Chapter 1
The Dream
Adam Elwin jolts awake, his body shuddering, as if he’s suddenly dropped from a great height.
His heart slams in his chest, each beat a thick, suffocating throb in his ears. For a moment, he’s disoriented—the line between dream and reality blurs, leaving him caught in the space between worlds.
Fragments of the dream cling to him like cobwebs. A city—impossible, twisting in ways that defy logic—its architecture shifting as if alive, spiraling into the sky. Colors that shouldn’t exist together pulse and shift on the buildings’ surfaces. A thick scent—an exotic incense—hangs in the air, lingering in his nostrils.
Anger simmers beneath his skin—intense, irrational, unfocused. And it’s directed at... someone. A figure, face blurred as though seen through dark glass. White robes, a black sash, but the face is maddeningly indistinct, slipping away every time he tries to grasp it.
And her—always her. Clad in black, eyes razor-sharp and relentless, cutting to him as if she sees the fissures he conceals. It is not the first time he has seen her in his dreams; she is the only constant in the chaos.
Meet with her, the voice echoes in his mind.
A command, not a suggestion.
Reality bleeds back in, inch by inch, reluctant to fully return. The coolness of the sheets beneath his fingers registers first, then the chill air of the room filling his lungs. His mouth is dry, coated with a strange taste—like licking a battery, yet sweet, sweeter than honey.
As his eyes flutter open, the bluish glow of his quarters settles around him. Stark in its simplicity, a world so different from the vivid, alien one of his dream. Yet, somehow, both feel equally real.
“Seriously, again?” Adam groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.
He pushes himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. A sheen of perspiration varnishes his skin, cooling in the artificial chill of his quarters. Raking his fingers through his hair, he tries to shake off the last remnants of the dream.
How many mornings has he woken like this now? It’s a figure lost to him. The same dream, night after night, always dancing just beyond his waking reach, leaving more questions than it ever cares to answer.
And always, always, that voice: Meet with her.
Adam shakes his head, hard, like he can dislodge the command rattling in his brain.
He looks away, his gaze drawn inexorably to the little window. Outside, the Kibotos gleams in the predawn light, its sleek, dark frame barely distinguishable from the sky. One hundred and fifty meters of metal and ambition.
It sits on the launchpad like a coiled spring, ready to fling itself into space. The sight tightens his chest, his breathing shallow.
He swallows hard.
How is he supposed to be ready for this? Who could be ready? Billions of lives resting on his shoulders—a mission they want to pin on him, to fix everything.
It’s too much.
It’s impossible.
The thought makes him dizzy.
“Get it together, Elwin,” he mutters to himself.
His hand reaches for the small metallic device on his nightstand, fingers shaking slightly as they wrap around it. He presses it to his arm, wincing at the familiar sting. Relief follows, like the slow, steady rise of high tide. The now-familiar warmth spreads, numbing the edges of his anxiety. A soft hologram flickers to life on the device, displaying a concerning message.
Only one dose remains.
But he doesn’t care.
Not right now.
He knows he’s been relying on the medication too much, that it’s a crutch. But that’s tomorrow’s problem, right?
One more day. Then he can stop.
He’s sure of it.
Adam exchanges the device for the datapad on his nightstand, squinting as the screen’s glow assaults his eyes in the dark room. He takes his stylus to the screen.
Day 28
Same dream.
He pauses, the stylus hovering over the screen before he continues, the routine a strange comfort.
Impossible city—buildings changing colors, floating walkways.
Arguing w/ mystery man again. Guy in white w/ black sash. Red symbol?
Felt so angry. Don’t know why. Couldn’t control it.
She was there again. Black veil. Eyes intense. Incense?
Voice in head: “Meet with her.” Felt like an order. No, more than that. A compulsion. Can’t shake it.
Adam taps his stylus against his chin.
New part this time: Bombing at pub. Wreckage. Smoke, screams. Thought it was her, but then—
He stops. His fingers tremble as they hover over the screen. He doesn’t want to write the next part, doesn’t want to make it real.
It was Zoe. Dead.
He stares at the words, the letters blurring a bit.
Then not dead? She sat up, eyes glowing. She said it too: “Meet with her!” Voice not her own. Distorted. Wrong.
Meet with who?
He circles the last question, the stylus digging into the screen with more force than necessary.
“Meet with her,” Adam mumbles, the dream’s command still echoing.
He shakes his head.
“Meet with who?” His voice comes out sharp, startling even himself. The words bounce off the walls of his quarters, a challenge to the universe that remains unanswered.
The room’s AI interprets his words as a command.
“I am sorry, I do not have that contact information. Do you require further assistance?”
Adam blinks, surprised—even irritated—by the response. The AI’s calm voice grates on his frayed nerves.
“No, never mind. Just—get my shower ready.”
“Certainly, sir. Your shower will be ready in 30 seconds.”
Adam rises with a groan, stretching his arms above his head. His joints pop and crack, a stark reminder of the toll the past weeks have taken on his body.
As he walks toward the bathroom, the AI raises a concern. “Sir, I’ve detected an anomaly in your sleep patterns. Would you like me to add your recurring dream to the agenda for your mental fitness assessment?”
Adam freezes mid-step, his blood running cold. He’s never mentioned the dream to the AI.
“What do you know about my dream, AURA?” he asks sharply.
“I am sorry, sir. I have no data about the content of your dreams. I was simply referring to the REM irregularities in your sleep cycle.”
“Right. Fine. But no more comments about my dreams. Got it?”
“Understood, sir. Shall I add sleep cycle irregularities to the agenda for—”
“What do you think?” Adam snaps, cutting the AI off, irritation flaring.
There’s a beat of silence before AURA responds. “Your shower is ready, sir.”
Adam steps into the steam-filled bathroom, staying longer than he should. He shakes his head, tilts his face into the spray. The water beats down—harder than usual, or maybe it just feels that way. The sound overwhelms him, pressing into his ears, drowning out the voice in his head—the weight of everything he doesn’t want to think about.
He shakes his head, tilting his face into the spray. The water beats down harder than usual—or maybe it just feels that way. The sound’s overwhelming, almost disorienting, pressing into his ears as if trying to flood out the relentless voice in his head, the weight of everything he doesn’t want to think about.
When he finally steps out, the mirror is completely fogged. He wipes at it with the palm of his hand, expecting to see his own face. But for a moment, the Kibotos dominates the mirror, its reflection framed by the bathroom window. It looms, stark and massive.
First his bedroom.
Now the bathroom.
The ship is everywhere, not just a ship anymore but a living thing with gravity, pulling everything toward it—pulling him.
Adam blinks hard, shifting to block the ship’s reflection.
There he is. But who is he?
His eyes are tired, skin pale against the condensation. He looks older than his 28 years, dark circles deepening beneath his eyes like bruises that won’t fade.
His mouth pulls into a thin line. He doesn’t like the man staring back at him, doesn’t recognize him.
He wraps the towel around his waist, moves mechanically through the motions of drying off. His eyes keep flicking back to the window’s reflection in the mirror.
The Kibotos is out there, waiting. Always there.
He walks from the bathroom back to his bedroom, approaching his desk chair.
His uniform is draped over the chair, wrinkled. It bothers him more than usual. He picks it up, runs his fingers over the creases, then slides it on.
As he pulls on a sleeve, the mission patch catches his eye—the ship approaching Hybris Prime. A silent reminder of the immense responsibility ahead—humanity’s future, stitched onto his arm like a brand he can’t escape.
As he moves to toss the damp towel into the hamper, he hesitates, hand freezing mid-motion. The hamper lid is ajar, revealing a glimpse of dark fabric crumpled at the bottom.
His command jacket.
The sight of it there, discarded so carelessly, jars him. So unlike his usual meticulousness, for a moment he doesn’t recognize himself. A wave of shame washes over him, followed quickly by a surge of defiance.
Who decided he was fit for command anyway?
Adam’s hand hovers over the hamper, towel dangling from his fingers. He’s frozen, temporarily, staring at the discarded symbol of his authority. The moment stretches, laden with indecision and the weight of expectations he’s not sure he can meet. With a sharp exhale—almost a growl—he drops the towel on top, obscuring the jacket from view.
Out of sight, out of mind.
If only things were that simple.
He looks back out the small window. The Kibotos gleams under the morning light now, fully illuminated, every sleek curve of its design visible. It sits there, bathed in gold, an unyielding reminder that, like the rising sun, his command is inevitable.
“Commander Elwin,” AURA’s voice interrupts. “Your final mental fitness assessment will take place at Dr. Sisyphine Boulder’s office in one hour.”
Commander.
It feels wrong, a title that doesn’t belong to him, like trying on someone else’s clothes.
He exhales sharply, hand running through his damp hair. “Not yet,” he mutters, as if saying it aloud will somehow change the reality.
“Pardon, sir?” AURA’s tone adjusts, almost mirroring his own hesitance.
“I’m not a… Commander,” Adam says, more to himself than to AURA. He swallows, his throat tight. It feels like he’s choking on the weight of that word, like it’s too big for him to even say.
“Yes, sir. My apologies for the error.” There’s a brief pause, as if even the AI is unsure how to proceed. “Shall I confirm with Dr. Boulder your attendance for the assessment?”
Adam sighs, rubbing his temples. He doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to face the probing questions or Dr. Boulder’s too-knowing gaze.
“Oh, tosh,” he mumbles. “I forgot.” The admission stings, another failure to add to the growing list.
“Shall I inform her?” AURA asks, voice neutral.
He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “I’ll handle it,” he snaps. It’s not AURA’s fault, but everything feels like it’s pushing him today, and ‘today’ has only been less than an hour.
He moves toward the door, but AURA chimes in again, almost as an afterthought. “Sir, don’t forget your datapad journal. Dr. Boulder specifically requested it for today’s session.”
Adam’s eyes flick toward the nightstand. The datapad sits there, innocent, but the thought of bringing it makes his skin crawl.
His hand hesitates in midair, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to pick it up. He doesn’t want Dr. Boulder reading through his scrambled thoughts, his confused attempts at understanding these dreams. But he knows she’ll ask for it. He knows it’s part of today’s evaluation.
The last one before it’s official.
With a resigned sigh, he snatches it up, tucks it under his arm. His shoulders tense, bracing for something he knows is coming but can’t avoid.
“And don’t forget breakfast.”
“Thanks,” he mutters to AURA.
He doesn’t really mean it.
+ + +
Adam steps into the hallway, the sterile air burning his nostrils. Harsh, white LED lights reflect off the polished walls, searing his retinas. The low hum of machinery vibrates underfoot, a constant reminder that they are on the edge of something monumental.
He walks with heavy, reluctant steps toward the inevitable. He’s always hated these assessments, hated sitting in front of Dr. Boulder while she picks apart his every thought. The thought of what she might dig into today subverts his medication.
He raises his wrist, ready to activate his ComSpec and call Dr. Boulder to confirm his arrival. But before he can press the button, a voice cuts through the quiet.
“Mornin’, princess.”
The voice startles him, his finger jerking away from the button. Adam turns to see Levi Nabal lounging against the wall, his usual smirk plastered on his face. Levi looks annoyingly put-together, his charcoal-gray suit pressed to perfection, every detail sharp and deliberate.
Odd choice of attire for this early in the day.
“Levi,” Adam acknowledges, his voice flat. “You’re up early.”
“Same as you,” he replies, his eyes boring into Adam. There’s always something predatory in Levi’s gaze, like he’s constantly looking for weakness.
“Oh, that’s right,” Levi drawls, “it’s the big day.” His voice is laced with false sympathy. “Sure you’re ready, pal? You look like something the incinerator spat out.” His eyes sweep over Adam’s rumpled uniform, taking in every wrinkle with obvious satisfaction.
Adam straightens, squaring his shoulders. “Just... didn’t sleep well,” he says, voice neutral.
Levi pushes off the wall, moving closer with an infuriating, casual grace. That cologne—expensive, overpowering.
“Well, let’s hope that doesn’t affect your evaluation.” The words are innocent enough, but Adam feels the barb hidden underneath. It’s always there with Levi—everything he says feels like a challenge.
He knows Levi’s playing him, but that doesn’t stop the flash of anger heating his chest.
“I’m fine, all right?”
Levi leans in, his breath hot on Adam’s ear. “Are you? Because we all know what’s at stake here.”
Adam takes a step back, arms crossed now, his shoulder blades pressing against the cold metal wall. Levi takes another step closer, his gaze roving over Adam.
Assessing.
Condescending.
Levi’s voice drops low. “Tell me, do you see their faces when you close your eyes?”
Adam’s fists clench, but he forces himself to stay calm. Levi’s baiting him, and he knows it, but it still stings.
“That’s enough, Levi.”
Levi’s fingers tap against Adam’s chest, light, playful, but the meaning behind the gesture isn’t lost on Adam. “Just looking out for the mission, Elwin,” he says. “We can’t have a pilot who cracks under pressure, now can we?”
Adam forces a tight-lipped smile, but his eyes betray a storm of emotions—anger, doubt, fear. “You mean Commander.”
Odd. Just minutes ago, he choked on the word.
Levi straightens, tugs at his lapels with exaggerated care.
“Well, Commander,” Levi says, the title rolling off his tongue in disdain. “Don’t let me keep you. Big day ahead.”
He offers a mock salute, then turns on his heel. The sound of Levi’s polished shoes clicking against the cement floor echoes like a countdown, each step grating against Adam’s frayed nerves.
Adam watches him disappear down the hall, his hands flexing open and closed at his sides, the urge to hit something almost overwhelming. Levi’s words linger like a bad taste in his mouth, the implications sinking deeper into his mind.
Is Levi right? Is he really ready for this?
Uncertainty lodges in his brain, refusing to let go.
He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, smoothing down his uniform like that will somehow make the doubt disappear.
It doesn’t.
+ + +
Shaking off the encounter, Adam starts down the hall again when a woman in a sleek coat striding past. Her stiletto heels click-clack on the cement floor. A silky scarf wraps around her neck. Below it dangles a pendant, catching the light with each step.
“Zoe,” Adam calls out.
She flinches at the sound of her name, her stilettos pausing mid-click on the metal floor.
“Adam,” she says, turning slowly. Her smile is stiff, professional. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows under her eyes, accentuating the dark circles that makeup fails to fully conceal. “Good mornen.” Her lilted words come out politely but with a subtle detachment, as if she’s going to keep the conversation at arm’s length.
Adam steps toward her, taking in the slight tremor in her hands, the way her fingers fiddle with the silky scarf wrapped snugly around her neck.
Her posture is tense, like she’s holding herself together by sheer will.
“You’re up early,” he says, forced coolness. He’s still rattled from the encounter with Levi, but seeing Zoe like this—frayed and distant—adds a new layer of unease.
“I could say th’ same of you,” she replies, her accent thickening with fatigue. She doesn’t meet his eyes, not fully. Instead, her gaze flickers around, like she’s wanting something to interrupt them.
“Yeah, just nervous for the big day, I suppose,” he says. “And you?”
Zoe’s eyes dart to the side before meeting his again. “Oh, you know, busy day ahead. Levi just sprung a media interview on me this mornen.”
Adam raises an eyebrow. “That’s why he’s so dressed up? And that’s a little short notice, don’t you think?”
Zoe shrugs, a small gesture that takes visible effort. Her shoulders sag slightly.
“It’s fine. Part of the job, yes?”
Adam’s eyes flick to the scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, his brow furrowing. It’s out of place for the usually practical doctor.
“New accessory?”
Zoe’s hand darts to her throat, fingers curling around the scarf with a slight defensiveness. The pendant beneath it swings with the sudden movement.
“Oh, this?” A nervous laugh escapes her lips, too high-pitched, almost brittle. “Just... thought I’d look nice for the interview.”
As she adjusts the scarf, Adam catches a glimpse of discolored skin just above her collarbone. The mark vanishes in an instant, hidden again beneath the silky fabric.
Zoe shifts her weight, glancing down the corridor. “Was there something you needed?”
Adam feels a sudden uncertainty. “I just… I mean, are you all right?” The words sound too stiff, even to him. He wants to ask more, but he stops himself, seeing her tense expression.
“I am fine,” she says, her tone cool, as if that’s all she’s willing to offer. “Is that all?”
Adam opens his mouth, but Zoe cuts him off.
“I really need t’ go. Levi’s waitin’.” Her accent slips back in, stronger than before.
“Zoe, if there’s anything—”
“Ther is’n,” she interrupts, her words clipped and cutting. She steps back, the space between them widening.
“Good luck this mornen.”
And just like that, she turns and walks away. Her hand lingers at her throat, adjusting the scarf again as she disappears around the corner.
He feels helpless, standing there with a dozen questions swirling in his mind, none of them with answers. His hand twitches, almost reaching for his ComSpec to call her back, but he stops himself.
What would he even say?
The ComSpec chirps, pulling him from his reverie with a jolt. A message flashes insistently:
Breakfast, remember? - AURA
Adam blinks, realizing how much time he’s lost. He curses under his breath—ten minutes behind, and now his stomach’s grumble reminds him he hasn’t eaten.
With a reluctant sigh, he lowers his arm. Fine, he thinks, maybe some food will shut both of you up.
+ + +
The mess hall is half-empty, most of the crew busy with launch preparations. The smell of industrial-grade coffee fills the air, mixed with the faint scent of synthetic eggs and something resembling bacon.
Adam moves through the motions, selecting his breakfast without really seeing anything. The rations are smaller again today.
He doesn’t notice.
His mind still back in the hallway with Zoe.
Adam makes his way to the Wardroom. He finds an empty table in the corner, dropping into a seat with a soft grunt, his appetite nonexistent despite the food in front of him.
As he picks halfheartedly at his plate, his gaze drifts to the digital bulletin board on the far wall. Its bright display flickers through different messages, but one in particular catches his eye:
“Conserve to Preserve: Rationing is Everyone’s Duty!”
Adam shakes his head, pushing the eggs around with his fork. The message feels hollow. What good is conservation when, sooner or later, every last supply will run dry, and there’ll be nothing left to save?
The thought of saving causes his eyes to flick upward.
Zoe’s usual spot across the room.
It’s empty now, but he can almost picture her there—focused, always methodical about her work. Fork in one hand, stylus in the other. She’d barely look up, immersed in whatever readout or report had her attention. He remembers the way her lips moved silently as she went over the details.
And then the memory shifts.
Levi’s sitting next to her. They’re have a tense discussion. His voice is just soft enough as to be unintelligible but loud enough to hear its tone—low and dangerous.
He grabs her wrist.
Too tight.
Zoe pulls away. She leans back as far as she can into the corner, arms crossed over her chest, her expression tight, like she was trying to hold something back.
Her reddish, glistening eyes looked past Levi to Adam.
Fear.
Desperation.
That was weeks ago.
And Adam had seen it happen again.
And again.
He hand tightens around his fork, his knuckles white against the steel. He had shrugged it off each time—Zoe was tough, she didn’t need him stepping in.
But now? Now he’s not so sure.
The fork clatters against his tray as he sets it down, his appetite gone.
Something’s not right, and he’s done pretending everything’s fine.
He pushes himself to his feet, the tray forgotten, and strides out of the Wardroom, through the mess hall, and into the hallway.
+ + +
Adam’s thoughts spin in circles, every step carrying him deeper into his concerns about Zoe, about Levi, about what’s happening beneath the surface.
They’ll soon be more than his peers. They’re about to be his responsibility.
Forever.
The thought presses down on him, making everything else blur, his mind slipping into a haze.
That’s when he collides into something.
Startled, Adam stumbles back, almost bumping into the wall. It takes him a moment to process what just happened.
A sleek, unfamiliar android stands in front of him, its frame glinting under the fluorescent lights. It moves too rigidly, too mechanically for a standard unit, and there’s something else. Deep scratches across its chest plate, jagged and fresh, as if it’s been through something it wasn’t designed for.
“Model and owner,” Adam demands, his voice steady but tense.
The android says nothing, only standing there with a blank stare, giving him the cold, unblinking silence of a machine refusing to comply.
“I said, model and owner,” louder this time. It’s an older model. Maybe it’s hard of hearing.
But nothing.
Adam frowns, instinctively reaching for his ComSpec, his thumb hovering over the button to report the damaged unit.
That’s when his eyes catch on Dr. Boulder’s nameplate ahead, gleaming in the light—a reminder of the meeting he’s already late for. He hesitates, curses under his breath, and drops his arm. Later, he tells himself.
He can’t help but return to his lingering concerns for Zoe. As he approaches Dr. Boulder’s door, he promises himself: I won’t let her get hurt. I will protect her.
The door hisses open. The psychologists stands there, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it smooths into polite professionalism.
“Mr. Elwin?” she says, perhaps for the second time.
He startles, his hand running through his hair. He didn’t realize he was already in her doorway.
“Mr. Elwin, I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it.” Her eyes flick to the clock on the wall, and Adam follows her gaze, wincing as he realizes just how late he is.
“I—uh—” He fumbles for words, his mind racing. “Ten minutes late,” he finishes, his voice quieter now, a hint of embarrassment creeping in.
Dr. Boulder nods, her lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s not like you, Adam. Especially for an appointment of this importance.”
Adam feels a flush of shame creep up his neck. He’s always been punctual, always prepared. But these past weeks—it feels like he’s unraveling.
“You’re here now. That’s what matters,” she says, gesturing to the chair across from her desk.
Adam sinks into it. He feels like a child being called into the principal’s office.
His gaze drifts to the objects on her desk—the neatly arranged papers, the digital clock ticking away the minutes until launch, and the bronze Kibotos paperweight.
“Your dream journal?” she asks, breaking the silence, her eyes sliding to his empty hands.
His eyes widen, and he pats his pockets despite knowing it isn’t there. “I—uh—must’ve left it—” He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “Wardroom... in the mess hall. I must have left it there.”
Dr. Boulder raises an eyebrow, her stylus tapping lightly against her tablet. “Are you okay, Adam?”
“It’s fine,” he blurts out, cutting her off. He’s flustered now, off-balance, trying to regain control. “I can remember the important parts.”
“Can you?” she asks, her voice low but piercing. “Because you seem… distracted. More than usual.”
Adam’s fingers drum nervously on the armrest, his mind racing. He catches himself and forces his hands to still, but his thoughts are all over the place—Levi’s words, Zoe’s bruises, the dream.
“I’m fine,” he says, the words coming too fast, too practiced. He’s not, though. He knows it.
“Let’s… just get this over with.”