became enemies.|t3-01-abackground_enemy][$alexpast_enemy to true]]</div> <<if ($erispast_lover_req is false) and ($erispast_lover_unreq is false)>><div class = choice-item> [[We became lovers.|t3-01-abackground_lover]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback><i>The dropship was far emptier than you had ever imagined it to be. Meant for twenty, never filled to begin with, but even more empty now. A handful of soldiers in jury-rigged armor. The marshal had given a rousing speech to a silent hangar bay, and then the final orders. You had not spoken one word that day, trying not to cry or vomit. Nerves, mostly, though you had grown as sick as the ashen marshal, with her shaved head and unhealed wounds. Nerves, though anxiety does not begin to describe the staggering odds that decrease with every passing second. You were lucky to be here. Living up to your shitty nickname, for once. After the incident, you had faced a short trial, presided over by the marshal. She had absolved you and Alexandra both from your combined guilt: her in antagonizing you to fight, and you, for trying to kill her, for almost succeeding. And you had gone your separate ways, not having spoken a single word to her since, avoiding her in the halls and mess, and not once daring to fight her again. She had become a different creature from when before she was hurt. No longer the fearless immortal- her Achilles heel had been revealed. The pride and arrogance were dampened, by the wound, by the shame, and by the war itself. You wish you could have comforted her, watching the last of her squad fall. Even now, head bowed and silent in the dropship. Gazing deep into the visor of her helm, at the reflection you broke. How cruelly ironic, that the two of you would be the last standing. Fighting shoulder to shoulder, leading the marshal onward. Guarding the payload that would end the war, the unstable weapon of a woman who was, more often than not, slung over Alexandra's shoulder. Leaving you to watch her back, hefting the heavy gun and firing blindly into the suffocating darkness that followed. Husks and shadows and strange things that moved like nothing you had ever seen before. Felled by your will and the searing lasers you illuminated the halls with. Moments where you ran, Alexandra leading the way as you glanced back over your shoulder to see the advancing tide, a crushing wave of wretched and incomprehensible matter that did not yield to fire. And those final moments, or what you thought would be your final moments. The blur of her last stand, a war cry as she held the trigger and fired from her hip and nothing came forth. And she laughed and swung her heavy rifle like a club, until it shattered. The way that she fought with her bare hands and knives, until she grew tired and the final stand was upon you both, out of time and ammunition. You drew on your strength, pulled from the terrible gateway, felt its hunger seep into you, and realized that Alexandra could not do the same. You, the raging inferno. And her, the dying ember. She was swept away by things that dared not to touch you. Her last words were simple. Fitting. "Keep fighting." She did not speak when you found her again. She was silenced, by wounds or corruption or exhaustion. You almost killed her. You would have. Instead, you saved her life. You didn't think she would make it, but you tried, nonetheless, you ran for the gap and unleashed the last of your strength and held gravity at a standstill- so that she could perhaps live. You were already a lost cause, losing yourself further with each step, with each passing second. But you could redeem yourself. And you kept fighting.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"We weren't close. But I owe you my life, I think. I'm not quite sure." Alexandra nods. "We can leave it at that. Anything more, and it gets messy." <<if $airlock_shot is true>><span class = voice>(like shooting me? like leaving me to die?)</span><<elseif $airlock_shot is false>><span class = voice>(to say the least.)</span><</if>> Your curiosity lingers on the captain, whose expression is indistinct, staring blankly at the spot that Alexandra occupies. "How did <i>you</i> end up surviving that mission, Eris?" <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-backgroundres][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback>Alexandra Drake, as you know her, is not the "forgive and forget" type. Revenge was required, a necessary and brutal act, reserved for only the most egregious trespass. Stabbing her in the face and neck was most certainly egregious enough. You knew she would take her revenge. Each day might have very well been your last. <i>The faint glow of the illuminated clock face counted the minutes past midnight. You should be sleeping. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. You can't sleep. Your heart pounds in your chest, nerves alight with anxiety. Count the minutes until she shows up. They released her from the medbay today. You had seen her in the halls, lurking in the shadows. Alexandra isn't one to wait and watch like that. Something is different. Something is wrong. Every figment of your imagination is convinced that she's waiting for tonight- to break down the door and alight upon you with fury, to leave you an equally bloody mess, to stand over you as you did to her, to watch the light leave your eyes. There is a quiet knock at your door. One you could you mistake for an overactive imagination. Until it becomes more insistent. And you cannot ignore fate who knocks at your door, fate or death or both. Your nerves blaze to life, your senses tick into overdrive and you can feel her waiting. You can feel her anger and pain, as sharp as the knives you wielded. She stands ready to fight. So must you. So must you. Sparks trickle down your fingertips as you raise your hand to the door panel. You close your eyes as the door opens. You expected to be annihilated. For her to take her swift and bloody and utterly justified revenge. Alexandra leans on the doorframe, causally. Hell, she waves to you, you who stands bewildered, heart still racing.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback><i>"Can I come in? Can we talk?" Your gut tells you that saying no would be a bad idea. You nod, shakily, making some small noise of confirmation to the stout woman who fails to conceal the paired sheathes at her hip. You've just let your murderer into your room. The door slides shut behind you, and you await your death. "I'm not here to kill you, Lucky." You turn, and find shes made herself at home in your room, perched on the windowsill. "Well, actually, I can't promise that. But it wasn't my original intention, if that calms your nerves any." "I'm sorry. I-" You start your apology. "It's a little late to apologize, I think." One sheath rests across her lap, the black knife half-drawn. A show of intimidation or her true intentions. "Relax." She notices your stare, and fully sheathes the blade. "Force of habit. I just have questions, and then I'll be gone. We can even pretend we never had this conversation." "Questions?" "You heard me right. I have questions. Take a seat, listen close." Alexandra orders you around in your own room, and you are in no position to refuse, sitting on the very edge of your bunk. The knives may be away, but you know how temperamental she can be. You're walking a thin line, one that dwindles away, growing thinner and thinner. You simply cannot afford a misstep. "Why'd you pick the fight? Did you have something to prove? A grudge to settle?" How'd you think that was going to end for you?" Finally, a respite. A question you can answer. "If I'm being honest- I was bored. You know how the recovery process goes, how command babies me to where I'm out of commission for a week if I even get a scratch. I just wanted to fight." She laughs, threatening to split stitches. "Why me?" "Because you were asking who wanted to fight next? I didn't see anyone else stepping up to the challenge." She stands, pulling one of the long sheathes from the belt slung haphazardly around her waist. Your heart pounds in your throat. You wonder if your answers were unsatisfactory or you approached her questions wrong or- "Calm down. I'm giving you a gift." She presents the second of her two knives to you. "You fight well. Dirty, but well, especially considering you're one of those damn specialists." Something in your gut tells you that not taking it would be a bad idea. She waits for you to accept it, before continuing on. "You've won my respect. Costly, sure, but I've got your back, if you've got mine." Her admiration washes over you. A strange thing, a compact signed with blades and blood and the pit of regret that refuses to leave you stomach, but welcome. Better than the death sentence you almost certainly thinking you would face. "I've got your back, Alexandra."</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>"We became friends. Or at least allies." She smiles a little bit. "Still have my knife?" "No. It broke, I think." You remember that much. The memory associated bullies its way to the forefront of your mind, and you draw a sharp breath, refusing its call. It grows very more insistent, guttering scenes out of a horror movie, constricting walls and screams and- "Look- when this mission is over, you owe me a new one. Deal?" Alexandra extends a hand to make the deal official. "Eris, you saw. We shook on it." You shake your head and then her hand. "Deal." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-backgroundres][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback>Alexandra Drake, as you know her, is not the "forgive and forget" type. Revenge was required, a necessary and brutal act, reserved for only the most egregious trespass. Stabbing her in the face and neck was most certainly egregious enough. You knew she would take her revenge. Each day might have very well been your last. <i>The faint glow of the illuminated clock face counted the minutes past midnight. You should be sleeping. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. You can't sleep. Your heart pounds in your chest, nerves alight with anxiety. Count the minutes until she shows up. They released her from the medbay today. You had seen her in the halls, lurking in the shadows. Alexandra isn't one to wait and watch like that. Something is different. Something is wrong. Every figment of your imagination is convinced that she's waiting for tonight- to break down the door and alight upon you with fury, to leave you an equally bloody mess, to stand over you as you did to her, to watch the light leave your eyes. There is a quiet knock at your door. One you could you mistake for an overactive imagination. Until it becomes more insistent. And you cannot ignore fate who knocks at your door, fate or death or both. Your nerves blaze to life, your senses tick into overdrive and you can feel her waiting. You can feel her anger and pain, as sharp as the knives you wielded. She stands ready to fight. So must you. So must you. Sparks trickle down your fingertips as you raise your hand to the door panel. You close your eyes as the door opens, and the storm of her rage hits you. A punch like a hurricane making landfall. Sending stars across your vision, sending you falling backwards across the floor. She is everywhere and nowhere, the guilty weight on your chest, the strangulation of fear, the bruise that spreads across your cheek. Every shadow and burst of light, every brush of movement is her, and you know that neither of you can keep this up much longer. And you are back on your feet because you cannot keep this up much longer, and neither can she and there will be an inevitable confrontation that can only end in blood. You would rather die on your feet, you think. You would rather die fighting, you think. "I'm sorry." A start. An end. She just laughs. "It's a bit too fucking late for that, don't you think?" The lights are dim and the shadows restless, coalescing into the figure who stands before you. The woman who is clad in black and blood, dripping from her nose and the scar that makes your heart stop and your breath catch in your throat. Staring down death, the grim reaper who draws a black knife. The light catches off the rugged facets, reminds you of the sharpness of the steel, the barely-closed cuts that still sting on your skin. "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to enjoy every single second of it, too." Her voice is calm and even. She raises the knife. Desperation sinks in. You know she means each of those words. Her back is to the door- no escape. Fight or die. You've beaten her once, but the odds of a second victory slip away as she advances, driving you backwards.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback><i>"You're not walking out of this room. The medical staff will take you out, on a gurney, or in a body bag. The outcome is up to you, Lucky. I'm dying to know the lengths you'll go to survive." She laughs as the point of the knife meets your throat. "What will it be? Are you going to fight or beg?" The same fighting rage trickles into your mind. Try as you might to suppress it, you're riding the high, adrenaline and her words spurring you into action. You taunt her. "I beat you once. I'll do it again." You draw on all your strength at once. Your strength is unrivaled, feeding off the lights and the ship's systems, leeching away at their power until you are satisfied with the crackle of electricity through your mind. The room is pitch black. You have sidestepped Alexandra's blade. You exist in a space outside of her perception- you could toy with her before you take the knife and ensure your survival. Your turn to laugh, standing behind her, reaching for the blade that- You stagger. You stagger and fall and wonder where you have miscalculated, because Alexandra Drake stands over you. Because your blood is everywhere- walls and floor and ceiling and her- and you don't even know where you're bleeding from. Each frantic heartbeat racks your body with more pain, the reddish haze deepening as the world fades away. She kneels beside you, folds your hands on your chest as if you were already a corpse, wraps your numb fingers around the handle of the knife. A reminder, written in blood. You did this to yourself.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>"Of course I remember what happened, Alexandra. You gutted me in my own fucking room." "I'm sorry, Thirteen." You <i>seriously</i> doubt that. She continues. "I was young and stupid, and I wanted revenge. And for the sake of closure, I got it. We're done." <<if $airlock_shot is true>>"So that's why you shot me?"<<elseif $airlock_shot is false>>"I find that hard to believe, Alexandra.<</if>> Alexandra looks to Eris, and opens her mouth to say something. You interject. "<i>Fuck you</i>. Looking to Eris to absolve you <i>again</i>? I was only defending myself. What you did was attempted murder." The deep scar that carves a diagonal path across your abdomen stings like it was stapled shut yesterday. Alexandra postures up out of her chair, with you following suit. Her hand is dangerously close to the holster on her hip.<<if $airlock_shot is true>> You're getting sick of seeing that revolver.<<elseif $airlock_shot is false>> You don't want to find out how quick on the draw she is.<</if>> "Stop it. Both of you. Talk it out like adults, or kill each other on your own time." Eris mediates, reminiscent of the 'courtroom' bickering that followed the first incident. "Alexandra, you and I need to talk later, understood?" Begrudgingly, both you and the first officer back down. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-backgroundres][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback><i>Alexandra Drake, as you know her, is not the type to forgive and forget. Any trespass required escalation, required revenge. You knew she would make you pay for what you did. You'd beg on your knees for her mercy, and maybe, just maybe, you'd survive her wrath. And you begged. Oh, you <i>begged</i>. The faint glow of the illuminated clock face counted the minutes past midnight. You should be sleeping. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. You can't sleep. Your heart pounds in your chest, nerves alight with anxiety. Count the minutes until she shows up. They released her from the medbay today. You had seen her in the halls, lurking in the shadows. Alexandra isn't one to wait and watch like that. Something is different. Something is wrong. Something tells you that she was waiting to catch you alone. And there's no better time than now. There is a quiet knock at your door. One you could you mistake for an overactive imagination. Until it becomes more insistent. And you cannot ignore fate who knocks at your door, fate or death or both. Your nerves blaze to life, your senses tick into overdrive and you can feel her waiting. You can feel her anger and pain, as sharp as the knives you wielded. She stands ready to fight. So must you. So must you. Sparks trickle down your fingertips as you raise your hand to the door panel. You close your eyes as the door opens, and the storm of her rage hits you. A punch like a hurricane making landfall. Sending stars across your vision, sending you falling backwards across the floor. She is everywhere and nowhere, the guilty weight on your chest, the strangulation of fear, the bruise that spreads across your cheek. Every shadow and burst of light, every brush of movement is her, and you know that neither of you can keep this up much longer. And you are back on your feet because you cannot keep this up much longer, and neither can she and there will be an inevitable confrontation that can only end in blood. You would rather die on your feet, you think. You would rather die fighting, you think. "I'm sorry." A start. An end. She just laughs. "It's a bit too fucking late for that, don't you think?" The lights are dim and the shadows restless, coalescing into the figure who stands before you. The woman who is clad in black and blood, dripping from her nose and the scar that you are both drawn to and utterly repulsed by. The woman who smiles at you and sets your heart racing, pure adrenaline in your veins. Staring down death, the grim reaper who draws a black knife. The light catches off the rugged facets. It would be beautiful if you weren't going to die. She would be beautiful if she weren't about to kill you, the starlight in her eyes, the set of her jaw, the way she looks at you, the way she looks at you. Curiosity and anger and the intoxication that holding someone's life in your hand brings. "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to enjoy it, I think." Her voice is calm and even. She raises the knife. The point kisses your throat. Enough to be uncomfortable, not enough to draw blood. Yet. She advances, slow and calculated like her anger. Gives you every chance. Practically dares you to try and escape or fight. To not make her do this. She smiles. Or tries to. You have ruined her. Maybe you deserve this.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback><i>You have been moving backwards, an unconscious dance of sorts, away from the point that still rests against your vulnerable throat. An act of self preservation that grows more desperate as your back hits the window and for the briefest of moments the cold steel and heartbeat become one, and you are certain that this is the end; you will paint the stars with your blood. And the desperation sinks in as she gets closer and and closer and the point digs deeper and deeper and does not yet dare to pierce the skin. And you reach out for her, your hands against her powerful forearm and shoulder and she leans in and your dignity is lost to the fear that the next breath will be your last. "Please, Alexandra. Please, please, you don't have to do this. We don't have to do this. Please, Alexandra. I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry." "You didn't even let me beg for my life. Why should you get that chance? Shouldn't I just cut your tongue from your mouth and break your jaw and slash your throat and leave you to die? Should I stand over you and watch the life leave your eyes?" "Alexandra…" She digs the knife deep into your neck, lifts your chin with the flat of the blade. "What's your game, Thirteen? What do you gain from this, begging? Is it worth it?" "I- I don't want to die. That's my game. I don't want to die. I don't to die like this, please." "Keep begging, then. Make it worth my time. On your knees." To say that Alexandra is enjoying this is an understatement. You can practically taste her excitement in the air, electricity and ozone. The briefest of respites from the knife on your throat as you sink to your knees, though it never leaves your sight. "You know, you never told me why you picked that fight. Did you have something to prove? A grudge to settle?" She traces a line across your throat with the blade, just enough to set your mind racing. "Was it a kind of curiosity? Were you hoping our confrontation would end like this, just you and me, alone in a dark room late at night?" "I- look, Alexandra…" You can't find your words. "Don't get bashful now- it's only your life on the line. And I'll find out what you were after." The point of the knife digs deeper and deeper and you gasp as it finally breaks the skin. "One way, or another. It doesn't have to hurt. Tell me the truth." You feel her presence on your mind, familiar and a comfort and hostile all the same. You want to pull her in. You want to push her away. One way or another. She'll ransack your mind or ruin your body. Either way is torture. Nothing but the truth will save you. "I wanted this. You and I alone." You blurt it out like it still might save you.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><span class = flashback><i>"And here we are, alone. If this is what you wanted, prove it." There is arrogance in her words. Confidence. A gleam in her eyes that tells you that this is what she wanted to hear. She offers you her hand, withdraws the knife but does not sheathe it. Still dangerously off guard as she looks at you, as she reaches out again, reaches out to brush her hand against the cut she gave you. Her hands are calloused and rough; the gesture is almost cautious, almost soft. "Are you still going to kill me?" She gives you her best imitation of a smile. "Perhaps." Alexandra Drake kisses you deeply. Her lips taste like blood and adrenaline, burn like fire. She teases you with the return of the knife, lets you guide the hand that wields it, down your cheek to your neck, to your chest. To rest over your heart. For the briefest of moments, the fear returns, knowing damn well she could make good on her promise. Kill you, and enjoy doing so. But you kiss her instead, you kiss her again, you kiss her despite the blood and the scar and the hate. Trace the line she had made with the knife, your lips on her jaw and neck and collarbone as you pull at clothing and feel the air become electric again, the same rush as holding a life in your hands, intertwined with your enemy. Your enemy who is beautiful and terrible, who promises you things you would ask of no other in breathless whispers, your enemy whose name you say like a prayer, on your knees, begging, though not for your life.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-abackground_lover1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>Memory... a fickle thing, a delicate thing. What happens when we twist it? What happens when we <i>break</i> it?<</notify>> ... <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><<notify>>Hello, Subject Thirteen. Miss me?<</notify>>Something changes in the still air of the medbay. An abrupt quietness, the shadows pressing in on you, the light weighing heavily on your shoulders. Something watches. The world draws in, closer and closer, pulling the air from your lungs until your body cries out for air. Something watches, something sits on the table beside Eris and leans on the back of Alexandra's chair and rests hands on your shoulders. <<if $airlock_shot is true>>His face is… not right. You should remember what he looks like. You really should. He wears the doctor's uniform, though the threads run thin and the color has long since faded. You know him, and yet- you draw a blank. Features shift, somewhere between a thousand different blurry faces; each time he blinks there is another transposed, too many eyes or disfiguring scars or a bloody visage or needle-like teeth and a too-wide smile or- United into one terrible image, sunken eye sockets stained as dark as the depths of space, where instead of stars, there are equally dark eyes- flashing gold for the briefest of seconds before they are consumed by the darkness again. Webs of lightning, broken veins and bruising, a long scar- all a pure, rich black, as if shadows had spilled onto his pale skin. He leans on the back of Alexandra's chair, caresses her face with a slender hand. She neither moves nor reacts, her eyes glazed over, slack jawed and unresponsive as he tilts her head back. The man with no face draws the pistol from her hip holster, drags it up her body slowly. As if this were some intimate ritual or the revolver was too heavy for his near skeletal frame. Carefully, he inspects the weapon- opens the cylinder, takes out each bullet, one by one. They clatter loudly on the floor, bouncing and rolling, the brass nudging against your booted feet. He holds a singular bullet up to the light, before loading it, spinning the cylinder once more. The man with no face levels the revolver to his own temple, pulls the trigger as you look on in abject horror. He smiles at the hollow click, the hammer striking and finding nothing to ignite. He instead holds the gun to Alexandra's chin, wraps her fingers around the trigger as you scream soundlessly. Again, however, the chamber is empty. This time- he turns the gun on you. Pulls the trigger.<<elseif ($airlock_stabbed is true) or ($airlock_stabbed_letgo) is true>>He sits beside Eris, and looks at her with utter contempt, scarred lip curled into a sneer. His face is familiar and a comfort and yet- his features blur and make you nauseous- guilt and fear, and knowing what comes next. He sits beside Eris with the straight-backed posture of the soldier he tried so hard and absolutely failed to be. He toys with a knife in silver-marked hands, the sigil of the Order's farthest flung sect on his skin. How strange it was to you, rivers of living metal interlocked on his skin, although not too far removed from your own, symbolic representations of the planets and sun tied into geometric pattens. Strange and similar all the same, like Eris. Harbinger, they called her. Harbinger, and though he bowed to her and whispered her title in reverence, he latched onto her in such virulent derision that it dug deep into his heart, leeched away at him, clung to every fiber of his being. Perhaps that is what got him killed. You remember that. He places the knife flat on the table. Bone and leather and a dull blade of meteoric iron. The unspeakable things you did to wield it. The horror in his eyes when you told him why and how you wield it. Perhaps it was fitting that you tried to kill Eris with her own. She had done much worse for hers. You had told him of that, too. Perhaps that is what got him killed. You remember that. The man who sits beside Eris raises the knife, in mockery of you. The rituals. And the attempt on her life in the airlock. He raises it high above his head, lets it fall towards his chest. It falls from his fingers, clatters on the metal table, but blood seeps through his shirt. Your own heart stops. His head lolls on his chest, his chest that barely rises, shaking and struggling to stay conscious, looking for you. The world collapses inwards on you. There is blood on your hands. You did not wield the knife; it instead lies broken at your feet. You look back to him. His chest is empty, hollow, the ends of ribs driven through his thin armor, the collapsed sternum and fractured collarbones bowing inwards, the contents of his pulverized abdomen sprayed across the glittering gray carapace of his armor. You retch and hold back the bile in your throat, as he draws a single, horribly shallow breath, one that you know has been forced by the armor and cracks the thin veneer of plastic that somehow still holds him together. And you know it cannot be much longer, as he fixes already dead eyes on you and asks a single, horrible question. One you have no answer for, still, after all these years. "Why?"<<elseif $airlock_letgo is true>>The hands on your shoulders will not hurt you. She would never hurt you. Fear still trickles down your spine as her fingertips brush against the side of your neck, as her hand caresses your cheek. Despite you leaning your face into her palm, and the warmth of the smile you know she wears, you can't look, can't bear to break the illusion- a happier time, before… everything. What you would see would haunt you, would ruin you all over again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." "No- don't apologize, darling. You haven't done anything wrong." Her shadow shifts and you squeeze your eyes shut. You hear the quiet taps of her boots on the tile floor, and know she stands in front of you now. A small, muffled sound of fear escapes your lips. "You can look at me, you know. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise." "Promise?" "I promise." You shudder with fear and anticipation, your heart threatens to leap out of your chest- but you open your eyes slowly. She crouches before you, to look into your eyes, to assure again that she would do nothing to hurt you. Kind and beautiful, a flickering hearth or a safe harbor or a warm bed. She puts a hand on yours, still tightly balled into the fabric of your pants. It leaves a dark stain. Your breath catches in your throat. You dare not look back. She lifts your chin from your chest, hands that drip something viscous and rancid, something that reeks of sweet flowery decay and metal. She lifts your face so that you may look her in the eyes once again. You might have screamed. You might have sat there, numb. You might have cried, you might have held her hands and accepted the embrace of her gaze. "Oh, darling, you need not be so afraid of me. I'm just another part of you, after all."<<elseif $airlock_peace is true>>Something that warps and changes, amorphous, angry. Something that, if it were tangible, would assail you, would take your life in its inky claws, would thrash you apart, scatter you to the abyss. And instead sense of dread lingers, a clinging mist on your skin. Something that lives and breathes, and yet is not alive, is still and empty as the void. Something that used to be something else, has changed so profoundly that you would not recognize it, even if it were your own reflection.<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><<notify>>You know who I am, don't you? The question is then- how do you remember <i>me</i>? Who was I to you?<</notify>> <span class = voice>(who are you? to be so strange and yet so familiar…)</span> "Thirteen? Are you with us?" Eris breaks the lingering silence. "There's a meeting later. We need you there. From now until then, you'll be returned to the care of the medic, and the quartermaster. And after the meeting, you'll be working very closely with us. We need you at your best, understood?" She pats you on the shoulder, and without another word, the officers leave the medbay. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-backgroundres1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

You look at Alexandra and recognize your lover. The arms you sought comfort in, the gaze that still softens slightly to see you looking at her. The memories of things you wouldn't speak aloud, things you would tell her and her alone. She waits for you to speak. Like she needs to hear you say the words. "We became lovers." The captain looks at Alexandra, who cannot meet her eyes, whose head is bowed and eyes closed in an expression you take to be pain. The captain whose fingers rest on a silver chain tucked into her collar, whose face is a mask of blank shock. "It's been ten years. I thought you were dead, Thirteen." Alexandra sounds almost apologetic. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[It's been too long. It's over.|t3-01-abackground_lover2][($choice to 1) , ($alexpast_lover_unreq to true)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[But you're here now. Is there still a chance? (RO)|t3-01-abackground_lover2][($choice to 2) , ($alexpast_lover_req to true)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>"You're right, Alexandra. It's been too long." You're not sure what the emotion in your chest is. Neither grief nor relief, something that sticks in your throat as you struggle with your sentiments. "I'm glad we were together. But I don't think it would work out again." Alexandra echoes your sentiments with a nod, though for the briefest of moments, you swear you see tears well in her eyes. Eris, on the other hand, looks almost angry. "We need to talk later, Alexandra." Alexandra just nods. Gives you one last long look, like she would in the mornings when you had to leave. Asking you not to go. But knowing you must.<<elseif $choice is 2>>"I'm here now, Alexandra-" She cuts you off. "Don't. Don't even start." "I loved you." "No. Don't fucking say that. I thought you were dead or worse. We said no strings attached for a reason. That reason was you, you and the goddamned noose you tied around your own neck. Don't you fucking say you loved me." "I would have killed for you, Alexandra. I would have died for you." Alexandra snaps at you. "Maybe you should have killed me. Maybe you should have fucking stayed dead." Eris puts a hand on the first officer's shoulder- the first officer who cries openly, matching your own bitter tears. The captain's eyes narrow. She leans down, whispers something into Alexandra's ear. They both look at you. The guilt and regret of your confession sink and sink and sink until they are a pit in your stomach. Darkens your mind until the whisper returns. It is gentle, soft, a lover's lips against your skin, a whispered confession of love amidst entangled bodies. <span class = voice>(she still loves you. she thinks of you like you think of her. she still loves you, despite.) (eris turned her against you. eris would take her from you.) (this is all eris' fault.)</span><</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-backgroundres]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

“Did you feel that too?" Natalie's voice, from the corner of the room, her silent listening post for the conversations you had with leadership. "The <i>shift</i>. There is something strange going on. As I told you, they are planning something, and it will be the death of us all.” She continues, ominously. “The captain knows your name; she was trying not to use it the whole time she talked. And the first officer looks at you with such pity, you would think she was the one who wiped your memory. They are both guilty; the question is their crimes.” <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Maybe she's right.|t3-01-jintro][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You can wipe someone's memory?|t3-01-jintro][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[No. She's wrong.|t3-01-jintro][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>“I… we… did horrible things, during the war. But we swore an oath. Support and protect, no matter what. There were lapses in judgment, there were accidents, but they’d never- they would never hurt me. Never.” <span class = flashback><i>Pull the trigger. The priest under your scope. He never hurt you. He said he could help you. Pull the trigger. He did something. Came back with blood on his hands. Said a prayer for forgiveness. Pull the trigger, pull the trigger, pull the trigger. Insistent, refusal, pull the trigger. You can't. He doesn't deserve to die like this. He is not a good man. As guilty as you, that is what the tattoos and scars tell you. Pull the trigger. That is what the whispers- no, screams- tell you. Pull the trigger. You pull the trigger. Watch him fall.</i></span> <span class = voice>(you were too valuable. they couldn't have the good chaplain corrupt that blank-slate mind of yours. you served the same woman. not the same cause.)</span> "They wouldn't hurt me. I know they wouldn't." Natalie reclines on the counter. "Perhaps, they would not hurt you. But who did they hurt in your name? Whose body do you stand in? What if they thought wiping your memory would save you?" "Save me from what?" <span class = voice><span class="glitch" data-text="(from me, darling.)">(from me, darling)</span></span> A flicker, the impact of a bullet, a choked sob. Holding what remains. What remains. What remains. Your knees buckle. The ground- and the medic- rush to catch you.<<elseif $choice is 2>>“Could they have done this to me? Taken my memory? Can you even do that." Natalie nods grimly. "There are rumors, of course. Tall tales, break room gossip, stories told to keep children away from strangers. I can tell you the rumors are true. You and I are living proof." <span class = flashback><i>A long needle at the base of your skull. Gritted teeth, biting back a scream. Orange and white pills given in a little gray cup. The glass of water, the way they praise you when you do not retch and gag until the pills return to the cup. The list of questions that follow the next day. What is your name? Where are you from? Who is this? They show you pictures. You are given a mirror. You see your mother's face and your father's face and your own face one day, and the next brings a blurriness to their features you could mistake for the tears in your eyes, who are you? What is your name? Where are you from? Who is this? Orange and white pills and praise. Who are you, tendon and muscle that remember what you don't think you've ever been taught. What is your name? Who is this, stands above the body and feels only recoil.</i></span> "Who are they? Why would they do this?" The medic pauses. Her answer is detached, clinical. "They are a great number of people. They reported to a Director, she gave them access to anything they wanted. She asked only for results; there was no cost too great for her. Her interest is not in the body- it has always been the mind. What she does, what she is looking for, is entirely speculative, entirely rumors. But, then again, so are you and I- experiments and rumors alike." "The Director?" <span class = voice><span class="glitch" data-text="(she created you. and me.)">(she created you. and me.)</span></span> You give Natalie a confused look, before your eyes roll back in your head, and the floor greets you with open arms.<<elseif $choice is 3>>"Eris is the only one who's committed any crime. And it certainly wasn't wiping my memory. She promised… We all promised, once we'd left the Project, that we would protect one another. There were accidents and lapses in judgment but they'd never. They'd never." "They already have, Thirteen. Forcing you to remember like that- that is practically psychological warfare, and does not even include the wounds they have caused you. You are right, they would not hurt you. But they might kill you." "They've had every opportunity to do so- the airlock, the medbay, even the 'interview'- but they haven't. You're wrong, Lieutenant." <<if $airlock_peace is true>>"I understand your conviction, though I am inclined to disagree. Thirteen, I advise you to be cautious.<<elseif $airlock_shot is true>>"Alexandra shot you. You do not consider that an attempt on your life?" You pause. The wound, though nearly healed, aches.<<if $alexpast_enemy is true>> You shrug. "Given the chance, I think I would have done the same." <<elseif $alexpast_enemy is false>> "She was justified in doing so. I was trying to kill Eris."<</if>> "I understand your conviction, though I am inclined to disagree. Thirteen, I advise you to be cautious."<<elseif ($airlock_stabbed is true) or ($airlock_stabbed_letgo is true)>>"Do you have any idea how many times you nearly died on my operating table- the result of your escapade in the airlock? They have already tried to kill you. They would have succeeded had I not intervened." You pause. The wound, though nearly healed, aches. "They were justified to do so. I was a threat." "I understand your conviction, though I am inclined to disagree. Thirteen, I advise you to be cautious."<<elseif $airlock_letgo is true>>"Do you have any idea the state in which you were brought into my operating room, Thirteen? You were carried in Hector's arms and you looked so small and helpless that I could not believe the carnage you had caused. You were placed on my operating table, and you were not breathing. I started your heart again, time after time after time. You died in my hands, and I was forced to bring you back to life. They killed you, Thirteen. And you would forgive them?" You pause. "They were justified. I- I was not…" "Yourself? Does that make it right? Would it be the same as the war, then?" "Yes. No different. Self defense. I gave them no choice." "I understand your conviction, though I am inclined to disagree. Thirteen, I advise you to be cautious."<</if>> <span class = voice><span class="glitch" data-text="(forgive. forget. fight. i don't care. you cannot escape me.)">(forgive. forget. fight. i don't care. you cannot escape me.)</span></span> You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. A moment of brief confusion and falling. The ground swallows you whole.<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-jintro1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>Bury me. Fight me. I am still a part of you.<</notify>><span class = voice>(perhaps, you should stay down for once.)</span> "Please, stop doing that. You are making my job much more difficult." The world fades back in unceremoniously. The medic has dragged you away from the table, propping you up against a cabinet. She sits on the floor across from you, cross legged, exhausted and exasperated. You try to stand, but she narrows her eyes at you. "Stay there. Do not give yourself more brain damage. I need to call the quartermaster. We will ensure that you at least get to the meeting in one piece." <span class = voice>(you're going to be the death of me. i hope you know that.)</span> You groan and slump further down the cabinet. The floor is cold and comfortable, and your head pounds. The world's worst headache or hangover, letting your heavy eyes close. A rest not long lived, however. Natalie slaps you awake. "You need to stay awake. Sergeant-at-Arms Grey will be here shortly." "Was hitting me necessary?" "In my opinion as a medical professional- yes." You roll your eyes, and try to wait as patiently as possible, watching the medic pace nervously across the medbay. The quartermaster is taking their time, evidently. Three knocks at the door, followed by the now-familiar hiss of its opening. Sergeant-at-Arms Grey stands in the doorway at attention, casting a long shadow. Natalie dismisses them, and requests that they close and lock the door. An order dutifully followed despite a grumbling complaint from the quartermaster. "What took you so long?" The medic practically whispers. "I ran into Jun in the main passage. We ducked into a side hall to avoid the captain and her lapdog- got a bit lost in one of the unused lab sections- swear, this place is like a maze sometimes, Natalie. And you know how Jun likes to run their mouth- so that didn't help any." The medic sighs. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><<if $natalie_attacked is true>>"Natalie, are you okay? You're bleeding." She glares pointedly at you. "I am fine. There was a miscommunication that led to an accident. All is forgiven." All most certainly does not feel forgiven. The quartermaster speaks. "I see." There is a long, tense pause, before they change the subject. "Is the captain still bothering you?" Sergeant-at-Arms Grey sounds like they could almost be joking.<<elseif $natalie_attacked is false>>"Is the captain still bothering you?" Sergeant-at-Arms Grey sounds like they could almost be joking.<</if>> Natalie laughs, short and terse. "No shit. She stormed in here and made demands of me- ones that go against our agreement. She is no doctor and still pretends to be one. On top of that- asinine orders." She gives her best Eris impression, surprisingly accurate to the former marshal's peculiar accent. " 'Shave the subject's head.' Or- 'release the subject into my custody.' Does she think I am stupid? Just because I do not have my medical license does not mean I do not understand the medical practice." "You don't have a medical license?" You butt into the conversation, causing the quartermaster to look down at you for the first time. Actually, that's inaccurate. They join you on the floor, sitting directly across from you. The sergeant is warmth to the medic's cold, a cracking hearth of a person with a genuine smile. A sense of peace washes over you. "Sorry, like Jun- who you'll meet pretty soon, I'm sure of it- I tend to run my mouth a little. I'm Sergeant-at-Arms Jayden Grey. You can call me Jayden. And it's nice to meet you- finally getting to see the $person everyone's been whispering about the last ten days." They offer you a hand, stained with oil and calloused. You shake it, and they clasp your wrist to help you to your feet. You're taller than them, though they're stout and strong. The same stocky build as the engineered soldiers, designed to last a war, to take any hit. You wonder if it has something to do with all the scars, with their mismatched eyes. You stand now, an awkward trio. "And for the record, no, Natalie doesn't have a medical license. Similar story to how Jun lost their pilot's license, you should have them tell you that story though." "Jayden." Natalie scowls disapprovingly. "The captain has us under a time limit, she has called a formal meeting. Thirteen needs uniforms. And I need a favor from you." Her tone softens. "Please." There is no hesitation from the quartermaster. "Done. Whatever you need, as long as Hector and Jun are in on it." The medic and quartermaster shake hands. The deal is done. You wonder what it is they agreed to. Now doesn't seem the time or place to ask, though. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-jintro2][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

"Now, about that meeting. Shall we get going?" Jayden seems to ask no-one in particular, though they wrap an arm around your waist, and allow you to lean on their shoulder. Your first steps are uncertain, reminders of falling about the medbay, of the slow limp to the showers, and the way the captain and first officer guided you away. You move again at the behest of another, though this feels safer- wrapped in their warm, peaceful presence. <span class = voice>(be careful. peace and war are often bound.)</span> The medic stays by your side as you limp down the side hallway, a dimly lit vein, leading to the light ahead, the main corridor. At the branching, Jayden slows to a stop. You stand in the quiet, white hallway, both broad and tall, an arched ceiling reminiscent of something you can't quite put your finger on. The quartermaster speaks your confusion aloud. "Strange, huh? I don't know how many ships you've been on but none of them are quite like this- even the dreadnoughts are all tiny corridors and mazes. Here, we've got this main passage and then all these side corridors. The only mess is below-decks." <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Fleet?|t3-01-jintro3][($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Enemy.|t3-01-jintro3][($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[It's familiar... but not enough.|t3-01-jintro3][($choice to 3)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>><span class = flashback><i>there was a ship like this, once. not the same, but similar enough. the arterial hallway and the capillaries that fed it, murals and mosaics in the colors of a homeworld remembered. there was a cathedral, an observation deck with stained glass and gold that painted the room with glorious and striking shades of shadow. the catwalks high above were your sanctuary, when you were young enough to traverse them without fear, without recognizing the ship for what it was, cobbled together from a thousand others, a testament to the will of the fleet. to survive. to learn to love and fear the cosmos, to create a home in the unforgiving abyss.</i></span> "It feels… familiar. It's a Fleet design, I know that. The ships are meant to be lived on, not worked on. I think I grew up on a ship like this?" "I think I would have guessed as much? I know the captain was involved in the shipbuilding process, at one point or another. There's a commissioner's plaque deep below decks, her name was the only one I recognized." Your expression must have betrayed your intrigue. "I'll take you to see it, someday. Might help you remember more- but we're off to a good start, Thirteen from the Fleet." They grin, and continue down their train of thought.<<elseif $choice is 2>><span class = flashback><i>the halls were like this. wide and tall, a mockery of that which was familiar to you. the shimmer of silver where there should have been expansive murals, windowless rooms where the light seeps through like the glow of a flashlight held to skin. an eerie dampness, thick, heavy air that reeks of fetid decay. the sound of wet footsteps, echoes in the emptiness of it all, red stained glass and the ominous, lurking shadows that move cautiously, unattached to form. and with each step closer you take to that altar, the ground pulls at your heels, the slick tile rippling like disturbed water, cracking and splitting in upheaval. and each step you take falls into a staccato rhythm, a heartbeat for the thing that coalesces the formless shadows into something that takes its first breath as you-</i></span> "Who built this ship, Jayden?" "There's a commissioner's plaque deep below decks. The only name on it that I recognized was the captain's. Does that help you at all?" "It's familiar but-" "Am I gonna want to know what this 'but' is?" Jayden looks alarmed. So does Natalie. You continue. "The capital ship was like this. It looked like one of ours but it… wasn't right." A moment of utterly stunned silence, Jayden surveying the hall nervously. "Oh. Well, shit, this makes me feel just <i>wonderful</i> about exploring below-decks." The moment passes- and Jayden continues down their train of thought.<<elseif $choice is 3>><span class = flashback><i>the halls were like this. wide and tall and not like this. mockery of the familiar and yet- comforting in a way that turned your stomach. tracing the lines of the murals with your gloved hands, a layer of something that reeks of fetid decay coming off with your touch, revealing the silver beneath. footsteps that echo from the catwalks, the sound of children playing in the empty space with the broken windows. light streaming through the window in a thousand different colors, striking in the way that they signal, like the rippling floor, like the breathing of the walls, like your heartbeat that is echoed in the skeleton of this ship, inextricably connected, a mosaic of your nature and-</i></span> "Who built this ship, Jayden?" "There's a commissioner's plaque deep below decks. The only name I recognized was the captain's. Does that help you at all?" "I don't know. Something is familiar, but I can't place it. Like it's on the tip of my tongue, but I don't know the words." "You'll find the words for it, eventually. I'm sure of it." Jayden gives you a reassuring pat on the arm, before continuing down their train of thought.<</if>> "Okay, so. Hear me out-" Natalie cuts them off with an exasperated groan. “Please, do not listen to Jayden. They want you to bet on whatever is-” “Shhhh, Natalie. You’re gonna spook it.” Jayden freezes in place, pointing back down the hall. “Watch. Then, decide for yourself.” The lights turn on and off in a slow cascade down the corridor. The wave of light pauses, as if waiting. <span class = voice>(i'm waiting. for me, or you. either will do.)</span> A shiver, the familiar ignition. The howl of the whisper-turned-scream, the way each and every one of your senses lurch into overdrive, peripherals expanding until the scope of you reaches every corner of the ship. Something waits for you. Calls out to you. Asks you to come and find it, to see for yourself. It will not be denied. You limp forward, towards the shrouded hallway. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><<notify>>Curious, are we><</notify>><span class = voice>(oh, you're such a scary thing, aren't you, with your little sparks and veins full of adrenaline?) (what would you do if you ran into me? kill me? embrace me?) (will you reunite us? or will you drive the wedge deeper? would you try and separate us? are you afraid of what might happen?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>"Oh, that's neat." Jayden's voice tears you from your thoughts. You freeze in place. They point at your hands. You hold a glowing spark aloft between your fingertips, residual lightning from the static that roared through your nerves and whispers that still beg you to fight. It's extinguished quickly, skipping across the floor and blinking out of existence. "How does it work? Is it bioengineering or implants or something else?" "I don't quite know?" <span class = flashback><i>they cracked your skull open and-</i></span> <span class = voice>(functional prototype thirteen, why do you lie to them? you know how this gift works. better than everyone other than the one who created it.) (it's a curse. not a gift. and i killed her, and i forgot. nobody knows now.)</span> "Jayden." Natalie, stern as ever. "Now is neither the time, nor place. There is much to be done that does not involve placing bets on 'interdimensional anomalies' or which of our colleagues are sneaking around, and badgering my patient." <span class = voice>(<i>her</i> patient? how many times will you stand for being someone else's experiment, someone else's project?)</span> "Noted, Natalie." Together, you continue your trek to the quartermaster's office. You grow more and more sure of your footing, relying less and less on the quartermaster. The typically claustrophobic closure of your senses is almost a comfort, slowly relinquishing the grasp of the shades and whispers. Your walk is surprisingly pleasant, absentmindedly listening to Jayden talk about the systems of the ship, and Natalie's interjected comments about how little it matters that you know where the coolant pumps are, and that they operate seventy percent more efficiently than standard ones. Still, it's a welcome distraction. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>A distraction that comes to an end abruptly, turning down a side hallway once again, and stopping before a solid, gray metal door. An equally gray set of metal plaques identifies this room as the armory, yeoman's office, and supply room. In a blinding contrast to the gray- a plethora of multicolored papers taped below the plaque. Dozens of handwritten notes and crude drawings, and at the center, an eyestrain inducing neon note, declaring the space the quartermaster's office. "Your turn to add a note. You said you were going to last time, remember?" Jayden proffers a pen and square of blue paper to the medic. "Maybe add a drawing, too. Make up for no note last time." Natalie's face turns an impressive shade of red, but she snatches the pen and paper, scribbling something and sticking the note to Jayden's chest. You're surprised the quartermaster doesn't combust on the spot. "We are on the clock, Jayden. Do not get me killed." Without a further word, she turns on her heel, and strides away, back towards the main hallway and indubitably the medbay. “Dammit, she stole my pen!” Jayden sounds genuinely upset, but they un-stick the note, reading it aloud. "Do not forget our agreement, or I will kill you and make it look like an accident." They laugh, looking over the rest of the note. "Oh, she drew a stick figure too! Nice!" After a moment's consideration of the wall of brilliant color, Jayden places the note, and turns back to you. "She's a bit stressed right now, which explains the proverbial stick up her ass. The threats are empty though, unless you <i>really</i> fuck up." They gesture, and the door opens, revealing the most spectacular mess you've ever seen. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-qmasoffice][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"Mess" is about the only way you can describe it. Roughly a third of the floor is cut away, edges still glowing hot from the torch. Beams and pipes and the makeshift covering open to the abyss, a stunning depth blanketed in rich, soft darkness. A gaping maw with metal teeth, begging you to come closer, to look into the throat of the beast, to slip below-decks, to come and see. Come and see for yourself. <span class = voice>(don't you want answers, my darling? i could give you answers? i could give you answers and so much more, if only you would come and see.)</span> You tear your eyes away from the gash in the floor, the open wound that bleeds sparks, lingering like too many eyes in the darkness. They watch you as they fall. You're inclined to look deeper, gravitating back to the darkness. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"You know what we're not going to do? That." Jayden loops an arm through yours, leading you away from your precarious perch on the very edge of the gap. You had gotten so close, so close and didn't even realize. They speak again, without condescension or anger. "Sometimes, you scare me, a little bit. Why don't you go sit at my desk, and we'll get your stuff sorted out, okay?" You sit in the battered chair behind the desk crammed into the corner, and use the opportunity to survey the rest of the room. Everywhere you look, there's something so out of place, it might as well belong. Coils of wire and tubing droop from the similarly deconstructed ceiling like cobwebs or curl on the floor, snakes lying in wait. In the corner, three exoskeletons hang, half-built shells of soldiers in a continuous cycle of being torn apart and rebuilt. Black and gold, dusky orange, and a third, almost entirely skeletal, with scattered pieces of scorched dark gray plate. Electronics and tools are scattered across the floor and tucked into the alcoves where wall tiles have been removed. Prototypes of a thousand different ideas, occupying every open space, ready to be worked on at a moment's notice- including an array of what looks to be prosthetic arms and hands, which are quickly covered by Jayden. <span class = voice>(the rot comes for us all. it will eat you alive.)</span> "You know what, I think I have something you might like to see." They turn to the back wall. "One condition- don't, uh, kill me. Or tell Natalie. Same thing, probably." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-qmasoffice1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

The back wall is covered in weapons, hung carefully and locked away in wire cages. A wide assortment of service weapons, black and gray and just as flimsy and puny looking as you remember them feeling in your hands, light and fragile. And a second arsenal of odd weapons, strange silhouettes owing to the creativity or even desperation of their owners. Eris' rifle stands out like a sore thumb. Rarely used, the marshal preferring to get her hands dirty. Literally. It became your burden, missions when it was pressed into your hands instead. You were just as lethal, just as efficient. You know what that thing does to people. Leaves a mess where there was once a person, hollows out exoskeletons. And what is not immediately felled is crushed, as the round ruptures into concussive fragments. A much slower, messier death. Hardly better to be on the other side of the weapon. Not dead, but wishing you were. You were not designed to carry the weapon. Each carefully scoped shot cracked your collarbone and shoulder, left black and blue streaks down your chest and back, each carefully scoped shot left your fine-tuned senses screaming and blind. Jayden presents you with something far less elegant- and far more familiar. Your rifle. A short barreled ion rifle, all jury-rigged electronics and illegal parts jammed as best as possible into the modified fiberglass shell of some less-fortunate service weapon. Held together with tape and screws and a prayer, not unlike it's owner. "This is yours, isn't it? I figured a lot of the stuff in the armory belonged to either the captain or first officer, but there were things that just, y'know- didn't make sense. Figured out pretty quick that there was, at one point or another, a third person involved. And then you showed up." You hold it, quietly stunned. A piece of your history, memory made tangible. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You built this.|t3-01-qmasoffice2][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You carried this.|t3-01-qmasoffice2][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You lost this.|t3-01-qmasoffice2][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>"Jayden, this wasn't just mine. I built this." You hold the battered old rifle close, a strange sentimentality washing over you. "It's really impressive- I admit, I've wanted to crack it open for the longest time. Don't worry- I wasn't going to without the captain's permission." "It was the one thing that made me happy for a long time. Maybe not happy, but still- I worked on it when I got stressed or scared, it'd just be me and the electronics and metal and-" You start tearing up. <span class = voice>(over a damn rifle? a piece of plastic and metal? pathetic.)</span> Jayden does not take it from your hands immediately, letting you cradle it a second longer. "You're always welcome to come here and work on it or tell me about it, if it'd make you feel better. I understand, trust me."<<elseif $choice is 2>>"This was mine. My service weapon. I never missed a shot." Your voice breaks, a strange wave of emotion crashing over you. "Look at me, okay? It's alright. You're safe here. I'm not going to interrogate you." Jayden leans cautiously on the desk, as you pull the battered old weapon close to your chest. <span class = flashback><i>You didn't need a scope. You could see clearly enough in the dark if you focused just right. You could feel their presence, a pressure on your eyes, a rumble in your ears. They were blind to you, cloaked in the finest armor and shrouded again with the shivering hum of radiation. They would never see your approach. You could kill with impunity, strike and disappear into the night, never missing a shot, firing between breaths, between heartbeats. You never missed a shot.</i></span> Bile rises in your throat. You place the weapon on the desk. "I never missed a shot." "Let me let you in on a secret, here." Jayden leans in closer, practically whispering. "I didn't either."<<elseif $choice is 3>>"I lost this rifle, a long, long time ago. I carried Eris' at the end of the war." You gesture towards the cursed weapon on the wall before looking to the gun on the table. "How do you even have this?" Jayden says nothing, waiting for a moment, hand covering their mouth as their eyes wander to look at everything but you, deciding what to say next. "The captain gave it to me, wrapped in something. I don't know where she got any of this. But if you know the weapon, this might mean something to you as well." What they present you with is a tattered gray cloak, decorated with blood-red geometric patterns. It feels like cold, smooth fabric, or maybe the scales of a snake, an almost fluid surface made of countless tiny ceramic tiles. It flows through your fingers with an impressive liquidity, shimmering and shifting in color despite the layers of grime on the surface. <span class = flashback><i>You were not meant for front-line combat. Reminded by the way your armor was sleeker than the others, meant for moving undetected through wilderness or the vacuum of space, made to keep the wearer unseen behind enemy lines. The cloak flowed from where it was worn over your shoulder, meant to break up your outline, to shift colors at your behest, to take small arms fire and disperse it, to keep you safe. It was a gift. It was not infallible.</i></span> "This was mine as well." You turn it over, looking for a confirmation that your memory is correct. You hand slips through a fist sized hole, where the edges of the fabric is rough and stained and charred, loose threads of metal fiber and stray tile holding the two sides together. <span class = flashback><i>It hit you, and you knew then, that it was already too late. The impact sent you tumbling to the edge of the trench, to the ragged gash in the earth. You stared into its depths and chose instead to stand, to make this your final stand, smoke curling from your armor and clearing to reveal you, alone against the advancing wave. One against hundreds, if not thousands. You fired your rifle until it ran dry of ammunition, throwing it aside and facing the Enemy with your fists and fury instead. Swinging at the swarm that overwhelmed you at long last, falling for what felt like an eternity, falling backwards into the trench that welcomed you with open arms, where you watered the torn and barren mud with blood, planted seeds of shattered composite, shell casings and broken glass.</i></span> "This shouldn't be possible, Jayden. It shouldn't." "There's a lot of things that seem impossible. Sometimes, strange things happen. That's just how it is, I guess."<</if>> Jayden gently takes the rifle from you, hanging it up on the wall again. "Okay, we need to get to business. Pass me my computer, it's somewhere on that lovely desk you're sitting at." You rummage through the messy desk for a second, before coming up with a computer, almost completely covered in notes and stickers. They sit on the desk, glancing intently between the screen and you. The glow of the screen illuminates the long scars on their face, catching each facet of the rugged marks. <span class = voice>(they do not fear their scars. maybe you could learn.)</span> “You can ask about the scars, you know. I don't mind. Nobody walked away unscathed. Sometimes, it's like you and me and Eris and Alexandra and even Natalie. We all wear our scars on our faces and bodies. Sometimes, it's like you or Jun or Hector. Nobody sees those scars, or they focus on the ones you can see, like they did for Natalie." Jayden turns to you. There is apprehension in their eyes as they reach cautiously to touch the scar on your cheek, pausing as you flinch, ever so slightly. They speak quietly. “I was in a shuttle crash during the liberation of the Kuiper-Oort colonies. A secret mission. I was lucky before that mission, and after that- I am as you see me now. They really do a number on you, no matter how prepared you think you are.” You nod. "I understand." “And yours?” Jayden is simultaneously inquisitive and passive, neither pressing for more information nor letting you off the hook so easily. “An enemy, not <i>the</i> Enemy. An accident. We traded scars.” Jayden puts two and two together quicker than you expected. They try to stifle a grin, but fail miserably, smiling from ear to ear. “Well, I think I just won a bet with Hector and Jun.” You roll your eyes. “I couldn’t get Natalie in on it, naturally. You're not surprised. "Does the medic ever relax? Or is she always trying to pick fights?" <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-qmasoffice3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $gender is "male">>"She's actually a lot different around you. She's fascinated by you- purely professional- but still. I think she sees you as a problem she can solve. Someone she can save. She might not show it, but she cares. she really does."<<elseif ($gender is "female") or ($gender is "nonbinary")>>"I don't think you understand just how different Natalie is around you. I wish you could have seen the way she worked on you, and watched over you while you recovered. She didn't leave your side, and when we made her go and take care of herself, she ordered us to stand watch, Jun, Hector and I. You were dangerous and a threat and still- she cares, she really does. I don't think it's entirely professional, either, though she'd deny it to the ends of the System."<</if>> “I'm sure you'll understand when I say I find that hard to believe, Jayden.” Jayden just sighs, putting down their tablet. "I do. Natalie is… well. She's difficult to get to know, harder to understand. You'll learn in time. It took me a long, long time to even be on first-name basis with her, and I know she isn't even close to trusting me fully. I don't think she trusts anyone like that, not even herself." “I'm going to say something, Thirteen, and it's going to sound scary. But I need you to listen. If you ever lay a finger on her<<if $natalie_attack is true>> again-<<elseif $natalie_attack is false>><i>ever</i>-<</if>> or any of the crew, for that matter- I will personally kill you. What you do with leadership is none of my business. But if you hurt my crew, I will see to it that you never see another sunrise. Do I make myself clear?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Yes.|t3-01-qmasoffice4][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You can make no promises.|t3-01-qmasoffice4][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[What's Jayden going to do against you?|t3-01-qmasoffice4][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>"I understand, loud and clear. I don't want to harm anyone." "Good! We'll get along famously, then." You settle back into the seat, heart still racing. <span class = voice>(you're going to let a washed up ex-soldier scare you- you of all people- into submission? you've gotten weak. pathetic.) (i've learned to pick my battles. this is one i won't try to fight. not yet.)</span><<elseif $choice is 2>>"I understand, but-" Jayden cuts you off. "Nope. No 'buts'. You're better than that, I know you are." The whisper makes a shuddering sound you could mistake for a laugh. <span class = voice>(better than <i>what</i>, dear jayden? you don't even know what i'm capable of) (shut up. shut up shut up shut up. fucking shut up.) (what? afraid of getting your hands dirty again? don't you want to hurt? isn't that what we're meant for?)</span><<elseif $choice is 3>>"Do you know how many times I have been threatened with death? Do you know how little dying even means to me?" Anger prickles like static on your skin, shudders in jagged bolts of rage down your spine. The whisper-thoughts delight in the sudden rush, prodding you further, further into your fury. Jayden's brow furrows, mismatched eyes narrowing, mouth tightening at the corners. Their response is not the calm anger you have learned to expect. It swells with emotion, made all the more terrifying by it. "I served with the likes of you. I'm not afraid. There are procedures for your termination, and though I would take no pleasure in it, I will not hesitate. Could you say the same? Are you truly fearless, can you strike without hesitation?" They're deadly serious. <span class = voice>(you hesitate. even now. you're proving their point.)</span> "I didn't think so." Jayden takes a deep breath, relaxes the firm set of their jaw. "So I'll ask again. Do I make myself clear?" This time, you relent. "Yes." "Good. I'm sure we'll get along swimmingly, then." <span class = voice>(coward. you could destroy them.) (and die again? there will come a day when we do not wake. and then what? are you going to haunt me?)</span><</if>> "I'm sorry for that… unsavory matter, but it needed to be said. I'm not serious about a lot of things, but I won't back down when it comes to the crew." You just nod, mulling over the flickers of conversation that surface in your thoughts, the whispers that tease you, that goad you into action, that plead for you to do something, from leaping into the pit to picking a fight with the quartermaster. "Question." Jayden smiles. "Answer, probably. Like a sixty percent chance." "Why are we in your office?" The quartermaster's winces with the realization. "Oh. Fuck me. Actually- don't respond to that. I was supposed to make you a uniform, and I was gonna introduce you to the rest of the crew before the meeting. I think we're-" The quartermaster checks their watch. "Yep! Running pretty damn short on time." They place a hand on your shoulder. "Thirteen, I'm going to ask something of you, and it's probably going to be uncomfortable. I don't want to hurt you. I promise I'm not trying to. But can you try to remember for a second, anything at all? Maybe, where you're from, or whether you were military at any point, anything like that, that might help me to know you better." More silent nodding, wrestling with the thoughts and memories, trying to pull something coherent from the mess. You latch on to one memory that drifts to the forefront of your mind. You close your eyes, plunging headfirst into the past. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-qmasoffice5]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>This is a lie. They lied to you. This is not who you are.<</notify>><span class = flashback><i>where are you? who are you? red strobe lights and white walls. no longer white, sprayed with something that makes the floor stick, something that pools and festers. the world is maroon and black and getting darker. the door is closing, warnings of quarantine, of imminent termination. the world is maroon and black and getting darker, stumbling over fallen pipes and splashing through knee-deep pools of murky liquid. the ship lists and new alarms sound, mixing with the cacophony that sounds a thousand miles away already and growing more and more distant with each second. you stagger and fall heavily against a bulkhead, sinking into the reeking pool. the wound grows deeper and the stain darker with each breath. the door ahead is closing, or your eyes are closing, and either way, you're doomed. someone pounds on the wall of a glass cell, someone claws at the glass and leaves no mark, other than faint scratches and streaky trails of blood, screaming, howling, loud and raw and terrible, the sound of someone who knows they are are doomed. they are doomed as you are, their cell filling with not-water, but something else. something wrong. they look at you and go silent, they look at you and turn to face the flood, they look at you and choose death instead. the light from the door fades. replaced with spotlights, with soldiers dressed in red. dead-eyed and masked soldiers who escort a pale man in a lab coat and a tall woman, dressed in an odd uniform. their lights fix on you, who shields your face from the brightness, pulled upright by two of them, presented for inspection. the woman takes the tags from your neck, holds a conference with the man in the lab coat, who calls her 'director'. the director turns back to you, takes off her mask and draws a pistol. the pale man smiles behind his mask and the director levels the gun to your head. "doctor crncevic, let the records indicate that there was only one subject recovered from quarantine. they were found with injuries of unknown origin, and a self inflicted gunshot wound." she speaks to you now. "thank you for your service, centurion. ad astra." there is a single gunshot. the world finally goes dark.</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>You surface with an ear-piercing scream, one that quickly devolves into sobbing, hands pressed to your face. Jayden holds you fiercely, powerful arms wrapped around you, trying desperately to calm you down. Their persistent whisper, almost in your ear, drowning out the other whispers, the ringing of the shot in your mind. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Thirteen. I didn't mean for that to happen. I want you to be okay. Are you okay?" You splutter out a response as they wipe tears from your cheek. "I- I guess?" "If it's not too much to pry, can I ask what it is that you remember?" Jayden is gentle as they release you, a hand remaining on your shoulder. You can trust them, you hope. <span class = voice>(you are still naive. too generous with your trust. mercenaries and their loyalties can be bought. your secrets may not be payment enough.)</span> "I was… I was a Centurion. Before the Fleet changed leadership- I…" You trail off, and Jayden doesn't press too much further. "What rank is a Centurion? I'm not familiar, even having run into typical Fleet military types- they use a pretty standard rank system if I'm remembering correctly." You rack your mind, trying to come up with something. The silence and your blank scare must have frightened Jayden, whose hand is suddenly heavy on your shoulder. "Hey, hey… we don't have to do this. No more forced flashbacks, okay?" You shudder, the last of the memories escaping though your fingers. "I was a Centurion. I wasn't in the typical rank structure, because I wasn't in the Black Fleet. I served the Gray Fleet, until…" Jayden's face is alight with curiosity. They lean in further. "Until there was a change in leadership. The Proctor was killed. Scientist-General Akakios took command." The quartermaster's jaw drops. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>"Oh, fuck… I'm going to have to pretend I never heard that, aren't I?" You nod, and they swear under their breath, cursing just about everything you could possibly curse. "Yeah, I'm going to make you a specialist's uniform in Fleet colors. Hope you don't mind gray." They walk off, still muttering to themself. <span class = voice>(what's real? what's not? would you know the difference- would you like it better if i lied to you? wouldn't it be more… peaceful?)</span> A man sits on the edge of the hole in the floor, his legs dangling into the pit. He inspects dirt-caked nails, wipes the blood that trickles from his nose. Reclines almost casually, as roots wrap around his calves and thighs, as his skin ripples like the gills of a mushroom, coughs into his gnarled hand and spreads spores that drift on a sudden upwelling from below. And the room is suddenly alive, the heads of the the exoskeletons snapping to look at you, cracked visors blazing to life as bundles of wire sprout vines and mechanical flowers, ones that blink with an insistent red strobe light. The gleaming carapaces of armor animated, too unnaturally stiff in their movements, but still raising broken fingers to point at you, to accuse you as you would accuse Eris. Who sits on the desk in full, regal armor, who takes off her undamaged helmet and presents it to you with glazed, hazy eyes, the colors of a dead forest. And when you take it, because it is shoved into your chest with enough force to drive the air from your lungs- her hand comes with it, sloughing off like wet bark under your fingers. Every single muscle in your body tenses and goes still, holding the hand. Shaking from the tension, whimpering in fear though your clenched teeth. It rots in your hand, clinging to your skin like oil, dripping from your fingers and seeping into your pores, invading every part of you, the roots crawling up your nerves and spreading beneath your flesh. You are swept with the same pain of ignition, but no fire takes- instead, cotyledons forcing their way through skin, an eruption of new growth with your body as the fuel. You do not burn. You grow. <span class = voice>(you need not destroy, need not fear for once, my darling. you could grow, you could create. i would not hurt you. just like the quartermaster, i can hurt you, or i can protect you. wouldn't you like to be safe?)</span> A man sits on the edge of the hole in the floor, and he is surrounded by familiar people, kindly faces who stare at you, alight with the excitement of seeing a long lost friend. A younger Eris with long, dark hair, who leans on Alexandra, whose face is not yet carved with scars. Beside them, a young black woman whose braids are woven with gold, and a thin man whose skin is adorned with shimmering silver tattoos. Who clear a place for you to sit, at their center. Who tell you to come closer, to see for yourself. To be surrounded by their love. They promise you memory, gentle memory. A lover's embrace. A friend's laughter. Genuine apologies. Just like it was before this. Before this. Who were you, before this? <span class = voice>(i could give you this. serenity. kindness. memory. peace at last, darling.) (you need only help me. you will know when the time comes.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>"Thirteen? You with me?" Jayden's voice snaps you out of your fugue. The man steps off the edge of the pit, falling without a sound. You shake your head rapidly, trying to clear the notion that something grows under your skin. "Your uniforms are done. They're not great- I don't have anything on file for you, other than what you told me. I gave you appropriate medals and the best rank equivalence I think I could possibly give, but at the end of the day, it's not much. Better than nothing, I suppose?" You make an affirmative noise, and let them lead you to the space they've cleared on a wall to hang your uniforms. The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. It’s been a while since you've worn one of these, reminders of darker days and those long, cold nights. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. Carbon fiber reinforces the knees and elbows, and there’s pockets meant for sturdier padding on the chest, shoulders and shins. "I don't know who you'll be working with, so I went for the safest bet. A little bit of armor, a couple of combat modifications. If you need anything else- and I mean <i>anything</i> on this suit modified, let me know. Even if it's off the books- especially if it's off the books." They hand you a meager handful of patches. A blank nametag and rank, the flag of the Solar Defense Force and a plain gray patch for your wing of the Fleet, a medical indicator of black and red- everything but the ship's badge. "You know the captain better than I, so I'm gonna guess that she was just as dramatic about this back then as she is now. Making a whole formal meeting out of welcoming you aboard." The shake their head in disbelief before checking their watch. "We've got- uh- twenty minutes. Maybe. And we need to get you into that." Jayden points at your dress uniform. Slate gray, the assigned color for the Fleet, accented in the silver of a specialist. A best guess at you who are or were. Sparse ribbons and a pair of unimpressive medals decorate the coat, and a single black stripe plunges down the leg. "I used leadership's uniforms as reference- they've both got the black stripe, and Eris is from the Fleet so…" Jayden trails off. "Yeah, they're not great. But we don't wear these uniforms often, and maybe we'll get more of a file for you, maybe-" "Thank you." You interrupt the quartermaster, fending off the swarm of unpleasant memories and the lingering discomfort that crawls across your flesh. "Well, you'll probably also want this-" They present you with a second bundle of clothing. "I've got more for you after the meeting; you came here with nothing but the clothes on your back, so I've requisitioned as much as I can find for you. For now, though, change and let me know if you need anything altered." You walk behind the screen in the far corner of the room, stripping down and ignoring the urge to frantically search your body for things that have taken root, forcing yourself back on that single track mind. Get dressed. Survive the meeting. And the empty dread that come with simply not knowing what comes next. Back to square one. Get dressed. Jayden's handiwork is perfect. You hear them talking to two new voices. Must be the rest of the crew. Must be what comes next. <span class = voice>(look at you, playing soldier again. you're no fighter, despite what they twist intentions into being.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-0-qmasoffice6][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

You’re greeted by an audience and a wolf-whistle when you step out from behind the screen. Jayden, in their dress uniform, and two others- all three dressed in black. On one end is a tall man, whose nametag introduces him as De La Cruz, and his black uniform adorned with the silver of a warrant officer and a full ribbon rack, awards pinned all the way across his chest and draped around his neck announces him as career soldier. His hair is slicked back and beard trimmed, though both very much out of regulation. He gives you a rakish grin and a joking half-salute as you approach the collected soldiers. Jayden is on the other end, likewise dressed in a pure black suit, hemmed with red- the mark of Special Forces. Bronze hardware, indicative of an enlisted soldier adorns their uniform, as do an equally impressive amount of medals, nearly half a dozen with vibrant colors to complement the braided cords looped under their arm and resting on their shoulder. The third soldier is similarly unfamiliar. But they whistle again, giving you a bright grin and a wink. Their uniform, also black, is somehow more decorated than both Jayden's and De La Cruz's. Except it's in the gold of a commissioned officer, and they wear a garnet colored ribbon around their neck. The Hero of Earth medal, it's presence dwarfing the many others pinned to their chest. An award with a very serious and particular connotation, one completely opposite to the way they look you up and down with dark and striking eyes, completely opposite to the faux-hawk haircut, pierced nose and partially shaved eyebrow. Their crossed arms obscure the nametag, but not the pilot's wings pinned to their chest. De La Cruz speaks up. "I wish we were meeting under different circumstances. Hector De La Cruz, at your service." He carries a particular kind of sadness with him, in the deep circles under his brown eyes, and the careful way he carries himself. A gentle giant, perhaps. Or someone who has his own past to hide beneath a warm, kind, and beyond charming veneer. He extends a hand for a handshake, smoothly pulling you into a half-hug afterwards. "It's not much of an introduction, but we're pressed for time. Hopefully we'll talk more, but for now, it's quite nice to see you up and moving." The third crewman takes their turn to speak, pushing off of where they rest on Jayden's desk to a more attentive position. Their voice is silky smooth, carrying an accent, one you know to come from somewhere in the Republics but cannot discern any further. "And that leaves just me to introduce myself. Saving the best for last, of course. My name is Jun Asuka. I don't think I've met you yet, I don't think I could forget a face like yours, no. But I've heard a lot about you. Rumors, mostly, what I could coax from Natalie, and what these brave souls have discovered, sneaking into the medical bay. It's a <i>pleasure</i> to finally meet- in the flesh- the crewman everyone's been talking so much about." They extend a hand for a handshake. Instead of the formal gesture, however, they press your hand to their lips, smiling as they release your hand. “You look good in uniform." <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Of course you do. (flirt)|t3-01-mtgnightmare][($choice to 1) , ($jun_flirt += 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[So do they... actually, all of them look good in uniform. (flirt)|t3-01-mtgnightmare][($choice to 2) , ($jun_flirt += 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Just thank them and move on.|t3-01-mtgnightmare][$choice to 3]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Roll your eyes.|t3-01-mtgnightmare][$choice to 4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>><span class = voice>(because flirting is certainly the most import thing to be doing right now, sure.) (shut up.)</span> Two can play at this game, though you're a little bit disjointed and confused, and not quite as charming as Jun. Nor do you have the shock value of a well timed hand kiss. You hope your comment is as witty as it sounded in your head. "Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?" Jun raises an eyebrow. "Merely an observation. You're rather easy on the eyes, the uniform suits you." Hector groans at the pun, and Jayden covers their face with their hand. Jun playfully shoulders Hector in the chest, with the taller man feigning hurt at the contact. Jayden receives a more pointed glare, and just rolls their eyes in response. Their response is an elbow to the arm, and a quick: "Oh, won't you two just get a room already." <span class = voice>(because your previous <i>entanglements</i> have treated you so well…)</span> To which, Jun doesn't seem surprised or embarrassed, simply looking you up and down again, a look that says that Jayden's comment could be taken as a suggestion, if you're interested. Jun's certainly interested, if you're game. They wink, before composing themself. "We really ought to be going- don't want to keep beloved Natalie and our command staff waiting too long, what with their proclivity for knives and vengeance." <span class = voice>(they have a point. i wonder whose revenge they've witnessed, for them to know it comes at the edge of a knife.)</span><<elseif $choice is 2>><span class = voice>(ah. the most important thing to be doing right now, flirting with people we barely know.) (shut up. would you rather i flirt with eris or alexandra?) (i would rather you not be an idiot.) (so shut up, then.)</span> You don't know where to focus your attention. All- and you mean <i>all</i>- of them look damn good in their uniforms. Black uniforms and the countenances of soldiers, contrasted with the deliberate ignorance or defiance of regulation, contrasted again with they way that they look at you, the feeling of Jun's lips on your skin still burning, brighter than any other thoughts. "You know, I can see the gears turning in that head of $HisHers." Jayden's voice, the tone lighthearted, poking fun at your bewildered silence as you fight with the whisper that discourages every single idea that comes to mind. "Oh, of course, the engineer can see the gears turning." Hector, reaching across Jun to ruffle Jayden's hair, met with an indignant noise and Jun lunging under his outstretched arm as the pair jokingly bicker. Jun places a hand on your shoulder. One that finds its way down the lapel of your jacket, pausing to adjust one of the meager ribbons on your chest, before returning to your shoulder. "My apologies, I came on a little strong for a first meeting. I can be an acquired taste, though I hope you don't find me to be an unpleasant one." They turn their attention towards the bickering soldiers who are now fully play-fighting across Jayden's desk, a pile of assorted electronics falling. Jun squeezes your shoulder, mutters something indistinct before shouting at the two. "Have you two truly forgotten about our meeting or new compatriot? We shouldn't keep either waiting. The meeting will greet us with knives, if we're late. And $HeShe might too- depending on how long you two make $HimHer- no - us wait around." <span class = voice>(they are either smarter or bolder than they let on. or they are fearless, to approach us like an old friend. even eris had her reservations.)</span><<elseif $choice is 3>><span class = voice>(i-) (what.)</span> This was a little too much. You draw back your hand, stunned. "Thank you for that?" Immediately, Jun is apologizing, hands raised slightly. "I'm sorry, that was a poor choice. I made too many assumptions, too bold, too soon. Please, forgive me." Charming, and the apology seems sincere enough. However, you've got places to be, people to meet, and a nice, long nap to take. "It's okay, Jun. Can we just get on with the whole meeting thing?" "I don't think you need my permission. We are guests in our quartermaster's office, after all." Jun gives a pointed glance to Jayden, who's standing with their arms crossed, staring off into space. They startle, but get what Jun's proposing. "Alright, looks like we've got a meeting to get to." <span class = voice>(it would be better to stay focused on what comes next. do not get distracted by them or anyone else. mission comes first, remember?)</span><<elseif $choice is 4>><span class = voice>(i-) (no. this isn't happening right now.)</span> You're not interested in picking up what they're putting down. Friendly or not, the kiss on the back of the hand and the outright flirting was too much. Way too much for a first impression. You cross your arms, and give them a withering expression, one that says: <i>are you fucking kidding me?</i> "Oh, someone's playing hard to get, huh?" "I'm not <i>playing</i> anything. Not interested." And to your surprise, Jun relents. "Then, please, forgive me. I made a poor decision, and that was inappropriate of me to assume." Jayden breaks the awkward silence ensuing. "Okay, cool. We've got a meeting to go to. Don't think the captain's going to appreciate us being late." <span class = voice>(jayden has more sense than the pilot. eris is not as forgiving as we remember.)</span><</if>> Together, the four of you set off towards the bridge, a silent procession that would fit in well at a funeral wake, or some esoteric and archaic military ceremony whose origins have been lost to time. The bowed and hooded figures who prostrate themselves on the ground as you part the crowd, like they are shadows and you are the sun. It's a straight shot, down the length of the ship to the bow, where the bridge is sealed with bulkheads and an airlock. Defense mechanisms, should the ship be boarded, a measure of protection for the captain and the rest of the bridge crew, an impassable wall, an opportunity to escape, to continue flying while the invaders are fended off by the rest of the crew. You have seen similar walls fall. <span class = voice>(these halls will run red with blood. these halls will see life extinguished at the muzzle of a gun, at the point of a spear.)</span> Something shudders down a side hallway. The lights snap on, then off. Then on again. <span class = voice>(you are not safe here.)</span> You've paused, in the middle of the hallway. The rest of the group has left you behind, the rest of the group doesn't even notice you're missing. Everything is so far away. Everything is quiet, fuzzy around the edges, out of focus, out of reach, out of touch. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='see me.'>[[Proceed.|t3-01-mtgnightmare1]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>come closer. come and see. come closer. choose.<</notify>>Forward. That is your destiny, your objective. You were denied, time and time again. But here, now, you can finally see for yourself. You can finally see for yourself. You can finally see. <span class = voice>(there is nothing worth seeing. turn back.) (before it is too late)</span> Down the long side hall, a tall shadow awaits. It turns to face you, looking you up and down, fixing on you with hunger. A pair of glowing eyes emerge from the haze, a slow blink as you approach it, and it approaches you. A chill hangs in the air, the patch of darkness before you stealing the heat from the air and leaving a suffocating void in its wake. Time draws slower and slower as you approach, you feel the pull of magnetism, the bending of gravity causing the fire that leaps from your fingers to warp into a lens flare, a bursting halo of light before it, too is consumed by the thing that slowly claws its way through space and time, gathering strength as you are pulled closer and closer. <span class = voice>(it is too late.)</span> A mirror, or maybe not. But you raise your hand higher, and watch as the flame liquefies and drips from your fingertips, watch as the mirror-thing raises a tendril that solidifies into a near skeletal hand, jutting knuckles and exposed tendon and raw muscle. A droning in your ears doubling in on itself, crushing pressure, a horrific headache that threatens to crack your skull along that old scar, as you freeze, a atom's breadth apart from your reflection. <span class = voice>(choose) (choose) (choose)</span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='(take my hand.)'>[[(take the hand.)|t3-01-mtgnightmare_1]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='(stay.)'>[[(run.)|t3-01-mtgnightmare_2]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='(save me.)'>[[(kill it.)|t3-01-mtgnightmare_3]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='(look at me.)'>[[(look at me.)|t3-01-mtgnightmare_4]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>You could never save her. Never.<</notify>>Your fingers intertwine with the shade’s, your palms a perfect match. You extend your other hand. The shadow holds it gently, as a close friend would, as a lover would. The hands grow warmer, softer under your fingertips. The shadow warps and twists, and is more that a shadow now. Far, far more than a shadow. Your fingers are intertwined with the shade's, with hands blackened like they were dipped in ink, like they were covered in soot. Growing more solid by the second. <span class = voice>(let go)</span> Dead eyes, dead fingers. Skin the color of rich soil, blanketed in thin coat of decay. As cold as ice or the abyss, and as ashen gray as a frost covered morning, death clinging to her skin and the amber eyes that peer through a milky white glaze. She might have been beautiful once, might have swept you off your feet, might have been so much more than the corpse that smiles at you with a broken mouth, viscous liquid trickling over split lips and down her chin. <span class = voice>(let go)</span> Because you know her by her wounds, and her wounds alone. The shattered skull, the gashed throat. The slashes on her face and the burns on her body, broken bones and torn flesh. Eviscerated, her mauled jumpsuit painted in reds so saturated they might as well be black, accented in putrid greens and purples, the shades of ruined organs, brought to the surface to bloat and rot, their perforations leaking a foul ooze, the scent heavy and sweet like death on your tongue. Broken and exposed ribs glimmer like teeth in the gaping maw of her wounds, the soft innards that remain hanging to form a macabre kind of belt. She blinks away the blood that drips over her eyebrows and pools in sunken eye sockets. The aftermath of a single gunshot wound to her forehead. You watched her get torn apart. You did nothing to save her. You could do nothing to save her. You could show her nothing but mercy in her final moments. Already being consumed, watching things that ought not to be seen or known unfold before your eyes. <span class = voice>(do you remember me, my darling, thirteen? do you remember what you did to me?)</span> Her mouth moves, but no words come out. Her wounds blossom into crimson flowers across her skin, scars sprouting tendrils of darkness, tracing raised paths like roots through soil. Like the roots under your own skin, like the way your gut wrenches as her writhing innards slither like a serpent across her shoulders, a sickening intestinal pink with blood-slick scales. Bile-venom drips from hooked bone fangs in the rupture that forms the snake's unhinged jaw, spitting and and striking and rattling bone against bone, echoing in the acoustics of an empty ribcage. She raises your chin with a charred hand, to look her in the eyes. Eyes that glow like a burning sunrise, disperse the deathly haze. Amber and brilliant, filled with life. Like the gunshot wound that forms a third eye in her forehead, the glow focusing on you from deep in the horrid darkness. You shudder, you whimper as she presses a finger to your lips. As she wraps a too-strong hand around your face and shoves you to the ground. Kneeling before her, still staring into those haunting eyes. <span class = voice>(look at me. look at what you did to me. this is your conquest. this is your mission. this is your fate.)</span> The whisper is a scream. Several screams. Hers and yours, intertwined like your fingers. Other voices that cry out with you, your voice and throat raw. <span class = voice>(look at what you did to me. look at me. remember me. remember what you did to me.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-falling]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>You cannot run from what you have done. The consequences will catch up to you, eventually.<</notify>><span class = voice>(run)</span> Run. Panic rises to your throat, frantic energy empowering your tired legs to move. Run. Or die. Because what chases you is death incarnate. <span class = voice>(run)</span> Alexandra Drake advances upon you, leading with the tip of her knife held high. You run, and slam into her, waiting for your charge, prepared for it. You fall at her feet, looking up at the figure that towers over you. The shadow-Alexandra pulls you closer, dragging you further into the darkness as you claw at the tile floor that flows like water through your fingers. <span class = voice>(you cannot run from me.)</span> The shade blurs and shifts and you are dragged upwards by a too-strong hand. The point of a knife kisses your throat, dug deep enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to break the skin. Yet there is already blood on the blade. Not yours. Hers. <span class = voice>(you cannot run.)</span> She backs away and paces, light on her feet, ready to fight. She taunts and teases, tells you to pick up the knife and fight. Only a coward runs. You're not a coward, are you? The knife in your hands is bloody and translucent, like frozen smoke, like stained glass cathedral windows. <span class = voice>(you're not a coward, are you? why don't you fight?)</span> You fight like hell. Your hands are gloved in red; you reek of blood and oil. The comforting weight of armor on your shoulders and in your hands, the last round chambered in a pistol that whines as it charges slowly, radiant heat in your fingers and the way the smooth glass of her helm feels through the palm of your glove. The blinking of a low ammunition notice, your final round to dispatch the wounded soldier at your feet, who clutches at your wrist and begs you with her eyes not to do this. The whites of her eyes filling with blood as you sit astride her chest. Holding the knife aloft still. Gloved in red, reeking of blood and sweat. The way she raises her broken arm weakly, the twisted hand on your chest her final attempt at stopping you, her murderer. And you stare at the shattered jaw and ruined mouth. As she spits teeth and drools blood, the stump of her tongue writhing at the back of her mouth as she chokes on the flesh and her blood and tries to breath through a gashed windpipe, her throat shredded, torn vocal cords and indistinct sinew being all that remains. Each shallow exhale, the whistling of breath through her perforated throat, reddening her collar, staining it like the armor she wears, more brilliant crimson that dusky orange, torn from shoulder to hip, held together barely, just barely, by the body inside. Time lurches and shudders, one second the murder, the next, the mercy killing. A singular constant. You, her instrument of death. Her hands are cold as ice, as cold as the freezing void of space. Her eyes are dead and glazed over, sunken into bruised sockets. There is no warmth in her face, her skin is porcelain white, her lips and nose stained blue, her cheeks flushed pale purple, no warmth- save for the fresh blood that adorns her fractured jaw. There is no life left in her body, and yet, she walks amongst the crew. There is no life left in her body, and yet, she speaks to you. <span class = voice>(why didn’t you just let me die? you had your chance to kill me. you could have been merciful. you could have finished the job, you could have left me and saved yourself. why didn't you let me die?) (why didn't you kill me?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-falling]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>Oh, killer, do you like the way it makes you feel? Who would you be without the blood on your hands?<</notify>>The thing that stands before you is strange. Should be hideous, a monstrosity with its warped amorphous black form, like a tree on a windswept plain, gnarled and twisted and wrong in every sense of that word, wrong. Something close to you, something that breathes and twists and knows and understands, thinks like you do, whispers to you. Not an enemy. It is too familiar to be your enemy, curling into a more familiar form, a head on strong shoulders and a long, slender arms and legs, and eyes that blink open in the blurred face, many-pupiled, your own hazy gray and a piercing blue and and another. <span class = voice>(kill it. do not listen. do not let it speak.)</span> Eyes that belong to Eris, the colors of a deep forest, all dark greens and browns. But wrong. Hazy like yours, a film of decay or fog concealing the empty abyss that hides behind them. One that rings with the echoes of the whispers in your mind and the fire that lances through your nerves and resonates with the guilt on your chest. <span class = voice>(kill her. do not listen. do not let her speak.)</span> Monster. Puppetmaster. A guiding hand, a guiding light, a tortured creator. A mentor, a teacher. A thief, the one who took everything from you. Light-bringer and Wrath, bound to the void between stars. As inhuman as the thing that stood before you and pulled from the fabric of reality to create itself. A woman who would play god, regard herself as the next evolution of Prometheus, the torch held alight, fearing not the the old and angry gods. Beckoning for you to take of the fire. And letting you suffer her punishment instead. You burned, you were torn apart and awoke the next day to be de-constructed again, and she alone reaped the benefit. The monster, the puppetmaster, playing with lives in her delusions of grandeur. <span class = voice>(kill her. she deserves death. you have charged her with it once.)</span> And yet she welcomes you with open arms. <span class = voice>(kill her.) (kill her. this is your duty, this is your mission.)</span> You hold a short knife. Your own, forged in profaned ritual, bone and meteorite. Your wild swing passes through her, as if she were smoke. She lashes out in kind, gold and ivory drawn from its sheath in a blur, brought down upon you with the force of a thousand suns. It grazes the very edge of your jaw, still strong enough to turn your head aside. Something in your mind snaps. Your fingers wrap around her blade, savoring the depths of the cuts and the ooze of the blood. You close your fist tighter, until the blade shatters in your hand. You draw a long fragment from where it impales your palm, through the old wound, the sacrificial one. <span class = voice>(this is your sacrifice.)</span> You swing again, empty handed. Lefts and rights, overhead blows and hooks and uppercuts. Jabs to her midsection, until she can endure no longer and protects her body, and you strike more powerfully at her exposed head. Every single punch lands, your tormentor finally at your mercy. She cannot hit you, no matter how hard she tries, weak strikes that you duck under and retaliate a thousand times heavier. Her weak jab met with a looping hook to her temple, leaving her dazed while you deliver a simple straight punch to her chest, feeling something shatter under your fist. Utter satisfaction in the way she staggers away, afraid of you. Flinching and backing away, doubled over and begging you to stop. <span class = voice>(she… never… <i>NEVER</i>. never once stopped for you. why should you afford her the same mercy?)</span> And you advance on her as she limps away into the dark, tears in your eyes. Knowing that you'll finish this, here and now. She is pitiful, sliding down the wall, looking at you through the cuts and the swelling eyes and her own tears. Begs you again to stop, and looks at you with an expression of abject betrayal, begs you to stop, and you cannot, already carried by your anger and momentum. <span class = voice>(finish this. be free of her.)</span> You drag her away from the wall as she slips into unconsciousness. You hold the empty shell that was once or maybe never Eris by the collar and scream. You shake her, you beg her to wake. But her body is limp as you sob into her shoulder, limp and empty and useless. <span class = voice>(is this what you wanted? you killed me. now what? did you win? did it feel good? are you happy? are you free or your burdens, have you broken your chains?) (am i to haunt you forever?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-falling]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>You see. You... understand. We are the same, you and I.<</notify>><span class = voice>(look at me.) (won't you look at me?)</span> The shadow is less a wisp of dark smoke, person enough to be unsettling, and more a mirror. Your reflection, wavering with each raspy breath. Ones that are reciprocated a second later. Same inhale. Same exhale. Becoming more and more in time as you gaze into the amorphous shadow that slowly condenses, slowly distills. More human with each passing second. More <i>you</i> with each passing second. <span class = voice>(look at me.)</span> You close your eyes. Knows that it does the same, five paces ahead of you. Squeeze your eyes shut and know that it does the same. Every slight movement, finely copied. The delay between it and you growing ever more narrow. One pace forward, eyes still closed. Hearing the sound of its boot on the tile. Same as yours. One pace forward. <span class = voice>(look at me)</span> Your eyes jolt open. <span class = voice>(look at me)</span> You stare into your worn face. Bloodshot, watery silver eyes. Have you been crying? You blink away tears. It does the same with a moment's hesitation. Panic rises, bile in your throat. You watch the expression form on its face. Lean closer, nose to nose, almost. Back away, roll your shoulders, lean from side to side. Flex your hands and set your jaw and watch it. As it follows as precisely as a mirror. Moves as smoothly, as subtly as you do. The hesitation faded to obsolescence. You stand in front of yourself. Your skin is feverishly warm and dry. You trace your fingers against the scar on the reflection's cheek and chin. It pauses. Considers, with a smile not reflected in the muscles of your face. The fingertip that traces the scar on your cheek and chin is as cold as death. It lingers for a moment longer. You stare. It blinks. <span class = voice>(hello, thirteen.) (i'm you. well. maybe, actually, i'm not. not anymore, at least.)</span> You circle yourself, the line between you and not blurring. It inspects you, as if you do not share a body. <span class = voice>(perhaps i was naive to think that you would take better care of us, thirteen. you've done quite a lot of damage.)</span> It raises your arm, rolls up the sleeve to take a look at the scars there. Shakes its head and opens the front of your uniform without care, lamenting the wounds that turn your body to a patchwork of tattoo and stitches. <span class = voice>(oh, what would you do without me? i'm the one trying to keep us alive, remember?) (what am i thinking? forgive the trespass, of course. you don't remember a thing, do you, darling?)</span> Your reflection makes a motion like unsheathing a knife- slow and dramatic. From smoke, a familiar blade. A bone-knife, a ritual dagger. A symbol of devotion and a capable weapon, deadly in the right hands, ruinous in the wrong hands. It bit at your flesh and burned as you forced it through your palm. Sharp enough to cut with just the slightest touch. Dull enough to weed out those who were not devout enough to obey. Your zeal let you carry a bone-knife. The blade was harvested from the shattered remnants of asteroids, collected from impact craters and the tails of comets. The handle was taken of a different source. One who has refused salvation, who could not trade blood for eternity, whose hands were tied behind their back, who begged you for their life as you collected what you needed. <span class = voice>(don't be scared now. i know, i know. we're not quite as innocent at you thought. we were… <i>complicit</i> for a long time. but don't you worry your pretty head about what we've done. the ends justify the means, don't they?)</span> The image takes your hand, holding it gently between its own briefly. An equally gentle smile. Before they turn over your hand. A tattooed eye, encircled with dark lines, leers at you. A pale scar forms the iris. Your heart drops. The mirror shadow smiles again, placing a hand on your shoulder. And drives the bone knife upwards, through your sternum. You gasp and sputter, eyes wide, mouth open as it pulls you close, stealing the heat from the air and leaving a suffocating void in its wake. <span class = voice>(we started this war, thirteen. we started down this path together, destined for greatness. they would proclaim your likeness and name in the stars. you would be immortalized. the conqueror of death. but you strayed from that path. a lapdog for a half-insane wannabe war god. history will remember her name. not yours. we could be so much more. we were meant to be so much more.)</span> The shadow holds your face, hand gently cupping your cheek. It turns your face, forcing you to look it in the eyes. Your own dead eyes, filled with tears. <span class = voice>(look at me.) (look at me.) <span class="glitch" data-text="(don't you want to remember?)">(don't you want to remember?)</span></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-falling]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>...<</notify>> You fall. Quiet and still, drifting, flotsam or jetsam on the indiscernible ripple in the fabric of this world. Falling though the hole you've torn, the hole you would once patch, the strange strength in your hands that would let you let you weave time and space and circumstance into a favorable creation of your design, long since faded. Just as muted and blurry as everything else you try to remember. There's no point, you think. The only things you know hurt you more. There's no point, you think. When you try to remember, you just reopen old wounds. It's better to fall, you think. Once, you might have tried to fight. You're tired now, tired and broken. And sick of fighting. It's easier to fall, you think. It's easier to fall, you know. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-hectorrescue]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You are caught before you feel the impact of the ground. Maybe in a more literal sense, too. You are enveloped by powerful arms, a frame stronger and taller and broader than Jayden's, one you assume to be the burly warrant officer, De La Cruz. He pulls you away from the shadows, carrying you effortlessly, and you do not protest. You kneel together at the branch between side hall and main, his hand on the back of your shaved head, your face buried in his shoulder. "I found you. I got you. You're safe, I promise." He pulls you ever so slightly tighter against his chest. "No shadows, no nightmares. I promise. Nothing's going to hurt you, I won't let that happen. I've got you. I've got you." Hector's voice is rumble in your ears, a depth you feel in your chest. He feels safe. You want to believe him. You want to believe him, and you <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[accept the embrace, for a second longer.|t3-01-meeting][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[get closer to him. (flirt)|t3-01-meeting][($choice to 2) , ($hector_flirt += 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[pull away.|t3-01-meeting][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>He feels <i>safe</i>. You convince yourself of this. There is a calmness, adrenaline loosening its grasp on your pounding heart. Listening to him breath, and mirroring the slow inhale and exhale. Hector seems safe, and your preternatural grasp on people, the pieces of you that extend inquisitive tendrils to glean other's thoughts and emotions, seem to agree. He caught you. You would have hit the ground, otherwise. Would have learned what the impact feels like. <span class = voice>(can you afford to trust him? what if you're wrong- can you afford to be wrong again?)</span> Though you know you must leave soon, and the seed of doubt has been planted in your mind, his warmth is still welcome. "We have to get up, we have to go." The faintest notes of panic in his voice. "You're alright. Nothing's going to hurt you. But we have to go, we have to." Hector helps you to your feet, leading you by the crook of your arm. He turns and looks back exactly once. You don't dare to. You stare ahead of you, to where he casts two different shadows.<<elseif $choice is 2>>There is something about the way Hector holds you. <span class = voice>(now is neither the time nor place for this.)</span> You elect to ignore the whisper, practically hearing it roll its eyes. <span class = voice>(let me have this moment, damn it.)</span> You relax into Hector's arms, his strong hand against your cheek, his thumb gently brushing over your scarred cheek. His other hand rests in a protective hold on the small of your back, and you wrap your arms around his strong torso, tightening your embrace and letting your head fall onto his broad shoulder. He gathers you more closely in his arms, and stands, carrying you with ease. "We have to go. There's not much time." The faintest notes of panic in his voice, followed by whispered reassurance. "You're safe, I promise. Nothing will hurt you, not when I've got you." Together, you head quickly towards the meeting. Hector looks back exactly once, glancing over his shoulder and shielding your gaze with his body. Not that you were looking back. You're more focused on the two different shadows he casts.<<elseif $choice is 3>><span class = voice>(run.)</span> Something about Hector isn't quite right. The way appeared just as the end seemed nigh, swooping in to make a heroic rescue. Something about the way he denies your every attempt to pierce his mind and glean his thoughts. Unreadable chaos, white noise and static and an insistent murmur that bores into your own head. He searches your soul with depthless brown eyes. The static grows louder as you brute force your way into his mind. A moment of clarity. You stand, shoving the tall man away from you, watching him sprawl on his back before he pushes himself up on elbows and awaits your explanation that will never come. The air around your fingertips roars into flame. "I'm not a threat. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise." His voice is cautiously level. <span class = voice>(everything about you screams the contrary.)</span> He stands slowly, empty hands raised, a show of surrender or assurance. You hope it is the former; you need not the latter. "See? Not going to hurt you. I didn't mean to startle you, I swear. We can do without the fire." You cut off his glacial advance with a burst of flickering sparks. "Not a step closer." "Okay. I can do that." He stops, dead in his tracks. "We just need to go to the meeting. I was sent to find you, when we realized you'd wandered off. I'm lucky I got to you, but we need to leave, and quickly." There is a mote of panic in his voice, and he takes his eyes off you for the briefest of seconds, glancing behind him to where the darkness gathers again. <span class = voice>(run.)</span> The flames gutter out, embers drifting to the tile. "What happens when we leave?" "You and I go to the meeting, and pretend none of this happened, okay?" He glances back again, grimacing at the velvety blackness that seeps from the walls and drips onto the floor. You won't argue with him, not when it approaches so quickly, an all consuming tide. It would be like falling again- and this time, he wouldn't be there to catch you. <span class = voice>(run or die.)</span> You let him lead you away. He glances back, one last time. You don't. Your gaze is fixed at the floor in front of you, on the second shadow he casts. The one that seems to watch you carefully.<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>By the time you are escorted to the bridge, the meeting appears to have begun, the crew nowhere in sight. Well. Not <i>all</i> the crew have gone inside. Natalie, dressed in a navy blue uniform, waits by the door. If you're not mistaken or currently hallucinating, she looks concerned. Seriously concerned. You're directed to go inside. Natalie reaches out to Hector, a hand on his elbow, and the two turn away from you and the door, talking conspiratorially. You've been on a few ship's bridges in your time. Like the rest of this ship, it’s is both gut-wrenchingly reminiscent of something you cannot place, and quite unlike anything you've ever seen. The bridge is dark and cool, with only running lights, a handful of terminals and a massive holographic display providing light. From what you can see, the usual amenities are all there. A raised station of prominence for two pilots, and the crew pit below with gunnery, navigation and communication stations. On the upper level, behind and beneath the pilot's level, is a bank of terminals, including the captain’s terminal and space for other officers of the bridge to conduct their non-flight duties, though the terminals they would occupy are dark. This upper level is where you're meeting, around what you assume to be the war table. Making this the war room, and the towering hologram at the center the starchart, evidence enough that this is Eris' project and plan you see coming to fruition, pathing charts jumbled together with an overlay of several dozen maps, and Eris' untidily scrawled notes over top of each. Lines form a spider’s web in many colors, long columns of math and unfamiliar formulas fill empty space. Models of ships and satellites and whole planets flash in and out of existence, each just as annotated as the last, a interconnected maze of information. <span class = flashback><i>she drew each of the maps by hand. tens. dozens. hundreds. until her eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion and staring for long hours into the glow of the starchart. every possible angle. prioritized and calculated. she dared not make a mistake, driven to perfectionism that never turned out quite right. best laid plans falling though, no matter how hard she tried.</i></span> Before you have a chance to remember further, the hologram is deactivated with a hum. Jayden pats the empty chair beside them, and you take it without hesitation or question. The room is silent and still as you wait for Natalie and Hector to return. Their return is unheralded, with the two taking seats on opposing sides of the table. An empty chair is left on Natalie's side, across from you. Somehow, the seat still feels occupied. <span class = voice>(…) (…)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>From the shadows, illuminated by a single, dramatic overhead light, the captain emerges. Your heart drops, goosebumps rising on your arms and a shiver running down your spine. Eris, as you know her, best, a commander and soldier. The captain wears what might just be the single-handedly most impressive military uniform you've ever seen. A suit of charcoal gray, trimmed in Solar Defense Force maroon and gold. It's been years since you've seen her in a dress uniform- the one she's donned for this meeting seems almost alien. For starters, there’s the cape. And the blade, that damned blade. Relics of a bygone age, no longer standard for all but the highest ranking officers- and even then, uncommon amongst their ranks. The gold-wrapped handle of bone, the knife you know all too well, rests at her right hip, almost concealed by the short cape that’s draped over that shoulder. The cape seems to serve more than one purpose; a mark of honor and distinction- and also a camouflage. Her right hand is heavily bandaged and the arm worn in a sling, as a slight shift in the cape reveals. You don't remember seeing her hurt in the airlock, though she carries herself with a caution that suggests she's been injured for a long time. The captain wears no nametag- or any form of identification, for that matter. Eris wouldn't need it, you assure yourself. She needs only medals and rank. The Marshal rank, one you think is permanently burnt into your memory- a semicircle of olive branches completed by three stars, surrounding a downward pointed sword- gold inlaid with black meteorite, combined with a captain’s traditional four sleeve stripes in an elaborate bastardization of uniforms. Around her neck, she wears the Hero of Earth medal, almost ubiquitous with its crimson and gold coloration, a Savior of the Republics medal, silver and deep purple, and one more, made of the same marbled meteorite, hung on a solid black ribbon. Eris, as if it were some calming gesture or compulsive ritual, adjusts this dark medal, running her fingers along what is inscribed but unintelligible along the surface. You know the ridges of the inscription well, but not the words. You hung that medal around her neck in the ceremony. “And now, there are seven.” The captain's voice silences everything else on the bridge. Even the hum of the engines seems to quiet when she speaks. “This officially marks the start of the first, last, and only mission for the crew of the SF-001-X <i>Nomad.</i>” She continues, as if what she just said was normal, routine. For you and Alexandra, it perhaps is. “I was once the Marshal of the Solar Defense Force, representing the Wandering Fleet and, temporarily, Earth. I was once the Adjudicator of the Wandering Fleet. I am no longer either of those things. I gave up those titles for this mission." She speaks as if she needs introduction, and yet does not look at her crew. Her gaze flickers between the empty chair and the door. “If that does not impose on you the importance of this mission, I do not know what will. For that reason, I expect sacrifice, I expect great things from each and every one of you.” She looks at each of you in turn with an expression of unreadable intensity. “My name is Eris Akakios. I was once humanity’s best shot at defeating the Enemy. I am now humanity's only shot at defeating the Enemy. And now, this crew shares my burden.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>><span class = voice>(oh eris, you always had a flair for the dramatic…)</span> “This is the full crew. There are now seven of us. It will require full cooperation and understanding from each of you. We cannot afford to fail this mission. So- I advise you, get to know one another. These are the people you will kill for, these are the people you will die for. And in turn, they will kill and die for you." You could smile at the simultaneous irony and truth in her words. At the captain’s behest, the first officer stands. Military discipline, force of habit, the first officer at parade rest. She speaks slowly, in a hoarse and quiet voice as you twinge with guilt. “I am Master Gunnery Sergeant Alexandra Drake. I was from Capitol, in the Commonwealth, back on Earth. I served with Captain Akakios in the First Contact War. It is my honor to serve by her side again." The looks she gives the captain could be mistake for sympathy. Eris holds Alexandra's gaze for a moment too long. <span class = voice><<if ($erispast_lover_req is true) or ($alexpast_lover_req is true)>>(she would turn you against her.)<<elseif ($erispast_lover_req is false) or ($alexpast_lover_req is false)>>(…)<</if>></span> You, and perhaps the rest of the crew share a single, almost intrusive thought. Leadership's exchange ends with a professional embrace, an awkward hug that lingers for another second too long. Alexandra Drake sits back down. The attention is shifted across the the table to where Hector now stands, adjusting the collar of his black suit. He takes a deep breath, and the playful demeanor is gone, the slate wiped completely clean. In its stead, an experienced and serious solider. “I am Senior Warrant Officer Hector De La Cruz. I come from the Ishtar Autonomous Region of the Venusian Republic. I was trained at the Martian Academy of War, and served both the Inter-republic Navy and Solar Forces as a navigator. I was the chief navigational officer aboard the Solar Defense Force Dreadnought SD-09 <i>Broken Arrow II</i> at the end of the First Contact War. I will be resuming my duties as navigational officer for the <i>Nomad</i>.” Hector salutes the captain, who dismisses him soundlessly. As he returns to his seat, Natalie rises. “<i>Former</i> Medical Lieutenant Natalie Konigsmann, at your service. I fought to reclaim my home in the Collected Central European States on Earth, and was removed from active duty shortly after. It is my honor to join the mission of the <i>Nomad</i>, and my duty to care for <i>all</i> of the crew.” Eris makes a curious noise at the back of her throat, crossing her arms with a scowl. The medic locks eyes with the captain- daring her to speak. A standoff, the two women staring intently at one another, shades of the confrontation in the medbay. Alexandra leans forward in her chair, Natalie sneering at the seated woman. Practically pleading for the first officer to get involved- to try and stop her. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>>The standoff is broken by Jayden standing and clearing their throat. Natalie returns to her seat, though her expression is still sour and she glances periodically at the captain out of the corner of her eye. “Sergeant-at-Arms Jayden Grey, reporting for duty. I am from Hope, the capital of Titan, part of the Republic of the Moons of Saturn. I served several tours of duty in the Solar Defense Special Forces with honor and bravery. It is my greatest honor and most important duty to serve aboard the <i>Nomad</i>. My duties are that of yeoman and quartermaster, and I look forward to working with each of you in the future.” Two remain, just Jun- and you. You don't know what you're even going to say, what you could even say. Thankfully, Jun takes initiative, and rises. “I am Major Jun Asuka, of the United Martian Front. I was trained at the Martian Academy of War, and served as wing-commander and pilot for the Martian Navy Expeditionary Force. I was part of the Liberation of Earth and Operation Final Stand. I will be serving as the pilot of the <i>Nomad.</i> It is an honor to serve this fight, and to fly this mission and craft." Eris speaks next, but not before beckoning you to rise from your seat. "It is <i>my</i> honor to introduce the last of our crew, Thirteen. <<HeShe>> <<if $gender is "nonbinary">>are<<elseif $gender is not "nonbinary">>is<</if>> a former comrade of mine, and a friend. There have been some… medical complications, Lieutenant Konigsmann tells me. I ask that you be patient with $HimHer, as we work together to ensure that our newest crewman is able to adapt to and perhaps thrive aboard the <i>Nomad.</i>" <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 6>>She walks around the table to stand by your side. Goosebumps rise on your arms, you bristle with static electricity, your heart pounding in your throat. Unceremoniously, she presents you with the ship’s mission patch. A triangular patch, smooth fabric and plastic, with the silhouette of the ship pointing up, presented as if it were the tip of a spear in a field of stars. Red, black, gray and white, the ship and stars bright against the background of gray space and dark tendrils. A single red eye seems to stare into yours from the top of the badge. <span class = voice>(…) (… beware…)</span> “Now, our mission.” The captain places a metal cylinder into a control panel, and a starchart hums to life, projected from the center of the table. A spectacularly detailed map of the solar system, and… beyond? <span class = voice>(she told you of the missions, once. tantalus. the badge of the outstretched hand.)</span> “This information is classified. This mission is classified. Under penalty of death, there will be no outside communication after this point. You are not permitted to discuss anything that happens during the duration of this mission with anyone outside the crew of this ship, with no exceptions. There will be no media coverage of this mission, there are no official records of this mission. There is no incentive to act a hero- your mission is simply completion of this mission. This ship carries no ship-to-ship communication systems, this ship does not appear on scans. This ship carries a cloaking device capable of rendering it near-invisible to the naked eye. There is no backup, no cavalry. We are completely and utterly alone in this mission.” <span class = flashback><i>you are no stranger to long odds and fighting alone. she gave her most dangerous and secretive missions to you. a fitting task for an operative with no memory, a practical thing. you could divulge nothing if you were captured, you knew the parameters and nothing else. there was a safety in that. there was a comfort in that.</i></span> The captain is pacing, hand on the hilt of her blade. You know she gazes to the future and picks her next words carefully, as if they might dictate the rest of her story. She pauses, leaning on the edge of the starchart, staring into its depths. The lights and lines reflect in her dark eyes, a smile crosses her face, creasing the corners of her eyes. The expression falls from her face as she takes a deep, shuddering breath. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 7>>“I tell you this because… because I need you to understand our situation. None of you are strangers to impossible odds.” The first officer raises an eyebrow, shooting an accusatory stare in the direction of the captain. The corner of Natalie’s lip curls into a snarl, her pale eyes narrowing to slits. “Currently, we are anchored at the very edge of the Solar System, in Kuiper-Oort Federation space. Tomorrow, we will leave Solar orbit. We will be traversing the Cloud, using… using a passage discovered near the end of the War.” Eris covers her mouth and turns her back on the starchart. <span class = voice>(won't you just say the name, eris? do us both a favor, speak that horrible name back into existence.)</span> “The journey is dangerous, but not impossible. It will take several months. During that time, it is expected that everyone on board trains for heavy combat, as well as proceed in the areas of study or operation designated on your personal dossiers. We need every one of you in peak fighting condition for what is to come.” The captain’s voice is oddly heavy with emotion, and when she turns back to her crew, the tracks of tears glimmer in the light from the hologram. Her breath comes quicker, her voice beginning to grow hoarse. “Ten years ago, the Chosen, the Enemy, the Invaders, were thought defeated in a decisive blow to their capital ship. I thought I delivered the killing blow myself. I failed my mission.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 8>><span class = voice>(if she failed… all of this was for nothing.) (my memory…) (the fucking experiments and the war and all it-) (FOR NOTHING?)</span> “The Enemy is returning. Their capital ship lies beyond the Cloud, their army is gathering in the tens of millions. We are all that stands between humanity and annihilation.” Eris’ voice is weakening, taking raspy breaths every few words. Blood drips from her nose, and in the low light, it looks more like black ink. “We are to cross the event horizon- to leave the Cloud and the System behind. This ship carries a lethal payload. We are to deliver it to the capital ship. Save humanity, end the nightmare. This is a one way trip. This is a suicide mission.” <span class = voice>(every mission is suicide, if you choose to point the gun at yourself.)</span> A mounting static presses at the edges of your vision. You're buffeted by a wave of nausea, and Eris looks worse and worse for wear- leaning heavily on the table, head bowed. Alexandra's hand rests on hers, fingers curled around Eris' wrist. When she looks up, blood trickles from the corners of her lips, reddening her mouth with every breath. A familiar determination in her clenched jaw as her knees buckle and something bends and twists and does not yet shatter in your mind. Haunting static, the hand on the edge of the table white-knuckled and shaky. Her brow drips with sweat that catches the light from the starchart. Her eyes stare into the brilliant projection, glassy and reflective, unfocused. The stars reflected in her gaze, like the time you sat together and she told you about the constellations, back when she was not so distant and cold. Her voice is but a whisper, barely audible, rendered incoherent by blood and exhaustion. <span class = voice>(…)</span> “You took this mission, blind to the danger. Each of you… is far braver than anyone will ever know. I assure you... this… this is a glorious death, a righteous death. Your names… your deeds will be immortalized in the stars and... enshrined in history.” Alexandra reaches out for the captain, who pushes her away, stands defiantly, her face streaked with blood and tears. Her final stand, the orator giving her final speech, knowing her assassin waits in the crowd, waiting to change history with a single bullet. <span class = voice>(we will make a martyr of her. or us. or both.)</span> “We will leave the Solar System as... just soldiers on a mission. We… we will return only in stories… only in memories… but we will be martyrs for all of humanity.” The captain collapses. You sit in stunned silence as the room descends into chaos around you, present and yet somehow, so far away. <span class = voice>(all of this, for nothing.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 9>> <span class = voice>(all of this, for nothing.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-meetingtycho][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<notify>>Did you expect anything less, darling? For Eris not to stab you in the back again? For her not to lie to you?<</notify>>Something sits in the chair across from you. A pale man with dark scars, clad in a red medical uniform, threadbare scrubs beneath a white lab coat. His face is horrifically indistinct blurring and shifting, a thousand indistinct features coming together to form a hateful visage. He does not speak. He does not need to, simply pointing at your folded hands. A single green sprout forces its way though the callused skin of your palm. <span class = voice>(now is not the time, darling. but you have heard her lies. find me when you want to know the truth.)</span> He stands without disturbing the chair, turning his back on the chaos. You close your hand around the delicate leaves. Jayden puts a hand on your shoulder, jolting you back to reality. “Welcome aboard the <i>Nomad.</i> And good luck… I think we’ll need it.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t3-01-END][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>End of Part 1: Arrival</span> Thank you for playing <i>Event Horizon.</i> I'd like to apologize for the long wait between updates, and thank you again for sticking around through these uncertain times and every mess I've gotten myself into that's delayed this project. There will be more Event Horizon in the future. And hopefully it's not a chapter a year. <span class = voice>-Brigid 🐛</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Play Again.|gamestart][$timeline to "..."]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Double-click this passage to edit it.

<<set $timeline to 'Anomaly'>> <<set $cdxtimeline to 2>> <<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>You say nothing. You can say nothing. Emotion, someone else's emotions wash over you. <span class = voice>(she loved me and she hurt me she made me into this don't trust her she wants to hurt you too)</span> She doesn't look threatening. She looks tired. Dark circles under her eyes and slumped shoulders. She leans heavily on another crewman, one dressed in blue, for support. And when she approaches you, relinquished from the support of the blue clad crew, each step wavers, as shaky on her feet as you. <span class = voice>(she is more dangerous wounded, more and more dangerous the closer she gets to death)</span> “Who are you?" Her words are slurred, sleep or intoxication or the wounds that the voice speaks of. "Not… not going to ask again… who are you? How..? Why..?" Your heart threatens to leap out of your chest as she stumbles closer and closer. <span class = voice>(do not be fooled she is dangerous she can hurt you like she hurt me do not let her hurt you)</span> "Take off your helmet, crewman… that's- that's an order. Let me see your face." The blue clad crewman ushers the other crew out, the protest of a crewman in white eventually silenced. And it's the three of you. Alone in the airlock. You. The delirious captain. And the other woman, who wraps arms around the captain's chest and refuses to let her fall. Who addresses you with the ease of command. "Crewman. Remove your helmet. Captain's orders." A harsh voice, oddly quiet. And to the captain, whose footing is more and more unsteady, falling further with each second she tries to stand, she offers reassurance. Surprising gentleness in tone and gesture, the hand on the captain's's cheek, the murmured support, the way the captain clings to her, white-knuckled and increasingly desperate, ragged breaths and nonsensical mumbling. You grasp the helmet release in your shaking hands. A job meant for the medic, not for you. But the helmet comes off with a hiss of pressurized air. The mask follows shortly, though the suddenness of the light and air make your head spin. The captain approaches again, holding close to the woman in blue. Nose to nose, you feel heat radiate off of the officer in waves. Like a fever, like a flickering flame, like the edges of a star. Images, too fast to perceive flash in front of your eyes. Nausea rises, bitter in your throat. Her form flickers. Thousands of versions of her all aligning to one with dark eyes and a snarl. <span class = voice>(i cannot help you. i am sorry)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Her words are sorrowful. At first. They fill slowly with venom and malice. "You're… you're not who I thought you were? Who are you? Who are you to speak like them, to think like them, who are you to have killed them and taken their place?" Her hand brains you like an iron, wrapped around your neck. Strangling the life from your eyes. A single word, a single name. The only thing you can hear, other than the screaming. <span class = voice>(eris? what have they done to you?)</span> An unfamiliar name, cursed by the soldier in blue. Darkness rushing every corner of your vision, a flood of black. Like ink. Or blood. <span class = voice>Antares.</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-nightmarechoice][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>Wake up.<</notify>>oh, bright star, awaken, hear me. awaken, see me. follow me. come take your place in the skies. awaken; nothing to fear. come here, see. nothing to fear. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>awaits for you; a throne. awaits for you; a cathedral. a sacred place. a hallowed place. awaits for you; a living place, a home. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><<notify>>Wake up.<</notify>>home. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>a home that could be yours; a <span class="glitch" data-text="dying">living</span> place. do not be afraid. do not be afraid do not be afraid. do not be afraid. <span class="glitch" data-text="we">it</span> will not hurt you, fragile thing. seek only to <span class="glitch" data-text="feed">know</span>. could make you <span class="glitch" data-text="undying">immortal</span>. will make you <span class="glitch" data-text="free">strong</span>. could make you <span class="glitch" data-text="beautiful">perfect</span>. change, growth, make. a <span class="glitch" data-text="terrible">wonderful</span> thing. a <span class="glitch" data-text="wonderful">terrible</span> thing. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>>worlds will kneel for you, if you wish it. worlds will burn for you, if you wish it. worlds will be consumed for you, if you wish it. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 6>>you need only awaken. you need only listen. you need only see. you need only follow. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-nightmarechoice2][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<span class="glitch" data-text="we can convince you.">we can convince you.</span> <span class="glitch" data-text="can convince you that this is the path.">can convince you that this is the path.</span> <span class="glitch" data-text="can convince you this is right.">can convince you this is right.</span> <span class="glitch" data-text="can convince you this is beautiful.">can convince you this is beautiful.</span> <span class="glitch" data-text="can convince you this is hunger.">can convince you this is hunger.</span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='wakeupwakeup wake up w a k e u p'>[[wakeupwakeup wake up w a k e u p|t2-01-nightmare1][$mc_seeker to true]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='this isn’t real you know it isn’t it can’t be'>[[this isn’t real you know it isn’t it can’t be|t2-01-nightmare2][$mc_skeptic to true]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='you’ve been here… you… know this…'>[[you’ve been here… you… know this…|t2-01-nightmare3][$mc_prophet to true]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='GET OUT OF MY HEAD GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT'>[[GET OUT OF MY HEAD GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT|t2-01-nightmare4][$mc_heretic to true]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = flashback><i>this isn't real this isn't real you have to wake up have to have to</i></span> You open your eyes. You open your eyes, and wish you hadn't. A room <span class = voice>(throne room)</span> sprawls out in front of you, silvery from floor to unfathomably high ceiling. Your breath is ragged; you've been running a long time. You cannot run any further. You ache, you hurt, you are held together only by will. Your body asks to rest. Your mind will not allow it. Begs your legs to run. Cannot run any further. Cannot imagine even taking another step. Heartbeat. Yours in your ears. And the room's <span class = voice>(throne room)</span>. Alive, dying. Slowing heartbeat. Each footfall a gunshot in time with the rhythm, the deep thudding that reverberates in your ears. Makes your head ring. Makes your vision blur. Falling. Falling. Falling. The ground is soft. Warm. Inviting. It begs you to stay. <span class = voice>(you cannot stay. unless you never want to leave. you want to leave, don't you?)</span> <span class = voice>(don't you?)</span> Rise, your body begs. <span class = voice>(don't you want to stay here?)</span> Rise, and you do. The voice, that reverberation, is loud. Too loud. A deep, dull hum. Punctuated by static, like touching a live wire. Falling. Rise again. Armor abandoned, lighter now. <span class = voice>(come closer)</span> says the voice. And you have no choice. No choice but to obey. <span class = voice>(come closer)</span> Your gaze is on the ground. It is too bright to look elsewhere <span class = voice>(the sun lies at the center)</span>. The floor is the same shimmering silver. The floor is pierced by pools, pockets of iridescent oil <span class = voice>(blood)</span>. They shine in the growing light. Your reflection <span class = voice>(not your reflection)</span> stares at you. Perverted. Warped. Someone else's eyes. Your face. A smile not your own. Falling. Won’t rise this time. Can't stop moving. Crawling now, dragging a wounded leg. Strange. Your wounds didn't hurt this bad before. You didn't notice the blood on your hands. Didn't notice the cut on your leg. Didn't notice the darkness pressing at your vision, telling you to crawl into the pools and take a deep, burning breath. <span class = voice>(you would be reborn. come closer)</span> <span class = flashback><i>no…</i></span> Falling. <span class = voice>(rising)</span> The ground is warm. The ground welcomes you. Embracing. Enclosing. Suffocating. And you claw your way up, though it grasps you, though it pulls at you, begs you stay, to return like a lover to its hold. And you cannot stay <span class = voice>(you would never leave)</span>. So you rise. Little more than a crawl, hunched over, inching forward. Falling. <span class = voice>(point of no return)</span> Point of no return. A pool of oil, of ink. <span class = voice>(blood)</span> Your voice <span class = voice>(not your voice)</span> asks the echo a question. Asks the ripples that form with your breath, with the falling drops of blood <span class = voice>(not blood)</span> from your brow. Falling. Drowning. Rising. Your reflection <span class = voice>(not your reflection)</span> stares back at you. It looks up, points. Obelisk, tree, throne. <span class = voice>(waiting for you)</span> It extends a hand to you. Your hand is a perfect fit. (why wouldn't it be? it's yours.) it looks you in the eyes opens its mouth a voice a thousand times twinned the hand in yours burns and you peer through the flames to watch yourself laugh as you ignite as the fire rises higher and higher until in consumes you both tinder and flame and when the fires go out… it knows. it sees. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[you know. you see.|t2-01-nightmarept2_1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = flashback><i>This can’t be real it’s a hallucination or a lack of oxygen or cryo wearing off or, or...</i></span> You look yourself dead in the eyes. <span class = voice>(too many)</span> Eyes not in your familiar face, but in something amorphous and inky and horrible, gnarled like a tree on a wind torn plain. Bent and battered, vaguely mechanical and not; bones and pistons and muscles and cogs and organs and blood and the slow, slow trickle of oil, gasoline begging for the fire that itches under your palms. A thousand eyes. Staring back at you. Fight or flight, <span class = voice>(run, run before it is too late)</span> but you refuse. You pick neither, choose to stare down the monster in front of you. A thousand stares meet yours. A thousand eyes ask you the same question <span class = voice>(who are you?)</span> And you are still unflinching in your conviction. <span class = flashback><i>This isn't real. It can't be</i></span> You close your eyes. Squeeze them shut, though the multiplied glare sees straight through you. Every part of you laid bare. Convincing yourself otherwise, frantic thought solidifying into a repeated mantra. <span class = flashback><i>It’s a trick of the light. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. It can't be real.</i></span> Take a deep breath. <span class = voice>(it's not real, it's not real)</span> Hold it. <span class = voice>(it's not real, it's not real, it's not real)</span> Slow count. One. Two. Three. Release. <span class = voice>(it's not real, it's not real)</span> Slow. Gentle. <span class = voice>(it can't be real)</span> Your eyes open. <span class = voice>(your eyes have been opened)</span> You’re close now. <span class = voice>(throne. throne room)</span> You feel it like electricity, a hum in your bones. <span class = voice>(come closer)</span> Sweat drips from your brow with the exertion of each unwilling step forward. Except when you clean your face, your hands come away crimson. Strange. You weren't hurt before. You don't remember cracking your head open, the dizziness and pain that would come with a wound this large. A realization, the pit of your stomach sinking, sinking until it is a rock that threatens to drag you to the ground. This is not your body. You stand on someone else’s legs, breathe with someone else’s lungs. <span class = voice>(this is not you)</span> You wear their body like an ill-fitting glove. <span class = voice>(this is not you)</span> The body is exhausted, fighting for breath as if they have been running for their life <span class = voice>(you cannot run anymore)</span>. The body lurches forward at your command, uncertain steps towards where the ground falls away and the abyss glows with blinding light <span class = voice>(throne)</span>. Closer now, the line blurring. The pain of the body become yours. The fear of the body becomes yours. The fate of this body becomes yours. And here you are. Standing at the edge of the world. Edge of the universe. Your <span class = voice>(not yours)</span> legs give out. Falling. A pool. Pure, deep darkness. A throne reflected. The line blurs. A hand reflected. The line blurs. A face reflected. The line blurs. A scream. Echo. Black liquid fills your mouth, burns its way down your throat. Drowning. The line blurs. The light blurs. <span class = voice>(your eyes have been opened)</span> You stand, fists balled. Their body, your mind. One and the same. It <span class = voice>(king, god, other)</span> stands before you again. Tree, obelisk, pillar. Living. Dead. Above both. The form it takes is yours. <span class = voice>(not yours)</span> The line blurs. <span class = voice>(one and the same)</span> And here you are. Staring yourself dead in the eyes. <span class = voice>(dead eyes)</span> Familiar eyes. <span class = voice>(yours)</span>. Not yours. It knows. <span class = voice>(knows you are here)</span> The line blurs. <span class = voice>(the line blurs)</span> Your voice is not your own. It is wholly unfamiliar, a deep rumble in the back of your throat. A question not perceived as sound, but a deepness in your chest and ears. Your response is one spoken in tones of thunder and crackling flame, cold as the depths of winter, deep as the ocean, broad as the sky. <span class = voice>(tongue of the universe)</span> And you understand. <span class = voice>(the line is no more)</span> This is not real <span class = voice>(this is real)</span>. You are not here. <span class = voice>(you will come to me when it is time)</span> But they are. The body that drags itself across the raised dias, leaving a trail of murky blood. The body that will take the throne. Who will end this world and the next. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[you will end this world and the next.|t2-01-nightmarept2_1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = flashback><i>it's a familiar feeling, falling.</i></span> It's a familiar dream, this. <span class = voice>(death)</span> Time and time again, like the Earth revolving around the sun, like the moon revolving around the Earth. <span class = voice>(destiny)</span> You always come back to this place. <span class = voice>(fate)</span> Doesn’t make it any less unnerving. <span class = voice>(there is comfort in the unknown, dearest)</span> Starts the same as the rest. Walking alongside an armored titan, whose footsteps shake the soft floor in a marching cadence, a heartbeat. <span class = voice>(atlas, who could not hold the world)</span> Forward, they limp. Cadence growing irregular; step, linger, pause, step. Each uncertain footfall tested with a sharp inhale through the mismatched helm, the charred gray a stark contrast to the jet black and gold armor. The helmet that did not belong to the owner, the helmet whose faceplate is torn and rendered. You have never seen the face that lies underneath. <span class = voice>(prometheus, who carried the flame)</span> Continues the same as the rest. <span class = voice>(sisyphus, doomed in repetition)</span> Falling soundlessly, the only indication of their collapse the shudder of the floor. And yet, they refuse to succumb, crawling forward. <span class = voice>(good. know your fate)</span> The roar of a wounded animal, modulated and warped and yet all too human. Hand over shaking hand, the figure pulls themself forward. Sinking with each finger dug into the spongy ground. And coming to a point where they can pull no further, their legs too heavy, their arms too weak. And with finality, the helmet falls. And whoever occupies that armor sobs. The same tears burn in your eyes, though they do not fall. <span class = voice>(they never do)</span> This is where the nightmare ends. <span class = voice>(always)</span> With the howled curses and prayers devolving into your name, over and over again until you wake in a cold sweat, clutching your sheets and screaming bloody murder. <span class = voice>(oneiros was never allowed to be kind, dearest)</span> Take a deep breath. And wake. <span class = voice>(pandora, the beautiful fool)</span> <span class = flashback><i>it’s just a dream, just a hallucination… it’s gonna be okay, it's gonna be okay…</i></span> <span class = voice>(you beautiful, beautiful fool. the box has been opened. you can only dream of closing it.)</span> And when you open your eyes, the room is silver and black and a horrible light that emanates from the center. Like the sun rising too soon. Like the raw beauty of a star. Punctuated by the cries of the armored figure. Curses, prayers. Your name. Your name. A deep hollowness washes over you. Dread carving a cavernous home in the depths of your gut, your heart thudding in your chest, your blood roaring in your ears, a river, a waterfall. And you approach the soldier, slowly closing distance, one foot in front of the other. <span class = voice>(the fates led you here; the fates lead you, here)</span> Smoke curls off of what might have been, at one point in time, a suit of armor. Though now, it resembles a splayed carcass, layers peeled back, rent apart by some predator or scavenger, unknown hands that separated skin from muscle from bone. A gruesome scene, the endoskeleton exposed, a silvery spine dotted with a thousand blinking eyes, their red lights screaming danger, damage, save me. <span class = voice>(you cannot save them all)</span> A gruesome scene, the bones broken and twisted, jutting from wounds that expose the soft interior, the soldier inside, the soldier whose blood mixes with that of the suit, and makes an indistinguishable mess. A gruesome scene, the artificial muscle torn fiber for fiber, the false arteries pulsing their last, the synthetic guts spilled and leaking, a pool disturbed ever so slightly by the breaths through the cracked visor. The visor that you sink your hands into, becoming one of those predator-scavengers that seek what is hidden beneath the metal. <span class = voice>(open it; tear at it, eagle. this is your prey, the torch-bearer)</span> <span class = flashback><i>no no no no no no no no please no</i></span> The face staring back at you is battered, bloody, broken like the armor that covers it. And yours. Unmistakably yours. Except for the opening eyes, bruised and sunken and crusted with bloody tears. Blinking away familiarity. Until you no longer recognize who looks back at you. <span class = voice>(oh, poor prometheus, who died with torch held high. who did all this for nothing, nothing because that fool pandora opened the box and he was punished for the enlightenment. because man destroys what the gods created. because curiosity carries with it a virulent poison, foreseen by the backwards thinker. epimethus, protect wounded elpis. do not let the torchlight fade.)</span> <span class = flashback><i>please don’t leave me here</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[please, don't leave me here|t2-01-nightmarept2_1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = flashback><i>No… this… isn’t real, it can’t be.</i></span> <span class = voice>(liar)</span> The only thing you can do is fight <span class = voice>(give up. give in)</span> Go down swinging, go out in a blaze of glory, a refusal of the fading light of unconsciousness. <span class = voice>(no honor in fighting a losing battle)</span> The captain's hands close tighter, tighter, tighter. And you seize her arms, reach into that inferno and take hold of the flame at the center. A half thought battlecry of determination, a final scream into the dark, the promise to take her with you. Your hands meet… something. Solid. Burning. You hold on for dear life, falling, falling through the dark. <span class = voice>(deeper, deeper into the night. run, run towards the fading of the light)</span> Until the night is shattered by the stars that swim in your vision. Gasping, the air knocked from your lungs. Dead weight on your chest. Shifting, fighting to breathe. The weight falling with a wet sound. Eyes still squeezed shut. Refusing to see what fresh hell you have brought yourself into, letting your hands be your eyes instead. And brushing your fingers into a pool of icy liquid, one that crawls up your arm, settles in the hollow of your arm before burying deeper. And with the burst of ice into your veins, your eyes snap open. <span class = voice>(and still, you do not see)</span> You are not in the airlock. That much is obvious. You're… somewhere else. <span class = voice>(throne room)</span> And this time, you’re not alone. <span class = voice>(you are never alone, dearest)</span> The gray suited captain lies in a shallow puddle of murky liquid. Face down, the viscous fluid rippling faintly with each breath. And like that surface, her very being ripples. <span class = voice>(you cannot escape fate)</span> The woman who lies in front of you now is now armored and wounded. Armor, torn apart by some invisible hand, a hand with talons that rake her flesh and leave bloody furrows. Armor that falls away in chunks as she stands, clad only in the endoskeleton, one that blinks with a thousand tiny red lights, screaming danger, damage, save me. <span class = voice>(you cannot save her)</span> A step that betrays the depth of the wound in her thigh, step and stagger, falling once more. Her rage as she drags onward. <span class = voice>(still fighting. though the end draws near. futile, and yet so full of hope. still so human)</span> <span class = voice>(you want to be a hero, don't you?) (yes? good, very good, you're doing excellent, darling. do the right thing. be a hero) (kill her)</span> A conviction not entirely your own. But you know what you must do. Heart pounding, mouth dry, you pick your way over to the captain. The ground is spongy, perforated with pockets of what you hope is oil. You’d rather not think about what else the liquid could be. <span class = voice>(you know too well)</span> Standing over her, you can feel the feverish heat of the captain’s body. It makes you sick to your stomach. <span class = voice>(good. cleanse your sickness)</span> An almost sudden weight in your hands, a dark blue-ish gray knife the length of a forearm, yellowing handle wrapped with thick tan leather. A dawning horror, a deepening sickness. Bone and leather. Both human. <span class = voice>(trophies, both. a proper weapon for a sacrifice)</span> You raise the knife high, that beautiful sacrificial strike. And the captain accepts her fate, watches the falling blade. One that dissolves as it touches her skin. The captain- or what's left of her, grabs you, pulling you close. Because her body is also dissolving, a thick oil clinging to her skin. Growing like a fungus or a slime, growing to consume your being. And it refuses to let go, pulling you closer to her rotting form, empty eye sockets and a too wide smile, skin and bones that are blackened and disintegrating, a horrible mold that crawls and oozes it's way up your arms, reeks like too-sweet earthy decay. And you scream as it forces its way past your teeth, fills your mouth and coats your tongue, slithers down your throat. And you can scream no longer as it overtakes your senses, leaves you alone in a silent world of darkness. Something in that darkness is watching you. <span class = voice>(a thousand unblinking eyes, a thousand hands. we do not fear you)</span> Something with many eyes, something with claws and teeth and a rage like that of a dying star. <span class = voice>(we do not fear you)</span> You swing at the darkness behind you. And connect with something. <span class = voice>(you cannot hurt us)</span> The retaliation leaves you reeling, red and white flashes in your vision, pain radiating from a new emptiness in the center of your chest. Falling, hitting the ground too hard. Praying that the liquid that soaks the back of your head is blood. <span class = voice>(would you like it if we told you the truth?)</span> Your hands brush the front of your empty chest. Except it is not empty. Something new and horrible grows there. Replacing your heart, something that beats and pulses and wants to break free of your ribs, to set roots and grow until it consumes you. <span class = voice>(don't you want to be free of this fate?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[don't you want to live without fear?|t2-01-nightmarept2_1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You're on fire. There is no simpler way to put it- your veins are alight. Feverishly delusional, the pounding in your skull nearing unbearable, the pressure between your ears given no release, growing, growing, growing. Faintly, just barely a dull echo in your ears, you hear yourself. You're screaming. <span class = voice>(quiet, quiet, quiet. the worst is yet to come.)</span> The whisper is gentle with you. The whisper is not your voice. Your body lies on the ground, a twitching heap. So far away from you, guided to stand by a tall, thin shadow. They extend a hand to you, one that is warm in your grasp. You stand over your own body, and the shade places a hand on your shoulder. <span class = voice>(it's okay. they'll take care of you. the good doctor won't let you die. and eris won't let me go.)</span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Won't let you go?|t2-01-nightmarept2_2][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Who are you?|t2-01-nightmarept2_2][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[What's happening?|t2-01-nightmarept2_2][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>"What do you mean- won't let you go?" The ghost makes a small noise, almost a laugh, before smiling sorrowfully, casting a long gaze at the ground. Their face is wholly unfamiliar and yet, you feel like you should know them. You know them, you think. A face that could be from anywhere, save for the scar. <span class = voice>(i died, a long, long time ago. but here i am. she called upon me; here i am. for better or worse.)</span> You pause, completely frozen. <span class = voice>(i'm so sorry. what comes next is not going to be pleasant.)</span><<elseif $choice is 2>>"Who are you?" The ghost smiles sorrowfully, casting a long gaze at the ground. Their face is wholly unfamiliar, and yet, you feel like you should know them. You know them, you think. Or you've seen them somewhere before. A face that could be from anywhere, save for the scar. <span class = voice>(an old friend to the captain. she called upon me; here i am. as best as i can be.)</span> You pause, completely frozen. <span class = voice>(i'm so sorry. what comes next is not going to be pleasant.)</span><<elseif $choice is 3>>"What's happening to me?" The ghost wraps their arms around you, an embrace to match the fever that burns through your veins, hot and claustrophobic. A measure of condolence, you think, apologizing for whatever comes next. The ghost's hollow gaze is filled with tears as they pull away. <span class = voice>(the same thing that happened to me, to all the others. you are our legacy. our swan song.)</span> "Don't just leave me like this- tell me what's going to happen, please!" You pause, biting back tears of your own. "Please, help me." <span class = voice>(i'm so sorry.)</span><</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The ghost fades out as you reach for them, your intentions lost in the maelstrom that follows. The world contorts before you, melting into an utter nightmare. A trick of the mind, you tell yourself, choked with blood and smoke. A trick of the light, you tell yourself, as the airlock liquifies, pooling shadow and highlight, solidifying into the constant from the nightmares. The pillar. Black and unyielding as the void, spreading in gnarled roots across the floor. Closer and closer to where you stand, the world come crashing in on you, every surface flickering, white and silver and red and black, your eyes burning and blurring. <span class = voice>(we're the last ones left, eris.)</span> And it sure seems like you're the last person left. The crew is gone. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Gone. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>Just flickering outlines, lacking substance and weight and reality. An effect duplicated everywhere you look, nothing solid, just skeletal wireframe lines, black and white shades like a ghost of an x-ray. Like the cryptic figure who stood you up and warned you everything would get worse. Visible now is the pulse of the ship, the skeleton, the backbone and the ligaments between vertebrae, sinew and skin and... A certain horror that dawns on you, comes with perceiving the very material you stand on as alive, a breathing organism whose maw or perhaps stomach you have found your way into, somewhere along the digestive process, eaten alive. Knowing you entered as one thing and are now something entirely different, chewed up. Made new and horrible. You take a shuddering breath, and the world roars to full, beautiful life, eye-splitting rays spanning all spectra of color thought imperceptible. You take another shuddering breath and collapse, rejoining your shaking body on the floor in a crouch, head in hands. <span class = voice>(they said you would recognize the gateway when you stood before it.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>>Too many arms. Too many hands. Too many fingers, all of them dug into your mind like fragments of glass, of shrapnel. Wounds that open like too many eyes, opening and closing, the blinking of a thousand billion stars in the unrelenting darkness. Some living, some dying, some neither, suspended between, like you. Just a fleck of dust on the wind, a tiny person on a tiny ship hanging the orbit of some tiny moon. Coldness, calmness, a tide, waves, cold metal, colder starlight, the warmth of water, the warmth of flesh and blood and shattered bone. A connection to it all, all you, and you all. Aware, at long last, of everything that composes you, the electrical impulses of each thought and every one of your nerves, each little movement of charge, the ones that cry terror and compel your fists to tighten and your eyes to squeeze shut one more time, bracing for whatever comes next. <span class = voice>(something resides within. the voiceless one awoken; conscience or soul or parasite.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 6>>Open eyes, blossom like a flower. Open like a wound in skin. Open like the shutter of the camera, fluttering and blinking, open, shut, open. You see. You see. <span class = voice>(born as a star is; violent, all consuming.)</span> For the first time. <span class = voice>(die as a star does. supernova, collapse.)</span> For the last time. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 7>>Dead eyes stare into yours. The colors of the deep forests of Earth, glazed over by fog or frost- and yet, not fog nor frost, instead the shroud of decay glazing over the bloodshot, hazy, empty eyes. The ones you see through, to the fractured skull filled with metal shards and wires, each fragment that reverberate with the echo of the too-slow heartbeat. Black blood, like thick ink, stains the pale, lifeless skin. Cruel ink, suitable for the perverse canvas. Blackened and withered fingers, as cold as icy death, interlock around your throat. Pulls the air from your lungs just as well as the vacuum of space, the amorphous void collecting into the shape of a person, a person who is not quite right, limbs too long, body too thin, eyes too bright, blazing stars that burn their radiance into your mind. It asks you questions you cannot answer. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 8>><span class="glitch" data-text="Who are you?"><i>Who are you?</i></span> <span class="glitch" data-text="What did you do to me?"><i>What did you do to me?</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 9>><span class = voice>(it has never hurt you before. but it hurts me. do you know what it feels like to burn alive?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 10>><span class="glitch" data-text="Who are you?"><i>Who are you?</i></span> <span class="glitch" data-text="What did you do to me?"><i>What did you do to me?</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 11>>The captain's voice, intertwined with yours. With others, a cacophony of words spoken in tongues familiar and not, the whisper in the back of your mind growing desperate, filled with the same pain that raze your nerves. Fear and hate and confusion and hurt all taste the same- bitter, hostile, acrid. Like sickness, like bile, like vomit and blood. Pulled upright again, a substantial specter hauling you into their grasp, collapsing into your form. One and the same, and yet so very different, evaporating from your skin in curling smoke and slow-dripping viscous fluid. One and the same, begging the other for answers, for help, for mercy. Falling together, as one, horrible, ruinous thing. The cycle continues thus- one and the same, rising and falling, cursed in orbit, to always come back to this unreality. Like the moon around the Earth, the Earth around the Sun, the center of it all being the damning object of your pain, a crushing weight in your limbs and on your chest. Pain alleviated for a second by the release of gravity and cool hands on your face, searching for a pulse at your throat. Gravity alleviated for a second, lifted from the dark slick on the floor. Rise and fall, the cycle continues. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 12>><span class="glitch" data-text="What did you do to me?"><i>What did you do to me?</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 13>>The nightmares reach their utmost peak. Or, at least, you hope this is the worst they get. Black and white, blurry wireframes and emission lines and indefinite forms, shifting. Nauseating heat and light intertwined, the broken world blazing to the touch, glowing like the coals of a fire. Shifting again, the familiar world a brief and unfulfilling respite, recognizing neither your surroundings nor the people who stand over you, silhouetted in the light. Shifting yet again, descending into a blue-gray haze, a cobalt mist punctuated by glowing marks, their light dispersed in the fog, indistinct outlines of things you wish not to see or know. Shifting again, this time accompanied by a blinding wave of pain. A crescendo of overwhelming sensations, foremost the Geiger counter ticking over in your brain. Racing heart and mind, the tautening of muscles and the final, shuddering shift, the world staticky and metallic tasting. Energy, raw energy, racing through your veins, leaking radiation like blood. The embers of a dying star, blazing core and shattered photosphere, tendrils of fading corona reaching out. Fading and yet still strong enough to pull you in, pull you closer. Strong enough to pull you down. The abyss swallows you whole. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 14>><span class = voice>(welcome back)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 15>>You're not sure why you wake. For all intents and purposes, you were very much dead just moments ago. It was peaceful. Empty darkness. It didn't have the unpleasant sensation of cotton balls shoved in your mouth, or the pounding headache, or the brightness of the lights, or the shortness of breath, or any of the other, numerous, symptoms that swamp your senses like the nightmare. Sitting brings with it a wave of darkness, a pressure in your skull, a feeling like falling. The medical bay is quiet. Empty. Sterile. Just you, alone in this strange new space. Neither nightmare nor peaceful dream. You ache with wounds unseen. You dare not look, feeling the pull of stitches across your bare chest, the soreness in the crook of your arm where an IV once resided, you dare not look, lest it reveal something horrible, something residual, the now-insistent term in your head- nightmare- having left a physical mark. At the very least, you are conscious. At the very least, you feel like you could move. A glowing terminal promises information, a mirror curiosity satisfied, the room itself assurance that you are no longer dreaming. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 16>>Your grand escape begins and ends with the sound of metal against metal. You have been handcuffed to the hospital bed. Angry red marks glare at you from where you evidently fought the restraint. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-tychogreeting][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<span class = voice>(did you think they would let you go so easily?)</span> The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. <span class = voice>(i'm over here, darling.)</span> A man sits on a countertop. A new face, one you hadn't seen in the airlock. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Who are you?|t2-01-tychogreeting1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[What happened?|t2-01-tychogreeting2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='Help.'>[[Help.|t2-01-tychogreeting3]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I don't think we've met?" You expect the cavernous echo, the mind-voice, an intrusive, nagging thought. Not a voice as smooth as silk or velvet, deep and rich. "How rude of me, to not have introduced myself." He approaches your bed silently, leaning on the footrail with one hand. A metallic one, an impossibly complex replacement, as if all the inner workings of the hand had been exposed, made silvery metal. "My name is Dr. Tycho Crncevic. I'm not the medical doctor of this ship, that honor would belong to the obstinate ex-Lieutenant Konigsmann. I'm a... colleague of the captain." He flexes the metal hand. "And- an <i>ardent</i> admirer of her work." He's not the ghost. Dressed in faded red scrubs, not an unfamiliar uniform. Scarred- missing the tip of his ear, gouged from neck to temple with a deep, brutal mark that does not match the wound the shadow bore. "Forgive me, if this is a strange question. Have you spoke with any of the crew, save for the captain, or perhaps the first officer?" Your heart leaps to your throat. "It's alright. I won't be upset. You've done a brave thing. I only wish to... reward your bravery. I ask for honesty, nothing more." You shake your head. "Words, darling. I need you to say it. Look at me. Tell me the truth." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"I haven't." "I need you to listen to me, okay? Can you listen to me?" You nod. You're afraid of what would happen if you didn't. The glint in his black eyes conveys an feeling you can only think to describe as hunger. "You can't trust the crew. Any of them. Especially not the captain. She would see you... transformed. You don't want that, darling." He raises the metal hand, the sleeve falling, revealing more metal. Fixing his gaze on his open palm, he speaks to you in a tone that sends shivers down your spine. "I am but an example of her so-called 'kindness'. You, then have tasted her cruelty." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetmedic][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"What... what happened to me?" You expect the cavernous echo, the mind-voice, an intrusive, nagging thought. Not a voice as smooth as silk or velvet, deep and rich. "Change, darling. It is as... inevitable... as the passage of time. And no less pleasant." He approaches your bed silently, leaning on the footrail with one hand. A metallic one, an impossibly complex replacement, as if all the inner workings of the hand had been exposed, made silvery metal. He sighs. "I don't think I've introduced myself yet. Forgive me, please. My name is Dr. Tycho Crncevic. I'm not the medical doctor of this ship, that honor would belong to the obstinate ex-Lieutenant Konigsmann. I'm a... colleague of the captain." He flexes the metal hand. "And- an <i>ardent</i> admirer of her work." He's not the ghost. Dressed in faded red scrubs, not an unfamiliar uniform. Scarred- missing the tip of his ear, gouged from neck to temple with a deep, brutal mark that does not match the wound the shadow bore. "Now, I'm certain that this will be a shock to you, but you aren't quite yourself anymore. No, that ship has-" He pauses, takes a sharp breath, gestures with the raised metal hand. "-sailed. Have you experienced anything- how should I phrase it- abnormal?" Your stomach turns. Sinking deeper with every passing second, dread, fear, something else, something that has to do with him. "You need to answer me. I am a doctor, after all. I can help you. I need only an answer, only honesty, nothing more." You nod. "Words, darling. I need you to say it. Look at me. Tell me the truth." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"I don't know what happened to me. I'm seeing things, I'm hearing things, none of this should be real, something is wrong, something is wrong with me, none of this should be happening. That's the truth." He pauses, purses his lips. Considers you with eyes as empty and black as a starless night sky. "Would you want to know what happened to you? If I could provide for you an answer, if I could lay out the complex biological processes, if I could teach you the intricacies of this particular metaphysics- would you want to learn? Would you seek to grow this gift, this awakened thing that lurks now within? Or would you rather carve it out, choke it of blood and oxygen, wean it of your flesh?" He cuts you off as you try to formulate an answer. "Speak not. Not yet. Decide, whether it is gift or curse. I offer my assistance- to break the curse, or to create something... beautiful. I cannot decide for you, though I lend to you my hand." He closes metal fingers into a fist. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetmedic][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"Help me. Please." You expect the cavernous echo, the mind-voice, an intrusive, nagging thought. Not a voice as smooth as silk or velvet, deep and rich. "Straight to the point, I see. I can most certainly help you, yes." He approaches your bed silently, leaning on the footrail with one hand. A metallic one, an impossibly complex replacement, as if all the inner workings of the hand had been exposed, made silvery metal. He sighs. "Before we begin, please, allow me to introduce myself. Barbaric, that you would not even know the name of your savior... My name is Dr. Tycho Crncevic. I'm not the medical doctor of this ship, that honor would belong to the obstinate ex-Lieutenant Konigsmann. I'm a... colleague of the captain." He flexes the metal hand. "And- a most <i>ardent</i> admirer of her work." He's not the ghost. Dressed in faded red scrubs, not an unfamiliar uniform. Scarred- missing the tip of his ear, gouged from neck to temple with a deep, brutal mark that does not match the wound the shadow bore. "Assistance, of course, is not a one-sided affair. I can help you, and in return, you-" He pauses, surveying you with a smirk. "-you can help me. Have we got a deal?" Something about this isn't right. <span class = voice>(i cannot keep you safe. not from him.)</span> The whisper. The ghost's voice. His voice, mocking. Something that is both and neither. "Is the price too steep, darling?" An icy tone, an edge to each word. The mockery from the whisper-thought. "I don't offer my assistance often. The last person who needed my help was the illustrious captain. Something tells me you don't want to end up like her. I can fix you. Undo her damage." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"Damage?" A grin spreads across his face. "Why else would you be handcuffed in the medical bay? You're damaged goods." He softens his tone, leans forward. Fixes on you with glinting black eyes. Solid black eyes- iris, pupil, sclera- as dark and empty as a starless sky. He is insistent, almost pleading. "It doesn't have to be that way. Let me help you." You nod, shakily. Almost involuntarily. As if the decision was not yours to make, never yours to make. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetmedic][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<notify>>Wake up.<</notify>>Someone shines a flashlight in your eyes. Someone sounds concerned, a clear voice mumbling in a language <<if $last_name is "Dreschner">>familiar to you, obscenities hurled with reckless abandon.<<elseif $last_name is not "Dreschner">>unfamiliar, but angry and harsh, just enough to know that the words you hear have been interjected with profanity.<</if>> A tirade that comes to an end with the flickering of your eyelids, with the jolt of your chained arms, raised hands, as much of a defensive posture as you can manage. A tall woman in a white coat stands over you. She clicks off the flashlight in her hand, hides it behind her back, straightens up. Greets you, cordially, in an almost tongue-in-cheek fashion, contrary to the swearing, to the flashlight, to the nightmare you awoke from. "Good morning." <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Good morning?|t2-01-meetmedicALT]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Who are you?|t2-01-meetmedic2][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[What happened?|t2-01-meetmedic2][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[The man in red...|t2-01-meetmedic2][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You manage to croak out some semblance of greeting. A confused- "Good morning?"- in return. The woman, who you assume to be the medic from the white coat and the air of superiority, nods. Shifts her weight from foot to foot, says nothing further, nothing until abruptly, she breaks the awkward silence. "I am sorry for the rude awakening. There were complications with your arrival here, and I have done the best I can for you." Your head spins. Best she can for you. Meaning the man in red- Tycho- was right. Something horrible happened to you. <span class = voice>(do you see now?) (can you see now?)</span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Who are you?|t2-01-meetmedic2][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[What happened?|t2-01-meetmedic2][$choice to 2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>This <i>should</i> be the medical lieutenant the man in red- Tycho- spoke of. Her name is on the tip of your tongue. "Lieutenant Konigsmann?" And she physically recoils, a look of shock-horror, stark on her face. A lingering wide-eyed gaze that remains as she composes herself, smoothing the jacket, searching for words with a slightly open mouth, settling on- "That would be correct. Medical Lieutenant Natalie Konigsmann. May I ask how you know my name?" Her voice drops to a whisper. "Did we serve together, on Earth? Did you know me, before <i>this</i>?" Hopeful. Sorrowful. One and the same. "I'm sorry. I was told your name, I don't... I don't know you." Natalie falters. "Forgive me. It was foolish of me to assume." <span class = voice>(look what you've done. you've gone and hurt her. so soon, and without even having to bloody your hands.) (don't worry, darling, it is best to kill her hope, lest she choke on it.)</span><<elseif $choice is 2>>The one question you return to. The one question that carries no answer, just a promise of more pain, of a nightmare blossoming into reality again, of cryptic words that weave themselves into loops without beginning or end, a braided chain of completely and utterly fucked up micro-realities. Something happened to you. Something changed. And now- now you're here. And nobody will tell you what's wrong with you. You hope, at least, the medic will be more forthcoming. The silence you are greeted with lessens that hope. "As I am certain you are aware of, you were... injured. The nature of your injuries was such that you will not be able to make a full recovery. I am sorry. I am truly sorry. I have done my best of putting you back together. I pray that you are at least no longer in pain." She stares down at her feet. Tries to say something else. Doesn't. <span class = voice>(she tried. oh, she tried. you should have seen her, proud and haughty and reduced to tears and shaking, bloody hands.) (she is no stranger to failure. perhaps, you will be her greatest.)</span><<elseif $choice is 3>>"Where did- where did he go?" Before you have a moment to think, to collect all your racing thoughts, to have said something else, anything else, the words escape you. "There is nobody else here- this location is secure. It is just you and I. Are you quite alright?" <span class = voice>(miss me already? how... adorable.)</span> He leans on the countertop, just past the medic's shoulder. Raises the metal hand, gives a mocking salute. Something's different. Something's wrong. He wears a filthy lab coat. The red scrubs are stained almost black. His hands are slick with red. <span class = voice>(something wrong, darling?)</span> He raises a hand to his mouth, brushes his thumb over his lips. Tastes the blood, smiles with pink-stained teeth. <span class = voice>(are you afraid of me? or what you are to become?)</span> The world lurches back into clarity. The medic's voice sounds as if it were a thousand miles away, a echoey whisper that draws closer, gains cohesion.<</if>> "I can clarify little else for you. You are aboard the <i>Nomad</i>. You are in the medical bay. You are to be released upon gaining consciousness, though not on my orders." The medic leans on the end of your bed, a mirror to the man in red. She does not raise her gaze to look at you, addressing the floor. "You are evidently conscious. Meaning you are to be released from my care, which is-" She inhales sharply. "-acceptable." Everything about her tone indicates that this is not, in fact, acceptable. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"There will shortly be a meeting on the bridge. We need to get you moving." You say nothing. Just nod. The medic produces a keyring from a pocket in her stained jacket. Dark stains, somewhere between rust and ink. The realization that they're bloodstains. That it's your blood on her jacket. Losing the handcuffs is a relief. You make no attempt to frighten the medic, moving slowly, deliberately, raised hands and open palms, praying the gesture is proof enough to not startle her as she backs away from you. You swing your legs off the side of the bed, test your weight on muscles that shake from disuse. The world plunges into darkness. A dizzy, spiraling thing, falling and still standing, the medic propping you up, arm draped over her shoulder. Unsteady steps towards a uncertain goal, something lost in the gray haze. Each footfall uncertain, led onwards, dragged near-unwillingly. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-med1stimp][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

"-you feeling alright?" You're slumped against the a thin metal cubicle you assume to be a shower. The medic has a hand on your shoulder. The other tilts your lolling head to look at her, her examination of your unfocused eyes bringing her close to you, her fears from earlier apparently lost in her concern. This close, you find the medic to be- <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Frightening.|t2-01-med1stimp2][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Odd.|t2-01-med1stimp2][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Dare you say attractive? (flirt)|t2-01-med1stimp2][($choice to 3) , ($natalie_flirt += 1)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>There is something frightening about the medic's appearance. Some cruel trick of the light to convince you that she is some cold, colorless ghost. Some cruel trick of the light, the empty eyes, no iris, only a hazy gray pupil. And you find yourself transfixed. A shifting of the light, or maybe a ripple in consciousness, and every facet of her face is lit in a garish, glowing red, sharp and angular, as if she were carved from marble or ice, sculpted, rather than born. As if she were not human, something other, something nigh on incomprehensible. Something wrong. Something feels wrong. The scars on her hand- branching like lightning, the colors of a bruise against the whiteness of her skin. Something is wrong, she mouths words that stumble from a permanent scowl, born of the scar from chin to cheek, something is wrong, you cannot hear and you stare blankly at her in return. <span class = flashback><i>red against white. two constants. blood and pale skin. the lab coat worn over red scrubs. the hand trailed against the wall, the hand that scrabbles on the tile and fumbles with something that could be bone or shrapnel, something that juts from the wound and</i></span><<elseif $choice is 2>>The medic is... strange. A blank slate, literally. Paper-white, bone-white, nearing translucent. Empty, colorless eyes, a smooth and solid white, save for a cloudy gray pupil. A contrast, features oddly pleasant. Strong lines and sharp angles, as if she were carved of marble or ice, and as timeless as the statue she resembles. Neither young nor old, but simply present. In the harsh medical lighting, almost ethereal. There's something wrong that you can't place. Not in a manner that evokes fear or pity, but something else. Something about the scars on her hands, bruised black and blue, branching like lightning. Something about the scar that splits her lips, which you cannot read; she speaks and you cannot hear her, she speaks and you can only stare blankly in return. <span class = flashback><i>red against white. two constants. blood and pale skin. the lab coat worn over red scrubs. the hand trailed against the wall, the hand that scrabbles on the tile and fumbles with something that could be bone or shrapnel, something that juts from the wound and</i></span><<elseif $choice is 3>>The medic is stunning. In a way that defies your expectations. A strange beauty, one that is jarring and abrupt, and yet- pleasant, one that shimmers and shifts with the light. Pale marble and silver, empty eyes that fix on yours. A strange feeling, one that you're unwilling to unravel, not yet. Not when the harsh light catches the edges of her features, strong and angular, as if she were sculpted or perhaps painted, and ethereal either way. Not when the shadows shift and fall dramatically around those haunting eyes, not when the light shifts and the ghosts of freckles emerge on her otherwise porcelain skin. A feeling that could be a thousand different things, something you can't quite place. And perhaps, that's for the best. Her hands, cold as ice, sending shivers down your spine, are covered in branching blue-black scars, lightning made flesh. A brief flutter of fear in your chest, recognition and the immediate burial thereof, a desperate measure to preserve the fleeting moments of beauty. Refocusing, and distracted again by the scar that spits her lips; she is speaking to you, mouthing words you cannot hear; she speaks and you stare blankly in return, transfixed. <span class = flashback><i>red against white. two constants. blood and pale skin. the lab coat worn over red scrubs. the hand trailed against the wall, the hand that scrabbles on the tile and fumbles with something that could be bone or shrapnel, something that juts from the wound and</i></span><</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The medic reaches for your face and you jolt back into reality, realizing from the smarting pain across your face that she's just backhanded you. "Listen to me." Your head spins. "Listen to me, crewman. Your safety depends on being <i>here</i>." She leans into the word, jabs a finger down at the floor. Here. Wherever here is. "I cannot promise that you will be protected after you leave my care. These... vacancies... will prove to be dangerous, I think." "I saw..." You stutter. "You saw nothing. Do you understand me? You saw nothing, and you will say nothing." The medic interrupts. <span class = voice>(she knows nothing. she speaks of things she is ill-equipped to understand. i could help you.)</span> "I can help you. I will give you time to consider." She fumbles with the door to the shower. "In the meantime, you need to be presentable for the meeting." "The meeting?" The medic nods. "The captain has finally decided to speak. It will be a condemnation, I think. Certainly one way to christen a mission." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-cc1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

She starts the water, and turns away. You strip down the last of your undergarments, and close the shower door. You’re finally alone. Here, in the shower, you finally have a better sense of your body. Or, what's left of it. Every piece of you aches, stings under the lukewarm water. You make peace with the dull pain, a new ritual to avoid the buzzing emptiness in your head. You are certain of few things. A focus on the physical, looking down at your hands. At your body. This, you can be certain of. The body you have is <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[a man's body.|t2-01-ccgenderm]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[a woman's body|t2-01-ccgenderf]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[a... body.|t2-01-cc2][($gender to "nonbinary"), ($choice to 1), ($Tgen to true)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You have always been considered a man.|t2-01-cc2][($gender to "male") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You were not always considered a man.|t2-01-cc2][($gender to "male") , ($Tgen to true) , ($choice to 3)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[You have always been considered a woman.|t2-01-cc2][($gender to "female") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You were not always considered a woman.|t2-01-cc2][($gender to "female") , ($Tgen to true) , ($choice to 5)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>><<if $gender is "female">> <<SetPronouns "f">> <<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">> <<SetPronouns "b">> <<else>> <<SetPronouns>> <</if>><</nobr>> <span class = flashback><i><<if $choice is 1>>not man. not woman maybe one of those, maybe both. doesn't matter. a body is a body is a body. is your body, you think, at least for now. the details start to fade. maybe for the best.<<elseif $choice is 2>>father taught you how to be a man, what being a man means. be strong, be brave and resilient. be humble, be open and vulnerable. his voice is barely familiar, his face less so- though you know them both nearly the same as yours. cannot recollect the lessons taught. lost. fading. hazy.<<elseif $choice is 3>>a confession, a question. your new name, chosen for yourself. father's voice. distant. hazy. fading already. he’s so proud of his son, he loves his son, no matter what. no matter what. no matter what. no matter what.<<elseif $choice is 4>>you are your mother's daughter. you are your mother's daughter. head held high. maybe arrogant. maybe too assured in your ways. carry strength of your ancestors, a feminine rage, an indestructibility. would you look at yourself now? mother's daughter, too stubborn for your own good.<<elseif $choice is 5>>a confession, a question. your new name, chosen for yourself. mother's voice. distant. hazy. fading already. she’s so proud of her daughter, she loves her daughter, no matter what. no matter what. no matter what. no matter what.<</if>></i></span> Away from the medic’s prying eyes, you summon the courage to inspect your wounds. And find yourself sickened, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to remember a time when sloppy stitches didn't carve lines down the sides of your ribs, when there wasn't an unnaturally ashen tinge to your skin, your skin which is otherwise <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Pale|t2-01-cc3][($skintone to "pale") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Olive|t2-01-cc3][($skintone to "olive") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Tan|t2-01-cc3][($skintone to "tan") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Umber|t2-01-cc3][($skintone to "umber") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = flashback><i><<if $choice is 1>>white coats, white gloves. the slightly off-white discoloration of a straitjacket. the reflection in the sink beckons. a ghost of a person. a ghost of a failure, a reject, an experiment. not much color left. a slight redness to your cheeks, pale flecks across your face. poor, pale imitation of life. not much color left. not much color left.<<elseif $choice is 2>>a joke. a flashing grin. you a demigod, and her, a goddess. earthy brown hands shades darker than the olive of your skin. bare skin, shades of gold amongst broken marble, fading sunlight, wounds that did not heal. mortality, hubris. the setting sun. arrogant pride that killed gods.<<elseif $choice is 3>>didn't think it would end like this. pale hands, growing paler. crimson, violent opposition to the richness of your skin. breathy promises; as beautiful as all the precious metals of his homeworld, a comparison to the gods they cast in bronze, adorned in the richest fabrics. empty comparison. empty promise. walk together, immortals. walk alone, dead man forgotten.<<elseif $choice is 4>> gentle night on your back. stars close to the windows, still days. fleeting moments, a portrait in smuggled paints. tales of grandeur, deception, daring. careful brush strokes. earth tones, umber, russet, burnt sienna. war painted your home in reds and oranges. left it gray and white. no more earth tones. bone white, stark gray. no more. no more.<</if>></i></span> Something isn't right. Those aren't your memories. Or they are, and you're losing your mind. <span class = voice>(can you trust memory? who are you- who were you? who will you become?)</span> Either way, the shower snaps off, unceremoniously. The medic opens the door again, handing you a towel, and gesturing for you to follow. "I apologize for the inconvenience, but we are running short on time. There is much to be done, much I could not do while you remained unconscious." "How long was I unconscious for?" You have a sneaking suspicion you don't want to know the answer. The medic grimaces. "Ten days." You start, but the medic cuts you off. "I know that this is a lot, but I can try to explain, after the meeting. For now- I require your cooperation. " Cooperation is this- being led towards a small station. A measuring tape against the wall. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Short|t2-01-cc4][($height to "short") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Average|t2-01-cc4][($height to "average") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Tall|t2-01-cc4][($height to "tall") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = flashback><i><<if $choice is 1>>looking up. always having to look up. look to the stars. far outside your grasp. look to the soldier who towers over you, a mountain of steel, of carbon fiber, of flesh and blood. look to the stars. watch them fall.<<elseif $choice is 2>>armorer's praise. steel and carbon fiber. supply sergeant's praise. a congratulations that feels empty, smiles and extra gear carefully tucked into the issued pack. no alterations. standard issue.<<elseif $choice is 3>>something about a joke. gentle giant. enough steel to rival a dreadnought. shaking the ground where you walked, feeling the weight of armor on your shoulders. intimidation, a towering mountain capped with faceless helmet. and the grin you wore underneath.<</if>></i></span> More unfamiliar, blurry memories that could have perhaps belonged to you at one point or another. Or cloudy delusions. You should say something. This sounds like something that the medic should know about, sounds like something she should hear about. You find yourself unable to speak, looking at the medic and trying and failing to summon your voice, to speak aloud your concerns. And the medic just looks back at you, confused. Points to the scale that you dutifully step on, glancing down at your body, met with the overwhelming feeling that something has changed since you've last dared check. The best way to describe it is <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Thin|t2-01-ccbreak][($build to "thin") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Average|t2-01-ccbreak][($build to "average") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Muscular|t2-01-ccbreak][($build to "muscular") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Heavyset|t2-01-ccbreak][($build to "heavyset") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"What?" She turns over the mirror. And you stare yourself in the face for the first time in almost half a decade. <span class = voice>(familiar? do you recognize those eyes, those features? are they as you would have predicted? is the face you wear truly yours?)</span> Your eyes are sunken, the sockets bruised and darkened. The whites graying, colors fading to dark. Dull and empty. Dead. Something else catches your eye. Makes your heart pound. You turn your head, tilt your chin up. Run a hand over your cheek, across your jaw, down your neck. A glassy smoothness, a series of thin, dark marks. Like cracks in stone, like lightning made flesh. Prominent on your hands, thinning out on your neck and fading to the singular scar on your cheek. <span class = voice>(are you afraid now? have you seen what you've done to yourself- have you had enough? is loss of vanity enough to provoke you to action? do i need to take something else?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The medic’s own scarred hand covers your reflection, pushing the mirror down. "It looks worse than it is. I promise. I have no way of reversing the damage. But you are stable. You are conscious. You are still a part of this mission." She takes the mirror from you, laying it face down on the countertop. She waits there, turned away from you, leaning on the countertop, grounded by firmly planted hands. "I know how it feels. To look in that mirror, to see-" She gestures vaguely. "I know. It gets easier with time." She faces you now, with red-rimmed eyes. "And we do not have much time. The meeting is far too close for comfort and there is much to be done. So- haircut, and then, I send you on your way. You will be in good hands." You pretend not to hear the final words muttered under her breath- the harsh condemnation of herself. "Better than mine, at least." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-cc5][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

You'll be in good hands. You hope the medic's are at least good enough for the haircut she's supposed to be giving you. The mirror makes a return. You try to ignore the cracks. Focus on something else. Your hair is <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[black|t2-01-cc6][($haircolor to "black") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[dark brown|t2-01-cc6][($haircolor to "dark brown") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[light brown|t2-01-cc6][($haircolor to "light brown") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[auburn|t2-01-cc6][($haircolor to "auburn") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[blonde|t2-01-cc6][($haircolor to "blonde") , ($choice to 5)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>As dark as the abyss or a raven's wings. So dark the highlights come up blue-ish.<<elseif $choice is 2>>The color of a deep, rich forest or dark earth. Warm, lending that warmth to your visage.<<elseif $choice is 3>>Somewhere between brown and blond. The color of antique bronze, slightly oxidized.<<elseif $choice is 4>>Red, though not a fiery one. More like the embers of a dying flame.<<elseif $choice is 5>>Pale gold, and just as shiny. Like a crown resting on your head.<</if>> You run your fingers through your $haircolor hair, feeling the texture. It’s: <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[straight|t2-01-cc7][($hairtexture to "straight") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[wavy|t2-01-cc7][($hairtexture to "wavy") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[curly|t2-01-cc7][($hairtexture to "curly") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[coiled|t2-01-cc7][($hairtexture to "coiled") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>Your hair hangs like a curtain, straight and thin, though still somehow unruly.<<elseif $choice is 2>>Your hair is a mess sometimes, voluminous with loose waves that currently rest on your shoulders.<<elseif $choice is 3>>Your hair can be unruly, or downright a mess, as the currently tangled state of your hair indicates.<<elseif $choice is 4>>When your hair gets long, it becomes almost like a cloud. You wonder what type of cloud it currently resembles.<</if>> The medic doesn't give you much time to make up your mind. The haircut you're going with is: <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[a buzz cut|t2-01-cccomplete][($hairlength to "buzz cut") , ($choice to 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[something short and neat|t2-01-cccomplete][($hairlength to "short and neat") , ($choice to 2)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[something short and wild|t2-01-cccomplete][($hairlength to "short and wild") , ($choice to 3)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[shoulder length|t2-01-cccomplete][($hairlength to "shoulder length") , ($choice to 4)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[just a trim|t2-01-cccomplete][($hairlength to "long") , ($choice to 5)]]</div> <<if $hairtexture is "coiled">><div class = choice-item> [[not a haircut at all- you'd like your hair braided.|t2-01-cccomplete][($hairlength to "braided") , ($choice to 6)]]</div><</if>> <<if $hairtexture is "coiled">><div class = choice-item> [[not much of a haircut at all- you'd just like your hair shaped up a little bit.|t2-01-cccomplete][($hairlength to "natural") , ($choice to 7)]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>You run your hands over your scalp. No more long hair. Just smooth $haircolor stubble, a perfect buzz cut.<<elseif $choice is 2>>Short, military, clean. It suits your $hairtexture $haircolor hair. And it suits your job. You’re a member of the Solar Defense Force, after all.<<elseif $choice is 3>>Take the standard issue Solar Defense Force haircut. And make it a little bit more interesting. Undercut sides and a longer top, left unruly. You run your hands over your newly cut hair, admiring the way that your $hairtexture $haircolor hair looks.<<elseif $choice is 4>>Chunks of your hair fall to the ground. You hope it turns out okay. A glance in the mirror confirms your suspicions. The slightly out of regulation cut suits your $hairtexture, $haircolor hair, and it's still long enough to be pulled back into a ponytail in order to meet regulations.<<elseif $choice is 5>>You’re fond of the long hair. The medic cleans up what she can, and lets you inspect her handiwork. She hands you a few hair ties, and you dutifully pull your $hairtexture $haircolor hair back into a bun- for now.<<elseif $choice is 6>>As it is, your hair is fine. But it's a bit inconvenient. You asked the medic if she could braid your hair, and to your surprise, she not only agreed, but did a damn good job of it too. The $haircolor braids look good on you.<<elseif $choice is 7>>The beauty of hair like yours is that it doesn't look at all bad- or break any regulations- when it's in its cloud-like state. All you need to do is trim up some of the more damaged ends, give it some shape. A wonderful combination with your $haircolor hair.<</if>> The medic sighs. “It is time for you to leave. You have quite a bit of catching up to do, something Sergeant-at-Arms Grey will be assisting you with.” The medic extends a hand to you. Helps you to your feet. Doesn't let go, not immediately. A single tear trickles down her cheek, and she shakes her head. Bites back her next words. The medic releases your hand. And you fall. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-fuckmeivemadehalfthetextinthispassage]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback><i>the dirt is some comfort. means you're still here, at least. your head hurts. bad. your thoughts are muddied, as muddied as your uniform. blurry and bright, even with your eyes squeezed shut. your head hurts. feels like it weighs a millions pounds, pushing yourself off the ground, hunched on all fours. you lost your helmet somewhere. the hands you shield the back of your head with come away damp. falling flat, pressing your body to the ground. hurting head in hands, screaming into the earth, the taste of the soil and iron. there's blood on the ground. your head hurts. somewhere, someone cries out. calls for a medic. you're a medic, right? you can help, you need to go help. you need to help yourself, blood on the ground. you're a medic, remember? you can save yourself. the slowest advance, an indentation in the dirt. salvation. your grave. your head hurts. try to remember what they taught you. stay objective. evaluate damage. stay objective. your mouth hangs open. hurts to close it. stay objective. blood on your face. a lot of it. don't panic. clean your hands on your jacket. carefully feel for a wound. don't panic. chin is spit open. bad. lips are busted. bad. cheek is in pieces. bad. don't panic don't panic. spit on the ground. more blood. part of a tooth. bloody gums. don't panic. taste of iron. your head hurts. stay objective. don't panic. don't pass out. panic, heart pounding. shaky hands. won't attempt a dressing. bite down on gauze. feel the world start to slip away. should radio for a medic. would be pointless. you're a medic, remember? you can save yourself. you can save yourself. you can save yourself you can</i></span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = voice>(perhaps, you should stay down for once.)</span> "Please, stop doing that. You are making my job much more difficult." The world fades back in unceremoniously. The medic has dragged you away, propping you up against a cabinet. She sits on the floor across from you, cross legged, exhausted and exasperated. The scar on her face leers at you, reminds you of the vision. You can't bear to look; you try to stand, to get away from her, to clear your head, but she narrows her eyes at you. "Stay there. Do not give yourself more brain damage. I need to call the quartermaster. We will ensure that you at least get to the meeting in one piece." <span class = voice>(you're going to be the death of me. you're going to be the death of us both.)</span> You groan and slump further down the cabinet. The floor is cold and comfortable, and your head pounds. Like the nightmare. Like the world's worst headache or hangover, letting your heavy eyes close. A rest not long lived, however. She shakes you back into consciousness. "I need you to stay awake. Sergeant-at-Arms Grey will be here shortly." You nod, shakily, and try to wait as patiently as possible, watching the medic pace nervously across the medbay. The quartermaster- this Sergeant-At-Arms Grey- is taking their time, evidently. Three knocks at the door, followed by the hiss of its opening. Sergeant-at-Arms Grey stands in the doorway at attention, casting a long shadow. The medic dismisses them, and requests that they close and lock the door. An order dutifully followed despite a grumbling complaint from the quartermaster. "What took you so long?" The medic practically whispers. "I ran into Jun in the main passage. We ducked into a side hall to avoid the captain and her lapdog- got a bit lost in one of the unused lab sections- swear, this place is like a maze sometimes, Natalie. And you know how Jun likes to run their mouth- so that didn't help any." The medic- Natalie- sighs. "Is everything okay?" The quartermaster gently touches the medic's forearm. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>"No, Jayden. Everything is very much <i>not</i> okay." The medic sounds like she could cry. You feel a very awkward third party to this conversation. "I'm sorry." You mumble your only contribution. The one, singular thing you feel qualified to say in your current state. The quartermaster looks down at you for the first time. Actually, that's inaccurate. They join you on the floor, sitting directly across from you. The sergeant in their black jumpsuit is warmth to the medic's cold, a cracking hearth of a person with a genuine smile. A sense of peace washes over you. "Ah, you must be our newest crewman. I've heard a lot about you. I'm Sergeant-at-Arms Jayden Grey. You can call me Jayden." They offer you a hand, stained with oil and calloused. You shake it, and they clasp your wrist to help you to your feet. You're taller than them, though they're stout and strong. And completely covered in scars, their eyes mismatched. They wear the scars openly. They make no comment about yours. "Jayden." Natalie reminds, a hint of disapproval in her voice. "The meeting. We are running short on time, and $HeShe <<if $plural is true>>need<elseif $plural is false>>needs<</if>> uniforms. And I need another favor from you." Her tone softens. "Please." There is no hesitation from the quartermaster. "Done. Whatever you need, as long as Hector and Jun are in on it." The medic and quartermaster shake hands. The deal is done. You wonder what it is they agreed to. Now doesn't seem the time or place to ask, though. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>"Now, about that meeting. Shall we get going?" Jayden seems to ask no-one in particular, though they wrap an arm around your waist, and allow you to lean on their shoulder. Your first steps are uncertain, reminders of falling about the medbay, of the blind journey to the showers, the thought of falling again. You move again at the behest of another, though this feels safer- wrapped in their warm, peaceful presence. <span class = voice>(be careful. peace and war are too often one and the same.)</span> The medic stays by your side as you limp down the side hallway, a dimly lit vein, leading to the light ahead, the main corridor. At the branching, Jayden slows to a stop. You stand in the quiet, white hallway, both broad and tall, an arched ceiling reminiscent of something you can't quite put your finger on. The quartermaster speaks your confusion aloud. "Strange, huh? I've been on a lot of ships- and I'm willing to bet you have too- and none of them are quite like this- even the dreadnoughts are all tiny corridors and mazes. Here, we've got this main passage and then all these side corridors. The only real mess is below-decks." "Below-decks?" Your voice falters. The concept makes you uneasy. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>><span class = flashback><i>the halls were like this. wide and tall and not like this. mockery of the familiar and yet- comforting in a way that turned your stomach. tracing the lines of the murals with your gloved hands, a layer of something that reeks of fetid decay coming off with your touch, revealing the silver beneath. footsteps that echo from the catwalks, the sound of children playing in the empty space with the broken windows. light streaming through the window in a thousand different colors, striking in the way that they signal, like the rippling floor, like the breathing of the walls, like your heartbeat that is echoed in the skeleton of this ship, inextricably connected, a mosaic of your nature and-</i></span> <span class = voice>(you see.)</span> "Who built this ship, Jayden?" "There's a commissioner's plaque deep below decks. The only name I recognized was the captain's. Why'd you want to know?" "I don't know. Something is strange about this, but I can't place it. Something... I don't know- something's wrong." Natalie tenses up, grimacing. "You're fine. I promise. You're just spooked, is all. We all were, first coming on board. It fades, with a couple of days and some exploration." Jayden sounds more like they're reassuring themself. They give you a little pat on the arm before brightening their tone and continuing down their train of thought. "Okay, so. Hear me out-" Natalie cuts them off with an exasperated groan. “Please, do not listen to Jayden. They want you to bet on whatever is-” “Shhhh, Natalie. You’re gonna spook it.” Jayden freezes in place, pointing back down the hall. “Watch. Then, decide for yourself.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 6>>The lights turn on and off in a slow cascade down the corridor. The wave of light pauses, as if waiting. <span class = voice>(i'm waiting, darling. come closer. let me show you what truth is.)</span> A shiver that cascades down your spine. An indescribable feeling, your nerves crying out, an involuntary contraction of your muscles, a shudder. A feeling like breaking the surface of water- sudden clarity, but felt at almost a distance, drifting away from your body to brush against every corner of the ship. Finding something, waiting for you. Calling out for you, asking you to come and find it. Come and see for yourself. Come and see. It will not be denied. You limp forward, towards the shrouded hallway. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 7>><span class = voice>(oh, you're such a brave thing, aren't you, my darling? veins full of adrenaline, heart full of terror.) (what would you do if you ran into me? kill me? embrace me? would you try to run? would you sate your curiosity?) (will you be afraid? will you shun us, will you discard this gift? are you afraid of what might happen?)</span> "Oh, that's strange." Jayden's voice breaks you free from your thoughts. You freeze in place. They point at your hands. You hold a glowing spark aloft between your fingertips, residual lightning from the static that roared through your nerves and whispers that still beg you to fight. It's extinguished quickly, skipping across the floor and blinking out of existence. "How does it work? Is it bioengineering or implants or something else?" You stare at where the spark was, quietly stunned. "I've never done that before. I don't know what that was." <span class = voice>(she gave you a gift, <<name>>. a gift. it is more than a spark. far more than a spark.) (it's a curse. not a gift. i'm scared. for you. and of you.)</span> "Jayden." Natalie, stern as ever. "Now is neither the time, nor place. We need to get out of here. We need to keep moving and just get this meeting done with." <span class = voice>(you've scared her again. or is that curiosity starting to seep in? you'll be the death of her. and everyone else.)</span> Jayden glances down the hall. Shudders. "I'm with you on this, Natalie." Together, you continue your trek to the quartermaster's office, pace increasing ever so slightly. You grow more and more sure of your footing, relying less and less on the quartermaster. The odd feeling in your bones, the expansion of your perception, slowly fades away, replaced with a near-claustrophobic sense of closure, far from the grasp of the shades, far from the whispers. Your walk is an otherwise surprisingly pleasant one, absentmindedly listening to Jayden talk about the systems of the ship, and Natalie's interjected comments about how little it matters that you know where the coolant pumps are, and that they operate seventy percent more efficiently than standard ones. It's a welcome distraction. Every hall you pass has eyes watching you. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 8>>A distraction that comes to an end abruptly, turning down a side hallway once again, and stopping before a solid, gray metal door. An equally gray set of metal plaques identifies this room as the armory, yeoman's office, and supply room. In a blinding contrast to the gray- a plethora of multicolored papers taped below the plaque. Dozens of handwritten notes and crude drawings, and at the center, an eyestrain inducing neon note, declaring the space the quartermaster's office. "You don't have to. I know you're stressed. But you did promise me you'd leave a note, and you've yet to do that." Jayden proffers a pen and square of blue paper to the medic. "Maybe add a drawing, too. Make up for no note last time." Natalie's face turns an impressive shade of red, but she snatches the pen and paper, scribbling something and sticking the note to Jayden's chest. "We are under the gun, Jayden. Be careful." Without a further word, she turns on her heel, and strides away, back towards the main hallway and indubitably the medbay. “Dammit, she stole my pen!” Jayden sounds genuinely upset, but they un-stick the note, reading it aloud. "Do not forget our agreement, or I will kill you and make it look like an accident." They laugh, looking over the rest of the note. "Oh, she drew a stick figure too! Nice!" After a moment's consideration of the wall of brilliant color, Jayden places the note, and turns back to you. "Look, I know Natalie's a bit high-strung, to say the least. She's got your best intentions in mind, so the threats are empty unless you really, really fuck up. " They gesture, and the door opens, revealing the most spectacular mess you've ever seen. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 9>>As in- mess is the only way you think you could describe this place. <span class = voice>(chaos. both beautiful and repugnant. it is their purpose, and they do not know it yet.)</span> Roughly a third of the floor is cut away, edges still glowing hot from the torch. Beams and pipes and the makeshift covering open to the abyss, a stunning depth blanketed in rich, soft darkness. A gaping maw with metal teeth, begging you to come closer, to look into the throat of the beast, to slip below-decks, to come and see. Come and see for yourself. Come and see. <span class = voice>(don't you want answers, my darling? i could give you answers. i could give you answers and so much more, if only you would come and see, if only, if only.)</span> You tear your eyes away from the gash in the floor, the open wound that bleeds sparks, lingering, too many eyes in the darkness. They watch you as they fall. You're inclined to look deeper, gravitating back to the darkness. "You know what we're not going to do? That." Jayden loops an arm through yours, leading you away from your precarious perch on the very edge of the gap. You had gotten so close, so close and didn't even realize. They speak again, without condescension or anger. "Sometimes, you scare me, a little bit. Why don't you go sit at my desk, and we'll get your stuff sorted out, okay?" You sit in the battered chair behind the desk crammed into the corner, and use the opportunity to survey the rest of the room. Everywhere you look, there's something so out of place, it might as well belong. Coils of wire and tubing droop from the similarly deconstructed ceiling like cobwebs or curl on the floor, snakes lying in wait, baring their fangs. In the corner, three exoskeletons hang, half-built shells of soldiers in a continuous cycle of being torn apart and rebuilt. Black and gold, dusky orange, and a third, almost entirely skeletal, with scattered pieces of scorched dark gray plate. Empty gray eyes stare from the holes in the mask. Your breath catches in your throat and you blink and there's nothing. Nothing at all. <span class = voice>(why won't you look at me?)</span> You have to look elsewhere. Electronics and tools are scattered across the floor and tucked into the alcoves where wall tiles have been removed. An impressive arsenal of weapons both standard and exotic sprawl over an entire wall, locked in little wire cages. You feel like you know some of them. Like the long rifle, with its cracked glass scope. Elsewhere, prototypes of a thousand different ideas, occupying every other open space, ready to be worked on at a moment's notice- including an array of what looks to be prosthetic arms and hands, quickly covered by Jayden. They beckon you. Come and see. You need an escape. You need to say something. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-qmasoffice1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

“Why am I here, again?" “Of course, of course- that’s right. Yeah, you need your uniforms. That’s my job.” They get to work, gathering fabric and tools, muttering something about a service record. Jayden tosses their materials onto the desk, sending loose material scattering into your lap. You return it carefully to the desk, finding precarious perches for all of the loose components, turning over little mechanisms in your hands, admiring the way everything chaotic comes together neatly, optimistic tolerances, perfectly designed mechanisms, accounting for error. For failure. "I think we're going to have to trade places here, <<name>>. One promise- no jumping in that pit." <span class = voice>(no promises.)</span> "I won't." Jayden offers you a hand, and you clamber over the desk. “Okay, this might be awkward, but I don’t have a lot of space, so I guess we’ll make it work.” Awkward is an understatement. In the tiny space they've set aside for you, movement would be awkward- if not impossible. You choices are to get comfortable with the quartermaster, or find out what exactly is in that pit. You decide on the former. The latter tempts you, an itch you can't scratch, a feeling that gnaws its way under your skin. You shudder again, shake your head to clear the thought. Lost in concentration, you didn’t hear Jayden’s question the first time, spoken directly into the lapel of your jumpsuit. Now, with their arms and tape measure around your chest, Jayden asks again. “Where are you from?” <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if $earth_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[Earth.|t2-01-office2][$choice to 1]]</div><</if>> <<if $space_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[The Local Group Republics.|t2-01-office2][$choice to 2]]</div><</if>> <<if $fleet_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[The Wandering Fleet.|t2-01-office2][$choice to 3]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[None of your business.|t2-01-office2alt]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>“I’m from Earth. Any reason this is important?” Jayden lets you go to grab a roll of blue fabric. “Uniform regulations. You Earth people in navy blue, Republic people wear black, Fleet people get gray. Medical cases get white, like what you're wearing now, and what the medic might be wearing later. There's another special case, but you don't see them anymore. Shame, those red uniforms were really something, too.”<<elseif $choice is 2>>“I’m from the colonies. LGR- why do you want to know?” Jayden lets you go to grab a roll of black fabric. “Uniform regulations. Earth people in navy blue, Republic people, like you and me, wear black, and Fleet people get gray. Medical cases get white, like what you're wearing now, and what the medic might be wearing later. There's another special case, but you don't see them anymore. Shame, those red uniforms were really something, too.”<<elseif $choice is 3>>“The Wandering Fleet. Do you need a vessel name or…?” “Nah, you’re fine.” Jayden lets you go to grab a roll of gray fabric. “Dunno if you have ‘em but, we follow uniform regulations. Earth people in navy blue, Republic people wear black, and Fleeties- like you- get gray. Medical cases get white, like what you're wearing now, and what the medic might be wearing later. There's another special case, but you don't see them anymore. Shame, those red uniforms were really something, too.”<</if>> Your turn to ask a question. If they demands answers of you, you'll repay them in kind. “Where are you from, Jayden?” Your question catches Jayden by surprise. They look up from the fabric they’re cutting, pointing with the scissors to the flags that hang above their desk. “I’m from a Republic- the Moons of Saturn. More specifically, from Hope, on Titan. It was a frontier town when I left, a smoldering wreck when I returned.” They shake their head. “Now, it’s the capital. Crazy how things can change so fast.” <span class = voice>(they're one to talk about change...)</span> The material now cut, they place it into a fabricator, the machine whirring to life under Jayden’s control. “I'm sorry to keep badgering you, but I need to make sure you've got the right stuff for your uniforms. What’d you do before this mission? How’d you serve the Solar Defense Force?” A flickering strand of memory. Flooding halls. Fingernails on glass. Acceptance of fate, the blood that soaks your front. Fading light and a woman's voice and- <span class = voice>(not this again. have some self control, will you?)</span> You clear your throat. Push down the intrusive thoughts. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if $engineer is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a combat engineer. This is your first big mission.|t2-01-job1]]</div><</if>> <<if $officer is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a soldier. Infantry, then reserves, then, finally, leadership.|t2-01-job2]]</div><</if>> <<if $psych is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were- and still are- a doctor of psychology.|t2-01-job3]]</div><</if>> <<if $botanist is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a botanist, studying at the Apex School for the Sciences.|t2-01-job4]]</div><</if>> <<if $spy is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a liaison officer, sent here to manage communications, supplies, and general operations.|t2-01-job5]]</div><</if>> <<if $pilot is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a pilot, the best of your squadron.|t2-01-job6]]</div><</if>> <<if $tech is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You were a bit of everything, a technician if you want to be formal.|t2-01-job7]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>(you can't trust them.)</span> “Why do you need to know, Jayden? I just need a uniform.” Jayden is insistent. “I get that you don't trust anything. Much less me. I don't need details. Just where you’re from.” <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if $earth_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[Earth.|t2-01-office2][$choice to 1]]</div><</if>> <<if $space_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[The Local Group Republics.|t2-01-office2][$choice to 2]]</div><</if>> <<if $fleet_origin is true>><div class = choice-item> [[The Wandering Fleet.|t2-01-office2][$choice to 3]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I was a combat engineer. 21st Combat Support Battalion." “Combat engineer? Yeah, I think I saw your file somewhere around here…” Jayden examines their desk, sifting through the haphazard stacks of materials to find a battered computer. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. You need to know. <span class = voice>(curious? thinking it'll answer your own questions? i'll give you the answer. they're not like you.)</span> “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. “What’s up?” “I haven’t seen scars like those- and I don't mean to pry but… how?” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “If you don’t mind me asking, that is…” They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy can do things to you that you can’t imagine.” <span class = voice>(you know. you know too well. who do you think i am?)</span> You nod. You were too young to see combat in the First War- instead spending your early teens as part of a local militia. A final defense force for your home, against the tides of Invaders, against the Enemy. You had heard the legends of the Enemy. You had never faced any yourself. <span class = voice>(eager, are we? i can show you, if that's what you'd like.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “You've never actually been in combat? Against the Enemy or otherwise?” Embarrassment rises to your cheeks, and you inspect your boots rather than meet Jayden’s gaze. The whisper laughs. <span class = voice>(oh, i see the captain's chosen well. she did reward her cowards best.)</span> “Hey now- nothing to be embarrassed about <<name>>- Cap handpicked everyone on this crew, so you have to be here for a reason, right? I mean, there’s always a need for a combat engineer.” “Handpicked? You mean to say that she chose me for this mission? Why? Why me?” <span class = voice>(to die. you're nothing but cannon fodder. you'll be a human shield, if you're lucky.)</span> Jayden contradicts the voice. “The Distinguished Service Medal- after two years service. Countless recognitions from your commanding officers. Service in the prestigious 21st Combat Support Battalion, and promotion in those ranks. You’re either very good at your job, or ruthless and dedicated to gaining rank. Either way, you belong here.” With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Curious, you take one down from the wall and inspect it. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, obviously meant for durability over time. Carbon fiber reinforces the knees and elbows, and there’s pockets meant for sturdier padding on the chest, shoulders and shins. “Combat modifications, if you want them.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can do any modifications. Including a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part? “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Not that impressive, with the bronze buttons and single breasted cut of an enlisted soldier. But still… there’s something about the slight padding in the shoulders, clean colors and crisp lines that screams authority, that cries power. You remember wearing the uniform for the first time, realizing that you stood on the shoulders of giants, a cog in the finest fighting machine ever assembled. <span class = voice>(you have barely scratched the surface, child. cog in the machine? i was the god in the machine.)</span> Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. Both unfamiliar. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I did a lot for the Forces. All grunt work until now, though." “That's right, you're our new executive officer. You served in the First War, if I’m not mistaken...” Jayden examines their desk, sifting through the haphazard stacks of materials to find a battered computer. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. You need to know. Something tells you that you know too well. <span class = voice>(curious? thinking it'll answer your own questions? i'll give you the answer. they're not like you.)</span> “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. You take a shuddering breath. “What’s up?” “I've… seen war. I've seen scars like those- I have a few of my own… but...” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “Is it from… what I think it is?” They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy… you know what they can do to a person. You know all too well, don’t you?” <span class = voice>(you know. you know too well. who do you think i am?)</span> You nod. That’s all you can do. You saw combat in the First War- just a grunt, slogging through the trenches of Earth. Your promotions came on the battlefield, rising through the ranks out of necessity. Where one soldier fell, you rose to take their place. A war of attrition, taking its toll on everyone. Including you. Especially you. <span class = voice>(how badly did it hurt? would you like to feel that hurt again? did you relish the pain? did you shy away?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “You were one of the field promotion officers, right? I’m sorry. There were… too many of those...” The deep pit of guilt in your chest threatens to make its presence known, and you inspect your boots rather than meet Jayden’s gaze. The whisper nags you. <span class = voice>(guilty, guilty, guilty. you, the last in a long line of dead. don't you envy them? it must be more peaceful than this.)</span> “My commander at the end of the war was like that too, <<name>>. There’s a reason you were promoted all those times. There's a reason that the captain picked you, of all people, for this mission. You’re meant to be here.” “The captain chose… me? There’s a thousand other people more qualified. More well suited to this mission… to going back out into active service.” <span class = voice>(you're finally right about something. but here you are. your death will be the one you avoided, time and time again. can't run forever...)</span> “The Survivor’s Cross. Eight field promotions. Hero of Earth. You deserve this; that’s what the records say. You are a hero, <<name>>. Even if you don’t believe it.” With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. It’s been a while since you've worn one of these, reminders of darker days and those long, cold nights. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. Carbon fiber reinforces the knees and elbows, and there’s pockets meant for sturdier padding on the chest, shoulders and shins. “Combat modifications, as I’m sure you’re well aware of.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can do any modifications. Including a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part? “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Like the one you wore for that ceremony, with the gold buttons and double breasted cut of an officer. The officer’s uniform never quite fit right on you. The medals on your chest belong to the dead men who fought beside you, the rank on your collar to the whispered promotion made with final breaths. You bowed your head that day, Hero of Earth, Survivor. And yet you were none of those things. <span class = voice>(you know your place. you're nothing. not a hero, not a survivor, barely an officer. acceptance, oh, beautiful acceptance at last.)</span> Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. Both unfamiliar. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I'm a doctor of psychology, and I've been working as a consultant for the Solar Defense Force for some time now." “The psychologist… Sorry, you’re gonna be working with Lieutenant Cold.” Jayden examines their desk, sifting through the haphazard stacks of materials to find a battered computer. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. You need to know. Professional curiosity, a measure of reassurance while your question is answered. <span class = voice>(don't pretend like your curiosity is strictly professional. hoping it'll answer your own questions? i'll give you the answer. they're not like you.)</span> “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. “What’s up?” “I've only seen scars like those a few times. I… I worked with a soldier who had...” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “Jayden… I’m so sorry. How did this happen, if you don't my asking?” They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy can do things to you. You know that, don't you?” <span class = voice>(you know. you know too well. who do you think i am?)</span> You nod. You’d never stared down the tides of the Enemy. But you saw what they left behind. Shells of soldiers, husks of heroes. Broken men and women, flotsam and jetsam on the tides of war. You tried to put those pieces back together, dispel the nightmares. Let the sun rise again on those shattered warriors. <span class = voice>(oh, noble white knight, let us not forget why it is you can pretend to be unscathed. you hid. you didn't raise a rifle once, hiding on some lunar base while your future clientele bled for you.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “You’re an expert in your field- a researcher, a professor, a true academic. How’d you end up here? Why the military?” Embarrassment, or maybe indignance, rises to your cheeks, and you inspect your boots rather than meet Jayden’s gaze. <span class = voice>(reparations. your soul could not survive knowing that you never raised a rifle. you look into their eyes and hear their stories and feel nothing but shame.)</span> “What’s there to be embarrassed about? Cap handpicked everyone on this crew, so you have to be here for a reason, right? You’re going to be working either with her, or on her, I’m guessing.” “Handpicked? You mean to say that she chose me for this mission? Why?” <span class = voice>(why do you think you exist in this state? the beloved captain's losing her fucking mind. unstable. maybe you can fix her. maybe you'll make her worse.)</span> Surprisingly, Jayden doesn't entirely contradict the voice. “The captain needs… support. She must have seen something in you. You’re here for a reason, even if that’s not clear now.” With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Curious, you take one down from the wall and inspect it. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, obviously meant for durability over time. There are numerous pockets, meant for padding or armor plating, but all left empty. “Combat modifications, you’re part of the science team, so you don’t get them.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can add some combat mods, or do any other modifications. Including a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part? “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We’ve got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Not that impressive, with the silver buttons and single breasted cut of an enlisted soldier. You’re not technically a soldier, but rather a “uniformed specialist”. Thus, the strange medium of enlisted and officer and neither. Military customs don’t fit right, and neither does any uniform you’ve ever worn. Maybe it’s a point of pride to some, but to you? The uniform is just another suit of clothes. <span class = voice>(it suits you, pretender. i can say little else, lest you try to psychoanalyze yourself in pursuit of me.)</span> Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. Both unfamiliar. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I'm a botanist. Really taking full advantage of the military sciences program." "Congrats on the degree by the way- graduation was just a few days before your report date, wasn't it?” Jayden examines their desk, sifting through the haphazard stacks of materials to find a battered computer. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. You need to know. <span class = voice>(curious? thinking it'll answer your own questions? i'll give you the answer. they're not like you.)</span> “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. “What’s up?” “I've seen my fair share of wounds, but none like yours. Are.. are those…” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “Jayden… I’m so sorry. Are those like the ones from all the rumors about…" They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy can do things to you. You know that, don't you?” <span class = voice>(you know. you know too well. who do you think i am?)</span> You nod. Your past is complicated. You've shouldered a rifle, slogged through the trenches of Earth and fought in the silence of space. You were broken by war. Somewhere in the vast expanse of space, when you were the only survivor, bleeding out slowly. It would have been kind to die, to not be alone to pick up the pieces. So- you became something different to escape, putting your past far behind you. And here you are now. Headed right back to war, staring down the barrel of a gun once again. <span class = voice>(we have something in common, don't we? we're both hiding something, and we didn't choose to. we're both capable of wanton violence. the difference is that it haunts only you. i could help you embrace it. i could help you forget.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>> Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “For a botanist, you've got an awfully long combat service record." And there it is. Your secret, laid bare for the world to see. You find yourself unable to meet Jayden’s gaze. <span class = voice>(you can't hide forever. the wounds will be reopened. it'll tear you apart, if you allow it.)</span> “You were trying to leave that life behind, weren't you? And here you are, tossed back into it. The captain handpicked all of us for a reason. You seem to be the best of both worlds- a scientist and a fighter." “Handpicked? You mean to say that she chose me for this mission? There are so many more who would be better, who are more deserving than me.” <span class = voice>(you remind the captain of someone. fighter. scientist. and someone who is completely and utterly doomed.)</span> “You were a soldier first- from the medals, a damn good one too. Your service record tells the story of someone who wouldn't run or back down. But after the war, you disappeared, showing up in academia a few years later. That looks like running away to me. And this, tossing yourself into cryo so you wouldn't have to repay your scholarship. You've been running for a long time, haven't you?” You mutter something along the lines of agreement. "Something happened, during the war, didn't it? Something that you can't run from. Something you had to face. And now, you're facing it all over again, aren't you?" The whisper-voice laughs. You cringe inwardly, give another short nod, unsure of where this is headed. "I understand. And- I'm sorry. When the time comes, we can face it together, okay? You don't have to fight alone anymore." <span class = voice>(be careful who your allies are.)</span> With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Familiar, memories of your old suit, olive and stained, patched and maintained with the remnants of other suits, belonging to less fortunate souls. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. You've seen it pushed to its limits. There are numerous pockets, meant for padding or armor plating, but all left empty. “Combat modifications, as I'm sure you're familiar with. You’re part of the science team, so you don’t get them.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can add some combat mods, or do any other modifications. Including a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part?" “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Just as you remembered it from the formal discharge ceremony. Only now, worn with a different rank, and the silver of a warrant officer or "uniformed specialist", not the bronze of the enlisted soldier. Your medals, your awards, pinned to the chest, the colorful ribbons and bright metal shining under the office lights. And the medal they draped around your neck, the one meant for survivors. The one that felt like a slap in the face. And here you are, reopening old wounds. <span class = voice>(i know you didn't want this. but it was inevitable. everything has led you here. perfect storm. will you weather it? will you need allies, after all?)</span> Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. Both unfamiliar. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>> "I'm a liaison officer, doing double duty as a comms officer. Honestly- just an accountant with a handgun." <span class = voice>(liar)</span> "Huh. We don't do much liaising out here, but comms might be helpful. If we ever run into anyone else wandering the Gap, that is.” Jayden examines their desk, sifting through the haphazard stacks of materials to find a battered computer. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. The dossiers gave you all the information you needed to know. Didn't answer every question you had, however. You technically know how Jayden got their scars. You want the confirmation, the whole story. <span class = voice>(you would twist the truth like a knife. you sicken me.)</span> “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. “What’s up?” “I've seen my fair share of wounds, but none like yours. Are.. are those…” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “Jayden… I’m so sorry. Are those like the ones from all the rumors about…" They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy can do things to you. But you knew that, don't you?” <span class = voice>(you know. you know too well. who do you think i am?)</span> You nod. You knew. You know more of the crew's dirty secrets than you let on. Things that could ruin them, things that could turn the crew against each other, could start a mutiny or a riot, could derail this mission. Come to think of it, you barely know your mission. Infiltration, confirmation, then what? At least your position on comms would give you a better chance at figuring out what's going on before the rest of the crew. <span class = voice>(you attach yourself to this crew, parasite. you'll sell them out for what? glory? safe haven? money? your moral compass spins like a roulette wheel. you're just playing the odds and trying to get rich. at least i fought for something bigger than myself.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “I'd think you would have had a more… exemplary record, but this is interesting, honestly." Time to distract, to start building your "character". Your cover was meticulously planned, everything- and you mean everything- done with reason. You look down, taking a deep and shuddering breath. You force yourself to avoid Jayden’s gaze. “Someone's got a secret, huh?" <span class = voice>(you have far more than one. am i to serve as your guilty conscience? am i to be the vehicle for your ill intents?)</span> Hook, line and sinker. And thus, the character is built with Jayden's trust. "Look. I'm not who you think I am." The truth, technically. "My file is classified and redacted. I was spec-ops. I wasn't fighting the Enemy in the war. So the Forces gave a chance to restart. To atone. Gave me a new file, new training, a new job." Also technically the truth. Except you serve no government- just the highest bidder. Jayden grins. "Alright, I dig the mystery. And now, the captain's choice makes sense. You, me, everyone else- all handpicked for this mission. The best of the best." You echo them. "Handpicked. Chosen for this mission, elevated above our peers. The captain has faith in us, that we can accomplish our mission." <span class = voice>(the captain should have you killed you. should have killed us both.)</span> The whisper- filled with anger, a harsh narrative that lingers after each word you speak- makes you feel queasy. You wonder how much truth is to be found in your combined thoughts. There's no time for doubt, not yet, you tell yourself. Not when you need a foundation to stand upon. "Damn straight." Jayden's grin tells you the lie has found a place in their mind, where it might grow to be the only truth they know. With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Familiar, you've been around enough military supply and surplus to know the lookbooks of the every nation well. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. Endlessly modifiable, with numerous pockets, meant for padding or armor plating, but all left empty. “Combat modifications, as I'm sure you're familiar with. You’re part of the bridge team, so you don’t get them.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can add some combat mods, or do any other modifications. Including a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part?" “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Your most perfect and impressive lie, the uniform of a soldier who fit in, who might as well be another face in the crowd, someone who can hide in plain sight. The silver of a warrant officer, with enough ribbons and medals to be convincing of a soldier who had never quite risen to the top. Sure, your old uniform and life had been a bit flashier, but it wouldn't have given you this anonymity. A fair trade, though not an easy or painless one. <span class = voice>(you make me sick. complain about your life being taken away- but you chose this. i didn't get a choice. people like you stole everything from me. i could ruin you. one slip-up, sowing the first seeds of doubt. i would help the crew reap the harvest.)</span> Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. Both unfamiliar. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I'm a pilot. Not much else to say. I fly spaceships." "Oh, Jun's not going to like this one. But- and this stays between just you and me- they need the help. They're not a damn robot, they need to sleep <i>sometime</i>.” Jayden examines their desk, sifting through the haphazard stacks of materials to find a battered computer. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. You need to know. <span class = voice>(curious? thinking it'll answer your own questions? i'll give you the answer. they're not like you.)</span> “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. “What’s up?” “I've seen my fair share of wounds, but none like yours. Are.. are those…” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “Jayden… I’m so sorry. Are those like the ones from all the rumors about…" They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy can do things to you. But you knew that, don't you?” <span class = voice>(you know. you know too well. who do you think i am?)</span> You nod. You know. The soldier's tales were ones of pure and unadulterated terror. Of dead men rising rising from the mud, their fatal wounds shrugged off, cracks in their skin filled with poison ink, legions of corpses marching on the entrenched living. The dead men who were not dead yet. And when they fell, they would rise again in the morning, searching mindlessly for a rifle, waiting for the order to charge at their living and now former comrades. You were lucky, you just flew the ships. You were unlucky. The last of your wing. <span class = voice>(should i be sympathetic towards you? should i look upon you and weep? you would recognize me like you recognize yourself. how many of your comrade's deaths are your fault? how many lives did you take? what's it like, to be the last one standing?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “You and Jun have a lot in common. Both trained at prestigious flight academies, both court-marshaled, both- " You draw in a sharp breath. They stop. And apologize. “I'm so sorry." <span class = voice>(condolences for your kind are rare. they pity you. they look at us and they pity someone who doesn't regret what $HeShe did. just that $HeShe survived.)</span> And suddenly, you know what else you have in common with the pilot. Your role as wing commander, your responsibility for each of those pilots, your siblings in arms. Your responsibility for each and every one of their deaths. And your unlikely survival. Which you blame only yourself for. You laugh grimly. The whisper-voice laughs with you. It's not particularly funny, but you've got no other way of expressing your incredulity. "How do you get two wing-killers on the same mission, co-piloting for each other? Has to be some fucking divine trick, thinking this is fucking funny, or something." "If it's any condolence, each and every one us was chosen, handpicked for this mission by the captain. She obviously sees something in you, beyond these records." "Handpicked? This is the first time I've been picked for something other than the butt of some cosmic fucking joke. I don't know what your captain wants with a wing-killer. Most captains would rather have me in the fucking brig than on the bridge." <span class = voice>(most captains wouldn't have made you into what you are. think of this like a second chance, killer. a chance at absolution. or martyrdom.)</span> "Well. You're here now. You have a chance to change your reputation. To be a hero again. The captain obviously believes in you. And that's good enough for me, alright?" The look they give you is filled with determination and hope. With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Familiar, you've been flying long enough to know a good flightsuit by heart. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. Endlessly modifiable, with numerous pockets, meant for padding or armor plating, but all left empty. “Combat modifications, which you might be familiar with. You’re part of the bridge team, so you don’t get them.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can add some combat mods, or do any other modifications. You might like some of them, I know Jun's come to me about flight mods before. But I can also give you a few that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part?" “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. Like the one you burnt after that damn ceremony. When they gave you and the rest of your wing that useless medal. And you looked over the faces of the families of the dead, the only one living, standing in front of a formation of wreath-framed photos. And you sobbed because you should be another photo and bundle of flowers, not dressed in gold for gallantry and leadership, not adorned with colorful ribbon and shimmering medals, not anointed with titles and honor. That night, you destroyed the medal, drove a knife through it in a blind rage. That night you destroyed your uniform, drenched in fuel and burnt it, reveled in the flames and heat. And when the firemen and police and EMT's came, they found you in soot stained clothes, your face streaked with charcoal, a broken knife in hand. <span class = voice>(you should have tried a little harder, i think. oblivion would have welcomed the likes of you.)</span> Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. Both unfamiliar. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I did a lot for the Forces. All grunt work, whether I was boots on the ground or working on a ship." “A soldier of many talents? Be still my beating heart!” Jayden examines their desk, sifting through the haphazard stacks of materials to find a battered computer. The blue glow of the screen reflects off their dark skin, highlighting the deep scarring. You need to know. Your friends and comrades wore similar ones, once. <span class = voice>(curious? thinking it'll answer your own questions? i'll give you the answer. they're not like you.)</span> “Jayden…” They look up, the dark eye focusing long before the pale blue one. You take a shuddering breath. “What’s up?” “I've… seen too much war. I've seen scars like those- I have a few of my own… but...” You can’t read Jayden’s facial expression, quietly tacking on: “I'm so sorry Jayden, I'm so sorry. Is it from… what I think it is?” They hesitate, fingertips tracing the gash across their face. “Special Forces. Ship went down over some moon in Kuiper-Oort, ‘bout half the scars are from the wreck, and everything else…” Jayden swallows hard. “There are things outside explanation. The Enemy… the Enemy… you know what they can do to a person. You know all too well, don’t you?” <span class = voice>(you know. you know too well. who do you think i am?)</span> You nod. That’s all you can do. You saw combat in the First War- just a grunt, slogging through the trenches of Earth. When they pulled away from Earth, you got pulled with. To the stars, learning a new skillset, how to board and fight on ships, how to repair them. As the war grew ever more bloody, you took on more and more roles. Learned to navigate the stars and take control of a bridge, to patch wounds and calm racing minds. Anything to keep fighting, anything to save those you loved. <span class = voice>(you always knew it was futile, didn't you. you were just one soldier. just an infinitesimally small speck in a conflict that has spanned time and space. but you knew that. did it offer any condolence, with all the death you've seen?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Jayden must have either found your file or seen it on your face, their curiosity tinged voice breaking your thoughts. “You've got a very long and impressive service history. Surprised you weren't promoted higher. The Academy would've loved an officer like you." That's what everyone tells you. Truth be told, you were never one for leadership. That's complicated though, and a little painful, too. You inspect your boots rather than meet Jayden’s gaze. <span class = voice>(they're right, you know. you would have made an excellent leader. if you weren't afraid of failure. one more- a lost front, a lost man- would have sent you over the edge. you knew that too.)</span> “Never wanted that command, huh?" Jayden sees right through you. "I get it. They wanted to make me a captain." They laugh, putting you at ease somewhat. "Could you imagine that? Me, a captain?" “Could you see me as an officer?” You're curious. Always wondering if you made the right decision, to turn down the commission and promotions. “From your record, yes. You'd make a tremendous commander, you could lead anyone to victory. From what I've seen of you, no. I think you care a bit too much to be an officer.” <span class = voice>(they see straight through you. they know. they're the same way- and it'll be the death of them, too.)</span> With that, they rummage through drawers of their desk, producing ribbons and patches that are handed to you with an insistent wave. Everything you’d need for your uniform, shoved into your arms. A cheerful whistle as the fabricator spools down, the whimsical tones mimicked by Jayden. In a hastily made clearing on one of the pegboards, Jayden hangs your uniforms. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first is a set of jumpsuits, long sleeved and cargo pocketed, ankles and wrists gathered with elastic and a fabric cuff. Your familiar uniform, one that you've worn nearly every day you've been in the Forces. The fabric is heavy, but not stiff, meant for durability over time. Carbon fiber reinforces the knees and elbows, and there’s pockets meant for sturdier padding on the chest, shoulders and shins. “Combat modifications, as I’m sure you’re well aware of.” Jayden flashes you a smile. “Well, technically, I can do any modifications. Which I feel you might really appreciate, given your engineering prowess. That offer also includes a few mods that are experimental, and a few more that are… um… off the books, so to say.” You roll your eyes. “Given the state of this place, I don’t doubt it.” “What part, the off the books part or the experimental part? “Both, Jayden.” They laugh, passing you a fistful of velcro patches. A nametag, Solar Defense Force and nation flag patches, rank, a medical indicator. Everything but the ship badge. “The good captain likes to make a show of that. Giving you a ship badge, that is. We've got a formal meeting in uh, thirty minutes? That’s why you need that.” Jayden points at your dress uniform. Your dress uniform. The standard of the enlisted soldier with bronze hardware. You would be unremarkable alongside the many others who wear that uniform. Except you're far, far more decorated than any of your counterparts, with more awards than most of your commanders. Each hard-won, bearing the mark of hard work or sacrifice or survival. You were one of the many, and yet stood out like a sore thumb. Hero of Earth, and Hero of the Republics. Your comrades joked that it'd be one more re-deployment until you wore the illusive Hero of the Wandering Fleet medal. You were just thankful to be moved to reserves after your sixth tour. <span class = voice>(why'd you keep going back? really that hell-bent on self-destruction? or were you just hoping you could make a difference? either way- you failed. does that scare you? it should.)</span> Jayden snaps you out of your memories with a short cough. And another bundle of clothing. “You’ll want this. Don’t know how much clothing you brought with you, and your bag is in your room. So, take the suit and this and just go behind the screen to change. And let me know if I need to make alterations.” It takes you probably too long to get into your uniform. From behind the curtain, you hear Jayden talking to two other voices. Both unfamiliar. You ignore them, focus instead on the uniform. Jayden’s handiwork is good. Perfect, if you’re going to be exact. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetjun][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

You’re greeted by an audience and a wolf-whistle when you step out from behind the screen. Jayden, in their dress uniform, and two others- all three dressed in black. On one end is a tall man, whose nametag introduces him as De La Cruz, and his black uniform adorned with the silver of a warrant officer and a full ribbon rack, awards pinned all the way across his chest and draped around his neck announces him as career soldier. His hair is slicked back and beard trimmed, though both very much out of regulation. He gives you a rakish grin and a joking half-salute as you approach the collected soldiers. Jayden is on the other end, likewise dressed in a pure black suit, hemmed with red- the mark of Special Forces. Bronze hardware, indicative of an enlisted soldier adorns their uniform, as do an equally impressive amount of medals, nearly half a dozen with vibrant colors to complement the braided cords looped under their arm and resting on their shoulder. The third soldier is similarly unfamiliar. But they whistle again, giving you a bright grin and a wink. Their uniform, also black, is somehow more decorated than both Jayden's and De La Cruz's. Except it's in the gold of a commissioned officer, and they wear a garnet colored ribbon around their neck. The Hero of Earth medal, its presence dwarfing the many others pinned to their chest. An award with a very serious and particular connotation, one completely opposite to the way they look you up and down with dark and striking eyes, completely opposite to the faux-hawk haircut, pierced nose and partially shaved eyebrow. Their crossed arms obscure the nametag, but not the pilot's wings pinned to their chest. De La Cruz speaks up. "I wish we were meeting under different circumstances. Hector De La Cruz, at your service." He carries a particular kind of sadness with him, in the deep circles under his brown eyes, and the careful way he carries himself. A gentle giant, perhaps. Or someone who has his own past to hide beneath a warm, kind, and beyond charming veneer. He extends a hand for a handshake, smoothly pulling you into a half-hug afterwards. "It's not much of an introduction, but we're pressed for time. Hopefully we'll talk more, but for now, it's quite nice to see you up and moving." The third crewman takes their turn to speak, pushing off of where they rest on Jayden's desk to a more attentive position. Their voice is silky smooth, <<if $last_name is "Phyrros">>with an undeniably Martian accent.<<elseif $last_name is not "Phyrros">>carrying an accent, one you know to come from somewhere in the Republics but cannot discern any further.<</if>> "And that leaves just me to introduce myself. Saving the best for last, of course. My name is Jun Asuka. I don't think I've met you yet, I don't think I could forget a face like yours, no. But I've heard a lot about you. Rumors, mostly, what I could coax from Natalie, and what these brave souls have discovered, sneaking into the medical bay. It's a <i>pleasure</i> to finally meet- in the flesh- the crewman everyone's been talking so much about." They extend a hand for a handshake. Instead of the formal gesture, however, they press your hand to their lips, smiling as they release your hand. “You look good in uniform." <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Of course you do. (flirt)|t1-02-hall][($choice to 1) , ($jun_flirt += 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[So do they... actually, all of them look good in uniform. (flirt)|t1-02-hall][($choice to 2) , ($jun_flirt += 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Just thank them and move on.|t1-02-hall][$choice to 3]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Roll your eyes.|t1-02-hall][$choice to 4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>Two can play at this game, though you're a little bit disjointed and confused, and not quite as charming as Jun. Nor do you have the shock value of a well timed hand kiss. You hope your comment is as witty as it sounded in your head. "Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?" Jun raises an eyebrow. "Merely an observation. You're rather easy on the eyes, the uniform suits you." Hector groans at the pun, and Jayden covers their face with their hand. Jun playfully shoulders Hector in the chest, with the taller man feigning hurt at the contact. Jayden receives a more pointed glare, and just rolls their eyes in response. Their response is an elbow to the arm, and a quick: "Oh, won't you two just get a room already." <span class = voice>(to be left alone with the major... well... if you wanted something more dangerous than jumping into the pit, you'd have found it.)</span> To which, Jun doesn't seem surprised or embarrassed, simply looking you up and down again, a look that says that Jayden's comment could be taken as a suggestion, if you're interested. Jun's certainly interested, if you're game. They wink, before composing themself. "We really ought to be going- don't want to keep beloved Natalie and our command staff waiting too long, what with their proclivity for knives and vengeance." <span class = voice>(they have a point. not that you would know. you've never seen eris' knives and anger. i have.)</span><<elseif $choice is 2>>You don't know where to focus your attention. All- and you mean <i>all</i>- of them look damn good in their uniforms. Black uniforms and the countenances of soldiers, contrasted with the deliberate ignorance or defiance of regulation, contrasted again with they way that they look at you, the feeling of Jun's lips on your skin still burning, brighter than any other thoughts. "You know, I can see the gears turning in that head of $HisHers." Jayden's voice, the tone lighthearted, poking fun at your bewildered silence as you fight with the whisper that discourages every single idea that comes to mind. "Oh, of course, the engineer can see the gears turning." Hector, reaching across Jun to ruffle Jayden's hair, met with an indignant noise and Jun lunging under his outstretched arm as the pair jokingly bicker. Jun places a hand on your shoulder. One that finds its way down the lapel of your jacket, pausing to adjust one of the ribbons on your chest, before returning to your shoulder. <span class = voice>(a test. how far will you let them push you?)</span> "My apologies, I came on a little strong for a first meeting. I can be an acquired taste, though I hope you don't find me to be an unpleasant one." They turn their attention towards the bickering soldiers who are now fully play-fighting across Jayden's desk, a pile of assorted electronics falling. Jun squeezes your shoulder, mutters something indistinct before shouting at the two. "Have you two truly forgotten about our meeting or new compatriot? We shouldn't keep either waiting. The meeting will greet us with knives, if we're late. And $HeShe might too- depending on how long you two make $HimHer- no - us wait around." <span class = voice>(they are either smarter or bolder than they let on. or they are fearless, to approach us like an old friend. perhaps, they know already.)</span><<elseif $choice is 3>>This was a little too much. You draw back your hand, stunned. "Thank you for that?" Immediately, Jun is apologizing, hands raised slightly. "I'm sorry, that was a poor choice. I made too many assumptions, too bold, too soon. Please, forgive me." Charming, and the apology seems sincere enough. However, you've got places to be, people to meet, and a nice, long nap to take. "It's okay, Jun. Can we just get on with the whole meeting thing?" "I don't think you need my permission. We are guests in our quartermaster's office, after all." Jun gives a pointed glance to Jayden, who's standing with their arms crossed, staring off into space. They startle, but get what Jun's proposing. "Alright, looks like we've got a meeting to get to." <span class = voice>(it would be better to stay focused on what comes next. do not become distracted by them- or anyone else. my- our- mission is more important than any worldly pleasure.)</span><<elseif $choice is 4>><span class = voice>(no. this isn't happening right now.)</span> You're not interested in picking up what they're putting down. Friendly or not, the kiss on the back of the hand and the outright flirting was too much. Way too much for a first impression. You cross your arms, and give them a withering expression, one that says: <i>are you fucking kidding me?</i> "Oh, someone's playing hard to get, huh?" "I'm not <i>playing</i> anything. Not interested." And to your surprise, Jun relents. "Then, please, forgive me. I made a poor decision, and that was inappropriate of me to assume." Jayden breaks the awkward silence ensuing. "Okay, cool. We've got a meeting to go to. Don't think the captain's going to appreciate us being late." <span class = voice>(jayden has more sense than the pilot. eris is not forgiving. especially after what she's done to you.)</span><</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-hall1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>Together, the four of you set off towards the bridge, a silent procession that would fit in well at a funeral wake, or some esoteric and archaic military ceremony whose origins have been lost to time. It's a straight shot, down the length of the ship to the bow, where the bridge is sealed with bulkheads and an airlock. Defense mechanisms, should the ship be boarded, a measure of protection for the captain and the rest of the bridge crew, an impassable wall, an opportunity to escape, to continue flying while the invaders are fended off by the rest of the crew. <span class = voice>(these halls will run red with blood. these halls will see life extinguished at the muzzle of a gun, at the point of a spear.)</span> Something shudders down a side hallway. The lights snap on, then off. Then on again. <span class = voice>(you are not safe here)</span> You've paused, in the middle of the hallway. The rest of the group has left you behind, the rest of the group doesn't even notice you're missing. Everything is so far away. Everything is quiet, fuzzy around the edges, out of focus, out of reach, out of touch. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Forward. That is your destiny, your objective. You were denied, time and time again. But here, now, you can finally see for yourself. You can finally see for yourself. You can finally see. <span class = voice>(there is nothing worth seeing. turn back.) (before it is too late)</span> Forward, deeper into the gloom. Forward, into a descending fog. Into a vein that feeds an artery, the floor slick and the walls dripping. Growth, like some decay-fueled fungus, a mold growing on old, uncleaned bones, carrion being consumed and recycled into something new, something different, something beautiful. You see it for what it is. You can finally see. <span class = voice>(it is too late)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><span class = voice>(it is too late)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>Amongst the darkness that consumes the hallway, tears at the flesh of the wall, the skin of the ceiling and floor, gnaws at the skeleton underneath, there is a brilliant purity. Bleached-bone white. An organic and yet geometric pattern, a familiar sequence, one to one to two to three to five to eight, the familiar perfect spiral, the fractal universe and its ever-growing expanse, perfect in the way that it is logical, perfectly so. Does not carry in the imperfection of life, its redundancy and ultimate organic failure, apoptosis and malignance, the cell that is immortal in that it splits and is mortal in that it is destroyed in the act of creation, one to two to four to eight and eight to none. Perfect copies of the original, or half-copies, or not copies, an unforgivable variation that derives conflict in the body, sickens that which struggles to live, that which sees and feels and is pain and prays for deliverance to a god it invented, something above and perfect because that is organic nature, to be imperfect, to struggle, to divide, to be mortal, to face mortality and struggle more. To die. Imperfect, and yet required. Organics, however rare, however impossible, are the catalyst, the fuel, tinder for the raging inferno that creeps like the mold on the walls. A spark, held between fingers, a hand outstretched. You glance down at your own hands. Sparks. You hold a singular spark. As does the thing before you. Something that looks like you, moves like you. A not-quite-perfect copy. Washed out, translucent, wearing a faded version of your <<if $earth_origin is true>>blue<<elseif $space_origin is true>>black<<elseif $fleet_origin is true>>gray<</if>> uniform. Shattered and put back together, made intact by jagged cracks filled with a dark substance, darker than the shadows, darker than the empty skies. A not quite perfect copy, something with silvery eyes quite unlike and yet reflective of your own, a gaze that fixes on you with hunger. Or doesn't. Hunger is an organic thing, the need to consume to survive. It is organic in this way. It requires, it needs. It does not want. Want is a purely human thing. A question, unbidden to your lips, do you want? Want what? To know, to understand? Do you hunger to know, is it innate and necessary to know what it is that you look at? <span class = voice>(you wouldn't understand. you were never meant to.)</span> You turn. The thing that is not you turns. Space and time part for another. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>>It faces you, looking you up and down, fixing on you with hunger. The same hunger as not-you. A pair of glowing eyes emerge from the haze, a slow blink as it approaches you. A chill hangs in the air, the patch of darkness before you stealing the heat from the air and leaving a suffocating void in its wake. Time draws slower and slower as you approach, you feel the pull of magnetism, the bending of gravity causing the spark that leaps from your fingers to warp into a lens flare, a bursting halo of light before it, too is consumed by the thing that slowly claws its way through space and time, gathering strength as you are pulled closer and closer. <span class = voice>(it is too late.)</span> The spark liquefies and drips from your fingertips, and you, transfixed, watch as a near skeletal hand takes form, shimmering metal that conveys the form of jutting knuckles and exposed tendon and raw muscle. A glow that crawls slowly along the outline of something hewn of bare metal and rough fabric- increasing in density, opacity, gravity, until the outline becomes solid and who stands before you is the ghost from earlier, the one who introduced himself as your savior, as someone who could help you. <span class = voice>(so, we meet again.) (i would ask how you are but-)</span> Tycho gestures towards not-you. <span class = voice>(i seem to know the answer already.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-hallTECH][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = voice>(oh, this won't do. let's change some things.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><<set $gamechapter = "point of no return">><<set $timeline = " ">><span class = voice>(much better.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-hall2][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

You're standing in an empty room. A vast, cavernous space, with towering pillars and catwalks high above, elaborately tiled floors, stained glass windows and indistinct murals on the walls. A haunting place, with a raised platform, directly in front of the largest of the stained glass arches. Your hair stands on end, the air seems too thin and altogether too heavy; suffocating, oppressive, and yet- not enough. Each step carries with it an echo, a ripple. You climb the platform, feel an almost imperceptible shift of the ship beneath your feet, the alignment of the stars with the window you face, the towering arch adorned with designs reminiscent of the sun, of constellations. A growing of the light, gentle at first and then overwhelming, raising your arms to shield your face, a desperate attempt not to be blinded. A futile effort, bowed by the flooding light, turning your back on the stars. The room is empty no longer. Faceless figures, hundreds- no- thousands, more, perhaps. Hooded, with the reflection of the brilliant sun igniting fires in their eyes. They reach for you, a sea of outstretched hands. A murmuration, that of a stream, a chant of multiplied voices, indistinct, a thousand languages, a single message. Rising and falling, an ebb and flow. And the man's voice, silencing the drone. He stands alone, in the same dark robes. <span class = voice>(my darling, my beloved, i could give you this. i could give you this and so much more.)</span> His approach is slow. The crowd follows him in turn, an offering of their upturned palms, the sea of bodies parting, as light would part shadow. He halts, standing on the lowest step, staring up at you, hood falling back to reveal his face. An expression of awe, wide and empty solid black eyes, with a singular ring of gold. He smiles to see you. You, resplendent in shades of gold, crowned by the sun itself. His makes his own offering of a hand, intricate metalwork that gleams in the same sunlit gold. <span class = voice>(we could save them. all of them. you would be a god amongst men. we would lead them into a golden age. we would set them free.) (you need only take my hand.)</span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Take his hand.|t2-01-halldealtaken][$tycho_deal_taken to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Refuse the hand.|t2-01-hall2ALT1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $gamechapter = "Arrival">><<set $timeline = "Anomaly">>It seems the obvious choice. The easy choice. The right choice. Take the hand. He reaches up to you. You reach down to him. The metal hand is warm in yours, as if it were still flesh, as if it burnt with fire from within, as if is were warmed by the sun that envelops you both. Hand in raised hand, you stand together, atop the dais, surveying those who lie prostrated at your feet. <span class = voice>(you've chosen well, darling. you will be rewarded handsomely for your choice.)</span> His praise feels good. As warm and pleasant as his hand in yours, a sense of accomplishment, to have done something right, for once. Something isn't... quite right. A strange sensation spreads across your fingers. The hand clasped in yours, raised over your head, a show of unity, of strength, a moment frozen in time- scalds you, growing hotter and hotter with each passing second. Though your nerves screech and panic begins to flood your senses, you cannot pull away. You step back, twisted to free yourself to no avail. The shade's fingers remain intertwined with yours; he drags you closer, closes the gap into a blazing embrace, wearing a slight frown, a doe-eyed innocent expression of sympathy. One with sinister undertones, a mocking edge to his voice. <span class = voice>(is something wrong, darling?)</span> You scream through gritted teeth, through the ignition of your flesh. He silences you, pressing a finger to your lips. Lets his hand fall to your cheek, to your chin. The shade caresses your face, smiling. <span class = voice>(this is what you wanted, is it not?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-dealtaken1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>(let's try this again, darling.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-hall2ALT]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You're standing in an empty room. A vast, cavernous space, with towering pillars and catwalks high above, elaborately tiled floors, stained glass windows and indistinct murals on the walls. A haunting place, with a raised platform, directly in front of the largest of the stained glass arches. Your hair stands on end, the air seems too thin and altogether too heavy; suffocating, oppressive, and yet- not enough. Each step carries with it an echo, a ripple. You climb the platform, feel an almost imperceptible shift of the ship beneath your feet, the alignment of the stars with the window you face, the towering arch adorned with designs reminiscent of the sun, of constellations. A growing of the light, gentle at first and then overwhelming, raising your arms to shield your face, a desperate attempt not to be blinded. A futile effort, bowed by the flooding light, turning your back on the stars. The room is empty no longer. Faceless figures, hundreds- no- thousands, more, perhaps. Hooded, with the reflection of the brilliant sun igniting fires in their eyes. They reach for you, a sea of outstretched hands. A murmuration, that of a stream, a chant of multiplied voices, indistinct, a thousand languages, a single message. Rising and falling, an ebb and flow. And the man's voice, silencing the drone. He stands alone, in the same dark robes. <span class = voice>(my darling, my beloved, i could give you this. i could give you this and so much more.)</span> His approach is slow. The crowd follows him in turn, an offering of their upturned palms, the sea of bodies parting, as light would part shadow. He halts, standing on the lowest step, staring up at you, hood falling back to reveal his face. An expression of awe, wide and empty solid black eyes, with a singular ring of gold. He smiles to see you. You, resplendent in shades of gold, crowned by the sun itself. His makes his own offering of a hand, intricate metalwork that gleams in the same sunlit gold. <span class = voice>(we could save them. all of them. you would be a god amongst men. we would lead them into a golden age. we would set them free.) (you need only take my hand.)</span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Take his hand.|t2-01-halldealtaken][$tycho_deal_taken to true]]</div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='Take his hand.'>[[Refuse the hand.|t2-01-halldealrefused][$tycho_deal_taken to false]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter = "Arrival">><<set $timeline = "Anomaly">><span class = voice>(it appears you've made your decision.) (if this is what you want, this is what you'll get.)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>You're back in the hallway again. You scream, your voice hoarse, ragged, echoing, a wordless prayer that someone will hear you, will rescue you from this place. <span class = voice>(shhhh, darling. don't waste your breath. nobody can hear you, anyways.)</span> Tycho stands besides the thing that is not you. He nudges it forwards, towards you, grinning wickedly. <span class = voice>(you want to know what this is? mirror, reflection- apparition, hallucination, whatever you think this is- you're wrong- it's <i>you</i>. it has always been you. it will always be you. this is your destiny. why don't you embrace it?)</span> You are frozen in place as the shambling thing advances towards you. You scream again, but find no sound escapes your lips. It draws closer and closer. An arm's length. Less. So close you can hear its labored breathing, so close you can feel the heat radiating off of it. So close you can see skin rippling, curling into open wounds, every inch of not-you alive with something that twists and turns beneath the skin. "Please- please don't." You're desperate. You can smell it, the fetid reek of decay, of something dead and rotting. You're going to be sick; it overwhelms all your senses, it screams loud in your mind, cries for help, things made unintelligible by pain. <span class = voice>(it is too late to repent, now. you have chosen. you will reap what you have sown.)</span> His voice lingers in the heavy air. His voice is met with another silent scream . Its skin is hot, clammy with sweat. Its skin sloughs off in sheets, replaced with a slowly creeping fungus, white and growing, delicate gill-like shelves that ripple in time with your combined pulse. Its fingers are like a vice grip around your wrist. You do not pull away. You can't. Try and try, and try again, and finding yourself glued to the spot, made unwilling participant in whatever comes next. Not-you is alive. Not in the way you are, skin and flesh and blood. No. Not-you carries life strange and amalgamated and beautiful, transforming before your very eyes, save for the spot you hold, reminders of your flesh lingering on its skin. With every beat of your heart, you feel roots forcing new passage in veins, the pangs as little white buds force their way through the fresh skin and blossom into red flowers, red like wounds, red like blood through fabric. With every breath you take, new and twisted and beautifully horrible forms emerge, organic and yet patterned into spiral, into sequence, many pronged antlers of saplings bursting from your skull, the new-growth skin crawling upwards to coat not-your throat. A blink of your eyes, and not-your head is turned skywards with a gurgling cry, and finally, you find it in yourself to look away as something fibrous, chitinous forces its way past tongue and teeth. And then, it all goes quiet. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Not-you stares at you with ruined visage, a mass like intestines or roots hanging from unhinged jaw. Silvery eyes fix upon you with a knowing stare through a film of amber blood-sap tears. It releases your arm. Backs away. From the site of your touch, a darkness spreads. Decay. Slowly, at first. Apoptosis. Programmed death. Willing self-destruction. Functional immortality through corruption, through transformation, determined to be unnecessary, to be harmful- and thus- something to be purged from the body. A break in the sequence, a mortal thing, death. It considers for a moment, the spread of black rot across its limbs. It reaches for you again, and you stagger away, the hallway behind you surging into life, a growing darkness, spores settling and evolving instantaneously, an all consuming rot. It reaches for you again, and you know that for it to touch you again would be to be transformed, to be consumed as it was. <span class = voice>(look upon me. see that i am perfect. beautiful. embrace me. embrace that which is inevitable)</span> Determined to go down fighting, you raise your fists. A pointless, stupid thing to want. Fighting would be futile; and thus, you lower your shaking hands, uncurl your balled fists. Your open palm bears a single cotyledon, small green leaves pushing their way through the skin. <span class = voice>(it was always within you, change. you needed the help, you needed to be persuaded. you needed your eyes opened. do you see now- that you are as inevitable as i?)</span> You are not sure if you screamed as the blackened fingers brushed your face, disintegrating at the touch. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-falling][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>Wake up.<</notify>>You fall. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = voice>(what will happen to us, if you do not fight? if we are to be lost? what will happen when we hit the ground?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><<notify>>Wake up.<</notify>>You fall. Quiet and still, drifting, flotsam or jetsam on the indiscernible ripple in the fabric of this world. Falling though the hole that was torn for you by indiscernible hands, the hole you might perhaps patch with the new and strange strength in your hands that would let you let you weave time and space and circumstance into creation of your design, wild and uncontrollable, summoning nightmares and sparks, bursts of light in the otherwise dim world. Just as muted and dull as everything else you try to understand. There's no point, you think. The only things you understand hurt you more. There's no point, you think. When you try to reach past the fog that lingers. clouds your thoughts, your vision, you wound yourself further. It's better to fall, you think. Once, you might have tried to fight. You're tired now, tired and broken. And too afraid of fighting. It's easier to fall, you think. It's easier to fall, you know. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='wake up.'>[[Proceed.|t2-01-hectorhelp]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

You lurch away from the touch on your face. A hand still outstretched, the thing that is not you watching, betrayed. It stares at its empty grasp, inspecting slowly, curiously, the new flesh. It lurches forwards, towards you, closing the distance awkwardly, moving on legs not its own. An almost comical thing, the way it wears your body as an ill-fitting puppet, uncertain of each step, wavering arms and a sense of balance unfounded in the gravity of the ship. Its mouth moves, but no words come out. It looks at you with panic. It stops in its tracks, clutches at its chest, its throat. You fixate upon it in horror. Neither wanting to watch, nor look away. It reaches out the hand again. A desperate plea. <span class = voice>(help me.)</span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Help it.|t2-01-help]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Don't help.|t2-01-nohelp]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>Against your better judgement, you feel the need to help it. Your approach is slow, with raised hands. Like you're approaching a wounded animal, like you need to prove that you're not a threat. As if you could do anything to hurt it; a sneaking suspicion that you could strike at it, and your hand would simply pass through its form. Your approach is slow, heart pounding, blood roaring in your ears as you draw closer and closer. An arm's length. Less. So close you can hear its labored breathing, so close you can feel the heat radiating off of it. So close you can see skin rippling, curling into open wounds, every inch of not-you alive with something that twists and turns beneath the skin. "You asked me to help. Here I am. How do I help?" <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Each of your words lingers in the heavy air. Each of your words is met with silence. It reaches out for you. You reach out for it. Its skin is hot, clammy with sweat. Its skin sloughs off in sheets, replaced with a slowly creeping fungus, white and growing, delicate gill-like shelves that ripple in time with your combined pulse. Its fingers are like a vice grip around your wrist. You do not pull away. You're not even sure if you would want to. You're not even sure that you could. Not-you is alive. Not in the way you are, skin and flesh and blood. No. Not-you carries life strange and amalgamated and beautiful, transforming before your very eyes, save for the spot you hold, reminders of your flesh lingering on its skin. With every beat of your heart, you feel roots forcing new passage in veins, the pangs as little white buds force their way through the new skin and blossom into red flowers, red like wounds, red like blood through fabric. With every breath you take, new and twisted and beautifully horrible forms emerge, organic and yet patterned into spiral, into sequence, many pronged antlers of saplings bursting from your skull, the new-growth skin crawling upwards to coat not-your throat. A blink of your eyes, and not-your head is turned skywards with a gurgling cry, and finally, you find it in yourself to look away as something fibrous, chitinous forces its way past tongue and teeth. And then, it all goes quiet. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Not-you stares at you with ruined visage, a mass like intestines or roots hanging from unhinged jaw. Silvery eyes fix upon you with a knowing stare through a film of amber blood-sap tears. It releases your hand. Backs away. From the site of your touch, a darkness spreads. Decay. Slowly, at first. Apoptosis. Programmed death. Willing self-destruction. Functional immortality through corruption, through transformation, determined to be unnecessary, to be harmful- and thus- something to be purged from the body. A break in the sequence, a mortal thing, death. It considers for a moment, the spread of black rot across its limbs. It reaches for you again, and you stagger away, the hallway behind you surging into life, a growing darkness, spores settling and evolving instantaneously, an all consuming rot. It reaches for you again, and you know that for it to touch you again would be to be transformed, to be consumed as it was. <span class = voice>(look upon me. see that i am perfect. beautiful. embrace me. embrace that which is inevitable)</span> Determined to go down fighting, you raise your fists. A pointless, stupid thing to want. Fighting would be futile; and thus, you lower your shaking hands, uncurl your balled fists. Your open palm bears a single cotyledon, small green leaves pushing their way through the skin. <span class = voice>(it was always within you, change. you needed the help. you are as inevitable as i.)</span> You are not sure if you screamed as the blackened fingers brushed your face, disintegrating at the touch. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-falling][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>You've seen a lot of fucked up shit. Especially in this last week. This- though- this might be the worst. <span class = voice>(please. help me.)</span> You back away slowly, shaking your head. "I can't help you. I can't. I'm sorry." You're not at all sorry. This <i>thing</i> makes you feel sick to your stomach. Not-you staggers forwards, towards you again. It closes distance- you back into the velvety darkness. You can smell it, the fetid smells of decay, of something dead and rotting. You're going to be sick; it overwhelms all your senses, it screams loud in your mind, cries for help, things made unintelligible by pain. It lurches forwards one final time- and stops. You cannot look away. You're not even sure if you would want to. You're not even sure that you could. It touches its face. Its skin sloughs off in sheets, replaced with a slowly creeping fungus, white and growing, growing in delicate, gill-like shelves that ripple with each frantic pulse and breath. With each beat of your heart, roots force new passage in veins, white buds forcing their way through skin and blossoming, red flowers like wounds, like blood through fabric. Every inch of not-you is alive and spreading quickly, new and twisted and beautifully horrible forms. Organic and yet patterned, spiral and sequence as many pronged antlers of saplings burst from your skull and the new growth-skin traverses your throat and your jugular bursts with a many-petaled crimson flower as not-your head is turned upwards towards the empty sky and the mouth hangs open as something with fibrous, chitinous feelers, like tentacles or vines or tendrils force their way past the tongue and teeth with a terrible gurgling cry, spewing spores; this beauty of creation in destruction. And not-your hands are stretched outward in a bastardization of holy iconography, not-your hands untouched save for the leaves and buds that rest almost delicately by the base of not-your palms, your hands clean of this this corruption, your touch unsullied still. It all goes quiet. Not a sound, save for your breathing. Not a sound, save for the sentence you whisper. "What the <i>fuck?</i>" <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>As if summoned by the sound of your speech, not-your head falls downward with that horrible mass like intestines or roots hanging from its unhinged jaw. And still those silvery eyes are fixed on you, through a film of amber blood-sap tears. <span class = voice>(you could have saved me.)</span> You shake your head. "No. No, no, there's nothing I could have done. You're fucked." A darkness begins to spread. Decay. Slowly, at first. Apoptosis. Programmed death. Willing self-destruction. Functional immortality through corruption, through transformation, determined to be unnecessary, to be harmful- and thus- something to be purged from the body. A break in the sequence, a mortal thing, death. It considers for a moment, the spread of black rot across its limbs. It reaches for you, and you stagger away, the hallway behind you surging into life, a growing darkness, spores settling and evolving instantaneously, an all consuming rot. It reaches for you again, and you know that for it to touch you again would be to be transformed, to be consumed as it was. <span class = voice>(look upon me. see that i am perfect. beautiful. embrace me. embrace that which is inevitable)</span> Determined to go down fighting, you raise your fists. A pointless, stupid thing to want. Fighting would be futile; and thus, you lower your shaking hands, uncurl your balled fists. Your open palm bears a single cotyledon, small green leaves pushing their way through the skin. <span class = voice>(it was always within you, change. you needed the help. you are as inevitable as i.)</span> You are not sure if you screamed as the blackened fingers brushed your face, disintegrating at the touch. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-falling][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

You are caught before you feel the impact of the ground. In a more literal sense, too. You are enveloped by powerful arms, a frame stronger and taller and broader than Jayden's, one you assume to be the burly warrant officer, De La Cruz. He pulls you away from the shadows, carrying you effortlessly, and you do not protest. You kneel together at the branch between side hall and main, his hand on the back of your head, your face buried in his shoulder. "I found you. I've got you. You're safe, I promise." He pulls you ever so slightly tighter against his chest. "No shadows, no nightmares. I promise. Nothing's going to hurt you, I won't let that happen. I've got you. I've got you." Hector's voice is rumble in your ears, a depth you feel in your chest. He feels safe. You want to believe him. You want to believe him, and you <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[accept the embrace, for a second longer.|t2-01-meetingfix][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[get closer to him. (flirt)|t2-01-meetingfix][($choice to 2) , ($hector_flirt += 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[pull away.|t2-01-meetingfix][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>He feels <i>safe</i>. You can convince yourself of this. There is a calmness to him, adrenaline loosing its grasp on your pounding heart. Listening to him breath, and mirroring the slow inhale and exhale. Hector seems safe, though you can't place the reasoning- just a feeling, a feeling you want to trust. A feeling you think you can trust. He caught you. You would have hit the ground, otherwise. Would have learned what the impact feels like. <span class = voice>(can you afford to trust him? what if you're wrong- can you be wrong again?)</span> Though you know you must leave soon, and the seed of doubt has been planted in your mind, his warmth is still welcome. "We have to get up, we have to go." The faintest notes of panic in his voice. "You're alright. Nothing's going to hurt you. But we have to go, we have to." Hector helps you to your feet, leading you by the crook of your arm. He turns and looks back exactly once. You don't dare to. You stare ahead of you, to where he casts two different shadows.<<elseif $choice is 2>>There is something about the way Hector holds you. Something that tells you that you can trust him, that this is a good idea, that you'll be safe here, with him. <span class = voice>(can you afford to trust him? what if you're wrong- can you be wrong again?)</span> You relax into Hector's arms, his strong hand against your cheek, his thumb gently brushing over the marks on your cheek. His other hand rests in a protective hold on the small of your back, and you wrap your arms around his strong torso, tightening your embrace and letting your head fall onto his broad shoulder. He gathers you more closely in his arms, and stands, carrying you with ease. "We have to go. There's not much time." The faintest notes of panic in his voice, followed by whispered reassurance. "You're safe, I promise. Nothing will hurt you, not when I've got you." Together, you head quickly towards the meeting. Hector looks back exactly once, glancing over his shoulder and shielding your gaze with his body. Not that you were looking back. You're more focused on the two different shadows he casts.<<elseif $choice is 3>><span class = voice>(run.)</span> Something about Hector isn't quite right. The way appeared just as the end seemed nigh, swooping in to make a heroic rescue. Something else, something you can't put your finger on, a sense of unease, spurred on by the the calmness with which he faces you. He searches your soul with depthless brown eyes. A rush of static, confused emotions, a deep ache. A moment of clarity. You stand, shoving the tall man away from you, watching him sprawl on his back before he pushes himself up on elbows and awaits your explanation that will never come. The air around your fingertips flickers with electricity. "I'm not a threat. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise." His voice is cautiously level. <span class = voice>(something is wrong. empty promises. liar. he could hurt you.)</span> He stands slowly, empty hands raised, a show of surrender or assurance. You hope it is the former; you need not the latter. "See? Not going to hurt you. I didn't mean to startle you, I swear. We can do without the sparks." You cut off his cautious advance with a burst of flickering sparks. "Not a step closer." "Okay. I can do that." He stops, dead in his tracks. "We just need to go to the meeting. I was sent to find you, when we realized you'd wandered off. I'm lucky I got to you, but we need to leave, and quickly." There is a mote of panic in his voice, and he takes his eyes off you for the briefest of seconds, glancing behind him to where the darkness gathers again. <span class = voice>(run.)</span> The electricity fades, leaving the slightest hint of ozone in the air. "What happens when we leave?" "You and I go to the meeting, and pretend none of this happened, okay?" He glances back again, grimacing at the velvety blackness that seeps from the walls and drips onto the floor. You won't argue with him, not when it approaches so quickly, an all consuming tide. It would be like falling again- and this time, he wouldn't be there to catch you. <span class = voice>(run. or die.)</span> You let him lead you away. He glances back, one last time. You don't. Your gaze is fixed at the floor in front of you, on the second shadow he casts. The one that seems to watch you carefully. <</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meetingfix1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

By the time you are escorted to the bridge, the meeting appears to have begun, the crew nowhere in sight. Well. Not <i>all</i> the crew have gone inside. Natalie, dressed in a navy blue uniform, waits by the door. If you're not mistaken or currently hallucinating, she looks concerned. Seriously concerned. You're directed to go inside. Natalie reaches out to Hector, a hand on his elbow, and the two turn away from you and the door, talking conspiratorially. You've been on a few ship's bridges in your time. Like the rest of this ship, it’s unlike anything you've ever seen. The bridge is dark and cool, with only running lights, a handful of terminals and a massive holographic display providing light. From what you can see, the usual amenities are all there. A raised station of prominence for two pilots, and the crew pit below with gunnery, navigation and communication stations. On the upper level, behind and beneath the pilot's level, is a bank of terminals, including the captain’s terminal and space for other officers of the bridge to conduct their non-flight duties, though the terminals they would occupy are dark. This upper level is where you're meeting, around what you assume to be the war table. Making this the war room. <<if $fleet_origin is true>>In Fleet fashion, most of the room is dominated by a projected, holographic starchart, overlaid with pathing charts.<<else>>Most unusually, most of the room is filled with a massive projection, a starchart.<</if>> An unfamiliar one, at that. Several dozen maps are overlaid, with untidy notes scrawled over top of each. Lines form a spider’s web in many colors, long columns of math and unfamiliar formulas fill empty space. Models of ships and satellites and whole planets flash in and out of existence, each just as annotated as the last, a interconnected maze of information. <<if $earth_origin is true>>Information that includes- if your eyes aren't deceiving you- Earth's defensive satellite network, and plans for the Lunar Neutral Site. Broken down in great detail, with blueprints, diagrams, simulated scenarios. Each and every facet explored, examined, dissected. Searching for weaknesses. A single simulation that plays out in a few frames. A indistinct shape striking the Moon, then a rain of similar strikes on Earth. A diagram annotated in red. Casualty numbers. Predicted chance of victory. A declaration of war. By whom, you don't know.<<elseif $space_origin is true>>Amongst those plans are those for space stations. Not the small commercial ones that can be purchased by the everyday citizen. Rather, the systems for artificial moons and rings, like those belonging to the Outer Colonies. A second blinking chart confirms this. The location of every station in orbit, connected with dotted red lines and notes. Particular stations circled in red, numbered, identified. Population and environmental data, demographics, military and communicative significance. Something is being planned here. What that is, exactly, is uncertain. Something in your gut tells you that this data collection isn't altruistic in nature.<<elseif $fleet_origin is true>>This bridge is- at least in part- designed after the bridges of Fleet ships. You know the starchart. You know the pathing maps. Someone is tracking the Wandering Fleet. Difficult, and dangerous, but not unheard of. You know the Solar Defense Force, at least, has a vague idea of where the Fleet is at all times, the condition of a treaty made long before your time. This data is far too precise; this data indicates they're tracking the Gray Fleet. Which shouldn’t even be possible. The only way to track a Gray Fleet ship is to look out a window. Which makes this map an act of sedition. And someone <<if $spy is true>><i>else</i> on this crew a spy and traitor.<<else>>on this crew a spy, and traitor to the Fleet.<</if>><</if>> Before you have a chance to take a closer look, the hologram is deactivated with a hum. Jayden pats the empty chair beside them, and you take it without hesitation or question. The room is silent and still as you wait for Natalie and Hector to return. Their return is unheralded, with the two taking seats on opposing sides of the table. An empty chair is left on Natalie's side, across from you. Somehow, the seat still feels occupied. <span class = voice>(…) (…)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-meeting1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>From the shadows, illuminated by a single, dramatic overhead light, the captain emerges. Your heart drops, goosebumps rising on your arms and a shiver running down your spine. <<if $fleet_origin is true>>That is not just the captain. That is the Harbinger, in the flesh.<<else>>The captain is an intimidating woman. The touch of drama certainly helps.<</if>> The captain wears what might just be the single-handedly most impressive military uniform you've ever seen. A suit of charcoal gray, trimmed in Solar Defense Force maroon and gold. And while the colors and the cut of the uniform match a Solar Defense Force officer, the rest just… doesn’t. For starters, there’s the cape. And the blade. Relics of a bygone age, no longer standard for all but the highest ranking officers- and even then, uncommon amongst their ranks. The gold-wrapped handle of what’s either a short sword or a long dagger rests at her right hip, almost concealed by the short cape that’s draped over that shoulder. The cape seems to serve more than one purpose; a mark of honor and distinction- and also a camouflage. Her right hand is heavily bandaged and the arm worn in a sling, as a slight shift in the cape reveals. The captain wears no nametag- or any form of identification, for that matter. What she wears instead are medals and rank. The Marshal rank, one taught to you back in bootcamp, embedded into your memory- a semicircle of olive branches completed by three stars, surrounding a downward pointed sword- gold inlaid with black meteorite, combined with a captain’s traditional four sleeve stripes in an elaborate bastardization of uniforms. Around her neck, she wears the Hero of Earth medal, almost ubiquitous with its crimson and gold coloration, a Savior of the Republics medal, silver and deep purple, and one more, made of the same marbled meteorite, hung on a solid black ribbon. The captain, as if it were some calming gesture or compulsive ritual, adjusts this dark medal, running her fingers along what is inscribed but unintelligible along the surface. <span class = voice>(hero. traitor. zealot. the captain wears many faces. many, many more titles. she doesn't even know who she is anymore. she doesn't want to, either.)</span> “And then, there were seven.” The captain's voice silences everything else on the bridge. Even the hum of the engines seems to quiet when she speaks. “This officially marks the start of the first, last, and only mission for the crew of the SF-001-X <i>Nomad.</i>” She continues, as if what she just said was normal, routine. “I was once the Marshal of the Solar Defense Force, representing the Wandering Fleet and, temporarily, Earth. I was once the Adjudicator of the Wandering Fleet. I am no longer either of those things. I gave up those titles for this mission." She does not look at her crew. Her gaze flickers between the empty chair and the door. <span class = voice>(she's waiting for someone. they'll never show. they're dead, and she knows that.)</span> “If that does not impose on you the importance of this mission, I do not know what will. For that reason, I expect sacrifice, I expect great things from each and every one of you.” She looks at each of you in turn with an expression of unreadable intensity. “My name is Eris Akakios. I was once humanity’s best shot at defeating the Enemy. I am now humanity's only shot at defeating the Enemy. And now, this crew shares my burden.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>“This is the full crew. There are seven of us. It will require full cooperation and understanding from each of you. We cannot afford to fail this mission. So- I advise you, get to know one another. These are the people you will kill for, these are the people you will die for. And in turn, they will kill and die for you." At the captain’s behest, the first officer stands. Military discipline, force of habit, the first officer standing at parade rest. She speaks slowly, in a hoarse and quiet voice. “I am Master Gunnery Sergeant Alexandra Drake. I was from Capitol, in the Commonwealth, back on Earth. I served with Captain Akakios in the First Contact War. It is my honor to serve by her side again." The looks she gives the captain could be mistake for sympathy. Eris holds Alexandra's gaze for a moment too long. Jayden mutters something, almost under their breath, just loud enough for you to hear. “Wanna bet on whether the captain gave her that scar?” You didn’t quite register the scar while Drake was talking. Now, it's all you can focus on, ragged and ugly, as if it didn’t heal quite right, or maybe even at all. Without it, she would have been strikingly beautiful, with sun-kissed skin, piercing blue eyes and dark auburn hair, soft and classical, timeless features. Instead, she looks haunted, the wound warping the lower half of her face and her neck. The scar disappears below her collar, and your thoughts linger on how she came to bear the mark. Part of you doesn’t want to know. Alexandra had remained standing during your brief examination, talking indistinctly with the captain as the rest of the crew shares a single, almost intrusive thought. Their exchange ends with a professional embrace, an awkward hug that lingers a second too long. Alexandra Drake sits back down. The attention is shifted across the the table to where Hector now stands, adjusting the collar of his black suit. He takes a deep breath, and the playful demeanor is gone, the slate wiped completely clean. In its stead, an experienced and serious solider. “I am Senior Warrant Officer Hector De La Cruz. I come from the Ishtar Autonomous Region of the Venusian Republic. I was trained at the Martian Academy of War, and served both the Inter-republic Navy and Solar Defense Force as a navigator. I was the chief navigational officer aboard the Solar Defense Force Dreadnought SDF-09 <i>Broken Arrow II</i> at the end of the First Contact War. I will be resuming my duties as navigational officer for the <i>Nomad</i>.” Hector salutes the captain, who dismisses him soundlessly. As he returns to his seat, Natalie rises. “<i>Former</i> Medical Lieutenant Natalie Konigsmann, at your service. I fought to reclaim my home in the Collected Central European States on Earth, and was removed from active duty shortly after. It is my honor to join the mission of the <i>Nomad</i>, and my duty to care for the crew.” Captain Akakios makes a curious noise at the back of her throat, pausing for a second. The medic locks eyes with the captain- daring Akakios to speak. A standoff, the two women staring intently at one another, but neither willing to say what it is about Natalie's introduction that wounds the captain, nor why Natalie chose conflict. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The standoff is broken by Jayden standing and clearing their throat. Natalie returns to her seat, though her expression is still sour and she glances periodically at the captain out of the corner of her eye. “Sergeant-at-Arms Jayden Grey, reporting for duty. I am from Hope, the capital of Titan, part of the Republic of the Moons of Saturn. I served several tours of duty in the Solar Defense Special Forces with honor and bravery. It is my greatest honor and most important duty to serve aboard the <i>Nomad</i>. My duties are that of yeoman and quartermaster, and I look forward to working with each of you in the future.” Two remain, just Jun- and you. Thankfully, Jun takes initiative, and rises. “I am Major Jun Asuka, of the United Martian Front. I was trained at the Martian Academy of War, and served as wing-commander and pilot for the Martian Navy Expeditionary Force. I was part of the Liberation of Earth and Operation Final Stand. I will be serving as the pilot of the <i>Nomad.</i> It is an honor to serve this fight, and to fly this mission and craft." Your turn, at long last. And you stand. There is weight to having everyone's eyes on you. Each of the crew, and even the shadows are watching you. Most intent however, is the first officer, with her dead blue eyes. You can’t quite read the expression on her face- somewhere between contempt and curiosity. She grimaces, and the captain places a hand on her shoulder. A conversation unspoken. The hair on the back of your neck stands up. <<if $earth_origin is true>>“My name is <<combine-name>> I am part of the Failsafe and Final Stand programs. I spent the last five years in cryogenic sleep before being selected for this mission. I gave my future to the Solar Defense Force, but a long time ago, my home was on Earth, and I served the Solar Defense Force as a $occupation. It is my honor to be joining the crew of the <i>Nomad</i>.”<<elseif $space_origin is true>>“My name is <<combine-name>>. I am part of the Failsafe and Final Stand programs. I spent the last five years in cryogenic sleep before being selected for this mission. I gave my future to the Solar Defense Force, but a long time ago my home was amongst the Local Group Republics, and I served the Solar Defense Force as a $occupation. It is my honor to be joining the crew of the <i>Nomad</i>.” <<elseif $fleet_origin is true>>“My name is <<combine-name>>. I am part of the Failsafe and Final Stand programs. I spent the last five years in cryogenic sleep before being selected for this mission. I gave my future to the Solar Defense Force, but a long time ago, I once flew amongst the Wandering Fleet; today I serve the Solar Defense Force as a $occupation. It is my honor to serve by your side, Adjudicator Akakios.”<</if>> The captain just nods. No further words are spoken, the captain and first officer watching you just as closely as before. Eris walks around the table to stand by your side. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>“I would like to formally welcome <<combine-name>> aboard the <i>Nomad.</i>”. Captain Akakios presents you with the ship’s mission patch. A triangular patch, smooth fabric and plastic, with the silhouette of the ship pointing up, presented as if it were the tip of a spear in a field of stars. Red, black, gray and white, the ship and stars bright against the background of gray space and dark tendrils. A single red eye seems to stare into yours from the top of the badge. A shiver runs down your spine as the captain walks back to the head of the war table. “Now, our mission.” The captain places a metal cylinder into a control panel, and a starchart hums to life, projected from the center of the table. A spectacularly detailed map of the solar system, and… beyond? “This information is classified. This mission is classified. Under penalty of death, there will be no outside communication after this point. You are not permitted to discuss anything that happens during the duration of this mission with anyone outside the crew of this ship, with no exceptions. There will be no media coverage of this mission, there are no official records of this mission. There is no incentive to act a hero- your mission is simply completion of this mission. This ship carries no ship-to-ship communication systems, this ship does not appear on scans. This ship carries a cloaking device capable of rendering it near-invisible to the naked eye. There is no backup, no cavalry. We are completely and utterly alone in this mission.” The captain is pacing, hand on the hilt of her blade. She pauses, leaning on the edge of the starchart, staring into its depths. The lights and lines reflect in her dark eyes, a smile crosses her face, creasing the corners of her eyes. The expression falls from her face as she takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I tell you this because… because I need you to understand our situation. None of you are strangers to impossible odds.” The first officer raises an eyebrow, shooting an accusatory stare in the direction of the captain. The corner of Natalie’s lip curls into a snarl, her pale eyes narrowing to slits. “Currently, we are anchored at the very edge of the Solar System, in Kuiper-Oort Federation space. Tomorrow, we will leave Solar orbit. We will be traversing the Cloud, using the-" Eris trails off, wincing. The whisper laughs, a maddening sound that only rises as the captain turns her back on the starchart. She takes a shaky breath. "-Antares Gap.” “The journey is dangerous, but not impossible. It will take several months. During that time, it is expected that everyone on board trains for heavy combat, as well as proceed in the areas of study or operation designated on your personal dossiers. We need every one of you in peak fighting condition for what is to come.” The captain’s voice is oddly heavy with emotion, and when she turns back to her crew, the tracks of tears glimmer in the light from the hologram. Her breath comes quicker, her voice beginning to grow hoarse. “Ten years ago, the Chosen, the Enemy, the Invaders, were thought defeated in a decisive blow to their capital ship. I thought I delivered the killing blow myself. I failed my mission.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>><span class = voice>(you... lied to me, eris. you told me, you promised me..)</span> “The Enemy is returning. Their capital ship lies beyond the Cloud, their army is gathering in the tens of millions. We are all that stands between humanity and annihilation.” Eris’ voice is weakening, taking raspy breaths every few words. Blood drips from her nose, and in the low light, it looks more like black ink. “We are to cross the event horizon- to leave the Cloud and the System behind. This ship carries a lethal payload. We are to deliver it to the capital ship. Save humanity, end the nightmare. This is a one way trip. This is a suicide mission.” She leans heavily on the table, head bowed. Alexandra's hand rests on hers, fingers curled around Eris' wrist. When she looks up, blood trickles from the corners of her lips, reddening her mouth with every breath. The hand on the edge of the table is white-knuckled and shaky. Her brow drips with sweat that catches the light from the starchart. Her eyes stare into the brilliant projection, glassy and reflective, unfocused. Her voice is but a whisper, barely audible, rendered incoherent by blood and exhaustion. “You took this mission, blind to the danger. Each of you… is far braver than anyone will ever know. I assure you... this… this is a glorious death, a righteous death. Your names… your deeds will be immortalized in the stars and... enshrined in history.” Alexandra reaches out for the captain, who pushes her away, stands defiantly, her face streaked with blood and tears. “We will leave the Solar System as... just soldiers on a mission. We… we will return only in stories… only in memories… but we will be martyrs for all of humanity.” The captain collapses. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-tycho][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

Something sits in the chair across from you. A pale man with dark scars, clad in a red medical uniform, threadbare scrubs beneath a white lab coat. Tycho. His face is horrifically indistinct blurring and shifting, a thousand indistinct features coming together to form a hateful visage. He does not speak. He does not need to, simply pointing at your folded hands. A single green sprout lies curled in the callused skin of your palm. <span class = voice>(you have heard her lies, <<if $mc_seeker is true>>seeker<<elseif $mc_skeptic is true>>skeptic<<elseif $mc_prophet is true>>prophet<<elseif $mc_heretic is true>>heretic<</if>>. you have beheld her cruelty. she calls this mission suicide, she would lead you willingly to death. i could show you the truth, could lead us to glory, to salvation.) (you need only choose.)</span> He stands without disturbing the chair, turning his back on the chaos. You close your hand around the delicate leaves. Jayden puts a hand on your shoulder, jolting you back to reality. “Welcome aboard the <i>Nomad.</i> And good luck… I think we’ll need it.” <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t2-01-END][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>End of Part 1: Arrival</span> Thank you for playing <i>Event Horizon.</i> I'd like to apologize for the long wait between updates, and thank you again for sticking around through these uncertain times and every mess I've gotten myself into that's delayed this project. There will be more Event Horizion in the future. And hopefully it's not a chapter a year. <span class = voice>-Brigid 🐛</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Play Again.|gamestart][$timeline to "..."]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $gamechapter to "All Systems Nominal">><h2><span class = voice>Part II: All Systems Nominal</span></h2><<nobr>><div class=proceed> <<if $officer is true>><div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridgeexec]]</div><</if>> <<if $officer is false>><div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridgenonexec]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>Everything feels so still. Still. A single, freshly minted memory in your mind stuck on replay, the terror in the captain's eyes before she slumped and fell, the way the room fell with her into silent chaos. Each word of her halting, ominous speech, the severity of the mission at hand, the importance, the way she fought with half-lidded gaze and slurred words, falling. Falling. A sensation - one you think to be fear, or perhaps something else, something nauseating, something wrong - washes over you, inundates you with dread seeping deep into your bones. A muted voice, underwater, far away, calls to you. Someone pulls at your sleeve, pulls your attention from the vacant stare you're giving to the equally vacant chair across from you. Jayden says something you cannot hear, pulls again at your sleeve. The first officer stands at the head of the table, calls the room to attention with a distinct waver to her voice. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"As First Officer of the <i>Nomad</i>, and acting officer of the bridge, I release my command and authority to Ranking Officer Asuka. Major Jun Asuka, this bridge and vessel will be under your command until the captain is of sound mind and body enough to resume command, or relinquishes operational control to myself or another officer of the crew." Jun stands almost alone in the shadows. Neither their face nor voice betrays a single emotion. A decided change, the words you know are rehearsed, spoken directly from a manual, almost robotic in their delivery. "By my given authority as Ranking Officer of the bridge - I relieve Captain Akakios and First Officer Drake of their respective duties. Likewise, I dismiss Lieutenant Konigsmann to perform her duties as doctor to the crew." You can only wait, can only watch. This is the last thing you thought would happen, catastrophe, confusion, a pervasive and haunting emptiness in the form of questions, ones with no answers. Not yet. The first officer is waiting to leave, captain gathered in her arms. Waiting on Natalie and doing her best impression of caregiving, carefully brushing dark strands of hair fallen over the captain's face, murmuring something quiet and unintelligible, brow furrowed with concern. The captain, who - though barely lucid, pallid and flushed with half open eyes and a look of confusion - takes and holds Alexandra's hand as if it were the last thing, the only thing, tying her to this plane of existence. The first officer is waiting to leave, the captain tries to hold on, and you stand, staring uselessly. Natalie has woken from her stunned trance, leading the officers away, leaving for the halls and her cold medbay. You are left, still at attention, wondering. What next? Has the mission ended before it even started? "Well. That's all. You're dismissed. May the stars take mercy on us." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>"What about our stations? Don't I have a job to do?" You're confused. The mission just started and you're doing- nothing? Surely <i>something</i> needs to be done. "We don't have stations. Not yet, anyways." Jun speaks bluntly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, leaning back in their chair. They continue. "Until we're underway- which, given the captain's state, unlikely for another few days- we have no assigned stations." Hector chimes in now from where he sits on the table. He's abandoned the decorum, slumps with jacket unbuttoned, hat in hands. <<if ($engineer is true) or ($spy is true) or ($pilot is true)>>"The crew will be split anyways- some of us work with the first officer, here on the bridge, some of us work with the captain in the labs." He considers you for a moment. "You're stuck with Jun and I, and Jayden gets the honor of putting up with Nat and Eris bickering."<<elseif ($psych is true) or ($botanist is true) or ($tech is true)>>"The crew will be split anyways- some of us work with the first officer, here on the bridge, some of us work with the captain in the labs. He considers you for a moment. "Jun and I will be relaxing on the bridge while you and Jayden get the honor of putting up with Nat and Eris bickering."<</if>> Jayden rolls their eyes. "At least I don't have to deal with forlorn Alexandra at all hours. You've seen the way she looks at Eris. Or her gun." Hector suppresses a laugh. "Or the stars. Or this ship, or Eris, or-" "I said Eris already!" Jayden cuts off Hector with false indignance. "So- what now?" You interrupt, not finding the same humor in the situation as your fellow crew. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-hallways01][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>Everything feels so still. Still. A single, freshly minted memory in your mind stuck on replay, the terror in the captain's eyes before she slumped and fell, the way the room fell with her into silent chaos. Each word of her halting, ominous speech, the severity of the mission at hand, the importance, the way she fought with half-lidded gaze and slurred words, falling. Falling. A sensation - one you think to be fear, or perhaps something else, something nauseating, something wrong - washes over you, inundates you with dread seeping deep into your bones. A muted voice, underwater, far away, calls to you. Someone pulls at your sleeve, pulls your attention from the vacant stare you're giving to the equally vacant chair across from you. Jayden says something you cannot hear, pulls again at your sleeve. The first officer stands at the head of the table, calls the room to attention with a distinct waver to her voice. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"As First Officer of the <i>Nomad</i>, and acting officer of the bridge, I release my command and authority to <<combine-name>>. <<combine-name>>, this bridge and vessel will be under your command until the captain is of sound mind and body enough to resume command, or relinquishes operational control to me or Ranking Officer Asuka." The burden is now yours. The ship will be yours with a single line in the script, the one they had you memorize and prepare. In case of catastrophe, they said. The words stick in your throat. "By my given authority as Executive Officer of the <i>Nomad</i> and Ranking Officer of the bridge - I relieve Captain Akakios and First Officer Drake of their respective duties. Likewise, I dismiss Lieutenant Konigsmann to perform her duties as doctor to the crew." Only in case of catastrophe. Worst case scenario; you were prepared for this and simultaneously not. The words come easy. The duty does not. Worst case scenario; you had hoped the only times you would assume command were odd operational or combat situations. Worst case scenario; the captain is incapacitated. The officers are panicked and dismissed. The mission is now yours. The mission is now yours. The first officer is waiting to leave, captain gathered in her arms. Waiting on Natalie and doing her best impression of caregiving, carefully brushing dark strands of hair fallen over the captain's face, murmuring something quiet and unintelligible, brow furrowed with concern. The captain, who - though barely lucid, pallid and flushed with half open eyes and a look of confusion - takes and holds Alexandra's hand as if it were the last thing, the only thing, tying her to this plane of existence. The first officer is waiting to leave, the captain tries to hold on, and you stand, staring uselessly. Natalie has woken from her stunned trance, leading the officers away, leaving for the halls and her cold medbay. You are left, commander of the bridge, commander of a shocked shell of a crew. "You are dismissed to your stations. May the stars shine favorably upon us." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>"We don't have stations. Not yet, anyways." Jun speaks bluntly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, leaning back in their chair. They continue. "Until we're underway- which, given the captain's state, unlikely for another few days- we have no assigned stations." Hector chimes in now from where he sits on the table. He's abandoned the decorum, slumps with jacket unbuttoned, hat in hands. "The crew will be split anyways- some of us work with the first officer, here on the bridge, some of us work with the captain in the labs." He considers you for a moment. "You're stuck with Jun and I, and Jayden gets the honor of putting up with Nat and Eris bickering." Jayden rolls their eyes. "At least I don't have to deal with forlorn Alexandra at all hours. You see the way she looks at Eris. Or her gun." Hector suppresses a laugh. "Or the stars. Or this ship, or Eris, or-" "I said Eris already!" Jayden cuts off Hector with false indignance. "So- what now?" You interrupt, not finding the same humor in the situation as your fellow crew. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-hallways01][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>The four remaining crew stand completely alone on the bridge, feeling far removed from everything - the mission, the world, past, present, future. All is lost in the shadows collecting around the edges of the room you occupy like a body detached, dim and hazy and slipping through your fingers with each passing second. The starchart crackles above you, awaiting its master - who is undoubtedly already lying on one of the morgue-like tables of the medbay - waiting for instruction, for input. Your mission is an angry red scar amongst the blue glow, a feverish pulse carving its way through the projected map. A glow extinguished by Hector, who draws from the console a silver cylinder, watching as the paths and planets blink out, one by one, ending at last with the lonely sun. The room falls into deafening silence, unbroken by the black-clad crew moving quietly through the murk, not daring to raise their eyes from the deck. Unlike you, who watches, anticipating something perhaps more grand, perhaps more poignant. They gather by the door, without a single look back into the room, save for Jun- who glances back over their shoulder to the pilot's station lying latent, waiting for the guidance they cannot provide. The door opens. One by one, they leave, leaving you. "Are you coming with?" You're not sure who speaks. Could have been Jun, simple words that you feel increase in complexity upon revisiting, double entendre, veiled threat. Could have been Hector, whose few words have been punctuated by solemnity, even his jokes carrying an undercurrent of sorrow. Could have been Jayden, turning their concern back to you again and again. It doesn't matter. You follow them out of that dim place, out into the blindingly white halls. You have no idea where you're going, nor what you're doing. It's more than fitting, you think. You really do have no idea where you're going, no idea what you're doing. The captain's speech - for all her fervor, for all the importance she imparted upon you with language like that of the poets and orators of legend and War alike - did little in the way of explanation; you have more questions now than you did before the meeting. The irony of the bright-lit halls feeling more dangerous than the oppressive gloom of the bridge is not lost on you; you have no desire to proceed, you would rather return. You stand now at a crossroads, and the one way you cannot go is <i>back</i>. That path was closed the second you awoke, the second you stepped foot on this ship. You must move forward, you must proceed. You're just not sure in which direction to travel; all paths seem to conclude with the captain's declaration - this is a suicide mission. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>And then, of course, there is the fact that you are currently physically lost aboard a spaceship that feels just as hostile as an open battleground. You have wandered, lost in your musings, maybe only a few steps forward, maybe you took a turn after the doors labeled "stairs" were revealed to be locked, maybe this side hallway was the first you passed, or the second. Like the lifting of fog, the world slowly relinquishes details from the gloom. You are alone. You stand in a side hallway - one without a single door, simple panel walls devoid of life. You are not alone. Perhaps the only <i>living</i> thing, but not the only thing, no. Something lingers in the shade. <span class = voice>(have you seen now? do you perhaps understand? the captain's not going to help you - she can't even help herself. she'd doom you to a fate she alone deserves.)</span> A sickly sweet smell drifts lazily on a breeze of recycled air from the depths of the hallway. You are greeted with a wave of nausea, prickling thoughts of branching roots under skin, deep wounds weeping amber, the rippling of fungal gills. <span class = voice>(i am no captain. no, that lies far below my rank and station. i am a leader of men, i am speaker, orator, i am unafraid of that which the captain cowers from. eris akakios is a traitor to her people, to humanity itself. her treachery runs deep, it poisons her blood, it clouds her mind. it is killing her - you saw as much.)</span> <span class = voice>(she asks you for your willing death in return for <i>what</i>? <i>glory</i>? <i>her</i> name and conscience cleared? what if i told you there were another way? what if i told you that there is a way you can walk away at the end of this mission, unscathed? what if i told you that there is a way in which you return home?)</span> <span class = voice>(would you be willing to listen? to trust?)</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>You are left in silence, alone with your answer forgotten on your lips in the middle of the empty hallway. A trio of forms coalesce at the far end, backlit in cold white light. They call for you as the darkness does, shadowy blurs of gesture, distance muffled voices. You move as if you were below the surface or still asleep, limbs leaden, the journey seeming to take a thousand years, and less than a second, all at once. You fall into your fellow crew, caught and detained by Jun's hand on your shoulder. "Thought we'd lost you there for a minute." They say dryly, the grip on your arm tight. "Maybe - until you know the ship better - it'd be in your best interests not to wander off into places you shouldn't be. Alexandra would kill us for losing a new crewman before the mission even technically starts." Perhaps it's for the best, you decide. Jun's hold on your arm doesn't waver - if anything - they tighten their grasp as you are lead back towards the bridge. It is here that they turn and take you with them down the first hallway, one broader and somehow more welcoming than any other place you've seen on the ship so far. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-hallwayQs][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

Jayden breaks off your little group, pivoting to walk backwards as a tour guide would, accompanying the impression with a broad smile and almost sing-song voice. "Welcome to the crew's quarters, here on the first auxiliary hallway of the lovely <i>Nomad</i>. You'll notice that there are four crew cabins which have been retrofitted and modified, and are quite stately, if I do say so myself. On the left, you'll find Hector and Jun, and on the right, myself and now <i>you</i>." As if it were planned, the group turns to the right. "Your room will be on the far end, biometrics will let you in, standard operating procedure. Bathrooms are across the hall, you know how those work, etcetera. Any questions?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Where does everyone else on the crew stay?|t1-02-hallwayQ1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Why are there so many abandoned hallways?|t1-02-hallwayQ2]]</div> <<if $sanity > 2>><div class = choice-item> [[Whose voice do you keep hearing?|t1-02-hallwayQ3][$sanity += 1]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[What's the schedule for tomorrow?|1-02-hallwayQ4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

"Where does the rest of the crew stay?" Maybe it's a dumb question. But you can't fault your curiosity - Natalie's quarters are notably absent from this miniature map forming in your mind, and though you assume the officers of the bridge would have separate living situations, there's no real indication as to <i>where</i>. Not that you really need to know - you're quite aware that this is curiosity or perhaps even nosiness getting the best of you. You've also got a sneaking suspicion that expressing interest might not always be welcome with this ship and crew. Jayden maintains their cordiality, though something imperceptible shifts in their body language. "Natalie's made her office into living quarters, she spends all her time in that medbay, I think. And though I've never seen their rooms, the first officer and captain occupy the upper deck. There's a locked stairwell leading up, you won't be able to access it. Not that there's really anything of note there, just an observation deck and two rooms." "Look, if you do end up on the upper deck, you're either doing something very wrong, or very right." Jun says, almost teasingly. "And if you do go up there - and manage to come back - let us know how it is. Some of us are curious." Jayden rolls their eyes. "Any more questions?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if not hasVisited("t1-02-hallwayQ2")>><div class = choice-item> [[Why are there so many abandoned hallways?|t1-02-hallwayQ2]]</div><</if>> <<if not hasVisited("t1-02-hallwayQ4")>><div class = choice-item> [[What's the schedule for tomorrow?|1-02-hallwayQ4]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[No more questions.|t1-02-hallwayQfinal]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

"Why are there so many abandoned hallways?" It's been on your mind since your first encounter in what you can only assume was the morning. And though you've not gotten to explore a lot of the ship, something feels <i>wrong</i> about being able to walk down the center hallway and not recall how far you've walked, nor how many side halls you've passed. The question hangs in the air, unanswered, untouched. Hector rises to the occasion, though his tone invites secrecy - as if the ship will hear him, as if the walls were themselves were leaning in to listen. "You know as much as we do. Things disappear, things shift. System logs say most of the ship is abandoned, and yet-" "<i>And yet</i> nothing." Jun snaps at Hector, a flicker of incandescent rage from the pilot. "Things may not seem right. Things might not <i>be</i> right. But for now, we have a mission, and an abandoned lab hall and some empty rooms doesn't mean we're doomed." Your breath catches in your throat, shrinking away from Jun, who seems to have grown in their anger to be as wrathful and intense as the captain. Their fury softens with the realization that you and Hector alike have cowered from them. "Forgive me, please. If you've got any other questions, I'm sure we can try to answer." <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if not hasVisited("t1-02-hallwayQ1")>><div class = choice-item> [[Where does everyone else on the crew stay?|t1-02-hallwayQ1]]</div><</if>> <<if not hasVisited("t1-02-hallwayQ4")>><div class = choice-item> [[What's the schedule for tomorrow?|1-02-hallwayQ4]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[No more questions.|t1-02-hallwayQfinal]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

If you were to speak your mind freely, they would call you crazy. If you were to say that a disembodied voice promised you wonderful things, that it lured you down the hallways with the assurance of answers, of comfort, of camaraderie - they would dismiss you as insane. Unfit for duty. The question lingers like a bad taste on the tip of your tongue. <span class = voice>(speak. speak your addled mind, let them hear. let them know. speak.)</span> "There's a... voice? There's a voice." You hesitate. "Maybe it's an illusion or my mind is playing tricks on me, maybe I'm just tired - but I swear on the stars that I keep hearing someone speak. And they're not <i>there</i>, they're not <i>here</i> at all." The crew just stares at you. Your sneaking suspicions and mounting fears confirmed; they think you've lost your mind, you've gone off the deep end, you went down a rabbit hole or side hall and didn't come back the same, you've seen too much, you've heard too much. You're fucked in the head. "<<name>>. Hey, <<name>> are you okay?" Jayden's voice, dampened. Consumed quickly by the nervous undercurrents. "You don't look so good. I don't think you should-" Jayden halts mid-sentence with a sharp inhale. They squeeze their eyes shut, their entire expression betraying pain, muscles taut. As sudden as it comes, it goes, the quartermaster shuddering, blinking once, twice, three times in quick succession. A golden gaze meets yours. <span class = voice>(i don't think you should be here. i think you should go back to where you came from. go back to <<if $earth_origin is true>>the accursed earth<<elseif $space_origin is true>>the damned republics<<elseif $fleet_origin is true>>the lonely fleet<</if>>. you don't belong here. you never have. you never will.)</span> "Were you saying something?" The quartermaster seems confused, as if you'd never spoken. They explain to you- "You interrupted like you were going to ask a question, but never finished your thought." You stutter out something incomprehensible, words tangled and convoluted to your reeling mind. "It's okay. It's been a long day. If you've got anything on your mind, you can always ask. No such thing as a dumb question, you know?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if not hasVisited("t1-02-hallwayQ1")>><div class = choice-item> [[Where does everyone else on the crew stay?|t1-02-hallwayQ1]]</div><</if>> <<if not hasVisited("t1-02-hallwayQ2")>><div class = choice-item> [[Why are there so many abandoned hallways?|t1-02-hallwayQ2]]</div><</if>> <<if not hasVisited("t1-02-hallwayQ4")>><div class = choice-item> [[What's the schedule for tomorrow?|1-02-hallwayQ4]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[No more questions.|t1-02-hallwayQfinal]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

"What are we doing tomorrow?" It's a simple question, you would presume. One you'd think could be answered relatively easily, relatively quickly. Something that requires little thought, just simple recollection. But the crew hesitates, and you wonder if you've done something wrong, something to offend. They exchange glances and wait a maddening second longer. "Well. That's a good question." Jayden says, laughing a little as they do. "Ask again in the morning, I suppose. In all honesty, we've got no idea. Orders are passed down from captain to first officer to crew, and well- we all saw what happened. <<if $officer is true>>I suppose you could make up your own orders, but you're as clueless as the rest of us.<<elseif $officer is false>>Jun could come up with some orders if they really wanted to, but I think we're safe for now.<</if>>" A non-answer. Something that feels as unrelentingly empty as the waiting time after the meeting, as standing in the hallway and not knowing where to go next. Lost, still. Waiting, still. "I'm sorry. If you've got other questions, I might be able to answer them, at least?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <<if not hasVisited("t1-02-hallwayQ1")>><div class = choice-item> [[Where does everyone else on the crew stay?|t1-02-hallwayQ1]]</div><</if>> <<if not hasVisited("t1-02-hallwayQ2")>><div class = choice-item> [[Why are there so many abandoned hallways?|t1-02-hallwayQ2]]</div><</if>> <div class = choice-item> [[No more questions.|t1-02-hallwayQfinal]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

"I don't have any more questions." Jayden nods. "Well, you know where to find me if any come up- just down the hall." The crew leaves you then, standing in front of this still-closed room that assuredly belongs to you. They leave you with nothing more than a reassuring pat on the shoulder from Hector, the briefest of glances back, over their shoulder from Jun, a silent nod from Jayden. Nothing more. Nothing less. This, then - standing before a slate gray door in some side hallway on some ineffable amalgamation of unfamiliar places and names calling itself a spaceship, disoriented and dazed and bruised and bleeding and completely and utterly doomed - this is your life now. This is who you are now. <<if $sanity >= 3>>Someone with a voice in <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> head, someone with doubts unshakable, someone scared and small and exhausted. Someone pliable. <<elseif $sanity < 3>> Someone exhausted and nervous and perhaps too apprehensive, to unwilling to speak <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> mind or listen to the little voice that cries danger. Someone drained, unfulfilled.<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-yourroom]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The door slides open with the same pneumatic hiss as every other door, same as the pod, same as something else you can't place, a raspy breath, an unhinged jaw. Your cabin is small and dim, a single coherent shade of blue-gray from the bed shoved into one corner to the mag-locked furniture - a desk and chair, a small cube of a footlocker tucked away in an indent spanned by a metal rod and single shelf. It could almost be a prison cell with its gloomy atmosphere of waiting, save for the window dominating the far wall. A window that logically doesn't make any sense. Pressing your hand to it reveals it to be a computer screen inlaid; warm and finely lined in tiny ridges, rather than smooth and colder than ice. Still, stars shine into your room, the only light as you fumble with the panel on the wall, the lights finally responding to your touch, a cool light illuminating just enough of the space for your tired eyes. All that you brought with you lies in a dull green duffle bag on the bed. All that you used to be. Some spare clothes, a threadbare blanket. A faded photograph from some decade ago, a photo of family and friends, the only real proof that you existed prior to here and now, proof that you're leaving something behind. A journal, one you thought you'd fill with the lines of your next greatest adventure, one with a dedication on the first page to someone lost, someone whose name used to mean something. Things that are useless to you now, perhaps, things that form some small comfort, that you of half a decade ago had thought of what now-you might want, might need. You set it aside with an ache. The second bag on your bed is white linen, marked for laundry. It has instructions of what to do with your uniforms and then your uniforms themselves, the memory of waiting in Jayden's office distant and blurring. How long ago, you think, stripping off the decorum of your dress uniform, languishing in the artificial starlight and the ache of your body. A distant morning, making this the blessed dark night, crawling into bed, searching for sleep amidst the drone of the ship systems and the persistent backdrop of space. Your eyes close, and sleep finds you not long after, falling endlessly through the dark. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='Wake up.'>[[Proceed.|t1-02-hallwaynightmare1]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<notify>>Wake up.<</notify>>You're in the hallways again. <span class = voice>(how did you get here? you're not supposed to be here. turn back. wake up.)</span> You're in the hallways again, and all is still. The drone of the mechanical systems have gone silent, the engines have ceased their distant roar, the slight hiss of the air recyclers is absent. Even the haunting low whistle of passing space is missing. Silence presses on your ears as you step forward, your feet making no sound against the tiles. You're in the hallways again, and all is still. One passes. Two. Three. There should be six. Six is a good number; there are six crewmen, and you know their names and their faces, you know them about as well as you know these halls. Four. Five. Six. Next should be the airlock, where you first met the crew. Next should be the airlock where you raised your fists and voice and the captain ordered you to remove your helmet and called you by another's name with hope in her faded eyes. Next should be the airlock where you surrendered your mind to the touch of fingers on your brow and body to the edge of a knife hilted in gold-wrapped bone. Should be the site of your death, the bullet lodged between ribs six and seven. Next should be the airlock, where things begin to unravel, where things come together in a horrible confluence, but there lies instead another hallway. Seven. <span class = voice>(yours. i have made this for you. i have made these things for you. i want you to see these things. i want you to know these things. why do you deny me so?)</span> Seven lies empty. <span class = voice>(give us purpose)</span> No doors. <span class = voice>(no escape)</span> No windows. <span class = voice>(no escape)</span> One step forward, two. Look back over your shoulder, see, you have gone so much further than two steps could ever carry you. Turn around. <span class = voice>(turn around)</span> Turn around and take two steps back. You have gone nowhere, the light remains just as far, the shadows just as near. One step forward, or perhaps back. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. You wait. <span class = voice>(wait for what?)</span> One step forward. <span class = voice>(this is an exercise in futility. see the choices laid out before you. know that nothing you pick changes the outcome.)</span> <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='Scream.'>[[Scream.|t1-02-yourroom2][$choice to 1]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='Cry.'>[[Cry.|t1-02-yourroom2][$choice to 2]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='Fight.'>[[Fight.|t1-02-yourroom2][$choice to 3]]</span></div> <div class = choice-item> <span class ='glitch' data-text ='Give in.'>[[Give up.|t1-02-yourroom2][$choice to 4]]</span></div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>You wake up screaming, your throat raw, your voice hoarse and broken. Gasping, hand against neck, frantically searching the room for something wrong, something foreign and hostile, something that could be blamed. You find nothing. Nothing but the faintest sliver of your haggard reflection in the mirror. A ghost. You stand as a ghost, far detached from the body you know aches. You stand numbly before the artificial stars and hope that you cast a shadow, that their light does not shine through, that you are tangible. Not a ghost.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You wake up crying. Violent tears, choked sobs forcing breath from your lungs until you feel your stomach lurch, unceremoniously dry heaving over the side of your bed. Tears stream from your eyes, you retch and retch again, drooling spit and bile and finding nothing in your stomach to vomit. Hands shake as you run them over your face and hair, legs shake as you stand before the artificial window, a wretched, sick, sorrowful thing.<<elseif $choice is 3>>You wake up panicking, adrenaline arcing through your veins, searching desperately for a threat, something foreign and hostile. You find nothing but your own frustrations; you could scream, you could run a hundred miles, you could pick a fight with anyone and win and yet- your fervor is wasted on the stillness of the room. You pace for a time in the light from the artificial window, trying to calm the pounding of your heart.<<elseif $choice is 4>>You wake, and wish, for an uncomfortably long second, that you did not. You ache, your body wounded and stiff, your poor mind left wandering and restless, fearing everything and knowing nothing. There's nothing you want more than to go home, or to be put back to cryosleep, or to just be allowed to give up, at long last. And, in spite of it all, you stand to face the morning.<</if>> In the indeterminate time you spend waiting between sleep and wake, the sun rises. Not in the literal sense - the sun never rises nor sets with any usefulness outside of the planets close enough to feel the sun's warmth. In the assigned sense, the captain having chosen hours for the crew and setting this artificial day in accordance with a planetary cycle or astronautical tradition or the machinations of the Order, or even just her own personal preferences. Time is set the same way, always. The captain has designated this hour 06:00. <span class = voice>(six crew. six hallways. you, seven, odd man out. six in the morning. you're not supposed to be here.) (you were never supposed to be here. the captain wanted someone <i>different.</i> someone <i>better.</i>)</span> You shake your head madly to dismiss the thoughts. A line of questioning not entirely your own; true, that those are some of your doubts and fears about this mission- and yet, something feels insidiously wrong about the statement. Dismiss it as best you can, dress for the day in your <<if $earth_origin is true>>blue<<elseif $space_origin is true>>black<<elseif $fleet_origin is true>>gray<</if>> uniform jumpsuit, inspect the dark circles under your eyes in the bathroom, nod halfheartedly at a barely awake, bleary-eyed Jun who mumbles something that could be taken for good morning. Wrestle with the doubts as you lace your boots and stand in front of the terminal, pressing the refresh key, hoping for something to assuage, a dossier or itinerary or <i>something</i>. Something like the two new messages, one after the other. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Read the medic's message.|t1-02-messages][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Read the quartermaster's message.|t1-02-messages][$choice to 2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>The medic has flagged the message as <i>important</i> and <i>time-sensitive</i>. Logically, you should open her message first. That, and the thought of angering the medic scares you more than you'd care to admit. <span class = flashback><i>Important. Please report to the medical bay upon waking for wound care and further instructions. Failure to report will have consequences. Thank you for your cooperation, N. Konigsmann</i></span> At the very least, you can appreciate the brevity and clarity of Natalie's message, even if the contents are slightly terrifying - you've got no idea what the consequences are or even could be - and you don't really want to think about it either. Meaning you should be leaving shortly, as not to tempt her wrath. Still, Jayden's message lingers at the bottom of your inbox, and you decide it's worth risking another minute to read it. <span class = flashback><i>good morning!! thought i'd update you on the plans. long and short: no plans, just be on the look out for other messages if you're at your terminal or someone will find you and tell you what's up. natalie will probably have something for you to do, but other than that, the day is free. mess hall is open for whatever you need through the day but we're having a crew dinner tonight at sundown, if you want to go (you need to go). see you around! jayden</i></span> The message brings a slight smile to your face, a decided measure of comfort after reading the medic's orders. Should you survive whatever Natalie has planned, a dinner as a crew sounds almost nice. The thought carries you out your door and down the hall, back to the medbay.<<elseif $choice is 2>>Though the medic has flagged her message as <i>important</i> and <i>time-sensitive</i>, and logically you should open and read it first, you've no such desire. It's probably something horribly demanding and frightening, something promising the consequence of death. Jayden's message, on the other hand, seems more approachable, a common theme and contrast between medic and quartermaster. Thus, theirs is the first to be opened. Natalie can wait a minute. <span class = flashback><i>good morning!! thought i'd update you on the plans. long and short: no plans, just be on the look out for other messages if you're at your terminal or someone will find you and tell you what's up. natalie will probably have something for you to do, but other than that, the day is free. mess hall is open for whatever you need through the day but we're having a crew dinner tonight at sundown, if you want to go (you need to go). see you around! jayden</i></span> The message is a generous show of camaraderie by the quartermaster, an open invitation, an extended hand. A warm feeling not long lived; a second message from Natalie shows up. A single, ominous subject line. <span class = flashback><i>You have been sent a message. Open it.</i></span> And dutifully, you open her earlier message; the thought of angering the medic scaring you more than you'd care to admit. <span class = flashback><i>Important. Please report to the medical bay upon waking for wound care and further instructions. Failure to report will have consequences. Thank you for your cooperation, N. Konigsmann</i></span> At the very least, you can appreciate the brevity and clarity of Natalie's message, even if the contents are slightly terrifying- you've got no idea what the consequences are or even could be, and you don't really want to think about it either. Meaning you should be leaving shortly, as not to tempt her wrath. You glance one final time at Jayden's message, their words bringing a slight smile to your face, a decided measure of comfort after reading the medic's orders. Should you survive whatever Natalie has planned, a dinner as a crew sounds almost nice. The thought carries you out your door and down the hall, back to the medbay.<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-medbaymessages]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The halls pass as they did in your dream, though the passage seems both finite and mundane in the growing light of artificial sunrise. You don't find yourself trapped in some loop of steps and time, no, you find yourself standing before the medic's red-framed door. You think briefly about knocking, recalling the previous time you'd stood here. In the same half-remembered ritual, you rest a hand on the medic's plaque. For luck. For safe returns. You knock three times, and the medic answers, saying nothing. Instead, she gestures you back with a curt nod. The medbay itself is just as sterile and inhospitable as it was in your arrival, cold enough to send an involuntary shiver down your spine, to where goosebumps raise on your arms, the chill seeping through the heavy cloth of your uniform. And though the atmosphere seems to have relaxed some from the urgency and confusion of those first moments, it is no less welcoming. Nor is the medic, who leaves you standing alone in the center of the room, shedding her jacket onto a countertop and vigorously washing her hands and forearms. She busies herself with the collection of supplies, not bothering to attend to or even look at you, her confused charge. "I intend only to care for your current wounds." Natalie speaks softly towards the cabinets; you hardly hear her. "My job is one that is required, yes, but one I wish was not called upon quite so often. Please, for my sake as well as yours, do not end up like the captain." <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Where is the captain?|t1-02-medbaymidday][$choice to 1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[What happened?|t1-02-medbaymidday][$choice to 2]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Is Natalie okay?|t1-02-medbaymidday][$choice to 3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>"Is the captain... here?" You didn't see any evidence of the captain in the room - now or currently - save for the state of Natalie. The medic looks exhausted, still wearing parts of her dress uniform dirtied with something you hope and pray isn't the captain's blood. Natalie's mouth twitches, a flicker of unknown emotion suppressed. Like she's trying not to laugh or perhaps cry. "No." She surrenders, laughs mirthlessly. "No, no, no, why would she be? Our most beloved captain knows what is best, even when she is in over her head, even when she is dying, even when I could help her, she knows best, <i>obviously</i>." Natalie continues, more disjointed, eyes flashing with something almost manic. "She is so <i>easily</i> persuaded that you would not believe her reputation, not with the way she lets Alexandra whisper suggestion into her ear, not with the way she lets that <i>brute</i> tell her what to do-" You've heard enough. "Natalie." You say, and the medic cuts her tirade short. "The captain is <i>dying</i>?" What little color there was in the medic's face disappears entirely. "You cannot speak of it. You cannot, or-" Natalie fumbles with something on the counter, brandishing a short, crude knife the likes of which you've not seen. "You cannot speak of it, or I will cut your tongue from between your teeth and have you hold your silence forever." "I won't say anything. I promise." "Good." The medic says, shakily returning the knife to the countertop. "Good. I am glad we understand each other." <span class = voice>(for someone who intends to save lives, Natalie, you make threats of death quite often. have you the stomach to carry them out?)</span><<elseif $choice is 2>>"What happened to the captain?" Natalie's mouth twitches, a flicker of some emotion suppressed. She regards you with a conspiratorial look, lowers her voice as if you were not alone with her. "You cannot speak of this. Do you understand? Not a word." You repeat her with the thrill of a secret racing through your veins. "Not a word, I promise." "The captain is extremely ill, <<name>>. And I cannot tell you why, or with what, because I do not myself know. What I suspect frightens me; what I know will be the death of me. With each passing day, I fear that it is likely we will finish this mission under the command of the first officer." The room is very still and very quiet. Like it were drained of air, suddenly subject to the vacuum of space. Like the nightmarish halls, like the depths of cryosleep. The revelation hangs like the Sword of Damocles over you, a weight on your shoulders, head on the chopping block. "Not a word." Natalie repeats, more fervently, her eyes aflame. "You cannot tell a single soul. Let them come to their own conclusions, do not paint me as villain." <span class = voice>(villain, Natalie? is <i>that</i> what you are afraid of becoming?)</span><<elseif $choice is 3>>"Are you okay?" Natalie pauses, as if she were going to say something. Blinks pointedly, her brow set in confusion. "Why would I not be?" You don't want to point out the obvious. You think the medic knows what you're referring to, or you at least can hope that she knows. Natalie is still half-dressed from the day prior, her navy dress pants crumpled, the shirt half-buttoned and sleeves folded and creased, stained like the undershirt underneath with reddish brown. She looks as if she hasn't slept either, eyes ringed with dark circles, an evident slowness and clumsiness to her movements. You don't want to point out the obvious, and yet, the medic seems oblivious. "Natalie..." She snaps in return. "I know." And yet, she begins to fray at the edges, hands shaking, tone tremulous. "I am fine. I assure you of that much. I have been far worse, this- " She pauses. "- this is nothing to be worried about." <span class = voice>(seeing ghosts, Natalie?)</span><</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>><<if $mc_wounded is false>>You're unsure of how to proceed. Silence reigns in what seems a comfortable arrangement for the medic, who finishes with her supply gathering and points for you to sit on one of the tables. Not a word spoken, and yet you understand why you're here, rolling up your sleeve to reveal the still-ugly wound in your arm. Natalie sighs heavily from the chair she's dragged over, rests her forehead on the cold metal of the table. "Fuck." She swears, both the sentiment and the curse itself strange, almost humorous, from her. She raises a hand limply, lets it fall to strike the table beside her. "Let us just get this over with." <i>This</i>, being a redressing of the wound, unwinding bandages from wrist to near elbow. <i>This</i>, being the medic avoiding every possible opportunity to look at it, her examination fleeting and characterized by a rather distinct apprehension, bated breath and shaking hands. <i>This</i>, being the silver scissors used to remove each stitch, being the little curses in a language foreign, being burning antiseptic whose scent is strong enough to taste, being the sharp pain of bright hooked needle in your skin, being the agonizingly slow drag of suture through flesh. The medic seems to finally release her breath as she ties the final stitch. She peels away the gloves she donned as the dark blotches clear from your vision and the scream you held behind teeth is turned instead into a sharp exhale. The mess that was your repair remains on the table beside you; Natalie in her disgust or exhaustion seems not to care, slumping over the far countertop. "You should leave. Go somewhere else, do something else. Come back if there are complications." "Natalie, are-" "Leave me be." The medic's voice shakes. "Please."<<elseif $mc_wounded is true>>You're unsure of how to proceed. Silence reigns in what seems a comfortable arrangement for the medic, who finishes with her supply gathering and points for you to sit on one of the tables. Not a word spoken, and yet you understand why you're here, rolling up your sleeve to reveal the still-ugly wound in your arm and unzipping the upper part of your jumpsuit for the medic's inevitable examination of the gash winding its way into your neck. Natalie sighs heavily from the chair she's dragged over, rests her forehead on the cold metal of the table. "Fuck." She swears, both the sentiment and the curse itself strange, almost humorous, from her. She raises a hand limply, lets it fall to strike the table beside her. "Let us just get this over with." <i>This</i>, being the way the medic tilts your head upwards, running a finger along the slight ridge where skin was brought back together. <i>This</i>, being a small hitch in her breath, in her moving on to redressing the arm wound, unwinding bandages from wrist to near elbow. <i>This</i>, being the medic avoiding every possible opportunity to look at it, her examination fleeting and characterized by a rather distinct apprehension, bated breath and shaking hands. <i>This</i>, being the silver scissors used to remove each stitch, being the little curses in a language foreign, being burning antiseptic whose scent is strong enough to taste, being the sharp pain of bright hooked needle in your skin, being the agonizingly slow drag of suture through flesh. The medic seems to finally release her breath as she ties the final stitch. She peels away the gloves she donned as the dark blotches clear from your vision and the scream you held behind teeth is turned instead into a sharp exhale. The mess that was your repair remains on the table beside you; Natalie in her disgust or exhaustion seems not to care, slumping over the far countertop. "You should leave. Go somewhere else, do something else. Come back if there are complications." "Natalie, are-" "Leave me be." The medic's voice shakes. "Please."<<set $mc_wounded to false>><</if>> Dutifully, you do so. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>It all comes back to the halls. No how far you think you can be removed from them, no matter how hard you try, you are returned. Tidally. An ebb and flow that revolves around the strangeness that seems to cling in a thin sheen to you, seems to leech through your pores and crawl down the fibers of your being to settle in your bones. It all comes back to the halls; sleeping or awake, half-lucid from pain or painfully conscious, you are returned. The return is inevitable. The return can be good, maybe. Satisfactory. Right. Just. You stare down the thin vein of the auxiliary hallway to where it branches into main arterial path, you stare and stare and decide all at once to forgo it. To venture further into the shade, to see what lies at the end of the path you would walk with shadows as companion, promised a return in curiosity by a faint almost-blue glow. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The glow is that of the stars. A door lies ajar to an observation deck, inviting you to come closer, to take a look. Not at all like the whispered beckoning of the hallway depths, that oppressive velvet darkness that promises answers and <i>other</i> things, things you neither have nor want the words for. Not something malicious, or perhaps something not immediately so. The room feels welcoming, in a way no other place aboard the ship has; a closeness that does not suffocate, a loneliness that does not isolate, a beauty that does not come partnered with fear - or at least not fear like that you felt in recognizing the grotesque thing from the halls as beautiful. There is some comfort to be found in this small room open to the stars. Your footprints are muffled by a soft carpeted floor, the only sound to be heard is that of the ship, the low and pervasive hum of machinery hidden well beneath layers of cladding. The ship itself wavers only ever so slightly, a gravitational anomaly or the long-dispersed remnants of a gust of solar wind. You steady yourself, step forward and down towards the banked window, resting your palm upon cool glass. A real window, unlike the screen of your room. Real stars, and the openness of space just inches beyond your fingertips. The realization is dizzying, near-intoxicating, looking down or perhaps up on the bleakness of the vast empty. It could have been just a second you stared, could have been a minute, could maybe have been even longer. When you finally have the strength to tear your eyes away, you find yourself all but exhausted. A low, curved couch sunk into the half-wall offers a moment's respite, refuge, a place to lay your head. Not even your bed felt this comfortable, you think hazily, before the tides of sleep carry you away. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>><<if $sanity < 3>><span class = voice>(...)</span><<elseif $sanity >= 3>><span class = voice>(did they teach you to look for the stars? were you one of the dead-eyed and black-robed who charted our sun through stained glass? did you see the great futility of this universe in the pattern of stains on the altar? would it have been better to turn your eyes from the ancient constellations, to not dream of spaceflight - of escape - to long only for feet on solid ground, of sweet unrecycled air, of the warmth of sunlight on skin?) (do i scare you? do i speak to you as a friend? do you remember me?) (do you know who i am? who you could have been, were it not for a single stroke of fate?)</span><</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 6>>You are shaken awake by a broad hand on your shoulder. Startled, you stir, blinking sleep from your eyes, staring into a towering shadow blotting out the stars. A moment of panic, mouth dry, heart thudding, before recognition; Hector stands over you, still reaching tentatively to brush fingertips against the arm you raise as ward. You stare at him and he at you, his eyes reflecting the stars in a shimmering layer that seems almost to glow with an unnaturally pale blue. He opens his hand, offering for you to take it, to let him lead you from this place. The lights are dimming. The sun is setting. More insistent, and just as wordlessly, he beckons. And so, with little choice in the matter, you follow him from the observation deck. He leads you in a winding path, glancing back over his shoulder occasionally as if you'd abandon him for the sake of the halls. Hector, or the ghost that could be Hector, ignores your questions and disregards every word you hurl at his back. And shortly, you too give into silence, trudging along to only the sound of your footsteps. The journey is not long and yet seems to last forever, finally halting before a new and unfamiliar door. He speaks only a few hoarse words. The light has gone from his eyes; he seems human, warm, tired. "Sorry. Jayden said to find you." "Why's Jayden looking for me?" "Crew dinner. They saw you opened the message, assumed you were coming. And then you didn't show up so-" Hector shrugs. "They sent me to find you, it's - well - something I'm good at." He avoids the half-mumbled thanks you offer with a polite almost-smile, opening the door to the mess and ushering you inside. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-dinner1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

Inside is perhaps the saddest room you've come across so far. The same slate gray as the quarters, the same open emptiness as the medbay, the same vaguely oppressive weight of atmosphere as the bridge, the same unease as the halls. An open space that was clearly meant for more; reminiscent of Jayden's note on the quarters being retrofitted for just one. Two tables have been pushed into the emptiness at the center, standing awkwardly alone, as awkward as you, waiting in the doorway. Jayden stands at a countertop on the distant wall, raises a hand and waves, summons you and Hector over. A meal as full of life as the room; the three of you are the only ones to have shown up to this supposed all-crew dinner. "Welcome!" They are at least jovial, wiping their hands on the apron tied around their waist. "It's a bit gloomy in here, but that'll change. Hector and Jun are gonna help me give this place a little life once we're underway." Hector nods, glancing over at the door, to where Jun leads a still-disheveled Natalie into the gathering. Neither of them appear particularly happy to be in the mess; especially Natalie, who lingers a few paces back from Jun, giving your party a wide berth. Jun, on the other hand, loses the set of their brow and the tight line of a frown in just a few short seconds, embracing both Hector and Jayden in turn. Their attention comes now to you. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Embrace them. (flirt)|t1-02-dinner2][($choice to 1) , ($jun_flirt += 1)]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[You'd rather not.|t1-02-dinner2][$choice to 2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if $choice is 1>>You certainly don't want to be excluded, nodding your approval. A grin spreads across Jun's face, they wrap you in a tight hug that lasts but a brief, glorious second. Their hand lingers a second on your shoulder, as does their warmth before they turn back towards your shared comrades.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You'd rather not. Politely, you shake your head. Jun gets what you're saying - or, rather - what you're not saying, smiling and nodding instead. They turn back towards your shared comrades.<</if>> "Shall we get this party started?" Hector laughs gruffly. "Party?" "Figure of speech. This place is... rather disappointing." Jun surveys the storage cabinets on the walls and empty countertops, the unset table and unoccupied chairs. "You could help change that, you know. I've seen your room and what you've done to your walls, you could stand to paint a little in here, I think." A playful accusation and challenge from Jayden, who waits in front of a heating element for something in a dull metal container to be done. "I could, but that'd require time and planning." Jun starts, trailing off. "You know me, Jayden, I'm a busy person." "Not now, you're not." Jayden says, pointing a utensil at Jun, who feigns hurt, fingers pressed against their chest in mock incredulity. "Besides, you'd be doing us a favor. There's not many good spots to hang out, we could make this place feel a little more homely." "Are you forgetting that we are here to accomplish a mission?" Immediately, Jun turns on their heel to face Natalie. "Would it kill you to brighten up a little?" There's a moment of stillness. A calm before the storm, you think. Hector sees it just as you do, snatching Jun's sleeve as Natalie postures up, crossing her arms and maintaining her distance and sternness. "Would it kill you to take something seriously, for once?" She leans into every syllable. "Is it so impossible to realize <i>what</i> it is we are doing here?" <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[And what would that be?|t1-02-dinner2alt1]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Say nothing.|t1-02-dinneralt2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You're not sure where you summon the courage comes from, but rather suddenly, you find yourself just as embroiled as Jun. "What <i>are</i> we doing here, Natalie?" The medic stares daggers at you. "We are here to make up for the captain's failures. We ourselves cannot become distracted, that was the failing of-" She cuts herself off. "We are to stop the Enemy, as the captain said." "You're defending her?" The pilot snarls. "<i>Her?</i>" Natalie sounds exasperated, addressing you and Jun alike. "What other choice do we have?" "Stop. All of you. We're not here to fight each other. We have a mission, we have a purpose, but we've also got a lot of time before anything even happens." Jayden sighs. "Please. Let's just sit down and have a meal together, before we can't." Though her expression remains sour, Natalie backs down, muttering what you presume to be an apology. Hector releases Jun, the pilot pointedly brushing themself off and smoothing the rumpled sleeve of their uniform jacket. An awkward silence dominates the room as the crew goes their own separate ways; Hector busies himself in helping Jayden, Natalie occupies a far seat of the table, and Jun storms off, the door half-ajar in their wake. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Sit with Natalie|t1-02-dinner3nat]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Follow Jun.|t1-02-dinner3jun]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Wait alone.|t1-02-dinner3lone]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You've got nothing to say. You don't want to find yourself dragged into this conflict, not with the way that Hector holds Jun back, not with the way Natalie stares daggers at the pilot. Not with the way Jun raises their voice at the medic. "We're here to <i>die</i>, Natalie! It's that fucking simple!" They take a second, attempting to compose themself before giving up and continuing, their voice on the verge of breaking. "It's a suicide mission, Natalie - you heard the captain say it herself. We're not coming back! We're not <i>fucking</i> coming back!" In a stark contrast, Natalie seems almost too calm. "The captain said-" "No- no, no, no. I won't hear it - you're really defending her?" The pilot snarls, tears falling. "<i>Her</i>? The cold edge of anger seeps into Natalie's voice. "What other choice do we have?" "Stop. Both of you. We're not here to fight each other. We have a mission, we have a purpose, but we've also got a lot of time before anything even happens." Jayden sighs. "Please. Let's just sit down and have a meal together, before we can't." Though her expression remains sour, Natalie backs down, muttering what you presume to be an apology. Hector releases Jun, the pilot pointedly brushing themself off and smoothing the rumpled sleeve of their uniform jacket. An awkward silence dominates the room as the crew goes their own separate ways; Hector busies himself in helping Jayden, Natalie occupies a far seat of the table, and Jun storms off, the door half-ajar in their wake. <<nobr>><div class = choices> <div class = choice-item> [[Help Jayden and Hector.|t1-02-dinner3hjh]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Sit with Natalie|t1-02-dinner3nat]]</div> <div class = choice-item> [[Wait alone.|t1-02-dinner3lone]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Natalie slumps in a seat on the far end of the table, looking rather defeated. You take the seat next to her, searching for something to say, trying perhaps a little too desperately not to make this more awkward than it already is. "Why are you here?" The medic sounds like she could cry. "Have you not had your fun already? Is leaving me alone so impossible that you would deign to seek me out once more?" "I thought you needed company, that's all." It's not a lie. The medic looked miserable by herself. Somewhat stupidly, you hoped that you might be able to lessen her misery. "Besides, you have a point. We do have a mission." <<if $gender is "male">>Natalie wipes her red eyes with the end of her sleeve. "Do not lie to me. Flattery will get you nowhere with me." "I wasn't trying to?" You mean it. You were just, perhaps emptily, suggesting only that she had a point. Natalie shakes her head. "That is what everyone says."<<elseif $gender is not "male">>Natalie wipes her red eyes with the end of her sleeve. "You do not have to lie to me. I know how I sound. They will call me crazy and yet-" "I don't think you sound crazy." You hope your tone is assuring; you hope that you honestly believe the words from your lips. "I really don't." Natalie laughs quietly. "You do not have to flatter me, either." Her tone changes, voice almost soft. "Though, I do appreciate your vote of confidence."<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-dinner4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You give Jayden and Hector a sheepish look, a half-shrug. And then you follow Jun, plunging into the hallways. The pilot has not gone far. They sit against the corner where main meets side, artery to vein. You aren't acknowledged until you stand over them, casting a shadow across their face. "What do you want?" They carry with them the tension from the argument still. In the brief seconds they've been alone, they seem to have aged, shoulders slumped, crestfallen, defeated. "To see what you were doing?" You sit across the hall from them, relishing the soreness in your legs. "Natalie was out of line, honestly." You certainly believe the sentiment, though you're not sure the words do anything to comfort Jun, whose head hits the wall behind them. Jun curses indistinctly under their breath, face in hands. "Natalie is going to be the death of us, I think. She's trying to play both sides, and she's going to lose, either way." They gesture for you to move closer, lowering their voice for you and you alone to hear. "I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to lead a mutiny. Not at all. She doesn't trust us- and she's picked fights with Eris and her accomplice too." "Do you think this mission will end well, Jun?" You ask, anxiety clenching a fist around your guts. "There's only one way it <i>can</i> end." The pilot stands, offering a hand to help you to your feet. Their fingertips find the bandaged wound in your arm, digging into the suture line. Your eyes water; you grit your teeth, trying neither to cry nor cry out. "It's a one way trip, remember?" Jun releases your arm, the imprint seared into your skin. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-dinner4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You don't want to be here. You really don't. It's a simple thought, a selfish one, but it's the truth. Though you feel slightly bad about just abandoning your fellow crew, you would much rather be alone with your thoughts than choosing a side in an asinine argument or helping with food. You take a seat at the table - far enough to not be conspiring with Natalie - and wait, slouched slightly, staring into the scored laminate of the table edge. The ache in your bones returns unbidden, each stitch in your arm prickles, and you're reminded again that you'd rather be sleeping this off than waiting awkwardly in a cold metal chair. <<if $sanity >= 3>>You slouch further, sliding your legs out underneath the table. You mutter an apology to whatever it is you kick, before realizing that you sit alone. Probably just the other chair, you think. Probably nothing. But your hair stands on end, your teeth are set on edge, you shudder at what hell your imagination comes up with; the plant-ridden monstrosity from the first day with its yawning maw having been summoned to eat by the presence of tender, unsuspecting organics. Just as slowly, you withdraw your feet, sitting cautiously upright, not daring to raise your eyes. Not yet. Not until you know for certain there's nothing there or your courage is enough to overtake the terror in your heart. Close your eyes. Tilt your head up, up to where your chin is level and you will stare into the eyes of whatever abomination sits across the table from you. Open your eyes. Stare at the empty wall. <span class = voice>(there's nothing for you here. nothing. open your eyes, darling. see.)</span><<elseif $sanity < 3>>You slouch further, sliding your legs out underneath the table. You mutter an apology to whatever it is you kick, before realizing you sit alone. Probably just the other chair, you think. Definitely just the other chair, you think, though a burst of stuttering images all promising carnage and terror flash through your mind. Nothing, you reassure yourself, a further nudge resulting in the sound of dragged metal on the floor, the chair having moved several inches. You could laugh at the fading dregs of terror that dissipate from your veins.<</if>> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-dinner4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You're on the side of reason here; the quartermaster and navigator seem to be the only rational ones, acting as peacekeepers. You'd rather help with dinner than find yourself embroiled in conflict this early in the mission. "Glad to see you joining us. Don't worry about those two, they've been at each other's throats a while now." Jayden maintains their level head, handing Hector a covered pan. "Is it always like this?" You ask, almost hesitant to know the answer. "Yes and no. Natalie is temperamental at best - she's riled up Eris before and that's obviously dragged Alexandra into the fray, but she means well. I think she means well, at least. Just a funny way of showing it. And Jun's a little bit - uh - volatile themself, this feels kinda inevitable, you know?" Jayden gestures for Hector to reach into a high cabinet, the taller man removing a stack of plates. Evidently, dinner is finally ready to be served. "Now- the food- the food isn't always going to be like this. There's a couple of special meals here and there, we <i>really</i> lucked out tonight. Unfortunately, that means someone is on dishes." "Not me. I helped with plating." Hector asserts, holding up a plate as proof. "Me neither - I was here too." You take the plate from Hector's hand, drawing a laugh from the quartermaster. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-dinner4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>The crew comes together once again around the table. A fleeting moment of apprehensive glances and bitten tongues, the animosity between pilot and medic interrupted only by the promise of food and the physical separation - Hector sits in the middle of the feud, promising stability. You once again become odd man out, an empty seat on one side, Jayden on the other. Unintentional they promise you as you wait for your turn to fill your plate. Dinner is served on simple white plates - ones made out of real ceramics, a sentiment too needlessly formal, almost tacky, almost absurd. The food itself is inoffensive, if a little bland- flat noodles, slightly overcooked vegetables, and a substitute for meat- a spongy imitation steak in a watery brown sauce. Regardless- it's the first and best meal you've had in a very long time. The meal nearly passes without words, the momentary threads of conversation refusing to come together, refusing to spread to a discussion that involves all at the table. It's only when Natalie stands to leave that anything is said to bring the group back together. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Jayden is the one to speak. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"Natalie, wait." The medic waits, though she bears a seething expression. The quartermaster disregards her and continues. "The sendoff is tomorrow." They turn their gaze from Natalie alone to address the table at large. "We don't know what's actually going to happen. I'm presuming there's some sort of speech from the captain, if she's able." "She should be able. I have been assured as such." The medic asserts. Jayden gestures at Natalie with raised hand. "There you have it. The captain will be speaking, and then we're just- well - we're just underway. End of story. I've got thoughts, and I know some of the rest of you do too. Speak now, or forever hold your peace, I suppose." Hector stands, as if he were some general delivering orders to his soldiers, as if this were a speech with as much gravity as the captain's monologue. "We are truly embarking into the unknown. Literally, and figuratively - we head for the edge of the maps, and we know nothing about what lies beyond. And that's terrifying, but it's the right thing to do. May the way forward always be so clear." The room stands still, Hector's message looming like a dark cloud. Jun clears their throat, the gloom seeming to lift but for a second. "You all know how I feel about this mission." They glare at Natalie, who you think rolls her eyes. "We're fucked, and we all know that so- let's just get it over with, I suppose." Jayden laughs, drawing the slightest of smiles from Hector. "Inspiring!" They say, half-jokingly, before they too stand. Jayden seems more comfortable in the delivery of their message, as if this were practiced, planned. "Look around this room. These are your fellow crew. You don't have to like them - I'm not asking you to. But we need to work together. Our mission is important - regardless of how you feel about the odds. Those who are not in this room do not matter. <i>We</i> alone are in this together, until the end." <i>Until the end.</i> A sentiment that takes the air from the room, runs your blood cold. An unspoken coup, a mutiny waiting to happen. And you, by the nature of your silence, complicit. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>><i>Until the end.</i> Nobody else speaks, not even Natalie, who struggles briefly with words before abandoning the thought entirely. Not even you, though you think you would have nothing so poignant, nothing so important, nothing so dreadfully heavy. Numb, you allow yourself to be pressed into service washing dishes. Numb, you leave; following the slow procession of the crew through the hallways that once seemed so distant and alien, that now are suffocating, claustrophobic, too fully realized. Numb, you press your hand to the screen on the wall, stare into the artificial starlight of your room, blue and cold, making no attempt to be real. Making no attempt to do anything. <i>Until the end</i> <i>Until the end.</i> The thought is maddening; that there should be an end to this, that it should be violent, that it should be predestined. You haven't even started yet and there is this one pervasive theme- <i>the end</i> - that permeates everything. From the captain's proclamation of martyrdom to Natalie's statement of intent to Jun's thoughts spoken aloud. To the thoughts you have not yet given voice to. Not until the end. Not until the beginning. Tomorrow marks the beginning of the end. You know this, and it makes it no less bittersweet. A celebration, a ceremony, a funeral for something yet living. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The morning comes as no surprise, and no relief. The same artificial sunrise, the same notification at your terminal, orders which you know come from the captain. <span class = flashback><i>Attention: Today, at SST 12:00, the official send-off for the mission will occur on the bridge. The proceedings will be brief - statement of purpose, captain's remarks, and the ceremonial disembarkation. Uniform is daily wear. No further instructions. Ad Astra, E. Akakios</i></span> You feel empty. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>>An hour passes. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 6>>Two. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 7>>Three. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 8>>Jayden knocks on your door at the fourth. They don't say much. <i>Just seeing if you're awake,</i> they say. <i>You can come by if you need to talk,</i> they say. <i>I know it's a lot to deal with,</i> they say. Their mismatched eyes are rimmed with red. The door closes. You don't move. You don't speak. You don't even think you breathe. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 9>>You get ready in the fifth. As ready as you can be. A simple thing, though you avoid your reflection in the mirror until the very end. Your <<if $earth_origin is true>>navy<<elseif $space_origin is true>>black<<elseif $fleet_origin is true>>gray<</if>> jumpsuit, your white undershirt, your black boots, your countenance of someone still alive and yet very much dead. You get ready in the fifth and see the crew doing the same, the top half of Hector's black jumpsuit worn around his waist, Jun sporting a similar black jacket and pants. Neither say anything to you, neither say or do anything other than give you a sorrowful glance, cast to your boots and then to your face, and then somewhere beyond your hollow gaze. As ready as you can be. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridge1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

You report in the sixth. A slow trickling of people to the bridge, Natalie having been there before you, Jun following you shortly, Hector and Jayden arriving together as the minute hand ticks nearer. A repetition of the meeting prior, waiting for something damning. Waiting for the captain, watching the clock. Precisely on time, the door heralds the officer's approach. "Captain on deck!" Someone calls, though you're not certain whose voice sounds, not sure of when or even how you came to stand at attention, not sure of what to expect. The captain and first officer enter together. This much, you were expecting. In your limited experience, one has always been around the other, two halves to a whole. You had expected an almost triumphant return, for the captain and first officer to appeared once more in their former glory. Instead, you gaze upon the ghosts of glory past. Alexandra appears not to have slept for days, prominent dark circles under eyes vacant and bloodshot. She wears a rumpled unform missing a nametag, hip holster bearing a silver pistol, hanging dangerously beside the sheathe for a long knife. As if she expected a fight. Not like she could have fought, no, her primary purpose seems to be holding up the captain, whose good arm is draped over Alexandra's shoulder, held upright by the first officer's arm around her waist. In contrast to the striking appearance she bore in the first meeting and even her disheveled first officer, the captain appears almost ghostly. Her face is as gray as her uniform, her hair sticks to her head with sweat, she shivers, her hand shaking as she attempts to push away from her warden. One unsteady step, a second, a third, her boots untied and gait uneven. She pauses, either unable or unwilling to continue. Alexandra returns a guiding hand to her back, rests gently a hand on the arm worn in the sling, and together, they stand at the starchart. Eris' head is bowed. She mouths something inaudible, or rather, something only for the first officer to hear; the shorter woman's expression softening into the slightest of smiles. When the captain looks up to the crew, her eyes are filled with stars once more. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridge2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

"Today marks the start of our voyage into the unknown. What lies beyond the veil of the Solar System, beyond the reaches of our faithful Sun, cannot truly be fathomed. We know only that the Enemy gathers in their strength, that doomsday awaits once more in their shadow. We are to be the bringers of light." The captain's voice is faint. She stops awkwardly, head falling, free hand reaching out for the console as she stoops over her station. Alexandra leans over her, says something, words lost on you but not the ferocity of her tone. A pointed look, one filled with determination as the captain draws herself back to her full height. Eris starts again, stuttering at first, finding her words and footing once more. "It is by my authority as captain, acting alone, that I dedicate this mission." She pauses to take a ragged breath. "There is no sponsor; there were none to know but myself and few others. There are no commissioning officers, save for our own ranks. There is no record of this mission; there will be none unless we succeed. Our dedication is to humanity, then, not to debt nor glory, but love, that which the Enemy will never understand." Another pause, longer, shallow breaths and the flicker of silver around her neck, bright against the high, dark collar of her shirt and the gray of her uniform. Something hidden away carefully by Alexandra, with whom she speaks briefly and indistinctly. The first officer takes up the mantle of captain, though they stand together still. "Crew of the bridge, assume your deployment stations." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <<if $officer is true>><div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridge3exec]]</div><</if>> <<if $pilot is true>><div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridge3pilot]]</div><</if>> <<if ($engineer is true) or ($spy is true)>><div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridge3bridge]]</div><</if>> <<if ($psych is true) or ($botanist is true) or ($tech is true)>><div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridge3sci]]</div><</if>> </div><</nobr>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>You are amongst the crew of the bridge, their first and foremost, and yet, you have no station. All you can do is watch, your command null and void in the presence of the captain. Jun ascends to the pilot's station, taking the seat and the controls in their hands. Hector replaces the officers at the starchart, deftly keying in a sequence of coordinates and commands. Alexandra and Eris move together slowly to a side console, one lit in red for the occasion. You are directed to stand opposite to them, though your terminal remains dark. "<<name>>. You have performed your duties as Executive Officer faithfully. Given my authority as captain, you are relieved of duty." Eris speaks the formality aloud. Relief sweeps you, a palpable loosening of tension in your shoulders and jaw. "It was my honor, ma'am." The formal response, accompanied by a salute that Eris does not return. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>And thus, the process of disembarking begins. In the pilot's capable hands, the ship comes to life. There is a great stirring under your feet, a low rumble of ignition, the slight whine of spooling motors. More lights flicker on, one by one. The world seems to catch its breath, the air somehow richer, almost intoxicating. The final sequence begins with a salute from Hector, turning first towards the officers, and then towards the window. You too, stare out the window, towards the distant glittering of the Kuiper belt. The <i>Nomad</i> lurches forward out of the holding maneuver into free flight, the sudden movement suppressed by the activation of the inertia dampeners; a dizzying feeling as the pilot tests each of the control surfaces one by one. Pitch, yaw, roll, horizontal and vertical translation - all unfelt, but witnessed in the movement of the fixed points of stars outside the window. The last item on the checklist is acceleration. Something you will feel, you will notice but for a single, heart-dropping second, how fast you hurtle towards certain death. Not yet, though. One final step. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The pilot reports, a formality. "Control surfaces report no faults. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The navigator reports. "Navigation reports no faults. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>> The first officer reports. "All crew accounted for. All systems accounted for. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark on your signal, Captain Akakios." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridge4][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>You are amongst the crew of the bridge, and your station needs little in the way of explanation. You ascend to the pilot's station, leaving the rest of the crew behind. Jun walks beside you, giving you a knowing nod as you take your seat in the co-pilot's station on Jun's left. You do not take up the controls, no, not yet. You know all too well how these proceedings go. Jun still stands, awaiting instruction as you turn in your seat to face the rest of the bridge. Hector replaces the officers at the starchart, deftly keying in a sequence of coordinates and commands. Alexandra and Eris move together slowly to a side console, one lit in red for the occasion, casting harsh shadows across their faces. "Major Jun Asuka. You have performed your duties as Ranking Officer of the bridge faithfully. Given my authority as captain, you are relieved of duty." Eris speaks the formality aloud and Jun salutes sharply. The gesture is not returned by the captain. Jun curses as they take their seat beside you, resting sure hands on the controls. They wait, as do you, for the signal. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>And thus, the process of disembarking begins. Between you and the pilot, the ship comes to life in your capable hands. There is a great stirring under you, a low rumble of ignition, the slight whine of spooling motors. More lights flicker on, one by one. The world seems to catch its breath, the air somehow richer, almost intoxicating. The final sequence begins with a salute from Hector, turning first towards the officers, and then towards the window. You too, stare out the window, towards the distant glittering of the Kuiper belt. The <i>Nomad</i> lurches forward out of the holding maneuver into free flight, the sudden movement suppressed by the activation of the inertia dampeners; a dizzying feeling as you remove your hands from the controls, letting the pilot test each of the control surfaces one by one. Pitch, yaw, roll, horizontal and vertical translation - all unfelt, but witnessed in the movement of the fixed points of stars outside the window, reflected in your instruments. The last item on the checklist is acceleration. Something you will feel, you will notice but for a single, heart-dropping second, how fast you hurtle towards certain death. Not yet, though. One final step. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The pilot reports, a formality. "Control surfaces report no faults. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The navigator reports. "Navigation reports no faults. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>>The first officer reports. "All crew accounted for. All systems accounted for. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark on your signal, Captain Akakios." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridge4alt][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>You are amongst the crew of the bridge, and yet, you have no station. All you can do is watch. Jun ascends to the pilot's station, but does not take the controls, not yet. Hector replaces the officers at the starchart, deftly keying in a sequence of coordinates and commands. Alexandra and Eris move together slowly to a side console, one lit in red for the occasion, casting harsh shadows across their faces. You are directed to stand opposite to them, though your terminal remains dark. "Major Jun Asuka. You have performed your duties as Ranking Officer of the bridge faithfully. Given my authority as captain, you are relieved of duty." Eris speaks the formality aloud and Jun salutes sharply. The gesture is not returned by the captain. The shadows around the captain's eyes grow darker. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>And thus, the process of disembarking begins. In the pilot's capable hands, the ship comes to life. There is a great stirring under your feet, a low rumble of ignition, the slight whine of spooling motors. More lights flicker on, one by one. The world seems to catch its breath, the air somehow richer, almost intoxicating. The final sequence begins with a salute from Hector, turning first towards the officers, and then towards the window. You too, stare out the window, towards the distant glittering of the Kuiper belt. The <i>Nomad</i> lurches forward out of the holding maneuver into free flight, the sudden movement suppressed by the activation of the inertia dampeners; a dizzying feeling as the pilot tests each of the control surfaces one by one. Pitch, yaw, roll, horizontal and vertical translation - all unfelt, but witnessed in the movement of the fixed points of stars outside the window. The last item on the checklist is acceleration. Something you will feel, you will notice but for a single, heart-dropping second, how fast you hurtle towards certain death. Not yet, though. One final step. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The pilot reports, a formality. "Control surfaces report no faults. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The navigator reports. "Navigation reports no faults. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>>The first officer reports. "All crew accounted for. All systems accounted for. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark on your signal, Captain Akakios." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridge4][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

<<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>You are not amongst those called into duty, though you watch them move swiftly through the gloom. Jun ascends to the pilot's station, but does not take the controls, not yet. Hector replaces the officers at the starchart, deftly keying in a sequence of coordinates and commands. Alexandra and Eris move slowly together to a side console, one lit in red for the occasion, casting harsh shadows across their faces. And you join the others who do not belong on this bridge, standing and basking in the pale glow from the glass. "Major Jun Asuka. You have performed your duties as Ranking Officer of the bridge faithfully. Given my authority as captain, you are relieved of duty." Eris speaks the formality aloud and Jun salutes sharply. The gesture is not returned by the captain. The shadows around the captain's eyes grow darker. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 2>>And thus, the process of disembarking begins. In the pilot's capable hands, the ship comes to life. There is a great stirring under your feet, a low rumble of ignition, the slight whine of spooling motors. More lights flicker on, one by one. The world seems to catch its breath, the air somehow richer, almost intoxicating. The final sequence begins with a salute from Hector, turning first towards the officers, and then towards the window. You too, stare out the window, towards the distant glittering of the Kuiper belt. The <i>Nomad</i> lurches forward out of the holding maneuver into free flight, the sudden movement suppressed by the activation of the inertia dampeners; a dizzying feeling as the pilot tests each of the control surfaces one by one. Pitch, yaw, roll, horizontal and vertical translation - all unfelt, but witnessed in the movement of the fixed points of stars outside the window. The last item on the checklist is acceleration. Something you will feel, you will notice but for a single, heart-dropping second, how fast you hurtle towards certain death. Not yet, though. One final step. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The pilot reports, a formality. "Control surfaces report no faults. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The navigator reports. "Navigation reports no faults. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><<case 5>>The first officer reports. "All crew accounted for. All systems accounted for. All systems nominal. We are ready to disembark on your signal, Captain Akakios." <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-bridge4][$PassageNo = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>><</switch>>

If you're not mistaken, the captain smiles. "By my authority as captain, I declare the maiden voyage of the <i>Nomad</i> underway. May the stars shine favorably on us." The bridge goes dark, save for running lights, save for the pilot's station. Jun finds the throttle, and slowly, the ship begins to creep forwards under its own power. Acceleration, the asteroid field growing closer, specks of light beginning to take more form. Acceleration, a weight on your chest, a push backwards, swaying where you stand. Acceleration, the mission now underway, the beginning of the end. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-DEMOEND]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The bridge goes dark, save for running lights, save for your station. The familiar routine, three switches in succession, a nod to Jun, one hand on the yoke, reaching for the throttle as Jun does. "Together?" They ask. "Together." You confirm, taking half the rectangular handle in hand. Together, you advance the throttle. Slowly, the ship begins to creep forwards under its own power. Acceleration, the asteroid field growing closer, specks of light beginning to take more form. Acceleration, a weight on your chest, a push backwards into your seat. Acceleration, the mission now underway, the beginning of the end. <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|t1-02-DEMOEND]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<span class = voice>End of Part II: All Systems Nominal DEMO</span> Thank you for playing <i>Event Horizon.</i> I'd like to apologize for the long wait between updates, and thank you again for sticking around through these uncertain times and every mess I've gotten myself into that's delayed this project. <span class = voice>-Brigid 🐛</span> <<nobr>><div class=proceed> <div class = proceed-item> [[Play Again.|gamestart][$timeline to "..."]]</div> </div><</nobr>>