Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yellow lights pulsed outside of the chamber. A warning. 

COLLISION IMMINENT. PREPARING FOR IMPACT.

Filix did not have to see the alert to know it. Flashes of ionized particles streaked across the window as they sped towards whatever orbiting body the pod had deemed appropriate for landing. A glimpse of orange flared beyond, but the energy from entry produced too great a light to see it clearly. All she could think of was their impending landing.

The pod rumbled. Gratitude for the other clans overwhelmed her. Their designs were faultless; trustworthy beyond doubt. Although the interior of the pod was painted by a violent splash of warning colours, Filix feared not for their safety. The heat shields would hold, as they had for a great number of her clan and other clans alike. 

It was the force of impact she braced for. It came much faster than she anticipated. The pod crashed hard into a crustal surface, the metal of their ship screeching with strain, the vibrations shaking her to her very core. The world outside became dark as ejecta blanketed the windows. For a moment, she worried that it was the end—the whole pod was erupting into shivers and screeches—then suddenly all was still. The pod heaved, letting out one, final breath of life, and settled.

They waited. All was quiet, black, until the pod’s lights pulsed again. White. Soft. Normal. They had landed successfully, and standard functions were back online. The pod had detected no significant damage in the crash. They were safe to disengage.

Still, Filix could not bring herself to move. Her mind was racing, thoughts coursing through her. What had happened to the ship? What had gone so wrong? What had they seen as they flew from the trap that ensnared them?

Others were not so wary.

Across from her was the hiss of a chamber door opening, followed by footsteps on the metal floor of the pod. The click of the chamber wheel spinning echoed loudly through the corridor. Another chamber released. All seemed well, save for the uncertain slide of boots on a floor that was not as level as they were accustomed to. Weary chatter filled the hall. Still foggy, as if from a dream, Filix opened her chamber door. 

For an escape pod built for fifty, it was unseemingly empty. Only a couple dozen of her clan had made it on board. It was surprising–their pod was the last to launch. So many more of their brothers and sisters should have been disengaging their chambers. How many had they left behind? What would become of them? External communications were down as soon as they warped—had this affected the connections between the escape pods?

Filix knew from the main terminal’s flight broadcast that only three of their five pods had launched from the Vessel. Their Vessel, however, was not overcrowded—it was entirely possible that the remaining members of her clan had packed into the other two pods. For their sake, she hoped that was true. She could not erase the terrifying images of the vines that had snagged their ship. The horrors that swam beyond. Whatever they had crashed into, it was not something to be trifled with—it had incredible strength to puncture their Vessel so easily. 

The moment she left her chamber, all eyes were on her. Escall, the leader of their clan and the captain of their Vessel, and Annona, their head warp technician, were gone. Filix did not know if they were aboard one of the launched escape pods or one of the two that had failed. She was all the passengers of Escape Pod One had. Despite the hopeful glances sent her way, she walked past her clanmates. For now, she had nothing to say. Everything she knew, they did as well. They knew their ship, their home, had succumbed to thorns and vines. They knew three pods had departed. They knew their crash landing was—thankfully—uneventful. Filix climbed over to the main terminal to check their status. More chambers emptied into the halls. Still, the pod was far from full.

Upon reaching the terminal, she initiated an environment scan. A crash sounded in the distance. Her heart sped up—Could the other escape pods have landed with them? She knew nothing of where they were. Though glimpses of light and shadow could be spotted through the window as they sailed away from the strangling vines, she could not see what sort of star system they had ended up in. They were fortunate that a suitable landing site had been nearby.

As the pod scanned their surroundings, there was the rumble of another crash. It had only been a few seconds since the last. Filix glanced out of the observation window before her, which had its single eye turned across the landscape. A rocky crust spread out for miles. From what she could see, through dust and dim: Barren. Although finding a planetary oasis would have been ideal, stable ground was vastly more important than rich ecosystems. From firm earth, they could recollect and repair.

Smoke cleared the horizon, black and ashy. If it was one of their pods, it did not have as smooth a landing as they did. As soon as the scan was finished, she would send out a query to the other pods. They would reach them shortly.

Behind the smoke, the sun rose. The first sunrise on a new planet was always enchanting, but Filix heard the audio cue for the completion of the environment scan and all drifting thoughts ceased. She read the report.

MINOR STRUCTURAL INSTABILITIES DETECTED. POCKETS OF BREATHABLE AIR DETECTED. ADEQUATE SOLAR ENERGY DETECTED. VERDICT: HOSPITABLE.

She exhaled her relief. Breathable air meant oxygen—they would easily adapt. Their trees would provide them with plenty of food and water until they contacted the other pods. 

“What is that?”

The voice came from behind her. Thatch had clambered onto the control platform and her eyes gazed out of the window. Filix followed her sightline, and, as others of their clan did so, too, the pod’s interior fell silent.

What Filix had assumed to be the sun was instead a fiery moon. It orbited around the planet, with volcanoes so great and fearsome she could see the tops of them steaming and pulsing with lava, even from such a distance. Awestruck, they watched as it approached. The volcanoes spun as it rotated, and as one aimed its crater towards them, it offered a tantalising peek inside. Red-hot lava bubbled and convected. It boiled and rose until it was almost overflowing the crater, and the crest of a volcanic bomb poked above the molten rock—

“TAKE COVER!” 

***

I wake with a gasp from a dream that is already fading. I am in the village crater, tall, red-barked pines towering around me, the shadow of the launch tower blackening a portion of the night sky. Lanterns pulse occasionally up its length. Above me, hovering just out of reach, is a swirling yellow-green planet—Giant’s Deep. A light flashes from it, and a speck of purple rockets away, disappearing over the crater’s edge. 

A fire crackles beside me as I rest uncomfortably inside of a sleeping bag. My face is starkly cold from dew condensation. I don’t feel like I got an especially great sleep. My thoughts spin hazily around in my skull and I am pretty sure I slept right on top of a pointed rock for at least half of the night. Tins of marshmallows are scattered around, and my Signalscope sits on the ground nearby. Groggily, I sit up, and there is a coarse chuckle from across the glowing embers of the fire.

“There’s our pilot!” Slate crows. They sit on a nearby log, stoking the coals with a freshly stripped branch. As always, they don their heat-resistant gloves and their visor, turned up over their forehead. “Enjoying your pre-launch campout under the stars, I see.”

And just like that, my mind clears. Oh, right. The launch. My stomach twists, and I can’t tell if I’m excited or terrified. Or both. Suddenly, I see Slate’s choice of gear in a new light: I hope they hadn’t made any last-minute adjustments to my ship while I slept.

“So, it’s launch day, eh?” Slate continues. “Seems like only yesterday you joined the space program, and suddenly here you are, leaving on your first solo voyage. What do you say—ready to get this beauty off the ground? It’s all fueled up and ready to go!”

Slate, my mentor, is much older than I am and has supervised the launch of every single astronaut into space. They’re the space program’s lead engineer—only engineer, really—and you can tell. Behind the wrinkles and droopy ears of age is the sharpness of an incredible mind. Wit shines in all four of their eyes, and the blackness of oil and grease perpetually darkens the blue of their skin. For better or for worse, they champion the program and construct all of our gear, although their one fault is that they perhaps suffer from too much enthusiasm for their craft.

I look up at the tall wooden platform that rises from the sawed-off base of an ancient tree. It had been chopped long ago—rotting out from the inside, it threatened the safety of the villagers. Now, bolstered by lumber and bolts, it serves as the sturdy base of our launch tower. I can barely make out its shadow among the twinkling lights of the stars, but it’s up there: My ship. 

And, it truly is my ship. Slate built it just for me, equipped with all their latest modifications, though I had learned to fly in its predecessor, which had eventually evolved into Gabbro’s ship. I have fond memories of that ship, too, but even fonder are the memories of my ship, which Slate had mostly finished by the time Gabbro was going on longer and longer training trips. I filled it with my equipment and decorated it with my posters. The pilot’s seat is tilted back right where I like it; the cushions are stuffed to perfection by my own hands. I had spent the better half of the last two years learning its intricacies—every nut and bolt accounted for, every jitter memorised. I landed on the Attlerock for the first time in that ship, Gossan by my side, of course. I had studied every system on board with Slate, and even convinced them to modify a few. Learning how to pilot had been a bit easier the past year without the pressure of Gabbro in the cabin with me, even though they never really had any comments on my flying and mostly just sat by my food stores, trying to toss marshmallows into their mouth. Now, I can’t help but miss them. But, maybe I will see them soon.

Today is the day—my first solo voyage in my ship. I can’t think of anything more emotional—the joy and terror circle each other inside me. I trained for years for this day. It’s finally here. I feel relieved. I feel faint. But most of all, I feel accomplished. 

Still…I’m not quite ready to leave my training days behind. The years seemed to linger for so long, and now, looking back, I see that they all but flew by. I would have loved if today was just like any other day, and Slate and I tweaked the systems aboard my ship, or Gossan and I practiced establishing a stable orbit. I squirm out of my sleeping bag and pick up a nearby stick. Sitting by the crackling fire, I roast a marshmallow.

“You’re sure you fixed the retro-rockets?” I ask. Though they’re notoriously temperamental, I ask now only under the guise of prudence. In reality, I want to bask in one final pre-flight conversation with one of my mentors, delaying the inevitable.

“That was only a problem one time,” Slate scoffs. “And then maybe a few times after that, but hey, no reason to dwell on the past, right? Anyway, you'll need to get the launch codes from Hornfels at the Observatory before you can lift off. Just bring those here once you've said your goodbyes or whatever.”

Goodbyes. I wish they hadn’t said that. A panic rises in my chest and my marshmallow catches fire. I suppose something must flicker across my face, because as I rush to blow out the flames, Slate gives me a suspicious look.

“Not having second thoughts, are you?”

No, I think reflexively. And of that, I am certain. Ever since Feldspar hauled back that piece of Nomai ruin from the Attlerock, my path was set. All I could think about was going off and adventuring in space, just like them, and just like Chert, Riebeck, and Gabbro after them. 

“Not a chance,” I say, loading up a new marshmallow and making a mental note to keep a better eye on it. “The ship’s looking good?” I add as a nervous afterthought.

“It’s looking great! Hey, you might get a kick out of this—I've repurposed the spare oxygen tank to be used as an extra combustion chamber!"

“What does that do?”

Slate waves their hand as they explain. "Well, it's all very conceptual, but basically, it's like taking a regular second-stage booster and strapping a bigger rocket onto it. Isn't that great?"

“...Is that safe?”

They flash a toothed grin. “Probably!”

Perhaps asking Slate more questions isn’t a great way to temper my nerves before my launch. 

I roast my marshmallow until golden and pop it into my mouth before getting up and tucking my Signalscope into my belt. Saying a temporary goodbye to Slate, I head off towards the village centre, hoping that somebody—anybody— will have some more encouraging words to send my way.

The scent of fresh sap greets me as I walk the dirt path from the outskirts of town. The pure glow of the sunrise crests the horizon, and I can’t help but think that, despite my apprehension, today is truly the perfect day for launch. No wind, no rain, no tumultuous roars of a geyser storm—just perfect sunlight filtering through the pine needles. 

As I turn the bend into town, I find Mica stationed beside their model ship, making adjustments to the starboard rockets. Timber Hearth will one day have two engineers in the space program, though Mica has been spending a little too much time around Slate as of late. Can the program handle that many explosions?

As I approach, the hatchling glances up eagerly, looking at me through a pair of borrowed engineering goggles.

“Hey! It’s you!” They’re very nearly vibrating with excitement. I suppose I wasn’t unlike that too long ago, watching Feldspar shoot off into space. Still—I can’t imagine that anyone is that eager about my launch. Everything has already been done, other than documenting some Nomai translations. It’s not like I’ll be landing on a new planet or anything, like Feldspar used to nearly every time they headed out on one of their big trips. I’m not nearly that talented.

“Slate said you're blasting off in your ship today,” Mica continues. “I'm really excited to see the launch! Aren't you gonna go into space? Aren't you? You better not have changed your mind!”

I laugh. At least chatting with Mica makes me feel better. I nudge them playfully.

“Hey, I’m still going. I just want to practice with a pro before I leave.”

“Aww, you're just saying that.” Their eyes flash down to the model ship in their hands. “...But if you really want to practice with me, I guess I could help you out a little. Want to try out my model ship? Slate says it's just like the real thing, only less likely to start a fire.”

…And there it is. 

Regardless, I take Mica’s model ship and place it on the makeshift launch platform. As the sun climbs higher into the sky, the belly of the village crater comes to life, shadows banished to the corners behind the wooden houses that encircle the central geyser pool. Two of the geysers, long inactive, are boarded over to prevent curious hatchlings from getting stuck inside. The third erupts right on cue, and water spritzes the roots of the trees around the crater. 

White flags wave in the gentle wind from the inactive geysers. If I had to guess, Mica placed them there themself to act as landing markers. I take to the controls of the model ship and engage the downward thrusters.

Almost immediately, the model ship spins out of control, flipping into the geyser pool below and landing with a disheartening splash.

“Wow!” Mica exclaims, sliding up beside me. “That was surprising. You'll...you'll be okay flying the big one, right?”

My ears fold back and I hit the RETURN button on the controls. The model ship warps back to the launch platform.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine,” I say, before hastily giving my goodbye and continuing into town, hoping Mica doesn’t see the purple on my cheeks.

A strange, longing nostalgia fills me as I pass by familiar faces. My first launch could last as long as my stores do, and that means it might be months until I see the village again. That thought makes me slow my pace, and I take my time as I meander through the centre of town.

There’s Porphy, taste-testing their signature sap wine, the resinous scent bitter in my nose. They congratulate me on reaching my launch day, and suggest that us and Gossan open up a bottle of ‘the Good Stuff’ upon my return. I don’t have the heart to tell them that the last time I tried ‘the Good Stuff,’ I was sick to my stomach—and grounded from training—for a week. Still, I notice a cask of wine sitting behind them, fondly labelled ‘Hatchling’s Launch Day’. Porphy always seals up a new batch to mark a special occasion, and I’m heartened that they think my launch is one such day. I also spot a few casks labelled ‘House Fire’ and ‘Structural Collapse’, however, and decide to not think too much into it.

Next up is Rutile, the village mayor, sitting in their rocking chair by the space program exposition Gossan and Hornfels set up ages ago. Rutile likes to loiter around the expo—less to provide answers to any questions the hatchlings might have about the program and more to scare any potential recruits off. Still, I think they harbour a deep sense of pride for what their fellow Hearthians have accomplished, even if it’s led to the village catching fire far more often than it used to. Which is…saying something.

I remember the day Gossan and Hornfels dragged all of the vintage equipment out of the back rooms of the museum and into the village centre. Hal and I had watched them with wide eyes, and we spent the following days reverently touching pieces of history. A replica of the Hearthian flag that sat on the moon. The pilot’s seat from the first launch into space. Feldspar hadn’t yet disappeared, but they had already passed into legend. They planted that flag. They sat in that seat. 

Among the memorabilia is a projector and an uplink to our orbital satellite, the SkyShutter. I glance above me and see it race past the village, towards the Nomai ruins to the east. The projector is shockingly vacant. It’s usually crowded with hatchlings eager to catch a glimpse of themselves with one of the satellite’s two onboard cameras. But, apparently, there’s something even more exciting happening today.

Heading further up towards the Observatory, I meet with Marl, our tree-keeper, staring down the tall redwood at the far side of town with a vengeance. They aren’t much older than Gabbro. When we were all hatchlings Marl fell from that redwood and broke their arm, and ever since they’ve had it out for that poor tree—though they’ll never admit it. Moraine would be gutted if they ever managed to chop it down; they like to listen in on the astronauts with their Signalscope, and the tree offers fantastic reception without having to hike out of town. I stop to chat for a moment, more so to attempt to discourage Marl from swinging the axe they hold at the ready than anything else. After a long ramble about how the space program could really do with a new launch tower, they ask me to say hi to Esker if I manage to get to the moon. The two had grown close after they volunteered to help Esker cultivate a new strain of trees for space. I promise them I will.

The sound of the twangy strum of a banjo brings me to Gneiss. They smile an affectionate smile when they see me, and I wave. Gneiss crafts all of the instruments in the village, and, as far as I know, all the instruments in our solar system. Ever since Feldspar became the first Hearthian to play music in space with their harmonica, it’s become something of a tradition for astronauts to bring their instruments with them on their voyages. Gabbro has their flute, Chert their drum, and Riebeck has a banjo not too unlike the one Gneiss holds in their arms as they rock in their chair. I’ll get my instrument after I return from my first solo launch. I wonder what it will be, starkly aware that there’s a reason why I never got to play in the village orchestra.

Beyond, I spot two familiar hatchlings sitting on their front porch with a pair of radios. I can’t help but grin as I skip over to them. 

“Hullo, astronaut!” Tephra says cheerily. 

“If it isn’t my favourite troublemaker,” I greet. So many days have I found myself unwinding by playing games with Tephra and their quieter sibling, Galena. I’m going to miss keeping them from hassling the adults in town. “What’s with the radios?”

Tephra huffs, annoyed. “We wanted to play hide and seek, but Moraine won't let us borrow their Signalscope because it's ‘really delicate’ and ‘not supposed to be thrown around like that.’” They look at my belt, and suddenly their eyes light up. “Hey, hey, can we use your Signalscope? Can we? Can we, please? We'll even let you be ‘it’!"

I glance down. I shouldn’t have brought it with me from the campsite. But now Tephra and Galena are watching me with pouting faces and I just can’t say no. Sighing, I say, “Sure, let’s play.”

The looks on their faces justify my little detour. I close my eyes, hear the pattering of small boots on packed dirt, and count to thirty. When I open them again, the hatchlings and their radios are gone. I pull out my Signalscope and flick it to the right frequency. It isn’t the first time we’ve played this game. 

The device is relatively small and compact, with a parabolic microphone attached to a telescopic viewfinder. Its usefulness is second only to the Little Scout, and, now, the translator tool—if it even works. I scan the village until my Signalscope picks up music. An upbeat little tune with a tinny sound to it plays from the device’s speaker. Honing in on it, I look through my viewfinder, until I lock onto the radio signal over by the waterfall. 

Spinel, ears drooping beneath their hat, stands by the rushing water, fishing rod in hand and line in the pool below. 

“Fishing rhyme, fishing rhyme...Singing helps me pass the time,” they hum idly, before noticing me walking by. They turn to me expectantly, the way older Hearthians do when they want undivided attention. I pause my search for a quick second to chat.

“You're leaving the crater?” they ask. “Guess we'll all be a little busier without you around to lend a hand.” They glance up into the sky and whistle. “That big water planet, Giant's Deep—That's where I'd go."

“Why’s that?” I prompt on cue, though I think I can guess at the answer.

“One time, after the rest of the village had left to sleep and it was just the two of us sitting around the campfire, Gabbro told me about their first trip to Giant's Deep,” Spinel begins with a dramatic flair. I wasn’t expecting a whole story. “They landed their ship easily enough in the waves, but couldn't see too far down, on account of how murky the water was, I guess. Too dark. Gabbro wanted to see what lay beneath the surface, so they decided to travel deeper. They travelled down, and down...But suddenly, Gabbro couldn't go any further.”

“Yeah,” I say impatiently, “Giant's Deep has a current you can't pass through.”

“Sure, okay, but shut up a minute,” Spinel huffs. “This is the good part. As though exercising a will of its own, the water was refusing to let Gabbro go any deeper. It held Gabbro back...almost as if it were trying to protect them from something. And then, in the terrible darkness, Gabbro saw it! The tentacle of some hideous beast!”

“...Was there sap wine involved during Gabbro's campfire story?”

“Come to think of it, don't you have somewhere you should be exploring that isn't here?” Spinel grumbles.

I flash them a good-natured smile. Spinel isn’t usually very fanciful, but they go all-in for an edge-of-your-seat story. “Good fishing,” I farewell.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t die out in space.”

It’s as earnest a send-off as I could expect from them.

As I walk the path up towards the Observatory, rounding the back of the waterfall that cascades down from the top of the crater, I spot a little someone crouching on an outcrop below. I hop down and poke Tephra on the shoulder. They cross their arms indignantly and frown.

“Awww, you found me? But my hiding spot was super good!” they say. “…Well, I wanted to hide in the Observatory, but Hornfels said I was ‘making a nuisance of myself.’”

Definitely sounds like Hornfels. Hal and I had garnered our fair share of lectures from them ourselves by messing around in the Observatory.

“Don't forget, you have to find both of us okay?” Tephra reminds me. 

“Sure thing,” I say. “Any idea where Galena could be?”

Tephra scrunches up their nose and shakes their head pointedly. I chuckle, and head off to continue my search. 

The signal from Galena’s radio is playing over by Gneiss’ house. I drop down over the small ledge beside it and spot Galena hiding on the rock face next to the roof a little too late. Gneiss gives me a look and taps their nose, and I roll my eyes playfully, heading back the way I came to climb across the corrugated metal sheets to reach the winning hatchling.

“Congratulations,” I say when I reach them. “I already found Tephra.”

“...I won?” they ask in a small voice. “Thanks for playing with us.” 

“Always,” I say, before helping them down. Tephra is already waiting for us in front of their house. I drop off Galena’s radio and lift them onto the porch.

“You have to play with us later, okay?” Tephra says eagerly. 

“Okay,” I say lightly. Galena gives me a hug and I push Tephra’s hat down over their eyes teasingly. “Stay out of trouble, you two.”

Somehow, leaving the two hatchlings behind is the hardest thing I’ve done all day. Heading up the crater’s edge towards the Observatory, I know it isn’t the end of difficult goodbyes.

I think that I should check in with Tektite on the firewatch platform—there’s no one better to give me the latest dirt from around the village—but when I reach the bottommost steps I’m met with a messily written note saying that they’ve gone off to investigate smoke coming from Youngbark Crater. At least I’m not the only one starting fires. I turn back, to a fork in the road, and notice another note attached to the signpost.

“Hey! Come say hi to your old flight coach before your launch. I’ve got zero-g training set up if you want a refresher.

–Gossan”

It would be pretty rude to ignore my flight coach on launch day, so I use the note as an excuse to make a short diversion to the Zero-G Cave. Once I get the launch codes from Hornfels, it’ll be hard to justify delaying my liftoff.

Arkose, the little rascal, is throwing stones next to the cave entrance, into a fenced-off area filled with crystals. Blue and green light explodes as their stones arc through the air, the colours lingering long afterward, shimmering like an aurora. 

“Hi astronaut!” they greet, flinging another rock at the crystals. “You know the patch of ghost matter inside this fence? Gossan said it used to be bigger when they were a hatchling. 'Cause ghost matter evaporates. It just takes a suuuper long time to go away. I hope there's still ghost matter in the village when I'm a grown-up. Ghost matter is awesome!”

It wasn’t all too long ago that Hal and I were throwing rocks across the fence, though I’ve since learned to respect the invisible matter that waits beyond. 

“You know ghost matter is how Tektite lost their foot, right?” I caution.

Arkose gapes. “Woah, really? That is… so cool! ” Unbothered, they throw another rock. At least I tried to be an adult and warn them.

Gossan, I find standing in the mouth of the cave, wearing their flight jumpsuit and the same red scarf they always wear. It’s a memory from a time when Feldspar was with us, when they and Gossan had trained all the new astronauts together. Felspar had an identical scarf, cut from the same cloth. They had been close friends. It was a horrible way to lose someone.

Gossan is dusting off their space helmet, inspecting their work with three eyes. I always have a difficult time drawing my gaze away from the pink scar tissue that covers the fourth. Their left ear is torn from the same accident. It isn’t a day I’m particularly fond of recalling, and I doubt even Porphy sealed a cask of wine to commemorate it. Slate and Gossan had never been on quite the same page, but after that day their relationship never fully healed. It was sad to see from two of the people I look up to most. It would be nice to all sit around a campfire after my launch and share stories, but getting Slate and Gossan in the same clearing together is just asking for an altercation to unfold.

“Hey, I thought I might see you before the big launch,” Gossan says upon noticing me. “Nerves getting the better of you?”

Unlike everyone else’s, Gossan’s teasing actually makes me feel better. No one believes in me more than my flight coach—except for Hal, but their encouragement doesn’t feel as authentic as Gossan’s. When Gossan said I was ready for my first solo voyage, I believed them. They established the space program with Feldspar, Hornfels, and Slate, and had trained every astronaut Timber Hearth has produced, having been rather familiar with zero-g navigation from their stint as a miner back in the day. Would Feldspar have been as legendary a pilot without Gossan backing them up? Some would say Feldspar was equal parts talent and luck, so I suppose it didn’t really matter.

“I’m a little nervous, yeah,” I admit.

“Good. Everyone should be a bit nervous going into space. I got cocky during my first flight and nearly put a new crater on the moon. Still, I was never as green as you.”

“Hey! I’ve gotten better!”

“Think so, do you?” Gossan questions with a playful smirk. “Feel like proving it to your old flight coach? There’s a ‘satellite’—which is definitely not just a piece of broken mining equipment—set up down in the Zero-G Cave and in need of repairs.”

I gaze longingly at the lift down to the mines. Distantly, echoing through the caverns, I hear rocks crumbling. That must be Tuff, who seems to be the only one other than Tektite not waiting to watch my launch. I don’t hold it against them—Tuff never was one for space travel. Even hearing the stories around the campfire makes them queasy. I would love to jump down there and practice one last time, but…

“Nah,” I say after a long moment of debate, “I’m ready for the real deal.”

Gossan lets out a short laugh. “Darn right you are. Don’t get yourself killed out there, you hear? Not after I’ve put this much work into training you.” They clap my shoulder fondly with a hand, and can’t disguise the pride in their eyes. “Go on, go make Outer Wilds Ventures proud.”

I wish I could express how much that means.

All that’s left now is the Observatory. It stands grandly at the end of the path, its telescope pointing to the stars. I still haven’t said my farewell to Hal, but there is no place they’ll more likely be than inside of the museum.

Hal has been my best friend ever since we hatched. There isn’t a place on the planet where I don’t have some sort of memory of the two of us causing trouble. We’re too similar, the townsfolk said whenever we got trapped in a geyser or fell out of a tree. It’s true, too—from the moment the museum opened on the lower level of the Observatory, boasting exhibits gathered by Feldspar and prepped by Hornfels, we were obsessed. Obsessed with space, with the vastly different planets that fill our solar system, and obsessed with the mysteries that surround them.

Hal took a special interest in the Nomai. Countless ruins have been uncovered on nearly every planet. We have an archaeologist, Riebeck, to determine what this or that mural means, or what a certain relic is, or how the Nomai would have lived and how they differed from us. The Nomai weren’t secretive—they left all their artifacts right there for us to find. Scrolls filled shelves in their houses, walls full of text lined their cities, their script glowing with a curious purple. The only thing we didn’t know was how to read it all. That was, until Hal came along. And me, too, I guess.

Working closely with Riebeck, we practically lived in the museum, pouring over documents and codes. It was a sort of game when we were younger, growing into a side project for me as I entered the space program and a full-time job for Hal. Eventually, it was the piece of Nomai ruin that Feldspar brought back all those years ago that finally cracked it. My first launch isn’t just my first launch—it’s the first in situ test of the translation tool we built from nothing but fragments of conversations. 

Everyone is excited to learn more about the advanced, ancient race that once was so prolific in our star system. If it hadn’t been for them, we would have never been able to get as far into space as we have. The warp technologies that our Scouts use are salvaged from Nomai artifacts, the gravity crystals that keep us stationary in our ships borrowed from Nomai ruins on Brittle Hollow. Frankly, I owe everything to them, and getting to try out the translator tool across the solar system is in its own way a dedication to the species that came before us. Maybe we will even learn how they died out.

Hal is waiting outside the museum entrance, a cloth tied around their head and their satchel bulging with scraps of equipment and rolled papers. They wave me over anxiously.

“Hey, hey, it’s my favourite astronaut! Launch day at last, huh, buddy?” they greet, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and squeezing amicably. “It’s the translator tool’s inaugural flight, too! I’m so excited it’s making me nauseous. Just think—you’ll be able to translate any Nomai text you want, anywhere you are.”

Currently, the tool is loaded on my ship, already sitting in its custom holster at the waist of my spacesuit. It’s a humble-looking device—a large screen for ease of reading, a handle, and a text scanner. But the technology behind it is ingenious, and with the click of a button I should be able to instantly translate any Nomaian writings I come across during my voyage.

“The two of us put a lot of hours into inventing that tool, so don’t break it, okay?” Hal says with a nervous laugh. “...Oh, geez. Do not break it.” Their ears flicker back, and they give me an apologetic look. “Ugh, ignore me, okay? I’m just nervous. And I’m not even the one going into space! How are you feeling?”

“I’m excited!” I say, though I feel the words strain in my throat.

Hal doesn’t notice. “Good! You’ve only been waiting for this day since we were hatchlings. I can’t wait to see all your training pay off! So, what’s the dirt? You here to see the new Nomai statue?”

That takes me aback. “New statue?”

Hal’s jaw drops. “You haven’t heard? Gabbro brought it back with them from Giant’s Deep, and Hornfels just finished prepping it for display. Come on.” They gesture into the museum, and I follow. Walking down the hall, we pass a couple of old photos marking the trailblazers of the space program: Feldspar, Hornfels, Gossan, and Slate. Oh, and Esker. I always forget that they’re a founder, too. At the end of the hall, just before the turn into the museum and observatory, Hal points out the statue—although it’s impossible to miss.

The statue is larger than life, looking even grander next to Hal, who, especially since the statue is displayed on a pedestal, is absolutely dwarfed. It depicts a Nomai head, stretching far forward from its shoulders, fur coiling around its neck. Three eyes closed in tranquility centre its face, framed by three horns that curve like tree branches. A brassy collar hangs around its neck. The detail is astonishing—the preservation second to none. I’m amazed no one has mentioned it to me, but I suppose no one wanted to distract me from my approaching launch.

“This is it right here. Neat, huh?” Hal continues, gazing up at it in awe. “Makes me wish we could see what a real live Nomai looks like, but I guess this is as close as we’ll ever get. Check it out—looks like they had fur! Fur is weird. This is the first fully intact statue ever found, you know. And for how old it is, it’s in great shape!”

I cast them a look. Hal shrugs bashfully. 

“...Ah geez, I got a little carried away there.”

I grin and glance back at the statue. “Where’d you say it came from?”

“From Giant’s Deep! Gabbro fished it out of the oceans and brought it back here for study. Hornfels doesn’t know much about it yet, just that it’s crazy old and super tough. I wonder why the Nomai carved it? Apparently, Gabbro went back to Giant’s Deep to try to learn more about the statue. Maybe they’ll find some answers there.”

If there are Nomai finds this exquisite on Giant’s Deep, I definitely have to make my way over. It’s a bit ambitious for my first solo flight, though, and I still have Esker to say hi to on Marl’s behalf. Shoot—I still have launch codes to collect!

Leaving Hal to gawk at the statue, I make my way deeper into the museum.

The village museum is fantastic, and I don’t think that just because I practically grew up in it. It has an impressive collection of exhibits that are sure to make any curious hatchling eager to go to space. It certainly worked on me. From real Nomai remains to an interactive gravity crystal display and a little anglerfish swimming around in its enclosure, the museum is packed with discoveries. I notice a new exhibit, too, as I head up the ramp to the observatory: A description of our (relatively) novel deep space satellite, which launched a couple years ago and provides the real-time maps all of the Outer Wilds Ventures astronauts use, thanks to an upgrade installed a little while back.

Upstairs, within the dome of the Observatory, I am greeted with a familiar tableau: The model of our solar system spinning around on its display and Hornfels off in a darkened corner of the room, typing some sort of code into a computer terminal. Not only are they one of our best astronomers, with a keen interest in astrophysics, Hornfels acts as our ground control. If anything goes wrong on my flight, I can radio Hornfels for assistance, and they’ll send Gossan or one of the other astronauts out to fetch me if needed. They’re nearly always by their computer, which is reassuring—a response will be quick. I know most of why they linger around the terminal is because of Gabbro, who has a reputation of ignoring contact attempts. Hornfels complains frequently about the radio silence, and that’s probably one of the reasons why Gabbro was so quick to deliver the Nomai statue—it will surely keep Hornfels off their back for a few weeks, at least.

“Hey, Hornfels,” I say, meeting them at the computer. They turn and, upon seeing me, throw up their hands praisingly and flash a big smile. 

“There you are! I just finished pre-flight observations, and local conditions are good. Time to get our newest astronaut off the ground! And you’ll be our first astronaut ever equipped with a Nomai translator tool!”

Hornfels, the youngest and arguably least insane of the founders, has been eagerly watching over the development of the translator tool. At first, I think they were just happy to see Hal and I doing something nondestructive, but then we started getting results. They, like Hal, can’t wait for me to get off the ground and start testing. After all, I’ll be sending back actual data on my voyage, something not every astronaut so reliably does. There will probably be a shiny new museum exhibit dedicated to our work before my ship even lands on Timber Hearth again.

Hornfels lets out a titter. “I confess, I’ve been giddy all day just thinking about it. We’re better equipped than ever to unravel the mysteries of the Nomai. You and Hal should be very proud of your work! Tell me, what’s your plan once you’re in space?”

That…catches me off guard. For all the years I’ve spent waiting for my first launch, I haven’t really considered exactly what I’ll do when my ship finally breaks through the atmosphere. After talking with the other Hearthians in my attempt to delay the inevitable, I have plenty of great starting points. Of course, I have the translator tool, which I’m itching to use; then there’s Giant’s Deep to explore, where the Nomai statue was found. Brittle Hollow houses countless Nomai ruins and Riebeck, who I’m sure is eager to have a chat with me, is stationed there. And Marl asked me to swing by the Attlerock…

“...I think I’ll start with something small,” I confess, my mind still swirling with possibilities. Hornfels gives me a commending look.

“You’d prefer to ease into things? That’s a sensible plan! More sensible than most of our astronauts tend to be, and that’s a fact. Do you think you’ll go to the Attlerock, then? Our moon would be a safe place to travel to and get your bearings in space, and I’m sure Esker would appreciate the visit. Plus, we don’t know what the ancient Nomai ruins on the moon are, or why they were built. You could put your new translator tool through its paces!”

That seems like a good idea. The more I think about it, the more I convince myself that the Attlerock is a great place to start. I’ll feel out my ship, try out my translator, and fulfill my promise to Marl. It’s where the piece of Nomai ruin that inspired me to join the program was found, too. It’s perfect. With my nerves starting to reach critical mass, familiar territory is probably the best way to get my space-legs.

“Well, then, looks like all that’s left is to send you off,” Hornfels continues. “You’ll be needing the launch codes.” They pull an unassuming slip of paper from their pocket and hand it to me. “Here they are. Best get off the ground before Slate makes any more modifications to your ship, eh? Good luck out there! And let me know if I can help you with anything.”

And that’s it. All I have left to do is get back to the launch tower and sail off into the cosmos. With my stomach twisting, I say goodbye and descend the stairs to the museum. I stare at the little slip of paper in my hands as I walk back to the entrance. That little, wrinkled slip of paper. It’s all that separates me from beginning the journey I have waited for all my life. I feel like it should weigh more, or feel more substantial. But that’s it—I am finally ready to head off into the unknown.

I am so preoccupied with the slip of paper that I nearly miss the Nomai statue spinning around to meet me. Nearly.

I freeze and stare, mouth agape. The statue slides unnaturally across the wooden pedestal, all on its own. It turns until it points right at me, and then, without warning, its three eyes open. A haunting purple glow emanates from the statue, and it’s impossible to look away. I feel a strange tugging in my mind, and memories from my day play back before my eyes, from waking up beside the campfire on the outskirts of town with Slate, to meeting Gossan in the cave, to getting the launch codes from Hornfels. The images fade, and the statue’s glow dims, though its eyes remain fixed open. 

A moment passes before I can remember to breathe.

What just happened? Was that all…real? I glance around, but the museum is empty. No one else witnessed the strange event.

I meet Hal outside of the Observatory, where they're leaned up against the crater’s edge whittling a branch down with their knife.

“Hey, hey!” they greet, smiling, clueless that anything is amiss. “So did you get a good look at that Nomai statue?”

“The statue looked at me and opened its eyes!” I exclaim before stopping to think if what I say sounds crazy or not. “The statue turned towards me, and I saw all these purple lights, and my memories played back—just the ones from today, from when I woke up—and it felt like something weird was happening to my brain, and—”

Hal steadies me. “Whoa, whoa—The statue was doing what?”

I explain.

“Its eyes opened, and you saw images from your own memories and glowing lights flying around?” Hal asks when I finish. 

I nod vehemently.

“You mean like a hallucination?” My ears drop, and Hal continues, speaking with a concerned tone, “Listen, no offense, but…are you sure you’re okay to launch? Like, medically speaking?”

I guess I should have expected that, but I stand my ground.

“What? No! That statue is definitely weird,” I insist. Hal’s eyes narrow skeptically.

“...I mean, if you’re saying it happened, then…I guess maybe it did. But why? Hornfels tried everything to get the statue’s eyes to open, and nothing like this ever happened to them.”

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “There’s no writing on the statue? No…operation manual?”

Hal laughs, then quickly stifles themself upon seeing my serious expression. 

“I don’t think you’re going to get any answers from the museum statue,” they say, “but Gabbro said they were going back to Giant’s Deep. Dunno which island they’re on, though. Maybe they’d be able to tell you more? On the other hand, Gabbro’s, y’know, Gabbro, so maybe you’d be better off searching for more info on your own.”

I don’t know what to say. I glance down at the launch codes in my hand. Hal makes their best attempt to cheer me up.

“...Geez, now I’m really jealous you’re going into space! Hey, see if you can use our translator tool to find out more about the statue, okay?” They give me a hug, concern still etching their face. I try to ignore it. “Good luck, and safe flying!” Hal says at last, letting me go. I don’t feel particularly reassured.

The village crater seems quieter than it normally does as I trot down towards the launch tower lift, over by my campfire that I am almost certain Slate is still making good use of. Visions of the statue flicker through my mind. What I originally thought was a beautiful carving turns sinister as I linger on it. Its horns are less like tree branches and more like Dark Bramble vines, erratically twisting around its head. Its eyes are far from serene, but empty and forever-gazing. I tremble.

Not too far from my camp, I run into Tephra, who stands outside of Rutile’s house all by themself. They take me by surprise, especially when they greet me.

“Hullo, astronaut!” they say. “Are you going into space now? Are you going into space and never coming back like Feldspar did?”

I blink. “...What?”

Tephra absently picks up a stick from the ground and shuffles in that timid way hatchings do when they know they’ve brought up a delicate subject.

"Yeah, um, Hornfels says Feldspar went away into space and didn’t come back. Hornfels says Feldspar was the best pilot ever, but no one knows what happened to them."

“Well, Hornfels probably shouldn’t be telling you stuff like that,” I chide.

"Hornfels says that, too. But if Feldspar disappeared, you might disappear, too, right? You’re not as good as Feldspar, so you should be really careful not to get lost."

It’s a nice sentiment, but after the statue weirdness I’m too on-edge to be having this conversation. 

“Yeah,” I say, patting them on the head, “I will be.” 

As I walk away, I can’t help but shake my head. Maybe I would have been much better off just going straight to the Observatory and blasting off this morning. 

Stumbling back into camp, Slate greets me with a raised stick.

“Looks like you’re ready for takeoff! The excitement of a launch is fun and all, but I can’t wait to get back to working on the new ship. We’re working on fixing the autopilot’s avoidance system for this one!” They glance awkwardly at my ship. “...Uh, sorry.”

Distractedly, I wave them off.

“I learned to fly without autopilot. I’ll be fine.”

I gather a few of my belongings from around the fire, my canteen and a tin of marshmallows included, and start to hike up to the lift, when—

“Hey, hold up a sec!”

My nerves are reaching a breaking point. I just want to get lift-off over with already before I really do get cold feet. So, I nod Slate’s way and back myself into the lift.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say quickly, “I got the launch codes.”

Slate gives me an incredulous look. "What? No, I was going to tell you about using the ship log to set destination markers for locations you’ve visited before. It’s a brilliant feature, if I say so myself. Added it last night. Dead useful. And the risk it poses of shorting out the fuel regulator and causing the ship to explode is so minimal that only Gossan would worry about it."

I knew they had been tinkering up there while I wasn’t looking!

Trying not to let the news of an unvetted and untested modification to my ship dampen my mood, I give them a thumbs-up. “Use the ship log to mark a location I want to revisit. Got it.”

“‘Wow, Slate! How do you come up with these incredible ideas?’ Oh, I do the best I can with what I’ve got. Really, you’re too kind."

I roll my eyes. “Slate, you are a technological marvel.”

"...Whoa, say that again! Please? That sounds so good when it’s not sarcastic."

“Okay, okay,” I say. “I’m actually off now.”

“Don’t hurt the ship.”

It’s touching, how much they care.

This is it. I input the launch codes and pocket the paper Hornfels gave me as the lift begins to rise. The trip up is faster than I want it to be. There is no time to think, no time to stall—before I know it, it's right in front of me: My ship.

I know every part of it, just like I know every part of the village, and every Hearthian below me. I’ve been so worried about leaving Timber Hearth behind. Isolation isn’t a thing on my home planet, and it’s something I could never truly experience until I made my first solo flight. How terrifying, to leave all that you know, all that you care for, all that has made you who you are—behind? But as the sun begins to fade, another day drawing to its close, I regard my ship with all the love and tenderness I have for Timber Hearth. What is it but an extension of my home? Of my mentors: Hornfels, Gossan, and Slate? The translation tool is the product of years of me and my best friend working together. Long nights, early mornings, restless sleeps. 

Wherever I go in the universe, I’ll carry my home with me. 

The gravity beam switches on as my ship detects me nearby. I float in its purple light—yet another science borrowed from the Nomai—and land in my ship, the hatch sealing behind me. My space suit, patched from rough landings and emblazoned with the Outer Wilds Ventures logo, hangs in a cubby to my right, with my trusty Little Scout beside it. I place my Signalscope on the shelf next to it. To my left, my ship’s reactor and a gravity crystal glow. At my back sits the navigational computer and log that will store all of my discoveries over the course of my flight. And, before me, the controls, positioned within the dome of the windshield, which is filmed in gold to dampen the harmful radiation of our sun. I sit down at the controls, strapping in with a safety harness Slate was reluctant to add. I take a deep breath. The last of the sun’s light disappears over the edge of the crater.

I engage the thrusters for liftoff.

Chapter Text

My ship roars to life beneath me. I feel its power in the air, pressed into every seam. The sound of the engines reverberates through my controls, up into the side sticks I hold firmly in my hands. I flip on the camera fixed beneath my ship, note the readings on my thrust indicator, and keep my breath steady as my ship begins to rise. I watch the altimeter carefully. I’ve done this exact thing hundreds of times, but the worry of making a single mistake weighs heavy on my shoulders. All the eyes in the village are on me. Whatever I do, wherever I go, I’ve already made history. My name will be up on the museum’s walls, along with some of the bravest, smartest, most tenacious Hearthians to have ever hatched. But the translator tool is Hal’s dream. This is mine.

When I reach a safe height above the surface, I push the control stick forward. 

Watching Timber Hearth speed by below my ship is the single most exhilarating sight in the world. Goodbye village, goodbye geyser mountains, goodbye old radio tower. I spot the column of smoke rising from Youngbark Crater, where Tektite is likely suppressing a fire. The SkyShutter satellite flies by on my port side, and the Attlerock pokes out from beyond the curvature of Timber Hearth. I climb steadily, watching the white streaks of the atmosphere lessen outside my window as I do. As I break through the last shreds of ozone into space, a calm settles over my ship, and I let us drift for a moment, surrounded by stars, the Attlerock hovering overhead.

This is what I was made for. My launch was seamless—although liftoff is generally much easier than landing—and I can’t help but let myself believe that the hatchlings back home are impressed with my piloting skills. Especially Mica, after seeing my sore attempt at flying their model ship. The real thing is so much easier. Or, at least, so much more familiar. I know the weight of my ship well.

I set course for the Attlerock. Many times have I landed on its craterous surface, Gossan by my side, giving me tips. Now, it’s lonely, sitting in almost complete silence as I steer my ship over the grey terrain. But then I see the tips of pines, the smoke of Esker’s campfire rising into the tree-made air of the Lunar Outpost. I turn on my ship’s Signalscope, and Esker’s whistling rings out loud and clear in the cabin. I leave the signal on as I begin my descent.

I watch my camera as I bring down my ship at the rim of the crater. The Attlerock, lacking an atmosphere, won’t slow my descent as I come in for a landing—a fact I remember a little too late. I power on the retro-rockets, but I’m coming in too fast. In a short-lived moment of fear, I look to the red button on the console to my right, but my retro-rockets do enough to prevent a full-on crash landing. I brace as the ship bounces across the lunar surface, but I’m happy to find that I haven’t critically damaged any of my equipment. Gossan would be proud—Slate would be prouder.

Taking a breath, I unbuckle my harness and equip my space suit.

It’s easy to forget that I’m on another planet as I jump out of my ship. Sure, I have my bulky space suit on, and sure, each step I take propels me a shocking distance forward. But coming over the edge of the crater housing the Lunar Outpost, pine trees growing in a red topsoil imported from the village, stretching towards Timber Hearth as it floats overhead, I can, for a second, imagine I am home. Needles litter the ground and a domestic wooden shack stands on stilts to one side. A campfire blazes between trees, and there sits Esker, rocking in their chair, whistling a familiar tune.

I coast over the ledge, letting the Attlerock’s weak gravity carry me down. Traversing planets with such low gravity is as fun as it is terrifying. I can skip across the landscape, or rocket myself around the moon by falling continuously towards the ground and missing, but I could just as easily find myself drifting through space. For my first solo flight, I can think of nothing more embarrassing than Gossan having to fly up and collect me from a bit of wayward frolicking, so I restrain myself.

At the top of my visor, an indicator message flashes: TREES DETECTED—OXYGEN TANK REFILLED. I take off my helmet and give Esker a wave.

Esker is a solitary Hearthian. They were one of the first in space, working alongside the likes of Gossan and Feldspar in the program. Out of the founding bunch, they are the oldest, and they never really pushed Outer Wilds Ventures as far as the others did. Slate is always creating ever more sophisticated (and dangerous) equipment; Feldspar had been flying to increasingly distant (and dangerous) planets. Esker designated themself as head of the Lunar Outpost and never really looked back. Occasionally they radio Gossan to bring them down to Timber Hearth for a couple of weeks, but I think being in charge of the Lunar Outpost gives them a sense of purpose. They’re our eyes in the sky—though, they’re slowly being replaced by much more advanced satellites.

“Hey, Esker,” I greet, plopping myself down by their fire. They tilt their brimmed hat away from their face, eyes lighting up.

“Oh, hey, it’s you! Ground control didn’t tell me you were launching. Long time no see!” Then, under their breath, “Actually, I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone.”

With the successful incorporation of Nomaian technology into our ships’ systems and Gossan’s insistence on safety precautions, our ships are less likely to fall apart than ever before. The Lunar Outpost, other than being a great scouting spot, used to serve as the travellers’ main pitstop for repairs. But, with the ships getting safer and safer, and increased training in ship repair and maintenance, and travellers journeying farther and farther away, the Outpost has grown increasingly obsolete. Other than trainees and supply drops, I doubt Esker has very many visitors these days.

“Seems lonely up here,” I agree. 

“A little. I’m in touch with ground control—Hornfels and Gossan, mostly—and they radio up to chat now and then. But when ground control forgets I’m up here, and they usually do,” they grumble, “I launch my Little Scout at the village. And it’s not so bad up here, really. At least it’s peaceful and quiet. You don’t always get that in our solar system. Let alone in our village.”

My ears perk up. “You spy on us?” I tease.

“What? No!” Esker defends, suddenly flustered. “It’s not spying...it’s…it’s one-way communication. That none of the villagers know about. Because I’ve never told them.”

Keeping myself from snickering, I change the subject. “How often do the other travellers come by?”

Esker ponders for a moment, pink eyes turned to the stars. “Sometimes. Sometimes Chert comes by to say hi, but Gabbro is Gabbro, and you know how Riebeck feels about ‘unnecessary spaceflight.’”

Riebeck’s anxiety over space travel, I’ve known well since my early training days, when they were still getting test flights in. Everyone was shocked when they passed their exams and went off by themself—the distant Nomai ruins were just too alluring for our resident archaeologist. And Gabbro…well, Gabbro could disappear for a month and radio in with only a corny joke to report. I’m glad to hear Chert at least drops by once in a while. I figure I’ll probably do the same, once I have more to talk about. 

I grab my helmet and stand up, and I swear I see a look of mild panic cross Esker’s face.

“Uh, leaving so soon?” they ask too quickly.

I shrug. “Big moon to explore. Or…uh, little moon. I was hoping to test out the translator Hal and I made.” I take it out of its holster to show them. They whistle.

“Wow. Well, the ruins are on the south pole, but if you want to get more acquainted with your Signalscope, I have a lookout set up north of here. Really, you can’t miss it.”

Nodding my thanks, I pull my helmet down over my ears. I am about to head off towards the lookout, but stop myself mid-step.

“Oh! Marl says hi.”

They scoff, but a small smile graces their lips. “Marl is probably the only one who remembers I’m up here. I should go see the big lug soon. Don’t tell them about this, but sometimes I throw my Little Scout down to make sure they aren’t doing anything stupid. I worry that big tree in the village wouldn’t stand a chance otherwise.”

I laugh. “Moraine’s worried about that tree, too. You two should radio.” To my surprise, Esker seems to consider it. “See you,” I farewell.

“Talk to you later.”

The lookout Esker set up is, just as they said, hard to miss. It rises from the north crater on stilts, and I rocket up towards it easily with the help of my jetpack boosters. I turn my Signalscope towards the stars and check each planet in succession. Chert’s drum beats out from the Hourglass Twins, closest to the sun; Riebeck’s banjo twangs from Brittle Hollow. Gabbro’s flute can be heard from Giant’s Deep, off in the distance, with a pitch so low it’s hard to make out above the ferocious winds of the cyclones in the background. I bring my Signalscope down to switch it off, but a single, humming note catches my attention. 

Raising my device again, brow furrowed, I track the hum back to Timber Hearth and listen intently as note after note follows. The sounds keep coming, until I am listening to a full melody. It sounds like…No, that can’t be right. But the melody is so familiar, with the cadence flowing in all the ways I anticipate. It’s a tune I remember so distinctly clinging to, sitting around the campfire, what seems like a lifetime ago, back when Feldspar was still around and would play their harmonica in the village.

But Feldspar is gone, and definitely not playing their harmonica on Timber Hearth. So—What am I hearing?

I shut off my Signalscope and notice a log sitting along the lookout railing. It seems Esker has been passing the time by writing down everything they hear with their Signalscope. I flip through their notes.

“Day 48: Still not picking up Riebeck’s banjo from Brittle Hollow. I’m sure they’re fine, but I’ll feel better once I can hear their music.

Day 51: Listened to Chert play for a while today. Unrelated, someone should tell Porphy and Gossan their flirting is not subtle from an aerial perspective.”

Despite my growing confusion, I can’t help but chuckle. It isn’t subtle from a terrestrial perspective, either.

“Day 55: Banjo music coming in loud and clear today! Sounds like Riebeck’s doing okay. That oaf, I was worried!

Day 63: Today I thought I heard something...strange. I don’t know – it was probably nothing.

Day 70: No, it’s back again today, too. Something strange is coming from Timber Hearth.

Day 76: Okay, I know this is crazy, but the sound from Timber Hearth sounds exactly like Feldspar’s harmonica. But Feldspar disappeared in space ages ago. It can’t be them…

Day 88: It’s still here. This is creepy. Maybe my Signalscope is broken? I’d better talk to Gneiss.”

So, Esker noticed it, too. And, if the last entry is from today, the sound has been coming and going for 25 days. Either Esker hasn’t radioed the village yet, or those who know about the strange signal are keeping it under wraps. I can understand that—don’t want Hearthians’ imaginations getting the better of them. Still…I wish someone told me, as the newest astronaut.

Leaving the lookout behind, I continue around the moon, passing through the big crater on the far side. Giant spikes of dark ice protrude from the hollow like stakes in the ground, the sun casting eerie reflections across their surfaces. Cruising down to the bottom, I feel very small—just a little thing in the maw of some great big fish, its sharp, glinting teeth curving around me. I almost miss the voice recorder sitting next to a canister of jet fuel. A piece of tape is stuck to it, and in big, bold lettering it reads: PROPERTY OF CHERT.

They must have left it behind on a previous visit to the Lunar Outpost. I wrestle with myself—it seems private, after all—but curiosity wins out, as it usually does. I hit PLAY on the recorder and listen in.

“This is an old crater,” Chert explains, voice crackling over the speakers. “The neat thing here is that the composition of the samples I took from the impact site matches the composition of the ice on the outskirts of Dark Bramble. I’d posit the Attlerock was hit with a piece of the planet that used to be where Dark Bramble now lies. To follow up on—maybe there are more fragments of the old planet Dark Bramble destroyed on other astral bodies in the solar system?”

Dark Bramble. That place gives any sensible Hearthian shivers. An icy world ripped from the inside out by twisted vines—is there any worse fate for a planet? And then there are the terrible creatures that swim through the vacuum of space around it. The anglerfish in the museum used to give me nightmares. I’m not eager to see one in its natural habitat, no matter how small they are.

I continue on my way across the pitted lunar surface, searching for a particular collection of rocks I know well. It waits for me at the south pole. An indescribable feeling washes over me as I get close. One of mourning, of wonder, of excitement—all compacted into one singular essence. It’s the feeling I always get whenever I see those sand-coloured walls of Nomaian construction. And, as I drift across the lunar regolith, it’s those mysterious walls that greet me.

I have visited this ruin before. Many times, especially when fine-tuning the translator tool. I took pictures of the Nomai text glowing from the walls and Hal used the characters present in the sentences to help form a complete Nomai script. They probably have the full translations tucked away in a drawer somewhere, but I’m excited to try out the translator in space for the first time.

The ruin is made up of three concentric rings around a central mechanism. We know enough about it from its context—there are four operations the structure can perform, initiated by rolling a Nomaian sight-guided ball over the respective triggers. It’s a locator, that much is clear. Three symbols designate our sun, Giant’s Deep, and Brittle Hollow. Direct the ball over any of those symbols, and the rings spin around until all three line up their viewfinders over the selected celestial body, tracking it through the sky. Easy.

The problem is that fourth symbol. It’s haunting, even looking at it now, after so many times seeing it. A maze terminating in a series of radiating points, with an empty void in the middle. When selected, the ruins spin around, directionless, never landing on any one spot in space for long. We’ve spent years trying to figure out what it means. Is it broken? Or is whatever the ruins are locating unlocatable? The symbol is clearly significant. While all the other symbols glow orange, this one glows purple. It was this very symbol, glowing from the slab of ruin in the museum, that had drawn my eyes starward all those years ago. Now, here I am—fully trained, translator tool in hand. My heart races.

A set of stairs brings me down into a subsurface workspace. It curves around the periphery of the ruins. Nomai trees, small and twisted, decorate the room and fill my oxygen tank. On a bench, I see another forgotten voice log. Though Nomai text waits around the corner, calling to me, I can’t help but listen to what my fellow traveller has to say. The log wasn’t here the last time I visited.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Riebeck’s voice that plays across the speakers. They studied the lunar ruins for months and radioed back to Timber Hearth with only more questions.

“Okay, wow. Wow. I’ve seen this ruin in other travellers’ pictures, but seeing it for myself…It’s really old, isn’t it? But wow, this is the coolest day of my life. Okay, um, time for some official notes! So this is some kind of Nomai ‘locator.’ It can point out the different planets–which is incredibly cool, by the way–but from what little I can understand of the writing here, I think it was built to try to find something specific? I’m not sure. I also was able to translate something about the south pole of Brittle Hollow, so I’ll fly there to see if I can learn more. 

“Yep. Just gonna get back in the ol’ ship and take off. Totally safe...mostly safe. Oh, stars above…”

Although I can’t relate, I admire Riebeck’s ability to overcome their fear of space. Would I have been able to get through training if I had been that terrified? 

It’s interesting that they mention Brittle Hollow’s south pole. Hopefully my translator can fill in the missing details. At least now I have something to verify my translations against. 

Next to a wall-mounted sigil of the same, confusing symbol that’s etched into the locator above is a typical Nomai ‘chalkboard’, as we Hearthians like to call them. As far as we can tell, anything written on their surface would be transcribed onto a removable scroll that could be stored for future study. The writings were often collaborative—each spiral has distinct handwriting, preceded by a unique string of characters to designate the speaker. Each new thought branches from the one before, and the writings could quickly turn into a chaotic mess as more speakers were added—and they often were. If the Nomai were anything, they were dedicated recorders. It gives me something to aspire to as I conduct my own explorations.

Translator tool handy, I head to the wall. This is it. Time to make history—for real. I hold the device Hal and I spent countless hours creating up to the spiral sentences displayed on the board and will it to work. The scan initiates. I hold my breath.

Thatch followed Coleus down the stairs with her third eye as he entered the research room. She was sitting, reading and rereading her personal log for errors, distracting herself from the anxiety the first official test brought with it. The heft of her suit was debilitating on her shoulders, even with her mask and oxygen tank sitting on the floor by her feet. 

Coleus seemed so much more comfortable in the suits than she was. That was excusable—she much preferred offices and conference rooms to the unpredictability of the field. Thatch was a compiler, not a primary researcher. Coleus, for comparison, held himself with all the confidence of a seasoned field assistant, even with the suit dragging him down. He and Melorae were accustomed to not only the weight of the suits, but the weight of the geologic samples they usually carried while wearing them. Compared to a laborious field day, toiling in rocky caverns and hauling vessels of stone from the research site to the settlement, this was likely a welcome break. There was, perhaps, an extra enthusiasm with each step Coleus took that was not the byproduct of the moon’s weakened gravity, but one of an uncharacteristically light load.

He typed a series of commands into his staff and pressed the tip against the scroll inserted into the wall. The scroll glowed purple—the recording began. He slipped off his mask and regarded Thatch with a tilt of his chin. Oh, how much older he looked now than when Melorae had first introduced them. Wizened by experience and tragedy both; though the passage of time seemed to dampen the horrors of his youth, as it did with many of the young ones who had lived through the crash.

“I was upstairs testing the Eye signal locator and it can hear and follow the signals from the sun, Giant’s Deep, and Brittle Hollow,” Coleus said, his sentences printing to the scroll wall as he spoke. “However, something strange is happening when I ask the Eye signal locator to follow the Eye’s signal: the device’s indicator rotates wildly and never points to just one direction.”

“This is a curious result,” Thatch agreed, loud enough for the staff to pick up her voice. “It’s possible the Eye has stopped calling out its signal.” After so many years of waiting, it was not a possibility she was fond of. The creation of the locator, though trivial, was a journey spanning many years. They had to redevelop most of their technology after the crash, using novel resources present on the unique worlds they found themselves on. Thatch had eagerly awaited the results of the first locator test, and to hear that it had failed was disheartening.

New scrawlings appeared across the wall, and she recognised the handwriting instantly—Filix. The locator was her project, after all, though it had many supporters and admirers. Coleus held up his staff and Filix’ voice was projected through the room.

“I see! I most likely calibrated the locator incorrectly. Privet (my apprentice) and I will make adjustments and try again.”

A few, unpleasantly slow moments later, the locator spun to life overhead. Filix had accessed control remotely—she and her apprentice worked fast.

“An update: Disappointingly, everything is correctly calibrated after all.”

Coleus and Thatch sighed. 

Cassava’s voice joined Filix’ over Coleus’ staff. “It saddens me to posit this, my friends, but I believe we need to build a more sophisticated device if we want to find the exact location of the Eye of the universe.”

Thatch gathered herself and stood, walking over to join Coleus by the wall. “Then we will build it,” she stated determinedly. “Don’t lose hope, Cassava; our search for the Eye is what brought our clan to this place. We won’t give up so easily!”

As the purple light fades, I am left speechless.

The translator works! And it works so much better than Hal and I had hoped! I expected a few errors or garbled nonsense here and there, but so far every sentence has been printed in full to my display, every name so clearly represented. I do a happy little dance in my suit. I can’t wait to tell Hal! They’ll be so excited—Oh, Hearth, I’ll have to remember to tell them to sit down before I deliver the news. They’re definitely going to faint.

I reread the translation, hanging onto every word, making note of every new speaker. 

The Eye of the universe. So, that’s what the strange symbol represents. It’s clearly something important, something the Nomai were searching for—But why? There’s another scroll across the room, and a vacant chalkboard just waiting to be used. 

“Where should this new, more sophisticated locator be built? It may need to be larger than this Eye signal locator is.”

Thatch held her staff to the scroll wall, eyes flicking distractedly to Coleus as he paced the room, a hand stroking the fur tied at his chin. It reminded her so much of something Melorae would do when troubled.

“Annona and those of us originally stranded on the Ember Twin built a Quantum Moon locator there, but the heat of the sun made its construction challenging,” Coleus explained. “I wouldn’t recommend building on that planet.”

“The southern glacier on Brittle Hollow has ample available space,” Plume suggested, his voice coming through Thatch’s staff clearly despite being a planet away. “I could construct a new building to house this proposed locator.”

“Yes, let’s build there!” Filix replied, the keenness in her voice evident. She was eager to get her project back off the ground, and Thatch was glad that the failure of the lunar Eye signal locator had not broken her spirit. “I imagine our young friend Conoy would enjoy that immensely. He’s always held a great interest in the Eye, especially for a child born so long after the crash.”

“I will begin construction on Brittle Hollow’s south pole immediately, then! ” Plume said.

Coleus and Thatch exchanged a hopeful glance.

I lower my translator with a knowing smile. There were a few words that had given Hal and I a headache and a half while we were developing the translator tool, and one such word had popped up in this conversation. The Nomai had two distinct sets of pronouns, with each Nomai seemingly adopting a single set that they used exclusively. Trying to decipher their meaning nearly drove Hal insane. When they eventually cracked it, it was a relief—I thought for sure they were going to kill me every time I suggested we just ignore the words and move on. We never did figure out why the Nomai had two sets, but it must not have been all that necessary—half the time they didn’t even use them.

In any case, it seems like I’ll have to add Brittle Hollow’s south pole to my ever-growing list of places to visit. It’s sounding an awful lot like I won’t be returning to Timber Hearth for another year. Brittle Hollow’s south pole, Giant’s Deep, the mysterious harmonica…There is so much I want to investigate, and on top of it all, I’m eager to continue gathering as much information on the Nomai as possible.

Even so, I know my next stop: Brittle Hollow. Whatever the Eye is, the Nomai were determined to find it. I would be an idiot to pass up such a great discovery. Plus, I can show Riebeck my new translator along the way. 

Using the lunar gravity as a propellant, I hurry back to my ship. I wave to Esker from the edge of the Lunar Outpost crater, and they shout back, “Remind the others I’m still up here!”

I give a clumsy, gloved thumbs-up and hop back into my ship.

The first thing I do is update my ship’s log, writing everything I’ve translated down before I forget any details. I add an asterisk next to my loose threads—all those places I know I’ll have to visit sometime soon. My fingers shake with every word I write, my mind still buzzing with the exhilaration of the success of the translator tool. Brittle Hollow, with all of its ruins, will be a veritable treasure trove.

Buckling in, I prepare for the next leg of my journey. Brittle Hollow is a bit farther away than the Attlerock, but it’s still the closest planet to Timber Hearth. It’s relatively well-explored, well-understood, and…slightly feared. For a plethora of good reasons. As long as I land gently, avoid the lava bombs spewing from Hollow’s Lantern, its volcanic moon, and make sure to not fall into its cavernous centre: I’ll be fine.

Yeah. Fine. I mean, if Riebeck is stationed there, it can’t be that bad.

I blast off as the sun bathes the Attlerock in a red glow.

Setting autopilot for Brittle Hollow, I do a double-take. Red glow? The Attlerock has no atmosphere, and no atmosphere means no ruby-hued sunsets. No, the sun is…I squint. Is it redder than usual? I mean, red is a pretty common colour for a ball of superheated gas, which our sun is, but…

No, the sun is definitely redder. Angry, like blistering skin. I’ve never seen it like this before. I watch two spots transit it, black specks across a sea of plasma—the Hourglass Twins, only much, much smaller than they should be.

No. No, it can’t be. The sun is… bigger?

My autopilot shuts off, leaving me in a semi-stable orbit around Brittle Hollow, but my hands can only hover over the controls. My eyes are fixed on the sun as it transforms before me. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The sun shifts. The red turns orange, then yellow, then white, as the sun that I have seen every single day of my life begins to shrink.

Am I hallucinating? Stars above, let me be hallucinating.

The sun dwindles in size until it is no larger than the Attlerock, the sky darkening dramatically as it loses its luminosity. As the light fades from the solar system, only the glow of distant galaxies remains, until the sun erupts into an explosion of blue sparks at its radial minimum. It would have been beautiful, if it wasn’t terrifying. In the back of my mind, I rationally play through the implications of the sun exploding, but it feels like an entirely different part of me, running through textbook definitions, museum displays, and Chert’s lectures, grappling for any information I have to comprehend what I am seeing. But I can’t quite grasp onto any one tangent, and I am frozen, staring at the fireworks display outside of my window helplessly. The solar system begins to glow as the remnants of the destroyed sun expand ever outwards, and a wall of pure, ionizing energy races towards me. Brittle Hollow flashes a bright, blinding blue, and my ship is enveloped in seconds before—

Chapter Text

Nothing. 

I don’t even have the time to gasp before everything is gone. It’s just…nothing.

Nothing, until the mask of a Nomai space suit emerges from the void before me. I’ve seen one before, not in person, but in pictures and paintings. Diamond-shaped and pointed, three angular eyes stare out at me. Purple streaks of light—of Nomai writing or code—race by. Just like in the museum, my memories flash before my eyes. The sun exploding, the Lunar Outpost, Timber Hearth—everything in reverse. I feel nothing, smell nothing, hear nothing—but I see my whole day, flying towards me like images from the SkyShutter satellite. Postcards from space, snapshots of my life. And then, suddenly, darkness.

I wake with a gasp from a dream that is already fading. I am in the village crater, tall, red-barked pines towering around me, the shadow of the launch tower blackening a portion of the night sky. Lanterns pulse occasionally up its length. Above me, hovering just out of reach, is a swirling yellow-green planet—Giant’s Deep. A light flashes from it, and a speck of purple rockets away, disappearing over the crater’s edge. 

A fire crackles beside me as I rest uncomfortably inside of a sleeping bag. My face is starkly cold from dew condensation. I don’t feel like I got an especially great sleep. My thoughts spin hazily around in my skull and I am pretty sure I slept right on top of a pointed rock for at least half of the night. Groggily, I sit up, and there is a coarse chuckle from across the glowing embers of the fire.

“There’s our pilot!” Slate crows. They sit on a nearby log, stoking the coals with a freshly stripped branch. “Enjoying your pre-launch campout under the stars, I see.”

And just like that, my mind clears. Oh, right. The launch. My stomach twists, and I can’t tell if I am excited or terrified. Or both. The echoes of a disquieting dream don’t make me feel much better.

“So, it’s launch day, eh?” Slate continues. “Seems like only yesterday you joined the space program, and suddenly here you are, leaving on your first solo voyage. What do you say—ready to get this beauty off the ground? It’s all fueled up and ready to go!”

Sparks of blue play before my eyes. The detail is so fine, every movement of the particles ingrained into my mind. As if I had lived every moment. 

The words slip out before I can stop them. “Did…did I just…die?”

Unsurprisingly, Slate lets out a boisterous laugh.

“Whoa, bad dream or something? You still look half asleep, but that’s a negative on being deceased.” Even with a joking tone, Slate looks mildly concerned. That’s how I know it’s bad—when Slate looks concerned. “I know it’s tradition to sleep out under the stars the night before a launch, but if you ask me it makes you all a bit jumpy.”

Jumpy. No, no…I’m not jumpy. Something happened. Something bad. I just…don’t understand what, exactly. 

Slate watches me with narrowed eyes. “Hey, you better go get the launch codes from Hornfels at the Observatory if you ever want to get off of this rock.”

The launch codes. I look over at the lift, and the codes pass through my mind, clear as anything. I wonder…

No. I had a bad dream before my launch. That’s all. Whatever codes my anxious mind dreamt up are gibberish. The night before I had a big day—graduating from the space program, announcing the completion of the translator tool—I almost always had a vivid dream about going through the motions. I would wake cold and stiff, feel more tired than I had before I went to sleep, and approach the day with a new dread as I felt I had already lived through it once before. This is nothing more.

I drag a hand across my face to help wake my mind before gaining the courage to pull myself to my feet. I head off to the Observatory, that haunting sense of trepidation following me.

“Hey! It’s you!” Mica greets excitedly as I pass by on my way into the village centre. Part of me wants to stay and chat—it’s my launch day after all, who knows when I’ll be back in town?—but I can’t help but feel like we’ve already had a conversation. I give them a quick wave, offer a hello, and walk briskly onward.

And that’s what I do with everyone I pass; I wave, say hello, and continue. The one exception is that I do stop by to chat with Gossan—it would have been rude to ignore my flight coach on launch day—but the conversation goes…eerily like I think it will, even down to them asking if I want to practice my zero-G training on a piece of broken mining equipment deep within the bowels of the cave. 

All the while, the launch codes from my dream flash in my mind.

When I reach the Observatory, I am glad to find that Hal isn’t waiting for me outside. Finally, my dream is diverging from reality. I thought, just for a second, that I really was psychic. That relief lasts only until I pass beneath the entryway and see the new statue that sits central in the lobby.

The Nomai statue.

There it is. On its pedestal, horns encircling its face, fur flowing. How I’d been able to dream that up—accurately—baffles me. We used to only be able to guess at what the Nomai looked like, through the few murals they left behind and their delicate skeletons. The fur that curls so carefully around its neck…the jewellery that decorates its horns…We never knew those to exist. But here the statue is, in full glory, face pushed forward and details so perfectly matching those of the statue from my dream. There is only one key difference—its three eyes are open, revealing brass-coloured spheres beneath its eyelids.

Hal and Hornfels are both studying the statue, reverent mutters passing between them. When Hal notices me walk in, they bounce over animatedly.

"Hey, I was just about to come find you!” They wrap an arm around my shoulders and direct me to the statue despite my clear reluctance to get close. “Look, look, look, you’ve gotta see this—the Nomai statue’s eyes are open!” They pause. “They, uh, used to be closed. Probably should’ve started with that. And now they’ve opened! We’re not sure why they opened, since no one actually saw it happen, but this is huge news!”

I remember the purple lights so clearly that I swear I can see a whisper of their glow dancing across the brass.

“Should someone tell Gabbro?” Hal continues, not noticing my discomfort. “Or maybe Riebeck? Oh, stars, this is so exciting, it’s making my stomach hurt!"

“Bet you wish you’d seen it happen, huh?” Hornfels says, before sighing. “Me, too. I’m not even a little closer to understanding what’s going on with this statue.”

My heart begins to pound. The memories of the statue turning to face me are so real. How do I know what it looks like if I hadn’t even known it existed? How do I know that the eyes used to be closed? I feel ill.

“I came to get the launch codes,” I croak out eventually. Hornfels looks taken aback; clearly they were expecting me to exhibit more interest in the statue. Haltingly, they fish a slip of paper from their pocket and hand it to me.

“Here they are. I finished some pre-flight observations earlier—it’s a fine day for a launch!”

I thank them, then unroll the paper with growing despair. I read the codes three times before it sinks in—they are the same as the ones in my dream.

The statue is real. The codes are real. Two things that are impossible for me to guess. And, if they're  real…What else is?

I pocket the codes and drift further into the museum, over to the display that sits unnervingly in plain sight. I don’t even have to seek out the death of the solar system—it’s ready to greet me as soon as I walk in. A model of our sun progressing through its lifespan, starting as an innocent yellow orb and evolving into a violent, lashing sphere of blue energy. Browsing through the description, I swallow my fear.

“Stars like our sun generate light and heat by fusing hydrogen into helium. As it grows older, the star runs out of hydrogen and starts to contract. As the star’s core contracts, it gets hotter, causing the outer layers to expand. The star has become a red giant. When the core is hot enough, it starts to fuse helium into carbon. If a star is massive enough, it will continue to fuse carbon into even heavier elements like iron. Ultimately, the star will collapse under its own gravity and then explode in a violent event called a supernova.”

A supernova. Yes. Despite never having witnessed one myself, aside from the occasional glimpse of a star’s death light-years away in the night sky, I know instantly that what I saw in my dream was just that—a supernova. The death of our sun, and, consequently, our solar system.

I reread the sign. “If a star is massive enough…”

Something must trigger the sun to explode. There must be a trigger—the sun isn’t dying on its own. There would have been signs. Increased solar activity, luminosity fluctuations, something—anything. Chert would have known. No…something is causing it. Something has to be. 

“If a star is massive enough…”

Mass. I’m no astrophysicist, but it makes sense. Maybe some sort of mass could be added to the sun, something great enough to throw it off balance, causing it to collapse in on itself prematurely and erupt. And, if that’s the case…Maybe we can still stop it.

I shake my head and wipe my eyes with a hand. I’m being ridiculous. There will be no supernova. I had a bad dream before a day I’ve been nervous about for months, and now I’m convincing myself it was real. I haven’t seen the statue before—I just told myself I had, to justify the anxiety building inside of me. The world isn’t ending. Fear is just eating me up, and I need something to distract myself with. Why not save the world? 

Of course my mind is swirling with images of stars. I had fallen asleep under them and woke up to different ones overhead. Slate is right. I’m jumpy. My mind is still foggy from camping on hard, rocky ground. 

Still…

I have to launch my ship today and test out the translator tool. If there will be a supernova—and I’m not saying there will be—but if there will be…

The Nomai would have something to say about it.

They knew everything. Surely, they’d have information tucked away. They were so advanced, certainly they had the technology to cause or prevent a supernova. And, the statue…There’s a reason why I keep seeing it. Is it why I had that strange dream? Is it why I know about the launch codes and the supernova? A Nomai statue, signalling to me that the solar system will end. 

Brittle Hollow.

If there is something to find, that’s where I’ll find it.

The Nomai ruins there are unparalleled. If they knew anything about our sun, about its destruction, it would be recorded there. I think about the lunar ruins. Assuming my translations from my dream are accurate, as everything else has been…The Nomai built something on the south pole of Brittle Hollow. A locator. It’s the best start I have.

Again—I know that all of it was just a bad dream. Pretending like it’s anything else is delusional, and I’m not delusional. But if the translator has to get tested out, and if I want to pay Riebeck a visit anyway, there really is no better place to start than Brittle Hollow. If I just so happen to learn more about supernovas—say, how to stop one—right before our sun maybe explodes, it will be completely inconsequential. 

Stiff with a weary determination, I hike back down to the launch tower, trying my best to disguise the emotions on my face as excitement to those I pass. 

When I reach the campsite, I waste no time roasting marshmallows. I input the launch codes—from memory—and receive a grumbled farewell from Slate. At the top of the tower, I enter my ship. Steadying myself, I buckle in. Engage the thrusters. Set course for Brittle Hollow.

What am I looking for once I land on Brittle Hollow’s rocky surface? I have no clue. I haven’t studied my subsurface maps as recently as I should have, and have only a vague idea of what I’ll find. Riebeck will know where to start, but then there’s the matter of tracking them down…

It isn’t long before I’m met with an eerily familiar scene: My autopilot shutting off, my ship in a slowly decaying orbit, the sun’s light shining over Brittle Hollow. I spare a nervous glance towards the sun. It looks normal. Though, it looked normal in my dream, too, at first. It hadn’t been long before it met its end. I’ll find out if my visions are real soon enough, one way or another.

I hold the controls firmly. With an exhale, I manually pilot my ship over the planet’s surface, looking for a particular friend of mine.

Brittle Hollow is covered in basalt and ice. Great big columns of rock rise out of the crust and alien trees spatter its surface, giving rise to the thin atmosphere that embraces the planet. Its north and south poles are capped with snow, icy hills dominating over the surrounding landscape. Its volcanic moon, Hollow’s Lantern, spins erratically overhead, spitting out lava bombs that come rocketing down to Brittle Hollow like meteors. Dust and ash fill the sky wherever the bombs fall, slowly whittling down the strength of each crustal plate they meet. The planet has been around for billions of years—it can take a beating. But everything has a breaking point, and I’ve seen first-hand what happens when one of those volcanic bombs strikes the surface at just the wrong angle.

There are Nomai ruins here and there, dotting the equatorial landscape, but I don’t land my ship next to those. Crossing over the south pole, I watch as a great glass dome rises out of the glacial ice—the Southern Observatory. The glass is strengthened by intercrossing beams of metal, bolstering it against the ice and snow. Even having seen it before, it’s astonishing—something seemingly so delicate standing for hundreds of thousands of years.

That isn’t what makes me land, however. Next to a small staircase leading into hard-packed snow sits a tripodal ship not too unlike mine. Riebeck.

My landing on Brittle Hollow is much smoother than my imagined lunar landing. For one, Brittle Hollow is much larger and rotates much more slowly. That, and my dream had been so vivid, I feel as though I’ve already had my first solo launch. Gossan would be happy I’m getting so much practice in.

Still, a cloud of dust rises around me from impact, and my teeth chatter from the force.

Tugging on my spacesuit, I hop out of my ship and duck beneath Riebeck’s. Frost already encrusts every surface. I knock on the hatch to no reply and call out for my friend a few times for good measure, feeling very foolish despite, evidently, being completely alone.

Then, like a lightning bolt, the obvious strikes me—of course our archaeologist isn’t messing around in the snow. There’s a whole observatory to document! Except, nothing greets me at the bottom of the observatory stairs aside from a broken Nomai door and an abandoned recorder. Someone should talk to Hornfels. It seems our astronauts have a habit of forgetting their discovery logs. I flip it on, and Riebeck’s voice replaces the sound of polar wind.

“I’m here! I did it! I put the ship down safely! Um, in that the ship went down, and I didn’t sustain bodily harm. A few minor repairs, and it’s like the ship never even hit those rocks! One of my better attempts. Feldspar would barely have laughed at me, I bet. That’s the good news. The bad news...I, uh, haven’t found a way inside this structure yet. The door is broken, and I know I’m not great at exploring, but I think I would have found a different entrance by now if there were one. P-probably.

“I can’t get inside from here, but I know there are paths below the surface. I’m going to head north to the ruins on the equator to try to find a way down.”

I groan. I should have just landed at the ruins. Kicking up snow in frustration, I go back to my ship to fly to the equator.

From there, the only problem is one of choice. It seems everywhere I fly, there are ruins. Which had Riebeck taken down? I use my Signalscope, but aside from the sound of their banjo echoing across the subsurface, I can't figure out where to go.

That is, until I see a beam of light shooting up from the horizon. 

Flying in closer, I’m awestruck. I’ve never seen anything like it before—at least not here, on Brittle Hollow. A similar ship—and it must be a ship, because it is completely unlike any Nomai ruins we’ve encountered—sits half-buried in the rock on Ember Twin. Here, it’s much the same. The thing is huge: a massive, blackened, seed-shaped pod, its metal hull tempered and warped from impact. A thick cable slithers out of an entryway on the uppermost deck and connects to some sort of beacon, sitting in a small grove of Brittle Hollow trees a short way away. The beacon shoots a strong beam of light skywards. I scan it with my Signalscope and an eerie tone plays in my ears. Rickety platforms are built into the crust behind it, descending into an open chasm. It looks like a crash site, and I’ve seen quite a few. There's nothing to suggest that this is where Riebeck ventured from the Southern Observatory, but I can't fly away now. I set my ship down over the uneven ground.

Sitting next to the beacon is a strange device—a flattened cylinder of obvious Nomaian construction, glowing with purple text, tools for inscription attached. It looks like…Well, it looks like a recording log. Compact, easily carried. Hal and I never tested the translator on such writing, but I figure it’s worth a shot. Perhaps it’ll help me understand the strange scene around me. I aim the translator at it and watch the display intently.

“TAKE COVER!” Filix shouted, ducking back towards the chamber wheels. The volcanic moon had birthed a bomb of molten rock—and it was headed straight for them. 

The light was blinding as the bomb collided with their pod. Filix heard the screeching of metal being shredded apart, the force of impact too great for even the escape pod. The ship rumbled, the crust cracking beneath them, every rivet and joint groaning under the strain. Screams echoed through the halls. A second cloud of pulverised rock enveloped them. Filix choked on the air, soiled from contamination. The vents were hissing. Their oxygen was leaking out of the pod.

“Suits! Now!” she ordered.

Plume was already distributing them. Blue fabric filled the hall. Anxiously, Filix pulled her mask over her head, her horns fitting comfortably into the foamy pads that lined the interior. The suit hissed as it sealed, filling with breathable air. The taste of char and dirt still coated her tongue. 

It seemed, other than the damage to the cabin integrity, the collision had no major impact on the pod’s function. Precious air was still being pumped from its vents, but the main terminal was undamaged. Her relief was unimaginable.

“Is everyone unharmed?”

Thatch walked through the hall, one hand reaching to her clanmates to offer reassurance, and the other grasping an active recording log. That was wise of her, and something Filix should have thought of. After thousands of years of space travel, countless ships broken or lost in their pursuit of celestial knowledge, their people knew well the importance of recordings. Sometimes they were all that was left. With them, they could ensure that the worst never again happened. They could trace the evolution of their space travel with precision like no other space-faring species they had encountered. Filix could not fathom how much further behind in their journey towards progress they would have been if not for the dedicated notetakers of the unlucky.

“No one was badly injured from the escape pod’s impact. We’re incredibly fortunate,” Plume answered.

“This is good news, at least,” Thatch replied. “Have we heard from Escape Pod Two or Escape Pod Three?”

Filix did not have to look to know everyone had turned to her. She returned to the main terminal and sent out a distress call to the other escape pods. If communications were still functioning, and if all was well, the others would have no difficulty contacting them. They waited. Minutes passed. That was not a positive sign. Certainly, the others would be just as eager to touch base with them. Filix initiated a search for nearby distress signals, and heard the echoes of two beacons loud and clear, though the escape pod could not triangulate their signals. She sighed.

“No,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I...I’m unable to make contact. My equipment can hear the other two escape pods’ distress signals, however. If it’s any comfort, both pods must be structurally intact.”

In unison, a great sigh of relief. Filix, however, could not shake the disquieting feeling inside of her. If the pods were structurally intact, why were communications down? Though…they were down the moment they had warped. They should not have warped so soon. They should have waited, prepared. 

What was done, was done. There was no altering the past now.

“I’ll continue calling for them,” she added, as an afterthought.

Thatch gave her a small nod of acknowledgement. “My gratitude. If we can—”

“Thatch!” Plume shouted, pointing to the sky through the observation window. “The moon is approaching again!”

“Everyone brace yourselves, swiftly! The volcanic moon has returned!”

There were shouts and clamours as their clan ran for the cover of the chamber wheels. Filix threw herself away from the window and landed hard on the floor of the pod as the ground shook with the violent impact of another volcanic bomb. 

“Be cautious of falling ash and debris!” Thatch warned, but only silence followed. A plume of smoke graced the sky outside, but they were safe. There was no direct collision. To be certain, they waited a few moments, before—

“...I believe the moon has passed,” said Plume.

With the others, Filix pushed herself from the floor and dusted herself off. “This planet doesn’t appear eager to have guests. We are certainly unwelcome on its surface.”

“We need to find shelter, and quickly,” Thatch agreed. “The volcanic moon won’t be gone for long.”

With that, the remnants of their clan dispersed. Filix checked their communications one final time at the main terminal. No incoming messages. It was…concerning, but the others must have been safe, if the terminal could detect their distress beacons. She hoped Annona and Escall had made it to the other pods alright. She hoped that they were coping well, or at least better than they were.

She unlocked the emergency storage and was greeted with an inactive beacon, a coil of cable beside it. Painstakingly, she dragged it from the alcove to the upper deck. She opened the emergency door and watched it clatter to the ground far below. A cloud of dust rose where it landed, on a patch of basalt homogenous with the rest of the planet’s surface, as far as she could see. The geology of this planet was no doubt representative of the scars of volcanic bombs from that fiery moon that orbited above, columns carved as molten rock solidified and contracted on the surface. Melorae and her apprentice, Coleus, would have been delighted to hear her musings.

Feeling a hand on her shoulder, Filix startled. She had thought all her clan had ventured out of the pod to search for shelter, but she had evidently been mistaken. 

“Still no signal?” Kousa asked, worry tinging her words. 

“Communications appear to be lost. Hearing the distress beacons from the other pods is reassuring, though,” Filix added optimistically.

Kousa dipped her head. In a quiet voice, she said, “I am not sure which escape pod Foli was on. This worries me. We should have found each other before evacuating.”

“No. If you had waited much longer, neither of you would have made it. The Vessel’s hull had been punctured—we were losing pressure and leaking oxygen. I am sure Foli is grateful that you didn’t wait.”

Filix could not read Kousa’s expression through the mask of her suit, though she could theorize what it was. They would meet the other survivors of their clan again, and Filix sincerely wished that Foli was among them. They had been good friends when they apprenticed together.

Kousa gestured to the beacon by her side. “Are you sending out a distress signal?”

“For now, it’s the only way we can communicate with the others. We may not be able to exchange words, but at least they will see that we are alive. Soon, they will find us, or we will find them.”

“...Would you like help?”

Climbing down through the innards of the ship was difficult for Filix, but far from impossible. What presented more of a challenge was navigating the columns of basalt that rose haphazardly from the planet’s surface. When she reached the front of the escape pod, stifled and hot from exertion, Kousa was ready to lower the beacon down to her by the cable. With it in hand, Filix picked out an especially tall column nearby and hauled the beacon to the top. She barely had the energy to activate it.

A purple beam of light sliced through the atmosphere, rising high into the dark sky. The beacon keened out its signal. Filix could imagine Annona and Escall on the observation decks of their own escape pods, listening as another beacon called out in the solar system.

Three escape pods. Three beacons. It was the best outcome they could have hoped for, given the circumstances.

She heard the crunch of rock underfoot before she heard the voices. Kousa and Plume were hiking up to join her, Plume eagerly pointing to a spot of crust on the other side of the pod. Squinting, Filix could see a narrow sliver in the rock. Thatch had apparently caught sight of them, too, and she saw her racing to join Plume and Kousa. She reached them just as they reached Filix, and Plume excitedly shared what he discovered.

“I observed several promising sites below the surface,” he said, “but we’ll need to construct a way for everyone to climb safely down this cliff. Perhaps we could build platforms?”

Only the direness of the moment stops me from jumping across the surface of Brittle Hollow. It isn’t just the chalkboards the translator works on—it works on logs, too! And if it works on logs, what else does it work on? Does it work on everything? Hal won’t believe it—I barely believe it. 

I bite my lip to stop excited noises from squeaking out of me. The pulsing of the beacon’s power cable catches my eye, and all my excitement evaporates into curiosity. I follow it to the ship, and, using my jetpack, fly to the upper deck, where the cable disappears inside.

Navigating the slippery, slanted floors within is a challenge. I progress by falling and stumbling far more often than by walking, and marvel the whole while at the interior of the ship. Though it is different to everything I’ve seen before—using metals and materials I don’t recognise—it’s clearly Nomaian in design. Similar carvings and architectural choices mark the walls of the uncharacteristically white halls I walk through. On either side of me are huge pegged wheels, consisting of a series of test tube-like glass chambers that I deduce are where the pod’s passengers went. Exit doors are on each level. I can’t help but feel a little embarrassed thinking of my own ship, constructed out of barrels and metal scraps from burnt-down houses. 

Eventually I reach an observation deck with a huge glass window and a terminal, encircled by floating projections of Nomai writing. Translating it (it works again!), I see that it’s a flight log. It reads:

Escape Pod One. Vessel has been mortally injured. Emergency sequence activated. Awaiting departure from Vessel.

Launching Escape Pod Three…Launching Escape Pod Two…Now Launching Escape Pod One.

ALERT: Collision imminent. Preparing for impact.

Scanning external environment…Scan complete. Minor structural instabilities detected. Pockets of breathable air detected. Adequate solar energy detected. Verdict: HOSPITABLE.

Escape Pod One. It is a crash site, and the Nomai were evacuating from something they called a ‘Vessel.’ If the translation is correct, this isn’t the only crash site, either—two more escape pods had departed, and I know one of them is on Ember Twin.

The origin of the Nomai in our solar system is a topic of hot debate within the space program and among visitors to the museum alike. They appear so suddenly in the archaeological record, so Riebeck says, that they must have come from somewhere else. But…we haven’t ever really found any evidence of where they had come from, or why they had decided to settle down here . Is this the answer? Generations of Nomai settlements and technology in our solar system…all just because of a crash landing?

I drop down to the lower deck, and am greeted by a white panel at the end of the corridor, reading: EMERGENCY ESCAPE HATCH. A spiral pattern is engraved into its surface and a sight-guided ball sits within. Of all Nomaian technology, I like their locks the least. Why they decided to have everything respond to line of sight and not, say, touch, eludes me. 

After three tries, I am able to successfully guide the ball around the spiral. The emergency hatch falls away into the chasm below, barely missing the rickety platforms the Nomai built thousands of years ago. A strong vertigo washes over me, and I reach out a hand to brace myself against the escape pod’s frame.

Brittle Hollow is… hollow. The pod punctured right through the crust, and the interior of the planet opens up beneath it. Wind howls through the chasm, batting at my space suit. I pull out my Signalscope. The sound of Riebeck’s banjo plays from underneath the crust, in the rough direction the platforms are leading me. 

I really don’t want to go down there. But I look to the sun—our sun—and watch as it flares and spots and rages. Is it getting redder, or are my eyes playing tricks on me?

Carefully, I jump down to the nearest platform.

Chapter Text

As anyone in the space program knows—or anyone in general, really—Feldspar was the first Hearthian to be intentionally launched into space. There had been a few mishaps with geysers before that, and Feldspar’s first launch barely constituted ‘space travel’, but that day had been vital in forming the identity of Outer Wilds Ventures nonetheless. From that point on, there were two major camps: The ‘safety is non-negotiable’ camp and the ‘explosions count as progress’ camp. 

Everyone knew which one Feldspar belonged to.

After the Lunar Outpost was established, Hearthian ships could travel farther than ever before knowing that a fuel station was just a stone’s throw away. Esker, Gossan, and Feldspar were our astronauts at the time, though no one flew as far or as recklessly as Feldspar did. They were invincible, flinging themselves between planets, going where no Hearthian had ever gone before. Almost everything we know about the solar system, Feldspar is credited with discovering. They documented the impassable current beneath Giant’s Deep’s ocean. They found the cave systems of Ember Twin’s canyons. And, they discovered that Brittle Hollow’s centre isn’t quite hollow. It is that discovery I face as I hop from unstable platform to unstable platform.

A black hole looms below me. A black hole. No amount of textbook readings or photographs could have prepared me for actually being near a black hole. It’s nauseating, looking down at it, feeling its pull grow stronger with every downward step I take. Lights from Nomai ruins on the underside of Brittle Hollow’s crust warp from behind the space-time distortion. Even just watching my own boots as they land on each platform is making me ill—my own feet twist and flatten when I look at them. 

In addition to the gravity and the…fun visual quirks, I find the interior of my space suit getting hot. With all the particles swirling around in the air, the underside of the planet’s crust is far warmer than it is on the surface; although nerves are probably contributing to the heat inside of my suit just as much as the black hole is.

I hear the distant rumbles of volcanic bombs from Hollow’s Lantern colliding with the surface. Every so often, a relativistic jet flares as unstable rocks fall into the dark depths. I’m a heartbeat away from a similar fate–my jetpack boosters give out beneath me a little too early, and I fall onto a platform with more force than I anticipate. I throw myself to a rocky ledge just in time to watch the platform I had been standing on fall away, heart pounding.

Flicking on my flashlight, I breathe a sigh of relief when I see a stable path before me. I trust the fragmented ground of Brittle Hollow more than the ancient Nomai bridges—at least I won’t have the floor falling out from under me if I step on it too hard. Around the corner sits a fork. One way falls off into a darkened lookout, lit only by the distant glow of gravity crystals, and the other curves gently to the right. At its terminus sits a small Nomai settlement built into the basalt columns hanging from the roof of the subsurface cavern. 

All of the buildings are damaged from age—paint faded, roofs collapsed, stone structures chipped away from endless batterings by fallen rock. I’ve heard Riebeck talk about the Old Settlement, but only through the lens of a researcher having picked up references to it from half-completed translations. To my knowledge, they have never been. And Feldspar…well, the Nomai were probably their least favourite alien species. ‘Too domestic,’ they’d say. ‘Not enough teeth.’ I doubt they had explored the ruins for long if they had stumbled across them at all.

The rocky wall between the forks has a glowing inscription upon it. Eagerly, I ready my translator.

“Of note: Be sure not to wander far from here. Though this area is somewhat unstable, it’s safer than any we’ve found so far. The temporary settlement is finished, but remember to be cautious of falling rocks and dust created by meteor impacts.”

It’s signed by a Nomai named Plume. I recall the name from the escape pod log. They were one of the survivors of the crash. This must have been their first settlement. I pan my flashlight across the buildings, noticing that more unsteady bridges link them together. Fantastic.

Cautiously, I cross over the nearest bridge to the central landing, doing my best to forget what’s slumbering beneath.

Immediately, the purple glow of a familiar sigil catches my eyes from the mouth of a nondescript building. It’s the same symbol I saw in the museum, the same symbol I found on the Attlerock. The Eye of the universe. Conflicted, I debate whether I should be spending so much time at such an old settlement. But, my intrigue wins out. If I don’t know what I’m looking for, then I don’t know where to look for it, either. The answers I seek could just as easily be tucked in the corner of a decrepit house as they could be displayed proudly in the shimmering city that sits beneath the northern glacier.

Upon entering the building, I am overcome with a strange sense of tranquility. Volcanic impacts thunder overhead, the black hole whistles below, and a supernova creeps at the corners of my mind. But within the crumbling walls, bathed in the radiating symbol of the Eye, I feel…calm. As if my breath is slowly being sucked out of me, but I no longer need air to survive.

It’s a shrine, of some kind. That is clear. Nomaian pots sit around the room, and a staff—the purpose of which, Riebeck is still puzzling over—leans forgotten against a wall. I don’t touch anything, for fear that even a slight disturbance will ruin whatever spell has settled across the floor alongside the dust. Writing decorates the wall. I pull out my translator.

Was it a waste?

Of effort, of resources, of time?

Perhaps. Though, so many came to mourn that it could not possibly feel like one. At the very least, now that it was built, Filix could not dream of demolishing it.

The shrine sat central in their settlement, built into a column of basalt Plume had hollowed out, inspired by a technique his partner, Keek, had used to develop protective tunnels on a different planet their clan had visited, plagued by a violent electrical storm that could have easily fried their equipment had they travelled across its surface. It was circular, filled with as many benches as they had people, and rarely sat empty.

The settlement had been completed after a few weeks’ labour. It was hard work, but necessary. They guarded their tanks of oxygen as if they were their children. In a few weeks more, their trees would mature, and they would have enough air, food, and water to live in relative comfort. It would be nice to not have to sleep in their space suits, though Filix had grown accustomed to the awkwardness of it. 

The black hole slept under their feet, and the volcanic moon that had driven them underground raged above their heads, but here, they were safe. For now. The minor instabilities in the rock troubled Plume, Filix knew, but they had to celebrate the victories as they came. It did not do well to dwell only on their shortcomings.

In the shrine, the passengers of Escape Pod One did both. It was here where they announced the completion of the settlement to a roar of cheers; here where Filix often found Kousa sitting on a bench, Foli undoubtedly on her mind. Plume, who had lost not only his partner but also his brother in the confusion of the evacuation, spent every free moment wandering the building, pretending to inspect it for structural damage. The children played here, the adults planned here, and it was here where everyone came together to mourn what they had lost. There was no better place to leave a reminder of what had drawn them here in the first place.

Plume and Thatch stood by Filix’ side. Thatch liked to remind her that regardless of their victories, they had to remain realistic. They were lost, their clan scattered throughout the solar system, all communications down. There was no guarantee that they would ever see their friends again. Though Filix did her best to strike the thought from her mind, it was a truth Thatch was keen on living. It was expected of their clan’s greatest cataloguer. She was always so unwaveringly rational.

Wordlessly, Thatch raised her staff, pointing the tip into the middle of the basalt wall, just below the symbol of the Eye they had engraved together. She spoke clearly and precisely, and the staff mirrored her words.

“This knowledge is too dear to lose: Here is everything we can recall about the signal we encountered while aboard the Vessel.”

She stepped away, and looked at Filix from behind her mask. Filix inched toward the staff, and, running through what she had prepared, spoke.

“The signal looked like an eye: Round, with a circle at the centre much like a pupil—Suppose the signal was looking for something? The signal was older than the universe itself—this is the most significant detail.”

“No Nomai clan has ever encountered anything like it!” Plume said on her other side. “How can anything in this universe be older than the universe itself?”

“Imagine what rare and profound knowledge it might offer,” Thatch posited. She paused. Filix knew what ran through her thoughts. The draw of the knowledge that the Eye must hold. The sacrifices their clan had already made trying to reach it. The yearn for her Aunt, Melorae, and Coleus, who had become something of a nephew to her over the course of his apprenticeship. Filix knew the feelings well. She would give anything to see Escall again, and Annona—to know that they were safe.

When Thatch spoke again, she did so with a newfound determination in her voice, one that Filix knew filled every Nomai that had been scattered by the Vessel's destruction, regardless of the distance that separated them.

“We must find this Eye of the universe.”

Again—the Eye. I look up at the symbol, at how beautifully haunting it is. Older than the universe. Can that be right? Or is the translator tool mistranslating? Nothing can be older than the universe, but that would certainly explain why the Nomai were so determined to find it.

Accompanied by the strange quietude of the settlement, I wander between buildings. They lay eerily vacant—all furniture removed save for a few scatterings of pots. They must have moved and taken their belongings with them. Occasionally, I spot Nomai etchings in the walls of barren houses. Sentiments of loss play across every surface.

“Is the hardest part of this tragedy not knowing who we may have lost? Or will the hardest part come later, when we learn? Be well, Aunt Melorae...”

“The pain of your absence is sharp and haunting, and I would give anything not to know it; anything but never knowing you at all (which would be worse). I can only hope that you are safe, Keek, wherever you are.”

“We can hear the other escape pods’ distress signals, which gives me hope. Foli, are you still here? I am unsure how to survive in this place without you…I am unsure how to be me without you.”

“My brother wasn’t in Escape Pod One with us. Was he in Pod Two, or Pod Three? Was he able to board an escape pod at all? We sacrificed too much arriving here. I cannot (I will not) allow our clan’s greatest loss to be in vain.”

For a second, I wonder what it would be like to be stranded like they were, not knowing if my friends and family were alright, not knowing if they were even alive. I imagine it would be unbearable. I would never have dared venture into space if I didn’t have Hal and the Outer Wilds team behind me. What would I do without them? Where would I be? I suppose the Nomai and I are similar, in that regard. We share a deep love for our people. It’s amazing, the technology and construction that had blossomed from such despair.

Within an especially tucked-away house, I find a poem written in the messy handwriting of a child. 

“Look out, look out below!

Look out for the gravity hole!

For should you slip

And lose your grip,

Then into space you’ll go!”

I smile. It’s such a silly piece of writing for a place so marred by melancholy. I can imagine Tephra or Galena writing something like that. Tephra would show it off to everyone in town, and Galena would slip it discreetly into my hand, worried that Tephra or Arkose would tease them for it if they saw it.

An explosion roars overhead, the sound of it rumbling through the stone around me, interrupting my thoughts. A knowing panic rises within me. Dust and rock scatter across my visor as I look up. I feel the movement before I see it—the crust is falling. 

Whole chunks of crust falling into the black hole isn’t unheard of. I observed the phenomenon myself, after an especially hard landing on especially weak crust nearly spelled the end of my fifth major test flight. 

It’s just unfortunate that I have to be on one such chunk of crust now.

As the ground slips away beneath me, I hastily power up the thrusters on my jetpack, pushing the joystick so hard that I fear for a moment I will break my controls. I reach the top of a sand-coloured house just as it crumbles in on itself, and grasp wildly for a hold to stop myself from falling. Climbing up, I realise with a panic it, too, is starting to descend, and I hurriedly go back to engaging the thrusters on my jetpack. I rise slowly, too slowly, and make the mistake of looking down. All those pieces of Nomai history warp and twist in the vortex of the black hole, radiation flinging outwards. Is it just me or does the black hole look so much closer than before?

I collide with a rickety bridge between houses and hold on for dear life. It feels as though the whole world is collapsing around me, more houses falling into the heat of the black hole, crust fracturing and crumbling. It takes me an embarrassingly long time to realise that the black hole is no longer growing close. The bridge I hang onto is still. I let out a deep breath, and the bridge beneath me creaks. I scurry to the closest rocky ledge, although my trust in the surface stability of Brittle Hollow is forever tainted. The bridge holds, but I know I won’t dare set a foot on it again.

By Hearth—that was close. No Hearthian has ever fallen into a black hole before. If I had fallen in, I would have broken a record. Just not in the way I had dreamt of. Chert and Hornfels had some pretty horrifying speculations about what would happen if anyone fell into a black hole, and I’m not eager to test any of them out.

Hauling myself to my feet (which isn’t easy with a jetpack, oxygen tank, scout launcher, Signalscope, and translation tool all strapped on), I finally survey my surroundings, hoping to find a relatively safe-looking way back to the surface or towards Riebeck’s signal. Instead, I find a boxy lantern illuminating a series of murals.

Nomai murals are…rare. Much rarer than their writings, at least. Riebeck thinks it had something to do with their pursuit of knowledge over arts or philosophy, but from what I’ve uncovered from my translations, it seems to me that they just had bigger fish to fry. If I was constantly dodging lava bombs and falling rocks, I wouldn’t be leaving many paintings behind, either. 

The murals around me are different from those I’ve seen before. Unnerving, almost. I light up each one with my flashlight in succession.

The first mural depicts some sort of jellyfish-shaped structure—a ship, it looks like. The ship floats in empty space, detecting a signal from…There’s that symbol again. A radiating maze. The Eye of the universe. 

The second mural shows the ship getting snared by a giant vine, and even from its abstraction, I know instantly what it is—a Dark Bramble vine. Our solar system has a few notable planets: The Hourglass Twins closest to the sun; Timber Hearth, and its moon, the Attlerock; Brittle Hollow and Hollow’s Lantern; Giant’s Deep; and Dark Bramble. Dark Bramble is the only planet no Hearthian has explored, and for good reason. Not only is it surrounded by creepy anglerfish and shards of dark ice, but it’s entirely made of erratic, thorny vines. Strange, hazy light pours from its central seed. It hasn’t always been that way. There used to be another planet in its place. One day, a bramble seed landed on it—no one knows where it came from—leaving only splintered ice and Dark Bramble in its place.

No Hearthian has ever dared to land on it—if landing on it is even possible. Chert had flown by, once, to collect a sample of its ice for testing, and they brought a stowaway anglerfish home with them. Sometimes I get chills just watching the planet drift by in the night back home. If a Dark Bramble vine had snagged the Nomai’s ship…

The third mural confirms my suspicion. The Nomai ship is completely encased by Dark Bramble vines. From it, three escape pods launch. Escape Pod One, I know, landed here on Brittle Hollow. The second escape pod is depicted flying off to a pair of planets joined by a column—the Hourglass Twins, undoubtedly. The third…my heart aches for people who are long dead. The third is trapped by the bramble vines, too. It never made it out.

I think of the lamentations I read on my journey through the settlement. Of Foli, and Keek, of brothers and aunts whose fates were unknown. Had any of them made it out of Dark Bramble’s snare?

Behind me is another wall of Nomai text. I have to learn more.

Filix waved at Kousa as she passed her by, descending the steps leading to the mural beneath the shrine. The trees they had planted were doing well, especially with a dash of volcanic ash mixed into their soil. The minerals boosted their growth, and soon their settlement had oxygen enough for them to finally tuck their suits and masks beneath their beds at night. They ate fresh fruit, sipped sweet sap, and drank clean water. It felt like they should have been healing, yet still Filix found the shrine to be full and the streets to be barren. That made some sense, she thought. She walked the bridges more frequently, but this place still felt more like a shelter than a home. That wasn’t so bad. Would anywhere feel like home without the rest of their clan?

Kousa still mourned for Foli, Plume still mourned for his brother and Keek—though he got by most days by burying himself in work of his own making. Rarely did Filix seek the comfort of the shrine. She much preferred lingering on the bridges, staring down at the curious black hole that sat below, marvelling at how the planet could survive such constant tribulation. Though relatively safe, their shelter was still subject to earthquakes and rockfalls. When she heard the sound of the moon overhead, Filix sought shelter beneath the shrine, in a religious alcove Thatch had created, though word had since spread and she welcomed others into her sanctum, as well.

Filix had, just after the settlement’s completion, rewired the escape pod to isolate the signals of their clan’s distress beacons. The news of where they had landed was met with hope and concern both, and a sadness for those they had surely lost.

Escape Pod Two’s beacon wailed from a pair of planets that were not so distant, orbiting closely around the solar system’s sun. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed like firm, stable ground—though a column of something fluid flowed from one planet to the other, like the shifting sands of an hourglass. Aside from that, it seemed they were safe, albeit too far away to reconnect with for the moment.

Escape Pod Three’s final destination, however, was disconcerting. She had tracked its beacon back to the farthest planet in the system—the one darkened by distance and vines. It seemed as though their friends were not able to escape the reaches of the horrible planet that had wounded their Vessel. Filix wanted them to be safe, but she had a difficult time believing it to be true. She hoped Escall and Annona had not been aboard that escape pod. She hoped no one had been on board, though she knew that, too, could not be true.

Thatch had painted a mural to cope with the news. A documentation of the final moments of their voyage, when their home and clan both were torn apart. She wrote a single thought on the wall, so she could see the words, Filix believed. So her contradictory thoughts could be made tangible. 

“I can’t understand,” she had written. “Why did the Vessel crash in that place?”

Plume had discovered her alcove before FIlix had, and thus his words followed.

“Was the Vessel unwell in some way?”

No. If it had been, Filix never would have agreed to the warp. Annona would not have, either, despite Escall’s eagerness. Annona and Filix had run a systems check—all was well. Communications were still functioning, and the warp core and navigation systems were at the ready. Often, Filix sat awake at night, wondering what had happened. It was not a warp or coordination error. They had followed the Eye’s signal—the signal had not been where the Eye was. She had written as much the last time she visited the mural.

Now, she noticed new markings on the wall. She held up her staff and Thatch’s voice played in her ears.

“Suppose it wasn’t a problem with the Vessel, but with our destination.”

Filix looked over her shoulder, at the paintings Thatch had made of their poor Vessel getting lost in the bramble vines. What exactly was that place they had warped to? She spoke wearily into her staff.

“I’m afraid for our friends in Escape Pod Three.”

I lower my translator in silence. How would it feel to have everyone ripped away from me? Hal, Gossan, Hornfels, Slate, all the travellers—gone. To be stranded on an alien world that seemed so determined to crush me, without any sign that they were okay, that they were alive…

Deciding I don’t much like my visit to the Old Settlement, I tuck away my translator. No answers wait for me here. Just grief and heartache and crumbling rock. 

My only hope is Riebeck. Hopefully they can point me to some world-class ruins that contain all the information I want. I take out my Signalscope. Their banjo is over 400 meters away. Brittle Hollow is small—if I hurry, I can be there in a couple of minutes.

Looking at the roof of the subsurface, I see the gravity crystal paths that follow its curvature. I can’t be certain—the black hole distorts too much—but they seem to head towards the banjo, and, resultantly, my archaeologist friend. There’s a point in the near distance where the crystals meet with an accessible platform and I hop over, doing my best to try and forget that there is a black hole continuously sucking me towards it whenever I’m airborne. 

Reaching the crystals, I find another note. The handwriting is already familiar to me: The neat lines of Thatch’s writing, the fast scribbles of Plume’s, and the smooth angles of Filix’.

“Given concerns about our settlement’s stability, where should we construct a new, less temporary shelter? I believe we should migrate to the northern glacier,” Plume proposed.

“We need to stay close to the escape pod so Filix can monitor incoming messages,” Thatch replied. “We can’t be rescued if we aren’t present to respond.”

“I don’t believe anyone is coming to save us, Thatch. Now we must save ourselves,” Filix added in precise polygons and nodes. 

Plume agreed. “We’re here because the Eye’s signal called to us and we followed. If we’re to find it, we need to not merely survive, but thrive.”

“This is a wise point, Plume, and eloquently made. If moving to the northern glacier will keep us safer, then that is what we should do. Building beneath the crust again would shelter us from the volcanic moon’s eruptions.”

“What if we use gravity crystals to craft a stable path?” suggested Filix.

They had moved. I can’t see where the path leads, but I have a feeling it will bring me to the dual bridges of the Hanging City. No Nomai settlement comes close to its scale or contents, as Riebeck would say. I remember they were eager to explore the ruins themself…had they made their way there?

There’s only one way to find out. I fly up to the lowest gravity crystal and feel my stomach turn as my view shifts sideways. I never had great constitution, and though flying directionless through the vacuum of space never once made me sick, gravity crystals have a uniquely unpleasant effect on me. I clench my teeth and look at the wall I stand on, and, staring at the rock, keep repeating in my head: This is down now, this is down now. The mantra helps me keep my meals in my stomach. Usually.

Though my world turns upside-down, I’m oddly comforted by the hum of the gravity crystals. I suppose it’s because one is always on my ship, keeping me grounded even in microgravity, except when it shatters from a rough landing. The farther I get from the settlement, however, the more I can’t stop myself from glancing at the black hole. The visual distortion combined with my shifted sense of gravity makes me nauseous. My mantra shifts to: Please don’t fall, please don’t fall, please don’t fall…

If Hollow’s Lantern spits out a lava bomb and the crust beneath me collapses, there will be no flying to safety. There’s nothing I can fly to. The boosters on my jetpack can only run for so long without overheating, and anything that looks like a stable platform is at least triple the distance that my jetpack can carry me to. I focus on my words as I press onwards, the light of my flashlight reflecting against coppery ore deposits, my breathing ear-splittingly loud within my helmet. The basalt eventually gives way to ice. I’ve made it. The northern glacier.

Just as I enter a crack in the permafrost, my faith in the crystals gets the better of me. I don’t know what happens—do I slip? Jump? Stray too far from the path? It doesn’t matter—suddenly, I am falling, walls of ice squeezing in on me on either side, the ground—and the black hole—rushing towards me despite me going full throttle with my jetpack thrusters. I spin out of control, the floor getting closer and closer and—

I land hard. My head smacks against the interior of my helmet and I blink away static. My vitals seem fine, aside from the possibility of a minor concussion. My suit holds, and my visor is still intact. I breathe a sigh of relief as my head spins. I can think of a million ways in which my landing could have been worse.

When I get up, the first thing I do, besides groan in pain, is check my Signalscope. Riebeck is only 200 meters closer. So…not in the Hanging City. Darn. I was really banking on them being here.

I follow the signal to the two massive towers of the Hanging City. They stand at the main entrance to the settlement, a clear landmark for any visitors. Overhead looms the twin bridges, and, focusing my Signalscope, I’m certain Riebeck is at the other side of them. Now, how to reach them?

The insides of the towers are completely hollow. I look for a set of stairs or a gravity beam, but find nothing. Great.

Except…one wall of each tower is tiled with an intricate pattern, the grout glowing purple. I swear I can hear a familiar hum. I reach out a hand and—yes! I feel the pull of artificial gravity on my fingers. The Nomai had made a floor out of gravity crystals!

I jump up a little too enthusiastically and feel my stomach heave as gravity shifts. I take a second to steady myself, then continue up to the next level, where the bridges to Riebeck wait for me. I’m glad that—so far—the bridges have only slightly crumbled, and the gaps that exist are easily crossed with my jetpack. On the other side, I no longer need my Signalscope to hear their banjo. It’s loud and clear, coming up from a lower platform. I hop down, narrowly avoiding a large hole that would have sent me straight into the void, and see the light of a campfire flickering through a narrow gap in the rock. I squeeze through.

If I had to describe Riebeck’s camp in a single word, it would be: Home. Oxygen from trees fills my tank. Grasses and vegetative creepers cover the rocky ground. Tins of marshmallows litter the floor, and the campfire—oh, the campfire!—I never realised how much I love the sound of crackling logs. I remove my helmet and take a deep breath in. The resinous scent of heated pine sap fills my nose, and I picture Porphy stirring away at their wine as if they’re right in front of me.

Riebeck sits on a rock, wearing their bulky spacesuit, strumming away at their banjo. They play a tune I know well, the same tune that Esker whistled at the Lunar Outpost. They play it together at our campfires, when they’re both on Timber Hearth. The other travellers join in too, if they’re around—Chert with their drum, Gabbro with their flute, Feldspar (used to) with their harmonica—until a whole musical medley plays out from around the flames. Instrumentless, and an absolutely abysmal whistler, I usually resign myself to drumming on my leg or tapping my feet to the rhythm. Esker and Gneiss had been the ones to teach Riebeck how to play the song on the banjo custom-made for them. I can’t wait until I’m able to play along, too.

When I enter the camp, Riebeck’s music stops suddenly, their posture overtaken with a delighted surprise. 

“Oh, you launched! That’s great. Great job, you.” Riebeck sets their instrument down and pulls off their space suit helmet, revealing a full, round face beneath. They smile shyly. “Wow, I guess that means I’ve been out here a while, huh. Well, um, this is Brittle Hollow. But you probably knew that. Lots of history here...It’s great.”

Aside from myself and Gabbro, Riebeck is the most recent graduate of the space program. They surprised everyone by signing up in the first place—they had never been fond of space, and seemed terrified of the launches even when they weren’t the one in the cockpit. Their graduation was the most celebrated and best attended—everyone was proud to see them off, no matter how much their launch petrified them. Out here, Riebeck could feed their true passion. They could live where the Nomai lived. Despite the possible end of the world, I really am interested to see how their research is going. 

Unfortunately, a question that has been plaguing my mind since arriving at their camp slips out first. “What are you doing… here ?” I ask, gesturing vaguely around the campsite. Riebeck lets out a nervous laugh, their big shoulders shuddering.

“Oh. Yeah. That. I, um…I fell,” they say embarrassedly. Yellow-orange eyes only half meet mine, and their ears pin back against their head. Blush tints their cheeks. “Tripped over a gravity crystal. It’s dumb luck that I landed somewhere my Little Scout says is halfway stable, instead of being sucked into…what’s below. I’ve been gauging the stability of the ground around me using my Little Scout, and this seems to be the place with the best surface integrity, so I’m just going to stay here until I’m ready to move on...But, that’s enough about me and my problems. You didn’t come all this way to listen to me blather, did you? Heh, that’d be…Yeah.”

Funny that they say that, because I distinctly recall travelling across the whole planet—dodging falling rocks and black holes—for this conversation. 

“...Yeah.” I say. “So, hey, this is going to sound weirdly urgent, but where would I find the best Nomai ruins? I…wanted to try out the translator tool, and—”

Riebeck’s eyes light up. “Translator tool! You mean you and Hal finished it? Can I see it? Does it work?”

I open my mouth to get back on topic, but the excitement in their voice stops me. I hand over the device. Admittedly, I am eager to show it off. No other traveller will be as interested in it as they are.

“Wow!” They say, studying the display, mouth slightly open with awe. “Just—wow! So all you have to do is scan with it? And it translates everything?”

“Everything,” I reply, letting my pride get the better of me. “I found this Nomai escape pod on the surface, and I got full translations of wall writings, terminal readouts, and recorded logs!”

“That’s amazing! Wait. Escape pod?”

Oh. Right. If all Riebeck has done so far on Brittle Hollow’s surface is visit the Southern Observatory and fall into a hole, I guess they haven’t seen the escape pod yet. I explain what I’ve learned.

“Wow! So then, the Nomai probably came here from somewhere outside the solar system. And they must have been in trouble when they launched their escape pod…but what kind of trouble? And where did the escape pod launch from? I’m so curious! This is an amazing discovery. I hope we can find out more about how and why the Nomai arrived here!”

I debate telling them about the Nomai’s search for the Eye and the strange signal they followed here, but I bite my tongue. I don’t really know all that much yet, and I don’t want to attach my name to any theories before I know I have the translations to back them up. I’m not about to repeat the mistake Gabbro made at the museum, which has been immortalised on a plaque for everyone to see.

“So, about those ruins?” I prompt, the memories of my dream alighting my nerves. “Anywhere in particular you’d recommend?”

They hand the translator back to me and gesture enthusiastically around. “Where wouldn’t I recommend? Um, not the black hole, actually. That’s…very no. Which is unfortunate, because, uh, the most exciting stuff is all below the crust. Including the Hanging City. Though I haven’t exactly been, yet—”

“You haven’t been?” I ask. That really throws a wrench in my plan. I had been counting on Riebeck’s on-the-ground knowledge.

“Um, well…no. I’ll go soon! I’ve been making remote observations with my Little Scout for now…Staying on stable ground…Anyway, good luck with exploring. Um, if you learn anything about the Nomai, I’d love to hear it, if it’s not too much trouble?”

I stop myself from slapping my hand across my face.

That whole, treacherous trek—for nothing. A little too callously, I say I will and put on my helmet. As I head back the way I came, instantly I regret my choice of farewell. I’m letting my anxiety from my dream overtake me again. Riebeck didn’t do anything wrong—we all know how difficult it is for them to explore. It isn’t their fault that I woke up on the wrong side of my sleeping bag. All it means is that I’ll have to try my hand at exploring the Hanging City myself, which I planned on doing anyway. Still…if I do have a time constraint, traversing crumbling ruins, searching for answers with no guidance, is rather daunting. 

Surely the sun was important to the Nomai. I’ll find something to ease my mind. But why couldn't they have drawn a huge sun symbol on the wall and written down everything they knew about it, like they seemingly did for everything else? It would have made my life so much easier. 

Just as I step forward, about to cross the bridges, an explosion booms overhead, showering me with dust. Cracks tear across the crust above me, splintering rock like rotted wood. The bridge supports groan and I know what’s coming next. I stumble backwards just in time to watch the bridge fracture inches away from the soles of my boots. Slowly at first, but quickly gaining speed, the section of the Hanging City bridge in front of me and the crust it’s attached to falls away, disappearing into the black hole in the blink of an eye.

That isn’t what makes my heart race.

There is now a massive gap in the crust above me, affording me an exceptional view of the sun beyond. Its surface dances with fire, massive flares whipping out into space. It’s red, blistering with sunspots.

No! 

It was real. It was all real. Somehow, I had been warned. And I had done nothing. Told no one. I stare at the sun and my blood pulses in my ears. It looks so otherworldly, so dark and ferocious, burning away in the sky. Flares lash out across its surface, and it boils and bubbles…and grows.

I need more time. It’s been less than an hour since I blasted off from the village. How was I supposed to have saved the sun when all I had to lead me was a vague dream? The Nomai wouldn’t have made their failsafe so temperamental, if that truly was the purpose of the statue. If it wasn’t…Was it all coincidence? Were we all doomed from the start? Why did I deserve to know it?

Just like in my dream, the sun begins to collapse. The underside of the crust of Brittle Hollow plunges into a deep darkness as the sun’s light dims. Blue high-energy particles streak through the sky like shooting stars, first only one or two, then dozens, then thousands, until I see the pulsing cloud of deadly energy poke out from over the lip of the hole above me.

I tried. I really did. I didn’t want to at first, but I looked for answers. I hope everyone will know that, even if I failed in the end.

Not a second later, the cloud devours Brittle Hollow, and me, Riebeck, and all the Nomai ruins along with it.

Chapter Text

I wake with a gasp. I don’t sit up. I stay on my back, that stupid rock digging into my spine, and stare up at Giant’s Deep. The fire crackles beside me. I put a hand over my chest and feel my heart beating.

I am alive.

And I remember everything.

It wasn’t a dream. It can’t have been, unless my precognitive visions are doomed to be the longest and most pointlessly recursive they can be. No. After seeing the supernova twice, waking up from it twice, I know it can’t have been a dream.

So…what was it?

After a couple of minutes thinking, I still have no answer. Is it important? For my sanity, maybe, but for now, I still need to focus on figuring out what’s going on with the sun. There’s a reason I’m seeing it explode. If I stop the supernova, then maybe time will just…carry on like it’s supposed to. Like removing a tree that has fallen across a river, except that the river is space-time and the tree is…the sun exploding. Yeah. That sure is an analogy.

In any case, I'm not one to question second and third chances. Whatever it is keeping me alive, keeping all of us alive, it doesn't matter. Not yet. The gears in my head are already spinning. I know what I have to do.

Unfortunately, my banjo-playing friend seems to be a dead-end, at least for now. I do, however, still have the largest Nomai settlement ever discovered to explore. Surely, it will host a wealth of knowledge, and hopefully at least some of it discusses the death of the solar system. I’m desperate for anything. Any lead will be helpful. I don’t know how much time I have, but it isn’t much—and who’s to say that I’ll even wake up again? No, I have to treat this ‘restart’ as if it’s my last. It’s better to err on the side of caution.

The Hanging City is still my best bet. No distractions this time—I’ll get there, explore, and save the world. No big deal. Plus…my conversation with Riebeck did leave me with one useful bit of information: a shortcut. Riebeck said they tripped on down to their camp from the surface, and their camp is much, much closer to the Hanging City than the Old Settlement. A lot less treacherous, too. Good. My stomach can only handle so many gravity crystal shenanigans.

Hopping out of my sleeping bag, I grab my Signalscope and hurry over to the lift, my plan solidifying itself in my mind with each step. I'm not letting my doubts catch up to me. I’m ready. I can do this. I—

“Oh, hold up,” Slate says. I stop, my fingers already hovering over the lift controls. “You’re going to want to get the launch codes from the Observatory first.”

I hesitate.

“I…already got them from the Observatory, remember?”

Slate watches me through scrutinising eyes, then huffs. “Huh. Must be inhaling more fumes than I realised. That stuff is potent.” They prod the fire with their stick. “Well, if you’ve got the codes, I’m not gonna stop you. Good luck, and take care of that ship!”

That…worked? Not wanting to question it, I input the codes and ascend to the top of the launch tower. Before I get ready to blast off, I boot up my ship log to enter what I learned from the Old Settlement, and, unfortunately, what I found out from the lunar ruins, too—everything I wrote before surely erased. Except, I open my log to find that it’s already full of notes. Notes that I wrote, before I discovered that my first launch was anything but standard. The lunar ruins, the Eye signal locator, my intention of heading to the Southern Observatory and to Giant’s Deep—it’s all right there. That is…unexpected.

So…it wasn’t just a dream. It is all really happening. I’d have thought more people would be running around in a panic if they saw the sun explode and woke up perfectly fine. Was it just me, then? How? Why?

I’ll worry about that later. I have more important things to figure out. I add my new notes and buckle in, good to go. Rocketing up and away from the village, I direct my ship to my favourite deathtrap planet.

I follow Riebeck’s music with my ship’s Signalscope until the twangy sound of their banjo is right underneath me. It isn’t precise, but I know the subsurface well enough now that I figure it will put me in a pretty decent place to track them down. I land, watching my altimeter so carefully that I almost miss the collection of ruins in front of me. 

In my defense, they’re built within a natural dip in the ground. It isn’t a crater—not like the craters on Timber Hearth, anyway—but the rocky basalt columns of Brittle Hollow’s crust tower around the settlement, creating a sheltered alcove for the buildings. I can see how the ‘valley’ may have protected the Nomai from the many dangers of Hollow Lantern’s volcanic bombs—the steep walls make collisions improbable except from bombs falling at high angles, and they likewise shield the buildings from falling ejecta and dust clouds. Clever.

I set down my ship smoothly a short distance away, not accounting for the fact that I take out a tree and that not all of my ship’s landing gear manage to touch the ground. Suiting up, I make sure my translator tool is secured in its holster and open up my ship’s hatch.

Brittle Hollow trees fill the settlement. They fared much better on the surface than the settlement itself had, despite the prime location. Only a few buildings are scattered about, and only a couple of them are anything more than crumbling walls.

As I pass the buildings, a popup on my visor snags my attention. DANGER: GHOST MATTER DETECTED NEARBY.

I hardly need the warning once I click on my flashlight. The lowest of the houses, and also the most deteriorated, is brimming with green-blue crystals. They reflect the light from my flashlight back at me with stunning play-of-colour, flashing blue, then green, then silver. My Scout has a handy little feature for just this situation. I snap a picture of the crumbling building. The familiar aura of ghost matter shimmers in the picture displayed to my visor. Ghost matter is invisible to the eyes, but not to our cameras. 

Keeping my distance, I continue on to the next building, which greets me with a much cheerier sight than the ominous shine of ghost matter crystals. A campsite. It must be Riebeck’s—the fire is still burning coals. A sleeping bag is spread across the ground, and a single hanging lantern illuminates messy notes plastered to the walls. An open tin of marshmallows and an Outer Wilds flask lay on a bench beneath them. Definitely Riebeck’s camp. 

I read over their notes. A small part of me insists that I should respect their privacy, but an even bigger part reminds me that privacy is trivial when the solar system is about to be destroyed. I may have been nosy before, but now I’m prudent.

“The journey here from the south pole has been, um...I’m going to go with ‘harrowing’, because of the, um, all of the meteors. But hey, at least I made it here unconcussed and not on fire!

“Okay, let’s see...I poked around a little, and there’s some sort of old Nomai path that starts across from my campsite, inside the ruined building with trees growing out of it. Doesn’t look like anything horrible—just stairs leading down. I can handle stairs! After I get my supplies together, I’ll follow the path and see where it leads.”

Perfect! That’s just what I’m looking for. I locate the building instantly. Problem is, the trees that grow out of it are growing through all the convenient entrances. A quick use of my jetpack remedies that quite nicely, and I fall down into the building through a hole in the ceiling.

Raw gravity crystals overflow from the shelves that line what must have been some sort of workshop. Pots filled with chiselling tools sit in the corners, and a lone Nomai skeleton, which I try not to focus too much on, lies in the centre of the room, fragile bones disintegrating. Maybe this is where they processed the crystals they mined? We know that they performed some sort of purification or strengthening process on natural crystals to enhance their properties, although we don’t have all the steps of it figured out ourselves. For the most part, we just rip the gravity crystals we use in our ships from ones found in Nomai settlements.

I follow the stairs down and—I’m not sure what I expected. There, before me, is another gravity crystal path. I’m glad I didn’t eat anything when I woke up. These ones are potent, too—the first one snatches me from the staircase before I even realise what’s happening. My stomach turns, but a few uneasy steps calm it down. 

The path ends on a platform I recognise. I am right above Riebeck’s camp; I can hear their music loud and clear, floating up from the platform below me. This is where I arrived from the Hanging City. Looking around, a few additional paths seem to converge here. In the centre of the platform sits a large mural. How did I miss that my first time through? 

In the middle of the mural is a gold square. Arrows above it point to a painting of the twin bridges and double towers of the Hanging City. Arrows to the right point to an image of a latticed tower, and arrows to the left point to a strange building that appears to sit on stilts. The two buildings I can’t name have arrows pointing towards a fourth building, at the bottom of the mural. A great glass dome over snow. The Southern Observatory. 

A map. It’s a map. And I’m at some sort of crossroads. 

I turn to investigate some of the other signposts and nearly trip over a Hearthian lantern. Whoops—I’d been so captivated by the mural that I hadn’t noticed that Riebeck left more notes behind.

“Hurgh. Well. That was...deeply unpleasant. I made it this far, though. Guess that’s the part to focus on, and not how I’ll eventually have to get back up that path. 

“But wow, this place sure is something! Looks like the Hanging City is north from here. And east is a ‘gravity cannon’! I definitely want to see that. And another thing—I’m detecting oxygen from somewhere below. Which is good, since I, uh, used up a lot of my supply screaming during the trip down from the surface. As soon as I stop dry heaving, I’m going to head farther down below so I can refill my tank.”

I see the signposts Riebeck mentioned. Precarious stacks of rock with Nomai writing carved into the highest stone. How they’ve managed to stay erect so long is beyond me. It looks like one good quake will send them all tumbling, and Brittle Hollow gets plenty of those.

The signposts only appear to reiterate what Riebeck summarised in their notes. I head down to their camp. I still feel guilty about how I left things last time, so I pop in to say hi. There’s a crackle in my ear as short-range radio communications open between our suits, but we’re close enough that I can hear them just fine without the uplink.

“Oh, you launched!” they greet, waving. “That’s great. Great job, you. Wow, I guess that means I’ve been out here a while, huh. Well, um, this is Brittle Hollow. But you probably knew that. Lots of history here...It’s great.”

Apparently they, just like the villagers, have no recollection of the catastrophe that's transpired. If they had, I’d expect a lot more incomprehensible screaming.

“That’s awesome,” I say quickly. “I’m just checking in! Heading to the city!"

They stammer a confused farewell, but I’m already racing back to the Hanging City bridges before they finish getting the words out.

When I arrive between the two towers, I take a second to marvel at the ruins, unlike last time. They truly are remarkable. I’m a little biased, admittedly—I’ve always been in awe of the species that came before us. But even Hearthians who aren’t intrigued by our solar system’s history can appreciate the Hanging City. 

Built into the northern glacier, the city is surrounded by ice and dark rock. The buildings hang down from the glacial roof like pendants, sometimes entirely unsupported at the bottom. It’s so vastly different from the Old Settlement that I have to pause for a moment to just think of how the Nomai must have felt when the city was finally completed. They must have been so proud of how far they had come, from small shacks and rickety walkways to towering buildings and firm ground. It’s wonderful.

A sign by the entrance to the city explains that it is divided vertically into four districts. This, I had somewhat guessed. I had arrived from the Old Settlement in the lowest of the districts, after all, before climbing up through the tower to get to Riebeck’s camp. For my search, the lowest district will be the best place to start. Not only can I work sequentially upward—and away from the black hole—but the signpost’s designation has me intrigued: The ‘School District.’ If knowledge is what I’m after, surely the School District will be the place for it. I make my descent via the gravity wall inside one of the towers.

A collection of buildings I presume to be educational in nature sit at the end of a disconcertingly narrow bridge. The side of it distorts when I look down at it, and I know the black hole isn’t too far below. The Nomai said that this place was much more stable than the Old Settlement. I hope their measurements from thousands of years ago still hold up. Just to be safe, I drop down my Scout to take a surface integrity reading. 99%. That missing 1% makes me walk just that much faster.

Beside the buildings, great big metal beams run down from the ceiling towards the black hole, weathered black. I hope they’re to aid in stabilisation—the School District looks a little too precarious for my liking—but I don’t risk the peek over the edge to see what they’re connected to.

Up ahead, shimmering crystals block part of my path: Ghost matter. Quite a few of the lower floors of the buildings here are filled with it. Neurotically, I snap pictures with my Scout. Tektite really did lose their leg to the patch of ghost matter just outside the village—I hadn’t just said that to give Arkose a good scare. I heard the horror story myself enough times to never risk hopping those fences. Spinel said they could hear the screams from their fishing spot in the northwestern geyser mountains. And that was Tektite lucking out. They could have easily lost more than just their leg—ghost matter is known to be fatal in high concentrations. I don’t want to find out what being unlucky feels like.

Not all the buildings have ghost matter, but nearly all of them have skeletons. Two lay across a table; one sits on a bench. The Nomai hadn’t only died out—they had died out suddenly. Riebeck often expresses their confusion as to why so many of the skeletons are in ‘life position’: sleeping, or sitting, or working. There are no mass graves, no bunkers full of bodies. It all led Riebeck to conclude that they must have died from some instantaneous, catastrophic event. No prolonged die-outs from starvation, disease, or war. 

Far from the first time since waking, the supernova crosses my mind. Maybe I always wake up a split second before it hits me, or maybe I die too quickly to even feel my own death—if I really am living through it all. That isn’t too bad, as far as deaths go. If all the Nomai had to die, it’s some consolation that they at least went out fast.

I enter a building with a tree in the middle, and a pit forms in my stomach. Scattered around the room are artifacts even I can instantly identify—I’d grown up with similar items myself. Building blocks, balls, what look like miniature models—all strewn about, all painted with fading colours. If this really is a schoolhouse…I worry what I’ll find.

My fears are confirmed at the top of the next set of stairs. A classroom, unmistakable. Benches are pulled up to tables, a Nomai chalkboard at the front of the room. Dainty skeletons sit crumbling in their seats. They are smaller than any Nomai skeletons I’ve seen before. I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath in. There are a couple of scrolls around the room. Maybe one of them will justify my being here. Carefully, to not disturb any of the tiny remains, I tackle the first, which is already plugged into the chalkboard. They must have been midway through a lesson when they…

…If the supernova hits—if it really does hit, and I’m not just crazy—then everything in the solar system will die. I know that, of course. It’s obvious. But I hadn’t really…known it. I think of Tephra and Galena, begging Moraine to let them borrow their Signalscope. Mica tinkering away at their model ship. Arkose throwing stones. They’re so young. So clueless. They don’t deserve to…The Nomai children didn’t deserve to…

My visor fogs up. I blink to clear my eyes and focus on getting through my translations.

“Explanation of Festivals:

All the Nomai clans from all over the universe meet in one place to share what they’ve learned in science and art. It’s called the festival!”

It’s an essay—or a presentation—by a Nomai child named Lami. Well, and Lami’s teacher.

“Don’t forget, festivals happen every ten years!” It’s a no-nonsense script I recognise from my last trip to Brittle Hollow. Filix. Did she teach full-time or did she only lead certain lessons?

“We can’t go because we’re stuck here,” Lami continued. “But Filix says we used to go, too. At some festivals, one clan’s big discovery can mean all the Nomai get to advance, too. Like Annona’s warp core, which made it so everyone can warp long distances and explore more. Each clan has a festival envoy to show their most interesting work. Our envoy was Thatch! A single festival could last a long, long time!”

Their festivals sound similar to our campfires. A time for everyone to gather and share stories, to eat together and gossip. Ten years sounds like a long time to wait for such a meeting, but maybe it wasn’t so long for a Nomai. We don’t know how long they lived, or how fast they grew. Perhaps ten years was like a week to them—that’s usually how long we wait for our biggest fires. If we were Nomai, our envoy would have been Feldspar. They were always the best at telling stories.

I replace Lami’s essay with a scroll that sits on a shelf at the back of the room. Again, messy handwriting, this time belonging to a Nomai named Solanum, spreads across the chalkboard. The title of the essay immediately captivates my attention.

“Formation Of This Universe:

“No one knows how this universe was made, but one thing we do know is everything used to be very hot and very dense (tightly packed together). As this early universe expanded, it also cooled down. Once it had cooled down enough, particles were able to group together to form things like galaxies, stars, and planets! Since then, space has continued to expand at a faster and faster rate, which is hard to think about for too long without your brain hurting.

“This universe will keep getting colder and larger, until one day, the stars and the life they support will all die. That’s scary to think about, even though Conoy tells me it won’t happen in our lifetimes. But it’ll happen in someone else’s, someday!”

It’s crazy how much these essays sound like they could have been written by the hatchlings. Or myself, years ago. 

Turning around, I am again met with the class full of skeletons. Is Lami among them? Solanum? I feel like I am intruding, entering some private affair I have no business at, reading essays that hadn’t been written for me, by Nomai I can’t possibly ask permission from. It doesn’t feel right, but…how else will we learn about them? What separates archaeology from disturbing the dead? Does them being gone make it okay? Even if they were tiny and foolish and innocent?

I can’t let those questions deter me. I want to be able to second-guess myself. I want to be able to have choices. But if there’s information out there on how to save my planet, how to save everyone, I have to find it. I am certain the Nomai would understand.

I venture deeper into the School District, between buildings filled with ghost matter. I reach a narrow platform with another scroll and, with a feeling of unease, bring it back up to the schoolhouse to read. I haven’t yet seen another chalkboard to use.

Thematically, it’s appropriate. Another essay. This time authored by Ilex. Wait—I remember that name! They were the one to leave that poem behind in the Old Settlement. They must have visited from the Hanging City. With their family? On a school trip?

“Why We Should Build A New Vessel:

“Each Nomai clan explores the universe in its own Vessel. The Vessel is the heart of every clan. It’s unusual for Nomai to remain in one place for so long. Nomai are wanderers and have no permanent home. If we built a new Vessel, we could return to our adventurous way of life. Imagine all the new places we could go! Our clan wouldn’t be stuck here in this star system. We could even meet with other Nomai, and learn from them, like Coleus says we used to do.

“It probably wouldn’t be hard to get parts if we stopped building other new things, and if we broke down other structures (like the towers on Ash Twin) for parts. We could even have a warp core for jumping long distances like Vessels have. Poke tells me she plans to make a very advanced warp core for a different project. I’m sure she could connect it to the Vessel for travel (because Poke is smart). We might have to build a smaller Vessel for now, even though Vessels are normally large. But we could make it bigger later once we reach planets with more resources.

“It would also help if we stopped building so many things to search for the Eye of the universe. I asked Yarrow, and he says we use lots of resources on the Ash Twin Project.”

Interesting. We had never before considered that the Nomai were travellers—they had permanent settlements in our solar system, after all. But if the Vessel, their home ship, had crashed in Dark Bramble, there would be no way for them to get back to it to repair it. The vines are too grasping. If they couldn’t repair their ship, they would have had to build a whole new one. Brittle Hollow’s…hollowness would have made it difficult for them to mine enough ore to build a ship large enough to house a whole community, but we know from the ruins on Timber Hearth and the Attlerock that the Nomai did eventually venture out from the crumbling planet. So…why didn’t they build a new Vessel?

The Ash Twin Project. Is that what they called their search for the Eye of the universe? Finding the Eye must have been important to them if they were willing to give up building a new Vessel in favour of their pursuit. Did they ever find it? 

I give the School District one more look around, but I don’t find much more to explore. I would have been disappointed to have gotten so little from such a promising site, but I’m anxious to leave the depressing scene of the schoolhouse behind.

Onwards and upwards to the next division of the Hanging City: the Meltwater District.

This district is aptly named. Crystal clear meltwater from the overlying glacier flows down through a river, with enough force to have drilled tunnels through the ice itself. The river cascades down into a waterfall, splashing into a small pool of water lined with chalkboards and trees. Houses sit opposite the park-like area, which overlooks the School District and the black hole below. I can’t tell if the buildings had been built into the ice or if the ice has encased them over time. The orange light of Nomai torches glints against icy stalactites. 

I translate the text from a scroll already inserted into the central chalkboard. It doesn’t give me much to work with—not even acknowledging an author—and only poses a single question:

“The Ash Twin Project requires a powerful, highly advanced warp core. How should we obtain it?”

We know that the Nomai had warp technology—the borrowed tech is how we power our Little Scouts’ retrieval function. If the Ash Twin Project’s goal was to find the Eye, did they plan on warping to it? Was that what they meant by ‘advanced’—that it had to be powerful enough to transport an entire ship across the vast emptiness of space? It seems impossible, but Ilex’ essay explained that that was exactly what they used to do. But then…if they already had advanced warp travel, why was this question even asked?

I search the nearby houses. Sure enough, I quickly find two scrolls. I plug them into the empty chalkboards.

“Solution 1: We could retrieve the warp core from the Vessel.”

“This would require a return to Dark Bramble, ” a Nomai named Phlox wrote. “Plume (my father) said many good Nomai perished there.”

Cycad commented on this point. “My mentor (Coleus) and his old mentor once discovered and studied an anglerfish fossil on Ember Twin. Using that knowledge, we could avoid the anglerfish entirely!”

“I remember that anglerfish fossil!” Ramie said. “We used to play in Fossil Fish Cave when we were children.”

Coleus, who I recognise as the Nomai who had tested the Attlerock Eye signal locator, wrote, “What Melorae and I learned from that fossil would theoretically help us evade the anglerfish, but our hypothesis was never tested on a live specimen.”

So, the Vessel had indeed been stranded in Dark Bramble, and even the Nomai were afraid of the shadowy planet. Or, at the very least, they didn’t like the anglerfish, either. Suddenly, I don’t feel so embarrassed by Hal teasing me about it whenever we were in the museum after hours.

“The Vessel's warp core is broken, at best,” Ramie pointed out. “Recall those present when the Vessel crashed said it sustained lethal injuries. There is no guaranteed reward for this risk.”

“Perhaps we could still repair it,” Conoy suggested. “My grandmother told me there was little time to assess the nature or extent of the damage.”

Cassava, another Nomai name I remember from the Attlerock, commented, “Even if it no longer functions, the old core could be a valuable blueprint, provided we’re able to transport it back here.”

That was why they didn’t leave. Not only did it take them—evidently—at least three generations to have built enough infrastructure to even consider leaving our star system, but the knowledge they had used to get here in the first place was lost. There must have been enough pushback on this solution, because the second scroll offers an alternative means to remedy their problem.

“Solution 2: We could craft a new advanced warp core inspired by the Vessel’s warp core.”

“The greatest challenge here, I think, is we don’t have the design for such a powerful core, or any of the original crafters of the Vessel’s core,” Oeno said.

“No, but Poke was apprenticed to Annona, who created the original design,” Clary countered, “and our Black Hole Forge is adept at crafting simpler cores.”

Poke, on cue, replied, “I believe I can be of use here! The Vessel’s warp core was created before my time, but Annona explained many of his designs to me. I would very much like to craft such a powerful core! More relevantly, I believe the Black Hole Forge crew and I could recreate the basic design.” 

Not everyone seemed convinced. “Abandoning the Vessel’s warp core and its casing means losing valuable knowledge,” a Nomai named Spire argued.

“This is true,” Mitis agreed, “however, it’s knowledge we have little hope of recovering. It would be best to relearn, I think.”

From Ilex’ essay, it appears that this was the solution the Nomai went with. I don’t blame them—it would have been the solution I’d have gone with, too. 

A tangential conversation left unread snags my attention. I raise my translator tool.

“This is the safest path for our clan,” Idaea commented.

“Is the safest path the best one?” Avens countered. “Our goal is worth the risk.”

Cassava replied, “Is it, though? We’ve tried for so long to find something that I (and others) now believe might be impossible to find. If the search for the Eye is a futile one, we should choose the option with the least potential for harm.”

It sounds like a dispute Slate and Gossan would have, albeit with far fewer veiled (and unveiled) insults.

I reread what Cassava wrote. If the Nomai really had been stranded here for at least three generations, and had still been no closer to finding the Eye, no wonder some of them had been losing hope. Even knowing that I don’t understand the whole story, part of me agrees with Ilex—Why were they investing so many resources into an apparently fruitless search? Although my curiosity about the Eye grows with every scroll I read, I want to see more arguments. I want to see someone tell the others to give up. Three generations, they had been missing. Did they have friends who waited for them to arrive at the festivals? Did the other Nomai clans search for them? If I could reach back through time, I would tell them: Go.

…But they didn’t. And then it was too late.

I search the crumbling buildings again, climbing upwards across rickety stairs and unstable floors. Nomai skeletons sit at tables, stretch across beds. Toys are strewn about the floors, pots and shelves full of belongings tucked into corners. Frost-drused and gathering dust. I find writing on the wall of an upstairs room, purple spirals etched into the stone itself.

Poke sat on a bench in her office, feeling, not for the first time, like the small child she had been when her clan still lived in the Old Settlement. 

It had been years since then. Since she curled in her bed, hearing the volcanic moon just beyond the roof of her home, feeling the rumbles of lava bombs impacting the brittle crust. She had grown alongside their new city; she had witnessed the union of their clan. Poke went from sitting at her desk at school to being followed by the youngsters she once was like, excited questions about her work thrown her way, as if she knew anything more than they did, as if she was any wiser than they were.

As she grew, she stumbled from project to project. Annona took her on as his apprentice, and ever since people looked to her for answers she didn't have. She was honoured, of course—especially being his final apprentice before his passing. But she also felt that opportunity had simply fallen into her hands. Had she earned that apprenticeship? Had she earned the knowledge she gained from it, the authority it had given her? Annona was gone. He hadn’t survived to see his warp technology recreated. Poke had to do the best she could with what he told her, but she knew her creations were only shades of her mentor’s former work. 

The others didn’t seem to mind. The basic warp cores she created—alongside her sister, Clary, Root, and the rest of the Black Hole Forge team—worked well. They filled their purpose. Of course, they were always working on improvements, but still—if Annona had been there, they would have been so much more effective. Of that, she was certain.

She tucked her legs in close to her chest and stared at the wall across from her. It was much too late for her to still be awake, but she couldn’t find it in herself to sleep. Mixed emotions bubbled through her blood, like electricity racing through a closed circuit. 

She was excited by the opportunity to try to replicate Annona’s advanced core. She truly was. It felt like a dedication to her beloved mentor. But those who thought that it would be simple, or that it would be identical in its efficacy, would likely be met with disappointment. That was what she was afraid of. Everyone thought that she could do it. Clary, though certainly doing so from a place of admiration, was quick to hold her work in the highest regard. That, Poke thought, was dangerous.

Should she have volunteered as eagerly as she had? Passing by the scroll walls every day on her way to work at the Black Hole Forge, seeing the spirals expand as more of her clan tried their hand at resolving the debate, inspired her. The moment a chance arose for her to contribute, she took it. Was she too hasty in her decision? Too confident in her work? 

So many late nights had she spent in the Forge, Root and Clary by her side, pouring over theory and proposed designs. Everything Poke had worked on set her up for this. Her apprenticeship, her previous projects. This was her area of expertise—but was her expertise enough? It never once felt like it was, despite their previous successes. 

If Annona were still here, Poke would not be the one leading the Black Hole Forge team. She would not be the one spearheading warp technology research. Everyone wanted Annona—she couldn’t blame them, so did she—but all they settled for her. Clary did her best to dispel her doubts, but she was her sister. Of course, she would say the others didn’t care. Of course, she would say that her work was excellent.

Poke sniffled, clenching her staff in her hands. She had never stopped feeling like that scared little child she used to be, huddled on her bed, waiting for her world to collapse around her. 

She did what she always did when her feelings began to overwhelm her—she pressed the tip of her staff against the wall and spoke, in quiet enough words that Clary would not hear them from where she slept a floor down.

“I feel strange, trying to recreate Annona’s warp core without him,” she said. “At times, it still feels strange to no longer be his, very young, apprentice, and for the Black Hole Forge to be in my care and not his. To have the chance to try is thrilling, but…” She sniffled again. “I don’t want to disappoint everyone. I think I can do this, probably, but what if excitement has clouded my assessment of my own abilities? Was I wrong in volunteering to build it?”

Very few remained from the original group of survivors who had crash landed in this solar system. Annona was gone. Thatch was gone. Filix was old and weak, spending most of her days lecturing in the schoolhouse, teaching Nomai history to children who had been cut off from their own culture. Poke knew nothing of the nomadic life Nomai were supposed to have. She knew nothing of long-distance warp travel, of living aboard a Vessel, of waiting enthusiastically for the end of the decade so they could meet with the other clans. 

“I was born in this star system, and never saw Annona’s warp core with my own three eyes. I only know what he taught me. What if I’ve bitten off a larger portion than I can consume?”

All she knew was the search for the Eye. It was all their clan had left. No one had come for them. Their Vessel was dead. Hardly anyone alive even knew what living on a Vessel meant. If they did manage to find another Nomai clan, would they even recognise them as Nomai anymore?

They had lost everything to the crash. It had taken them decades to rebuild. To relearn. So many of their clan had dedicated their lives to search for the signal that brought them here, and so many more had lost their lives to it. It couldn’t all be in vain. Poke couldn’t let it be. If everyone was looking to her for answers, she had to be the one to come up with them. 

“Still, all I can give is my best. And as Annona would say, should my best prove insufficient, then we will find another way to achieve what’s needed.”

She thought of her sister. Her friends. Her team.

“I have Clary and Root in the Forge, and I have my clan.”

She closed her eyes, which were suddenly misty.

“I am not alone!” she told herself.

Deep breaths. In, and out. The pressure of living up to expectations still weighed heavy on her shoulders, but slightly less so. That was something. Her clan wasn’t out there waiting for her to fail—they were waiting for her to succeed, ready to rush in if she faltered, ready to bolster her strength when she could not do it herself. This was something she found herself forgetting more and more these days. As anticipation rose, so did tension. Arguments broke out more frequently. Doubts clouded judgement. Even Poke was guilty of this—she pushed back on Cassava’s ideas more than the ideas themselves warranted, more so out of spite than reason. He was older than her, and knowledgeable about their clan’s search for the Eye. She did not understand his hesitancy in continuing the search, but he brought up valuable points. She had to remember to counter his arguments with persuasion and evidence, not attacks on his person. Though, he would do well to remember the same, on occasion.

Feeling better than she had before, she reread her words on the wall. Every single one was true. That was good, she thought. They were nice words to be true.

Her eyes lingered on the first sentence she wrote. After a few moments, Poke spoke into her staff for the final time that night.

“Hypothesis: This will always feel strange. Even though my time with him was short, I miss my old mentor, and deeply.”

Not once in my life have I experienced the pressure of living in someone else’s shadow.

Feldspar is, undoubtedly, the most important astronaut Outer Wilds will ever produce. Although they hadn’t aided directly in my training, they had worked alongside Chert and Riebeck—and a little bit with Gabbro, right as they were starting off. No Hearthian astronaut is afraid of not being able to live up to them. They had discovered more about our solar system than anyone who came before, and surely more than anyone to come after. If all I do is help to create the translator tool and test it out in the field, I will be content. I’m sure the other travellers feel the same for their own respective disciplines. Would I feel differently if I had trained under Feldspar with the intention of succeeding them? 

With that thought still lingering, I continue upward. I see a switch and flip it without thinking twice, and get caught in a gravity beam that brings me even further up. Here, the Nomai building transitions seamlessly into ice. The same glacial water that forms the waterfall below pours down the side of the ice from a brightly lit hole. I investigate.

I emerge from the cavern into the open air of Brittle Hollow’s northern glacier. Hollow’s Lantern spins in the sky above me, and the sun is dazzling against white snow. I shield my eyes with a hand instinctively and look around. I stand in a pool of meltwater, surrounded by eroded domes of ice. A couple of unimpressive ruins lie a short distance away. I take a mental note of my location, with the intention of exploring later. I doubt the ruins have the information I’m after, and I still have half a city to search.

I ride the meltwater back down to the house, jumping out of its stream before it sends me plummeting into the icy pool underneath. Thinking I can make it back to the towers faster by using my jetpack in quick spurts, I fly from crumbling platform to crumbling platform, descending back the way I came.

When I reach the final jump between the ruined house and the path back to the towers, I notice a door I missed on my first pass through the Meltwater District. Mid-air, I change direction with my thrusters, but I’m not keeping as careful an eye on my booster power as I should be. Suspended in thin air, danger lurking below, my thrusters fizzle out. I don't have enough momentum in either direction to get me where I’m going. 

To my horror, I begin to fall.

I lean hard on my joystick, but I haven’t given the booster enough time to recharge. My jetpack sputters half-burnt fuel as I gain speed. The heat of the black hole grows as it does, the entirety of my vision distorted by its weight on space-time, as I get closer, and closer, and closer—until the hum of it fills my helmet.

I’m too shocked to do much other than trigger my booster repeatedly to no effect. I feel sick. My blood pulses in my ears. After all that—this is how I die. Overconfidence around a black hole. 

I’m ashamed to admit how ‘me’ it sounds. Of course, this is how it ends. With so many unanswered questions, with a supernova a few minutes away from killing everyone I care about. My recklessness is going to destroy the one Hearthian who was—just maybe—able to stop it.

Well, not anymore.

I squeeze my eyes shut tight as I feel the insurmountable pressure of an immense weight pushing on me from all sides, like I am submerged under the impassible current of Giant’s Deep, unable to escape.

The black hole swallows me without a second thought.

Chapter Text

Suddenly, the pressure dissipates. A light shines bright; blinding even from behind my tinted visor. It fades as quickly as it comes.

Is that it? Am I…dead?

I peel an eye open, just a bit, then blink. I’m…fine?

At first, I'm too disoriented, too confused, to feel much of anything else. I float weightlessly in the vacuum of space. All around me are stars, the most notable being the giant orangey-red one in front of me. I wonder where I am for a second, before two familiar shapes pass before the light of the star: I can recognise the silhouettes of Timber Hearth and the Attlerock anywhere.

I am still in our solar system. I am also drifting through space, kilometres away from Brittle Hollow, shipless and with a little less than three minutes of oxygen remaining. Giant’s Deep isn’t too far away, but if I try landing on a planet, I will surely be killed by the force of impact—if I’m not burnt to a crisp on reentry first. Our suits aren’t exactly designed for planetary landings. The assumption was that we'd be using our ships for those. And my jet fuel is looking a little on the low side. Slate mentioned burning extra oxygen as fuel, and I don’t want to take the chance that they had made the same modification to my jetpack.

So, I’m stuck out here. But…I am alive. That’s a positive.

How did I get here? How do I get back? Something agitated stirs in my chest, but I'm quick to smother it out. Assess the situation first. Then panic.

Assuaging my nerves, I pull my map up across my visor. It still works. There’s that little arrow that pinpoints my location. It seems I’m floating at the very edge of our star system, barely still within the aphelion of the Interloper’s orbit. I close my map and there it is flying by; our friendly neighbourhood comet. It races along its elongated path, its two tails of dust and gas blasted behind it by the sun’s solar winds. We aren’t sure how it came to our solar system, or how long it’s been around for, but its highly eccentric orbit is all we need to know that it had been flung from some far-off region of space. It hasn’t collided with anything yet, which is rather polite of it. According to Hornfels, the probability of it crashing into any of the planets whose orbits it intercepts isn’t zero, but is negligible. 

My thoughts are interrupted as something shifts in my periphery. Fearing it’s a meteor—or worse, an anglerfish—I throw my joystick forwards. My jetpack, boosters recharged since my plunge into the black hole, propels me away a little more jarringly than I anticipate. Turning around, I realise that what caught my eyes isn’t anything particularly terrifying: a chunk of basalt, just like the kind that forms Brittle Hollow’s crust. I fly out of its path and it drifts past, a bright light stinging my eyes from behind it. I have to squint to get a good look at the strange light. Just like Brittle Hollow’s black hole, it distorts the look of everything around it. Background stars flatten against its curve, stretching unnaturally. In fact, other than it being white, it looks exactly like a black hole.

As I watch it, another chunk of rock comes tumbling out of it. Again—basalt columns, just like from Brittle Hollow. And just like that, I feel a new connection clicking into place in my mind.

The last time I saw all the travellers in one place, we were sitting around a campfire at the base of the launch tower. Everyone in the space program was there—it was a sort of impromptu reunion, since everyone was on Timber Hearth at the time, training, restocking, or visiting friends. Those who had already graduated the program played their instruments and shared stories. Porphy dropped off a case of sap wine and everyone had a bottle, except for me, because even sniffing the stuff made my stomach do somersaults.

The night had been…perfect. Crickets chirped, fireflies danced between tree trunks and long grass. The stars were clear overhead, the campfire’s heat sending embers flickering up towards them. Slate went on a tangent about their ideas for the next ship model and Gossan was having too good a time chatting with Esker to argue with them. I was excitedly updating Riebeck on the development of the translator tool. Hornfels and Chert were fervently discussing their latest discoveries, and that was when the topic of ‘black holes’ came up.

“...I think I found one, in a distant orbit around a star only a few lightyears away!” I caught Chert saying.

“Found one what?” I pried through a mouthful of melted marshmallow.

“A black hole!” They grinned wider than anyone discussing the discovery of a black hole had any right to. “I detected the radiation signature matching a relativistic jet just this morning. I suspected there was one in that region of space for a while, now—I was certain I spotted an accretion disc before with the Observatory telescope, and well, it’s the only thing that makes sense with the wobbles Hornfels and I have calculated.”

“Isn’t that…um, you know…a bad thing?” Riebeck asked nervously. “We already have one black hole around…do we really want another one?”

“If it helps, it’s been there for a while,” Chert explained, “we just hadn’t detected it. The radiation I’ve picked up is from four years ago—that’s how long it takes for the radiation to reach us, travelling at the speed of light—so it’s been there for at least that long, but likely much, much longer. Now that I’ve found it, I can monitor how black holes typically consume matter—the one within Brittle Hollow is an anomaly, of course.”

Riebeck made a sound that indicated Chert’s elaboration definitely did not help.

“How is the one in Brittle Hollow an anomaly?” I questioned, curiosity getting the better of me. Chert’s blue eyes lit up.

“Well, we aren’t sure exactly how it formed, but the black hole in Brittle Hollow is what keeps the planet together. Likely, what happened is that matter accreted around the black hole as it was getting sucked in, but somehow solidified before it reached the event horizon—or ‘the point of no return’. The pressure around the black hole would have made this matter very dense as it collected. This formed a rocky crust around the centre—Brittle Hollow. Now it acts like any standard planetary body. It was probably pure happenstance that the crust formed at all, and if it hadn’t, the black hole might have grown massive enough to have torn apart all the other planets in our solar system!”

Riebeck squeaked. “Cool!” I said, awestruck.

“What is a black hole, exactly?” Esker prompted gruffly. Chert seemed absolutely thrilled someone had asked.

“Nothing more than an extremely densely-packed ball of matter. So dense, in fact, that it creates a distortion in space-time. If space-time is a blanket, stretched taut, matter existing across the continuum weighs it down. Imagine pine cones on the blanket—each of those is a planet. An especially large pine cone would weigh down the blanket more than a small pine cone. The dip in the blanket that each pine cone creates represents the pull of gravity towards it. Everything creates a dip in the blanket, but stars are much larger than planets, and much more massive, and thus have a greater gravitational pull.

“Now, imagine if we took our blanket covered in pine cones and threw something really heavy on it—say, an extra-large tin of jumbo marshmallows. That creates a dip so great that all of our pine cones roll to it—that’s a black hole. It’s so dense that all matter around it falls towards it, and once the matter gets pulled in, it can’t get out.”

“Fascinatingly,” Hornfels interjected, “according to my calculations, nothing would be able to get out. Not matter, not light—perhaps not even time! Though, I’m not sure what exactly the implications of that would be.” They looked around excitedly to see a collection of blank, confused faces encircling the campfire. They coughed loudly into their fist. “Ahem. Um, continue,” they said, gesturing to Chert.

 “...In the case of Brittle Hollow’s black hole, the system is perfectly balanced so that the black hole and all the matter around it are stable,” Chert resumed. “That might not be the case if external objects begin entering the black hole—it would then gain mass, and get denser, and more things would fall into it. Like Timber Hearth!”

“Sorry we asked,” Slate grumbled.

After a moment of silence, Gabbro spoke up. Up to that point, they had mostly been sitting in silence, sipping on their third bottle of sap wine and listening to the conversations around them. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” they said. Chert gave them a dubious look.

“What do you mean? It makes perfect sense!”

Gabbro fiddled with their bottle, drumming their fingers against the glass. Their orange eyes reflected the coals of the fire. “It’s just that…I dunno—it sounds to me that if the gravity from Brittle Hollow’s black hole is so great, it would have broken up the crust by now. And hasn’t it? Kind of? You know, rocks and stuff are always falling into that thing. And not even just rocks! Didn’t we lose a whole ship in there, once? And what about the meteors? Wouldn’t that mean it’s getting denser? And if it’s getting denser, wouldn’t its gravitational pull get stronger? And wouldn't that mess up the other planets, a little bit? Or at the very least, it would break apart the crust even more, and then that would definitely mess with its orbit.”

“No, because the crust and the black hole act as one mass—like the Hourglass Twins.”

“But, what about all the other stuff falling in?” Riebeck mumbled. Chert shot them a look. “Sorry.”

“I’ve been monitoring that black hole since we discovered it,” Chert said adamantly. “Since before I was in the program. It’s not getting denser.”

Gabbro shrugged. “I dunno. Wouldn’t the matter have to go somewhere then? Maybe black holes are like tunnels, and there’s a white hole floating around somewhere spitting out all the ships and meteors it swallows up. Then the density would remain the same, right?”

Chert did not look happy. For a second, perhaps, they considered what Gabbro had suggested, but then reason flooded back to them and they shook their head furiously. “There’s no such thing as a white hole! If there was, I would have seen one by now!”

“What if it was really far away?” Gabbro asked. Chert flashed them a murderous look, and Gabbro leaned back, taking a long sip of their wine. “I’m not an expert or anything. Just thinking out loud, y’know?”

We had all chalked Gabbro’s proposition up to the fact that they’d been barrelling through Porphy’s sap wine at a lightning pace. Before they left the next day, I even spotted them chatting with Chert in town—and by the looks of it, the conversation was much more amicable. I’d gotten the feeling Gabbro had apologised for stepping on Chert’s toes during the campfire.

Apparently, drinking too much sap wine makes you a genius, because looking at the strange object in front of me, the perfect way to describe it is a ‘white hole’. What’s more—I fell right into the black hole, and I’m not stuck down there. I’m not even near it. Clearly, more of our research should involve getting Gabbro drunk.

It’s a miracle I didn’t end up in a different solar system—or a different galaxy. Maybe white holes can only form within a certain vicinity around their respective black holes? It’s a theory I’m happy to leave as a theory. Falling through a black hole and surviving is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I want to keep it that way. 

It’s not just me ending up on this side. Pieces of Brittle Hollow float all around me. Enough for it to seem like a cluttered mess, but, on the grand scale of space, it’s an insignificant amount of debris. I doubt any quick scan with a telescope would pick up any of it. There’s probably more junk floating around Timber Hearth from all our failed launches. Strangely enough, most of the chunks of Brittle Hollow are still in motion around me, not yet reaching a stable orbit. I think back to my time on the crumbling planet. How many close encounters did I have there? How many pieces of crust did I witness falling into the void below? Was it much more than usual? It certainly seemed so to me. Even watching the planet from this distance, as the sun shines across its surface, I can see the gaps, like a half-finished puzzle held together by spotty chains of interlocking pieces. Hollow’s Lantern surrounds the planet with hovering volcanic bombs, each one diving down to the crust in turn. The fiery moon, much like the geysers of Timber Hearth, has cycles of dormancy and violent activity. But this is…

An alert pops onto my visor. My oxygen is running low. I check my tank—I’m at ten percent capacity, dropping fast. I feel my heartbeat quicken in my chest, and immediately try to regain control of my breathing. Back on Timber Hearth, before I ever set foot on a spaceship, Gossan and I did emergency training in the Zero-G Cave. I see that dwindling number on my oxygen tank readings; I know what will happen if it hits zero before I get to an oxygenated place. It’s so easy to let my heart race, to start hyperventilating, but Gossan and I ran through this scenario countless times. I inhale through my nose and force myself to calm down despite the dire circumstances I now find myself in. 

I have no ship. No way to land on the planets floating before me. The trees on the crust of Brittle Hollow that surround me are already shedding their leaves, dying in the vacuum of space. My heart races. When I trained with Gossan, they told me what to do when my oxygen got low. Be calm. Breathe steadily. Get to my ship, or my campsite, or some place where I can refill my tank. But out here, there is nowhere to go.

There is nowhere to go. 

My oxygen is at five percent.

My breathing is earsplittingly loud within my helmet. I use my jetpack to turn myself around, surveying my surroundings despite my building terror. There is nothing out here. I am at the very farthest reaches of the solar system, at the very extent of Hearthian exploration. There are no campsites. No spare oxygen tanks to refill from. No ship. No ship. And every time I use my jetpack to turn myself, my fuel stores go down, too.

I can’t believe I survived falling through a black hole only to die of asphyxiation out in space. Alone. Scared. Heart racing uncontrollably. Somehow, the fear of dying this way is so much worse than the fear that filled me when I was tumbling down into the void. I watch my oxygen. It ticks down, and down…

Is this really it? After everything I did? Everything I have left to explore?

Three percent.

I think of Hal. Of Gossan. Of Slate. Of tall pines and geyser pools, and the intoxicating smell of heated sap, the crackle of the last campfire Outer Wilds Ventures had, all those months ago…

This can’t be it. I have to be able to do something. There is always something to do, always something to try.

And then I see something.

Off in the near distance, I notice a strange shape backlit by the sun. It isn’t the familiar trigonal columns I expect—far from it. Using my fuel sparingly, and tempering my hope, I cruise in closer.

A giant sand-coloured cylinder is suspended by rods to a huge hoop. Frost covers it, an especially massive crescent-shaped ice formation linking one side of the ring to the other. It sits eerily still between the white hole and the sun. Not rotating. Not spinning. It must not have come out of the white hole like everything else that is drifting around me, or, at least, it must not have come out of it recently. 

I fly up to what appears to be an entrance, carefully managing my thrusters so I don’t overshoot it. My oxygen hovers at two percent. I don’t know what this place is, or what waits inside, but I have nowhere else to go. Drifting into the concave opening in its side, I meet a Nomaian lock. The Nomai! They had been out this far, and apparently had left something behind. Painstakingly, I move the side-guided ball into position, my oxygen at one percent. Will I notice when it hits zero? Will I feel it? Or will I just doze off as my body runs out of usable energy?

The ball slides into the terminus of the lock, and the walls around me rotate until the opening behind me closes and a way forward reveals itself. An airlock. I float down and the force of a gravity floor latches onto me, my boots landing with a thud, and—

TREES DETECTED—OXYGEN TANK REFILLED.

—The hiss of my tank refilling, air blowing cool against my face as oxygen fills my helmet. I breathe in deeply, then cough on my own breath. My heart is still pounding, the corners of my eyes damp, my muscles weak now that the adrenaline is wearing off. I brace myself against a nearby wall until I feel my breathing return to normal, the fear of another death leaching out of me. I can’t believe how lucky I am. Another minute, a larger distance, and I would be dead. And, worse—it would have been a death I don’t know if I can return from. That could have been the end, for me, for everyone. 

An amount of time later—I can’t tell how much—I have the energy enough to look around the serendipitous structure.

The room is cozy, much smaller on the inside than the structure appeared to be on the outside. Trees—my salvation—dot the room. Two gravity beams on either side lead to a level below me, and the floor pulses with energy. In the middle of the room sits an octahedral glass chamber. This, I recognise as the technology we borrowed for our Scouts: a warp core. A mural showing what is unmistakably Brittle Hollow and the structure I stand within glows from the wall in front of me. Beside it is a piece of Nomaian writing. I watch it, panting, wishing that I could translate it—until I remember that I spent years making a device to do just that. 

“Welcome to the White Hole Station! If you fell through the black hole by accident (don't worry, you aren’t the first), this warp tower can return you to Brittle Hollow. Every warp tower is tuned to a specific astral body. A tower's warp can only be used during the brief window when the tower is aligned with its corresponding astral body (in this case, Brittle Hollow).

“If you look up while the station is rotating, you can see the alignment happens when the astral body is directly overhead. You must be standing on the warp platform on the floor during this alignment to be warped.”

I’m pleased to find that the welcome message is signed with a familiar name: Poke, the Nomai who had agreed to develop the advanced warp core. Warp technology was certainly her area of expertise. 

The message makes me feel much better about my small detour. My heart is still recovering from my panic, but at least I’m not the first to have had that…unique experience. How often had the Nomai fallen into the black hole, oxygen running out, for them to think of building this station? They were probably much more proactive—the White Hole Station may have been constructed long before the Hanging City was even completed.

I look overhead, waiting for Brittle Hollow to swing into view, but all I see are stars. Not even that, but the same stars. The station isn’t rotating. Using one of the two gravity beams, I descend to the lower level to attempt to solve the problem. 

On the lower level, overtop of a glass floor, is what appears to be some sort of a Nomai trigger, shaped like a double-sided wrench with a kink in the middle. A sight-guided ball rests in the crook of it, and I drag it to one end of the ‘wrench’, leaving it in the receptacle at its end. Instantly, the stars beneath my feet begin to shift. I hurry back up the second gravity beam to the upper level. Sure enough, the mural of the White Hole Station is spinning. I silently thank the Nomai for their intuitive and user-friendly design philosophy.

Sitting on a bench is a glowing tablet I hadn’t noticed before in my distress. I pick it up and examine it. It’s flat, emblazoned with a glowing orange symbol of two planets conjoined by a bridge: the Hourglass Twins, undoubtedly. I can’t think of what to do with it—there are no buttons, no writing. Perhaps there is some use for it on Brittle Hollow. 

Tucking the tablet into my belt, I stand in the middle of the room, just as Poke instructed, and wait in anticipation as the station begins to align with its associated planet.

It’s amazing to me that such complicated technology has survived so long. This station hasn’t been maintained—hasn’t even been visited—in thousands of years. That is phenomenal. It still works! The station spins around without a hint of a stagger or a jitter. A small, dark thought crosses my mind. That doesn’t mean the warp technology still works.

What happens to Scouts with damaged warp cores? Oh, right. They implode.

Unfortunately, I remember that salient fact a little too late, and move to step off the platform right as the alignment occurs. 

Warping feels like…blinking, except with my whole body. I suppose that was what it felt like falling into the black, hole, too, though that had been a much longer process. My whole body feels this impossible pressure—it doesn’t hurt, it’s just uncomfortable, like I am being squeezed down into my middlemost point. And then, just like that, everything unfolds. The entire thing lasts a fraction of a fraction of a second. I don’t realise what’s happening until the whole affair is over and done with. 

I open my eyes, and am confused for a moment about where I’ve warped to.

See, I know I am on Brittle Hollow. That’s where the White Hole Station is apparently linked, after all, and there’s Hollow’s Lantern, hovering in the sky overhead. Only, what I see before me is so familiar that for a quick second I think I've wound up on Timber Hearth. 

A blocky double-spiral sits in the ground, glowing, orange, eroded walls surrounding it. I follow the walls all the way around, and am astonished by how identical it is, even down to the ring of rocks around its edges. Back home, the spiral sits beside a crater filled with the only Nomai ruins on Timber Hearth. Three arches frame a path down to a bridge long destroyed by waterfalls and time. Few artifacts remain, save a mural showing two Nomai arriving on our planet. So, Riebeck turned their eyes skyward. Hal and I had investigated the base of the ruins intensely, too, but neither of us could find any writing to use in the development of the translator tool, and so we also eventually left the ruins behind, despite the burning questions that remained. What were they built for? Navigation? Religion? Ceremony? It was anyone’s guess.

Apparently, they’re a warp platform.

This is confirmed by reading the log that stands glowing at the end of one of the spirals. The same sort of terminal sits beside the ruins on Timber Hearth—but it never glowed, and the Nomai words never revealed themselves to us, despite our best efforts. The log reads: 

DEPARTURE TIME: 1443.21745

ARRIVAL TIME: 1443.21744

RETURN WARP STATUS: CHARGED. STEP ONTO WARP PLATFORM WHEN READY.

Once a warp platform is activated, I can warp back whenever I want. Nice. Though, I hope I won’t be needing to return to the White Hole Station anytime soon.

Checking my compass, I realise that I am on the north pole of the planet. That’s convenient, although it had been designed by the Nomai to be. My shortcut down to the Meltwater District has to be around here somewhere. I start looking around the ruins for the glacial pool, but notice something peculiar before I make much progress. A tank of jet fuel, propped up against the side of the nearest building. Riebeck had been here?

No, not Riebeck. A note is pinned to the wall.

“It’s annoying to schlep across the planet to the ship if I can’t use my jetpack, so I’m leaving this here. I checked with my Little Scout—I do too use it, Hornfels, ya burnt marshmallow—and the Scout’s integrity reading said this piece of Brittle Hollow is as stable as any, but who knows. If the fuel’s still around, feel free to use it. If not, well, wherever you’re reading this note, I’m sure you’ve got bigger problems.

–Feldspar”

…Feldspar?

Seeing their name here feels like catching a glimpse of a ghost. How long ago was it that they visited these ruins? It’s impossible to tell. They had made regular trips to space for a decade before they disappeared. The jet fuel canister is the current model, but that doesn’t really help me narrow it down. We’ve been using the same tanks for the last seven years.

I siphon some fuel from it, refilling my personal supply that I depleted during my fall into the black hole. I know I’m being ridiculous, but there’s something…unnerving about taking some of Feldspar’s fuel. Like disturbing a gravesite. It’s been three long years since they disappeared. Everyone sort of assumes they had a bad crash they couldn’t recover from, but even so, no one wants to erect a headstone in the village cemetery. A few Hearthians hold onto the hope that they’re still alive after all this time. What I wouldn’t give to be able to drop by their campsite like I did with Riebeck. I suppose I sort of am. I read their note, borrowed their fuel. All I have to do is toast a marshmallow.

There’s a set of stairs to my left, and, out of curiosity and a reluctance to see the black hole again so soon, I follow them.

Two gravity beams are in the middle of the open-air room. Well, one gravity beam, pulsing upward—the second one has been destroyed by the encroaching glacial ice. A sign above it reads: The Hanging City (below 50m). This was probably the main entrance and exit to the surface before the ice took over. It’s fortunate that I found a half-decent shortcut down. 

Behind the sign I spot a chalkboard. Walking up the stairs to it, I pass by a mural: a Nomai, in a spacesuit, a mask covering their face. It floats in a beam between a black hole and a white hole. Translating the text next to it, it seems to be a painting to mark a special occasion. 

“To our friends on Brittle Hollow,” Clary wrote, “I just warped here from the White Hole Station (on the other side of Brittle Hollow’s black hole)! Our design worked; we’ve successfully recreated warp travel!”

“This is wonderful news!” Filix replied. “I can’t wait to see the warp tower, although it’s been a long time since I’ve jumped through a black hole!”

Poke left a message next. “I don’t know how close it is to Annona’s original design, but as long as what we’ve built works, then I’m delighted! I knew we could do it—Cassava, I hope you’re reading this!”

I smile inside my mask—Poke, Clary, Root, and their Black Hole Forge team had done it. I read on.

“Wait, this can’t be correct,” Poke’s next reply reads. “Clary, have you seen these readings? If they were accurate, they would violate causality. There must be an equipment error somewhere. I’m returning to the White Hole Station. If you and Root meet me there, we can run a full diagnostic and hopefully locate the problem. Don’t tell Cassava.”

Violate causality? What does that mean? Whatever the issue was…I hoped they had resolved it before I went and used the warp station. Maybe that’s why the station had been switched off…

At least I feel fine. For now.

The floor crumbles away to my left, and I jump. Only a few brick-sized tiles tumble over the edge. Paranoidly, I throw my Scout down to check the surface integrity. 99%. My growing list of near-death experiences is making me flighty. Besides—if the ground does fall away beneath me, the worst case scenario is that I end up at the White Hole Station again. That isn’t so bad…as long as the Nomai had fixed their technical errors…

On the lower floor is another chalkboard, which is unlike any I’ve seen before. There is no place for a scroll to go; instead, two podiums stand in front of it, one with a glowing image of Brittle Hollow and the other sitting empty. Next to it lies a square depression in the floor, matching podiums at its centre. I pull the tablet I took from the White Hole Station out of my belt. Glancing from the tablet in my hand to the empty podium before the chalkboard, it’s clear that the two fit together. I insert the stone and the podiums twist until they conjoin, the board lighting up with Nomai script.

“Ramie and I reviewed the records you sent, Poke, and they appear to show Nomai are arriving at the warp receiver on Brittle Hollow slightly before departing from the White Hole Station,” began a Nomai named Pye.

“I understand it’s exceedingly odd, but Clary and I have tested and retested the equipment, and the result is the same every time someone warps,” Poke replied.

Ramie jumped in. “The interval is incredibly miniscule (roughly one hundred-thousandth of a second). Do you suppose our instruments can’t accurately measure time to such a small degree?”

“These measurements can’t be accurate—how can a Nomai arrive on Brittle Hollow before he or she ever stepped into the teleporter? The implications are absurd,” Pye wrote.

“I don’t disagree,” Poke added. “It would mean I’ve inadvertently broken several fundamental theories regarding this universe. We would have to reconsider all of our beliefs about the nature of time.”

“Yes, I hope so, too!” Ramie mused. “As Pye is confident the reading is inaccurate, she’s kindly helping me attempt to recreate this phenomenon at the High Energy Lab. We’re designing an experiment to take more data.”

And, at the very end of a spiral, Pye left an update: “Poke, the High Energy Lab is in the canyon on Ember Twin’s equator. Come here at once. You need to see this.”

So…there is no equipment error? That makes me feel a bit better. But what’s this ‘violation’ they talked about? And there’s a lab on Ember Twin? I think of the log that had popped up when I warped. Maybe I should check that out again. Before I leave the building, however, I figure I should see what happens when I activate the other podiums. I lever the tablet out of place and set it in the empty podium a short distance away.

I’m not prepared for what happens. My vision ripples, and the floor disappears underneath a bubbling black liquid. It covers my boots, then my shins, then my whole body—but I feel nothing, no clinging weight on my spacesuit. I look up, and instead of the cool tones of the surface of Brittle Hollow, the world looks like it’s on fire. The rocky ground is smooth and red, a fiery crimson sun taking up nearly the entire sky. It flares and swirls with plasma as a planet transits it, huge in the sky overhead. A massive column of sand pours down from the planet. I watch in awe as it passes by a strange tower. Sharp and pointed, pearlescent leaflets primed towards the sky, cables sparking with purple energy.

Am I on Ember Twin? It looks like I am—the red sandstone is unmistakable. But…how? I didn’t warp, or, at least I didn’t feel it. I walk towards the tower, but I barely take two steps before I am suddenly back on Brittle Hollow, in the belly of its surface ruins.

I don’t understand what happened, but my curiosity is piqued.

It isn’t a teleporter, but some sort of projection? I try it again, this time expecting the ripples and the strange black liquid. There’s the red sandstone, the angular tower. Everything is the same, only now, the sky is dark—it is a projection! A live one! And if that’s what it is…Is what I see the High Energy Lab?

Part of me wants to immediately blast off to the Hourglass Twins, but…

Image dissipating around me, I jog over to the terminal at the entrance to the warp spiral. I reread the times displayed. 

DEPARTURE TIME: 1443.21745

ARRIVAL TIME: 1443.21744

My jaw drops. How did I not notice it the first time? It’s just as Ramie said…the difference is miniscule. Insignificant, even. Yet…wholly impossible. I arrived on Brittle Hollow before I departed from the White Hole Station. But…how? I can’t arrive somewhere before I leave somewhere else. That would…violate causality.

But, it happened. And, according to the Nomai, it isn’t just an equipment error. 

There are more ruins perched atop the highest point of the glacier. I jet over a gap created by an icy stream of meltwater to reach them. A lone conglomeration of spirals is engraved into the wall. Will this further explain the warp-time anomaly?

Filix started the spiral off. “Has anyone observed the phantom moon that sometimes greets us in the night sky? Your thoughts interest me.”

It isn’t about the anomaly, but I don’t care—I know that moon! Eagerly, I pull up my map and there it is, orbiting around Dark Bramble. Closing and opening my map again, the moon disappears, until—No, there it is, rotating around the Hourglass Twins, as if that is where it always has been.

We call it the Quantum Moon. I’m not sure how accurate the name is, but it behaves in the same way as a peculiar type of rock we have on Timber Hearth does, its swirling grey clouds blinking in and out of existence when no one is watching. We have a sample of one such rock in the museum—a small shard of a much larger one in a nearby crater. It dances around its exhibit without moving at all, shifting through space only when you have your back turned. Hal and I used to play in that exhibit for hours, trying to catch the shard in the act of moving. We never could. Most Hearthians think that the rock doesn’t actually move, but just appears to, with some strange optical illusion. Gabbro has…a different theory. They suggested once—interrupting one of Hornfels’ lectures—that the shard ‘exists in all possible states until observed.’ Hornfels laughed them off and never let them live that down, memorialising the absurd theory in a museum plaque.

Intrigued by what the Nomai had to say about our strange moon, I continue reading.

“I compliment your eyes!” Thatch said. “How do you imagine it disappears? Hypothesis: could it be a shift in the light spectrum?”

“I’m interested in your playful moon,” Plume replied as well. “Is it much like its violent friend, Hollow’s Lantern?”

“Imagine if there were two volcanic moons,” Thatch mused.

“Then I imagine there’d be none of us left!”

“Hypothesis: there can exist too much lava,” Filix joked.

Thatch replied, “I’d strongly prefer we test the null hypothesis.”

“This moon isn’t volcanic (to my unaided eyes),” Filix assured. “Sometimes it leaves its friend Hollow’s Lantern for nights at a time.”

“The nights the moon circles this planet appear random,” Plume pointed out. “It seems to travel as it likes."

I can’t help but grin. Seeing these small moments of humour while the Nomai learned about our solar system, knowing all the hardships they had endured, makes me warm. I’ve become familiar with so many names, now—so many prominent characters in their history. Filix, the expert on locators; Thatch, the clan’s envoy; and Plume, father to Phlox, who wanted nothing more than to protect his clan. How would a conversation with them go, if time and language didn’t separate us? 

My eyes trace the spirals of their handwriting. Around me, the sky darkens. With an inward sigh, I turn my gaze to the sun and watch as it flares and compresses. 

Is it time already? 

Just like it has twice before, the sun shrinks before erupting into a cloud of blue sparks. The snow on Brittle Hollow’s pole sparkles brilliantly in the unnatural light. I watch as the sun’s core—so small, now, nothing more than a white dwarf—disappears behind a radiating pulse of energy. I watch as the energy speeds towards me. Brittle Hollow's atmosphere is ripped away, the shimmering glow of auroras dance until the light of the blast is too bright to make them out clearly. There is nothing I can do but wait, and hope that I’ll wake up, just like last time, and the time before that. I’m shocked at how calm I am. Have I really grown accustomed to the sun’s death already? Or do I just have no fear left after my experience with the black hole?

The light of the ionizing cloud is blinding.

And then it is gone.

Chapter Text

…Am I in a time loop?

Just thinking the words makes me wince. That’s ridiculous. But…so is having dreams of the future, and so is the sun exploding. And so is waking up next to the campfire. Again. Although, I’m definitely not complaining about that one.

The fire crackles beside me. My face is cold, my back sore. Above me is Giant’s Deep, and Slate pokes the fire with their stick. My ship is no longer lost on Brittle Hollow, but perched atop the launch tower, stocked and just waiting for me to step inside. As silly as it is, being in a time loop sounds like the simplest explanation. Well, that or I hit my head a little too hard during my last crash landing.

A time loop. Why me? And why is no one else in a time loop? Surely I’d know if they were—I don’t think Hal would handle that sort of thing too well. They'd be running here from the observatory, shouting for my attention the whole way down. I strain my ears, but hear nothing.

Finally pushing myself to my feet, Slate says to me, “There’s our pilot! Ready to get this beauty off the ground?”

Well…time to experiment, I guess.

“You’re lucky I’m in a time loop, because otherwise I’d be super dead,” I reply. Slate gives me an incredulous look.

“And you’re lucky I don’t have you grounded for medical reasons,” they respond, returning to the campfire with a dismissive shake of their head, “because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

That’s enough confirmation for me. I am alone with my memories. And, honestly—I’m relieved. Being stuck in a loop takes a lot of the pressure off, even more so if no one else is in it with me. No expectations. No one there to witness the dumb mistakes I make. Time is on my side, and at least I won’t be dead in half-an-hour. Well, technically, I will be, but that doesn’t matter. It won't...stick. What matters is that the universe—for whatever reason—has given me the opportunity to do something. I’m not really sure what the universe wants me to do, or if it is the universe wanting it at all, but I do know what I want to do with my time.

I head to my ship, ignoring Slate’s advice to get the launch codes first—or at least go share my 'time loop' theory with Ground Control. Once aboard my ship, I go to update my log. Again, it has inexplicably saved all my previous notes. I'll get to that mystery eventually. For now, I set course for Brittle Hollow.

This time, I plant my ship right at the northern glacier, next to the meltwater pool where I know I can follow the runoff down to the city below. It takes me a few minutes to locate the passage I found before, but there it is, beneath a dome of ice, water pouring down. I let the current carry me through, jumping out of the stream of meltwater right before I crash with full force into the icy pool, cushioning my descent with my jetpack boosters. I’m in the park in the Meltwater District, trees filling my oxygen tank, two of the three chalkboards empty, just like they had been when I arrived last loop. The Hanging City has been reset, along with the rest of the solar system.

Carefully, this time—no propelling myself foolishly across gaps—I go to the door I had missed on my last trip through. Translating the sign beside it, I’m…intrigued. BLACK HOLE FORGE CONTROLS.

The forge. That’s where Poke, Clary, and Root had worked to recreate warp travel.

I enter through the door and descend the stairs beyond. I’m brought to a platform, an observation deck, with a huge window that provides me a good, and safe, view of the Hanging City. A control mechanism is inlaid into the glass, a sight-guided ball resting at the top of a long, vertical path. Out of habit, I drag the ball down.

Instantly, I hear movement and regret my carelessness. The whine of a structure that hasn't been mobile in a very long time echoes throughout the subsurface, the screeching of metal sliding across metal sharp in my ears, even through my helmet. There is barely enough time to chastise myself before I see it rise from beyond my glass viewpoint: the Black Hole Forge.

The support beams I noticed when traversing the School District are not support beams at all—they are the track that the Black Hole Forge crawls along, joining what must be the active position, just at the edge of the black hole, to the docking station on the underside of the crust. The forge is big, black, and formidable. It has to be, to withstand the forces wrought on it as it sits on the brink of the event horizon. I’m shocked it hasn’t gotten dislodged from its track after so many years of neglect. The metal hull of it is ugly and mottled, but sturdy. Despite the screeches and groans that shake the underground, the forge holds firm. The Nomai had crafted it magnificently.

It whines to a halt on the roof of the icy cavern. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the fourth district—the highest district—is completely upside-down. Trees stretch their branches down towards me, gravity paths between them glowing purple. The forge settles with a tremor into its new position, then stills. Can I get up there? 

I return to the towers and my question is answered. No, I can’t. The gravity paths used to lead up to the fourth district (aptly named the Black Hole Forge District), but the towers have collapsed in on themselves three-quarters up their lengths. It’s inaccessible. I look back at the ceiling. There has to be another way up…

…And there it is. A double-spiral glows orange. A warp receiver. If I can find the warp station that matches it…

I still have one district that I can explore. Perhaps the warp station is there? I doubt it, but that isn’t reason enough to pass the district by. Using the gravity path within one of the landmark towers, I climb up to the Eye Shrine District. 

This district is unlike the others. The closest to the bottom of the glacier, aside from the Black Hole Forge District, the Eye Shrine District is coated in icy stalactites. Water drips from their points, forming puddles of clear ice across the stone floors of the houses, adding yet another hazard to the crumbling neighbourhood. Suspiciously eyeing the holes that pocket the lowest floors of the houses, I toss down my Scout. Integrity is still at 99%, which has me questioning how much faith I have in Slate’s inventions. 

Enough to risk it, apparently. I enter the nearest disintegrating house. 

This district, more than the other two I have seen, is filled with bones. Their gradient colouration, their twisted horns, the empty eye socket in the middle of their foreheads—I can’t look away. I never harboured any especially great feelings for the Nomai remains in the museum. It's just bones. Just a skeleton that once supported a body but no longer does. Somehow, this is different. This is worse.

Every bone I pass belonged to a person. They lived, they smiled, they joked and teased one another. They were intelligent; they sought out answers to the same questions we do. It’s painful, seeing a skull that has rolled off shoulders, or a single long bone beside a crumbling edge. How did the Nomai treat their dead? As travellers, I doubt they buried them in the ground, like we do. It doesn’t really matter. In the end, there hadn’t been anyone left to do anything anyway.

Using the booster on my jetpack, I hop through the floors of crumbling houses. Reaching the upper level of a house, I spot what must be the namesake of the district: the Eye Shrine. It sits at the very end of the rows of houses, built into the ice. Trees and benches fill a courtyard around it, Nomai writings plastered across the sandy walls. The most prominent aspect of it is the dedication to the Eye itself—embedded in a wall framed by ice, high up, is a window of purple stained glass, the symbol of the Eye fashioned intricately from metal in its centre. It radiates outward, and light shines through, casting a twin image of it across the stone floor below. That is where I have to go.

Unfortunately, the way there is treacherous. The glacial ice has really taken its toll on the houses. Strained by impossibly great forces, they crumbled, or they eroded away into dust and grit. I don’t trust a single edge, and every time I land, I engage my downward thrusters on my jetpack, not wanting a repeat of what happened on my way to the Old Settlement. I even have to fly across a short gap, right over the pull of the black hole. This time, I make it, although my heart still races.

As I follow the icy corridor, I see the light of an abandoned Nomai log glinting across smooth walls. 

Would they ever find the Eye?

So far, every search had failed. The greatest minds of their clan had come together and had nothing to show for their efforts aside from more questions, more hypotheticals. Cassava remembered the day he received the news that the Attlerock Eye signal locator did not work. Could not work. Then, only to be carried off in the excitement of building the Southern Observatory…

He knew the desperation his clan felt. He felt that desperation, too. Every day. He had lived through the dangers of the Old Settlement. He knew what they had risked, what they had lost, to be here. And still, unlike so many others, he reflected. Funnily enough, at the very place they had dedicated to their continued search. The Eye Shrine.

Cassava was unfortunate to live so close. He saw the beacon of the Eye gazing down on him whenever he left his house. From his bedroom, he could hear the children reading the plaques that lined the courtyard. And every so often, he would sit on one of those benches, beneath the trees, and ponder.

He did not wish for his clan to fail. He didn’t wish for anyone to fail. But he wondered: How many attempts could they possibly make before they realised what they were trying to accomplish could not be done? How long until they finally rowed out of the rapids?

The first time they heard the signal, they were ensnared, their clan separated. Cassava hadn’t been there—it would be many more years before he knew the stories, growing up in the ashes of Brittle Hollow and its volcanic moon. Many of their clan perished. Many, they knew not the fates of. It was safe to assume the worst. He was raised on lamentations for their lost clanmates, in a city that was a shadow of their old home. His parents endlessly looked to the stars. At first, when Cassava was much younger, he thought they missed their nomadic ways. He thought they dreamt of building a new Vessel, of finally raising their clan out from the murky waters of their disappearance. Then he grew. And the Hanging City grew alongside him, and the last district to reach its completion was the Eye Shrine District, and his parents chose a house that was near to the shrine, so they could remember what they were really fighting for.

The others didn’t wish to return. They wanted to push forward. Gone were the days of Vessels and adventuring. The draw of what could be the greatest discovery in the universe was too great. Cassava felt it, too, perhaps even more so—he had never known the life of a traveller. He had never known what it felt like to have no roots, to fly through the stars. And, for years, he tried to push forward. He tried so hard. The lunar Eye signal locator. The Southern Observatory. And now, the Ash Twin Project, as Yarrow was calling it. And Cassava—seemingly, Cassava alone—argued. Not because he thought it wouldn’t work. Not because he didn’t want it to work. But because he thought they needed to do the thing their parents never did—look back, with eyes unmisted by grief.

They had spent their lives grasping to the thing that had brought them here, hoping that there was some reason it had called out to them all those years ago. They hoped, desperately, that there was a purpose. A purpose behind losing their friends and family. A purpose behind losing their home.

The signal of the Eye was older than the universe itself. That was incredible! What could they learn from it? But there came a time when risk and reward had to be weighed. So many had lost their lives. So many had toiled away on projects that never bore results. Would they ever locate the Eye? Or would this be just another failed project, another lifetime wasted by living in desperation?

Cassava sat at his dining table, his head in one hand, a recorder in another. Daz had told him that he was letting his frustration seep out again. He never meant it to. Sometimes, it just boiled over, spilling onto those around him. When that happened, Cassava often found himself sitting where he sat now, holding a recorder. Listening back to his thoughts helped him grasp them. And, perhaps one day, he would learn from what he recorded.

“I imagine I’ve been hard on Poke, again. This in turn means I’ve made things difficult for her sister.”

As Poke took the lead on the creation of the advanced warp core required for the Ash Twin Project, Cassava found that they were butting heads more and more. He understood that she was under immense pressure trying to recreate Annona’s ingenious designs, and he also understood the value that the endeavour would have, even if the Ash Twin Project failed. They could build a new Vessel, perhaps, and regroup with the other clans, which surely thought them long dead by now. They had missed so many festivals.

He was expected to aid in construction. Design was his expertise, after all, and he didn’t mind contributing. If there was ever a project he was skeptical about, he would be the first volunteer; how better to ensure that it was the project itself that failed and not the execution? This, for better or for worse, placed him right in the centre of the Ash Twin Project. It wasn’t all bad—he and Daz spent many long nights together, examining blueprints and drawing drafts for the required components. And Clary was always a joy to be around. Cassava had never known another Nomai to so easily light up whatever room they were in. But, it also meant he was surrounded by idealists. Like Poke, who, at every turn, seemed so unreasonably confident that the project would succeed. As the only realist in the group, Cassava felt overworked. He surely would have stepped away from the project by now if it hadn’t been for Daz and Clary.

“If Poke and I are oil and water, Clary is our emulsifier. She certainly makes us a better team than would mixing through shaking.” He let out a caustic chuckle. “Although sometimes I would like to shake Poke!”

Maybe that was all he needed—one good shake to expel his resentment. Though, he knew what he truly resented wasn’t Poke’s confidence, or even her work. He needed to turn his third eye inward. He was frustrated with the Eye, for stranding them here, for letting them think that it was important above all else. He was frustrated with their lack of progress. But if the Ash Twin Project worked—if it really, truly worked…

“Jokes aside, suppose my own fear of never finding the Eye prompted my argument with Poke,” Cassava said into the recorder. “That would be immature of me. I should apologize...At least to Clary, who could then tell Poke.”

I wish Cassava and Poke could have read the notes they each left behind. Hopefully they had gotten a moment of reconciliation before their world ended.

It takes flying up and down a few more collapsed rooms before I reach a set of stairs that meet the courtyard. I don’t get the same feeling here that I did when walking through the shrine in the Old Settlement. It doesn’t feel like a place of silence or mourning, and that strange spell doesn’t linger here. When I gaze up at the Eye symbol, I am looking up and out, to the world beyond the Hanging City. The shrine is open, and airy, and feels more like the park I visited earlier than a true shrine. Despite that, however, the Eye still clearly left its influence behind: not only in its symbol prominently displayed on the wall, but on the plaques that line the middle of the courtyard.

I translate the first, which sits beneath the window.

“Be welcomed in this place. This shrine is a space to reflect on what brought us to this star system: the signal from the Eye. We observed the Eye’s signal in our travels, and followed it here to find its source. What we know is this: The source of the signal (which we have chosen to call the Eye of the universe) is older than this universe itself. The rest, we have yet to learn.

Enter, and open your mind to its possibilities.”

It seems that the Eye’s importance to the Nomai only grew with time. Thinking back to the shrine in the Old Settlement, the only words were those of what the Nomai knew about the Eye. Here, speculation is encouraged—it’s the next logical step. They knew the Eye signal was old. But how? Why?

Each of the three plaques across from the welcome message pose a question, followed by comments seeking to enliven the imagination.

“What is the Eye of the universe?

The Eye is the source of the signal that brought us here. Suppose the Eye is a more advanced being. The Eye is older than this universe, so imagine how much it could teach us. Perhaps it is a cosmic library!”

“How can the Eye be older than the universe itself?

Suppose it is a relic from a previous universe. The early universe was unimaginably hot and dense. If anything existed before, it would have been destroyed. Suppose the universe is older than previously assumed.”

“What is the Eye’s signal?”

I reread that last line. The question hadn’t crossed my mind—what is the Eye’s signal? I know the Nomai were able to detect it and determine that it was older than the universe itself, but what is it? A beacon? A call?

"Suppose the Eye wishes to communicate. 

The signal is a call. Were we the intended audience?

The signal is the Eye’s voice. It speaks a language we don’t yet know.

Or maybe the signal is the Eye’s attempt at expressing itself. Of note: From the signal, we were able to determine the Eye’s approximate age (or perhaps its lack of age).”

The Eye is…sentient? The Nomai appeared to think so, or at least some of them did. But if it is, and if it truly had called out to the Nomai, summoning them to this star system…then why was it so difficult for the Nomai to find it? Didn’t they have a signal to follow? Why were they wasting their time with locators and observatories when they were able to trace the Eye’s signal before?

…And why haven’t we found this signal?

It isn’t like the Eye died, right? If it is older than the universe, it’s probably still out there somewhere. If the Nomai picked up its signal, it was surely something their equipment recognised—and our equipment recognises Nomai signals, so shouldn’t we have heard the signal, too?

Or…maybe we had?

There are strange signals that call out from certain frequencies we have detected with our Signalscopes. Hornfels used to say that they’re probably just residual signals from some far-away astronomical event, like a star collapsing or a pulsar spinning. Chert said they remind them of the frequency the Quantum Moon and the quantum shards emit. I pull my Signalscope out and set it to one such frequency, and there it is—an unsettling, wailing tone. It echoes throughout the solar system, the source shifting as I wave my Signalscope through the air. Could that be the Eye of the universe? How had the Nomai determined its age? And, if the signal is so easy to latch onto that even our Signalscopes could lock onto it, why hadn’t the Nomai found it?

Or had they? 

I am walking through a time capsule. We always assume that everything we see is a snapshot of the final day of the Nomai, but that’s wrong. I imagine what it would be like if all the Hearthians suddenly vanished from Timber Hearth. Relics of old theories and defunct spaceships would litter the planet. Does that mean that was our current way of thinking? That those sciences were our most up-to-date? That those ships were the ships our astronauts used? Of course not. 

If the Nomai did find the Eye, why would they need to update their shrine? Perhaps the Eye didn’t have the answers they were searching for, and so they still couldn’t say with any certainty whether it was conscious, or trying to communicate. Their questions would persist. So…did they find the Eye?

Probably not. They really enjoyed plastering their cities with their musings about the signal that brought them here. If they found it, it probably would have been the first thing I read. Still, the idea that they might have is intriguing. What might they have learned?

I look around for a few more minutes. There’s nothing else left here, and certainly nothing that will help me save our solar system. Circling around the courtyard, I head back towards the towers through the next row of houses.

Here, I’m surprised to find more writing on the walls. In a crumbling bedroom, deliberately neat handwriting spirals against stone. I hold up my translator tool, and—it’s Solanum! One of the Nomai children who had left their essay behind at the school. Although, it seems like she might not have been quite so young when she left these words behind; her script had improved significantly.

“I no longer believe, as I did as a child on Ember Twin, that the Eye of the universe (the source of the signal) wishes to harm us. But it may not want to be found, either. In fact, the Eye may not have wishes at all. We have no evidence supporting this. The terrible circumstances of our arrival here were almost certainly exactly that: circumstance. I suspect imagining we are special to the Eye in some way is wishful thinking. The Eye might have called out to any sentient species. Or it might not have been calling out at all, and that my ancestors heard the Eye’s signal holds no great, deep meaning.

“This wouldn’t be so bad, I think.”

Amazing, how it’s this paragraph I find myself reading again and again, and not any of the ponderings left at the entrance to the shrine. So many thoughts I hadn’t realised I had are expressed so perfectly on this time-smoothed wall. It reminds me of what Poke wrote on her own wall, a district down.

From the writing around the shrine’s plaza, it seems that many of the Nomai treated the Eye as some higher being. It isn’t a perfect comparison, but the way they talked about the Eye preceding the universe, and how it was calling to them, trying to direct them in some way—it sounds a lot like how some Hearthians talked about the Hearth.

Some Hearthians—not all, and not me—believe that our universe was created from a nurturing flame. It’s sort of true, if you think a violent bang is comparable to a bonfire. From that fire—or eruption of matter—came dust, which collected until our universe, with all its galaxies, twinkling like embers, was cast across the dark sky. The Hearth had created everything. Us Hearthians, but the other species in our solar system, and the Nomai, too. Some even believe that the Hearth still burns, a spark in every living thing, a coal within each planet and star; a spark that guides everything through the motions of being a thing. According to them, the universe will end when the flames die out. It’s similar to Hornfels’ and Chert’s current thinking of how the universe will die—since the universe is expanding, eventually matter will be too distant to transmit energy, and without free energy, the processes that power the universe, that sustain everything, will begin to crumble.

Like the Hearth, the Eye is older than everything, originating in some unknown ‘before’. Before galaxies. Before matter. Before time. And it calls from that before, out into the vastness of space.

We will never understand the ‘before’. We can’t. The universe is like a rock: as long as we have the rock, we can study it, date it, explain it. But when a rock turns molten, all the information it stores disappears. When the universe began, it was hot, and it cooled: it lithified. But when the universe was molten, just like a rock, nothing would have been recorded. Everything before: lost.

I’ve never really believed in the Hearth. Not so literally. The universe came into existence. Surely, there was something before, but I will never know what that was, and that doesn’t bother me. I don’t need to know everything. The beginning, that explosive beginning, wiped the slate clean, and the universe formed from atoms, then molecules, then dust. And, somehow, it became stars and planets. And me. Completely and utterly inconsequentially. The universe didn’t set out to make me. It didn’t steer evolution to manifest us Hearthians, or the Nomai. It just…happened. And that’s sort of incredible, isn’t it? All the right particles had aligned for me to exist; for me to be me. No Eye called me into existence. No fire burned me from the rock. If they had, I wouldn’t be upset. That’d be cool, too. But if I just…am, then I can marvel at all the little things that had to happen just for me to be here, reading purple writing on the wall of a ruined city.

The universe doesn’t owe me anything. And I don’t owe the universe anything. And I think Solanum thought the same, despite being, well, not me, in every possible way.

That’s kind of nice. 

There’s a rumbling, and I blink out of my thoughts. Somewhere out of sight, but still alarmingly near, I hear the sound of crust cracking under its own weight. Unfortunately, just as the stars had aligned for the universe to make me, they had aligned to make Hollow’s Lantern, Brittle Hollow, and the black hole, too. 

The rumbling continues, though it’s more of a cascade of individual rumbles than a single, long rumble. Hollow’s Lantern must be very active: Every few minutes comes the crash of a lava bomb, and the falling of rocks into the black hole below.

I make my way back to the towers. Standing a distance away, I can see clearly where the one tower had fallen into the other. It’s annoying that the Black Forge District is so close, yet so inaccessible. There’s still that warp platform, though, if I can find its other half…

Maybe—and it’s a long shot—just maybe…Riebeck knows. I doubt I have much time left this loop, but if I could just get one solid lead heading into my next one…

I hurry across the bridges, which have largely collapsed. At one point, I even have to fly diagonally across a yawning gap. As I reach the last stretch of the bridges, I hear Riebeck’s banjo drift over from the crossroads. I’m certain that if I wasn’t wearing my helmet, I’d be able to smell the comforting scent of their campfire.

There’s a loud BOOM overhead, and the ground begins to shake. Another lava bomb. I toss down my Scout, and the reading for the bridge says 98% stable. I continue on.

Then, there’s a crumbling sound. That percussive noise of rocks against rocks as boulders from underneath the crust rain down, dislodged from the impact. 

The bridge is stable. The crust isn’t.

I look up just in time to see an impressively large boulder falling straight towards me.

Chapter Text

This time, like every time, I am surprised to wake up beside the campfire on Timber Hearth—but not for the typical reason.

There hadn’t been a supernova. 

The last thing I remember is hearing my helmet crack open. At least…I hope it was my helmet I heard cracking. I died. That much is certain. A barrel-sized boulder decided to high-three my head. I should be dead.

But…I’m not.

And that’s what’s important, at the end of the day. That, and the fact that I had seen all my memories flash before my eyes—starting with that embarrassing death of mine. I’m still in the time loop. But how?

The way I conceptualized it, the supernova triggers me going back in time. Maybe the supernova kills me, or maybe it doesn’t and I’m just sucked out of time and placed beside the campfire the moment disaster strikes. Point is, supernova equals time loop restart.

And then I died. Actually died. There is a 100% certainty that I just died. Not even the toughest Hearthians could have survived a boulder that size. Our skulls just aren’t that thick. And the loop continues.

So, the supernova doesn’t restart the loop? But dying does? That seems…odd. And it isn’t exactly something I want to experiment with. I’m lucky—I died before I processed dying. Thank the stars the boulder killed me instantly. If it hadn’t, I’d probably be left with some emotionally damaging memories. 

The loop restarts when I die, then. At least I don’t have to be too worried about cutting my half-hour short, although I’d rather be left without the mental scars. Does the loop have anything to do with the supernova if I can just die in any classical way and still wake up? Surely, it does. It’s too much of a coincidence that the loop started with a supernova lurking around the corner. Maybe it’s some sort of Nomai safeguard in case the sun decides to explode. Sounds like something the Nomai might do. But why am I in the time loop, of all Hearthians?

That’s the question. And, I think I have the answer.

That statue. It all comes back to that statue, doesn’t it? At the very least, I wasn’t in a time loop before that statue stared me down, and then it did, and now I’m in a time loop. What did Hal say about it? 

Perhaps it’s a good time to pay my friend a visit. Although, I’ll have to be careful what I say around them; I don’t want Hornfels to overhear anything too ‘out there’ and have my launch shelved for ‘medical reasons’.

Just like before, Hal is inside the museum, excitedly speaking with Hornfels as they examine the statue. Its eyes are open, empty, gazing over my friends and right at me as I pass through the entrance. It’s strange, seeing it again. I suppose it hasn’t been all that long since its eyes first turned their sights on me, but it feels like a lifetime ago. How many times have I died since then? How many times have I almost died? 

When Hal hears me walk in, they bounce over, grinning from ear to ear.

"Hey, I was just about to come find you!” They wrap an arm around my shoulders and direct me to the statue. “Look, look, look, you’ve gotta see this—the Nomai statue’s eyes are open!” They pause. “They, uh, used to be closed. Probably should’ve started with that. And now they’ve opened! We’re not sure why they opened, since no one actually saw it happen, but this is huge news!”

“Calm down or you’ll get a stomach ache,” I warn them playfully, elbowing their side. Any tension the statue had built up in my muscles dissipates in the presence of my friend. They stick their tongue out at me, their yellow eyes shining. I missed them so much. Them and their penchant for nausea.

“Bet you wish you’d seen it happen, huh?” Hornfels says, then sighs. “Me, too. I’m not even a little closer to understanding what’s going on with this statue.”

“What exactly do you know about it?” I ask, trying to be more tactful than I’d been during our last conversation.

“Gabbro brought it back from Giant’s Deep!” Hal says excitedly. “Fished it out of the oceans. Hornfels just finished prepping it for display. Amazing, isn’t it? Check it out—looks like they had fur! Fur is weird.”

“And its eyes just…opened?” I question leadingly.

“Apparently so,” Hornfels answers. “I tried everything I could to get them open when I was preparing it, but the material it’s made of is incredibly tough. Same stuff as those fragments Chert brought back from the Hourglass Twins a while ago. The statue is in pristine condition, except…” Hornfels’ expression turns unimpressed, their ears folding back. “Gabbro chipped it loading it into their ship.” They sigh. “It’s alright. I’m just glad they thought to bring it here instead of waiting for a cyclone to carry it off. Speaking of which—we’ve been using those stone fragments in your ships. They’re remarkably good at storing information. After that last crash, I gave Slate the fragment that chipped off this statue right here to repair your ship’s computer!”

Hm. That’s interesting. Is that why my log always carries over between the loops, along with my memories? If the statues store information, and if that’s why I remember each loop…

Maybe I haven't been finding answers on Brittle Hollow because I’ve been looking on the wrong planet. 

“I gotta go,” I say hastily, then gesture to the statue. “This is great. Great find. I just…first solo launch and all—”

I turn to leave, Hal already shouting wishes of good luck after me, but stop in my tracks when Hornfels calls, “Don’t you want the launch codes?”

My cheeks flush and I turn back to our ground control, who grins knowingly. At least my eagerness comes off as excitement for my launch and not insanity. They hold out a slip of paper and I take it, tucking it away in my pocket without sparing it a glance.

“Good luck out there,” they say. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

I give them a thumbs-up and Hal lightly punches my shoulder as a farewell. Leaving the museum, I feel a lot sadder than I had when I entered, and I can’t figure out why.

I push the feeling aside. A new plan begins to formulate in my head, and I bolt to the lift. I’m headed for Giant’s Deep. 

I’ve never been to Giant’s Deep before. It isn’t the best place for a first solo launch. The ocean never calms, and dozens of cyclones spin across the water with no discernable patterns. A gargantuan storm encircles the entirety of the north pole, and a fast current rotates around the core of the planet. A few islands dot its surface; huge monoliths of pumice that originated from ancient supervolcanic eruptions, possibly from a nearby planet. Hollow’s Lantern? The planet that used to be where Dark Bramble now drifts? The Giant itself? No one knows. The islands float freely on the waves, and, when met with a powerful enough twister, have even been spotted flying through space. There may have been more islands at one point, but they were either eroded away by the constant onslaught of water and wind or thrown into the cosmos. From what our astronauts observe on the surface, both possibilities are equally likely. The winds and waves and small islands make controlled landings nearly impossible, and then there’s always the worry that your spaceship will get thrown from the planet without you…

It isn’t my first solo launch, though. It’s my fifth, and so far I’ve managed to avoid dying in a crash landing. I count that as a win in my books. I’m probably prepared enough to track down Gabbro. After all, they only have a year’s worth more field experience than I do.

As I approach the planet, the glint of the sun on something in orbit catches my eye. We’ve known about the Nomai satellite around Giant’s Deep for as long as we’ve had eyes and postulating brains, though no one has managed to successfully land on it and no one knows what purpose it served. Our best guess is that it was used to observe space—the thick clouds of the ocean planet prevent anyone on the surface from seeing the stars, and the satellite would be next to useless monitoring the oceans for the same reason. Or, perhaps it was used to record high-altitude atmospheric conditions, maybe even to track the cyclones as they formed and fizzled.

The thing is, as I fly by, it looks broken. That’s new. I’m surprised until I remember what I see each time I wake up. It’s been four times, right in front of my eyes, but for some reason I haven’t put the pieces together until now. That purple dot that shoots away from Giant’s Deep…it comes from the satellite, doesn’t it? It must. So, not only is something causing the sun to explode, but the satellite, too.

Unless…it’s the same thing. Something prompts the satellite to launch whatever it launches into the sun, and…

I made the right call coming to Giant’s Deep. 

Making small adjustments, I come to rest alongside the broken satellite, orbiting loosely around the Giant, watching the air currents swirl beneath me. Lightning flashes from the clouds. Giant’s Deep has the thickest atmosphere of all the planets in our solar system, and the greatest gravity. Gossan warned me what happens when something hits water going a little too fast. I’ll be putting my retro-rockets to the test to prevent a hard landing once I’ve made it through the upper atmosphere. 

I take a deep breath.

I can do this.

I flip on my ship’s Signalscope and lock onto the sound of Gabbro’s flute, which calls out hauntingly from the howls of the cyclones below. Keeping my velocity in check, and my eyes on my thrust indicators, I ease myself out of orbit.

Static is in my ears as my reception tanks, thick storm clouds surrounding my ship. My headlights cast blurry shadows in front of me and the sound of the wind is muffled until it becomes nothing more than a murmur. Lightning flashes, far away. I watch my altimeter as the ship-shaped indicator bobs erratically—with all the clouds, it’s next to useless. It’s strangely peaceful, drifting downwards, with no way of truly knowing how fast I’m going, no way of knowing how much farther I have to go.

And then I break through the cloud cover.

The ocean riots below me, massive waves soaring and splashing. I’m coming down a lot faster than I thought, and as lightning lights up the water, it rushes to meet me. Three cyclones swirl outside, just impressions with how fast I’m streaking through the sky. I feel their winds as they send shivers through my ship. Water lashes sideways against my windshield, and a wave swells towards me—

I yank back on my side sticks, heels against the floor, body pushing against the back of my seat. Firing up my retro-rockets, I try to slow my descent, but I’m going much too fast. The ocean races closer and closer, my pulse growing louder and louder in my ears, my fingers tensing around my controls as I struggle to pull back, and—

My little ship plunges helplessly into the gargantuan waves. I catch a glimpse of the mysterious core of Giant’s Deep—a dark ball pulsing with electric energy, blurred by the surge of the impassable underwater current between us—and strange, glowing red tendrils, before my retro-rockets finally counter my forward momentum and I shoot backwards out of the water.

Oh no oh no oh no—

Instantly, I know I’ve lost control. My ship rumbles. Thunder rolls through the air. Lights spark outside, but I don’t dare rip my eyes away from the cyclones outside my window to look at the damage report on my console. Even inside my ship I can feel the power of the storm as one sweeps me up, reverberating through the hull, testing every seam. And—of course I can. Compared to the massive twisters, what is my ship? They toss whole islands into space.

Suddenly all around me is spinning water, and my thrusters aren’t working, because I am spinning right along with it, and then—

I am back above the clouds. Twinkling stars fill my view. My ship rolls, and my downward velocity is increasing, and increasing, and—

I burst through the clouds and crash into the water for a second time. I throw my hands away from my controls, letting my ship right itself this time while I let the adrenaline seep out of me. Bubbles rise all around. Leisurely, my ship drifts upwards. After a moment, I replace my hands on my controls and gingerly steer away from the spiral currents overhead. When I finally surface, the cyclones far enough away to afford me some peace, I take a deep breath in despite my cabin’s constant supply of oxygen.

…That could have gone smoother.

Nervously, I glance at my long-neglected damage report. Headlights damaged. Landing camera damaged. Landing gear damaged. Oh, thank Hearth. Nothing vital. I really, really didn’t want to have to go for a swim to repair my thruster banks or fuel tank. Hearthians aren’t stellar swimmers, not anymore, least of all myself. Thinking of all the creatures beneath the water’s surface always unnerved me, and I catch myself spiraling into panic the moment I find myself sinking. My spacesuit works just as well in water as it does in a vacuum. Still, I’d rather not take a dip unless it’s absolutely necessary.

In the absence of any real damage, my rough landing comes down to user error. At least I’ll never have to tell Slate. When the loop restarts, my ship will be back on the launch platform like nothing even happened. That’s a relief. I can only imagine the telling-off I’d get coming home a half-hour after launch with a broken ship.

Across the waves, I spot an island bobbing like a cork in the water. A column of smoke rises high into the air. I turn my Signalscope back on and the satellite dish, which shockingly hadn’t been ripped off in the cyclone, aims itself towards the smoke. Flute song fills my cabin. Apologizing earnestly to my ship, and giving its console a little pat for good measure, I take off—very cautiously—and follow the music.

I land on a waterlogged beach. Waves lap around my boots and wash away my tracks. Raindrops—or splashes of ocean water from the cyclones, who can tell?—speckle my visor. Trees native to the watery planet, tall and limber, wave in the wind. I follow the reading from my Signalscope to a small campsite on the other side of a natural rock tunnel.

Gabbro is, unsurprisingly, lounging in a hammock strung up between two leaning trees, the full length of them sunken into the fabric. A radio sits on a nearby rock, and the beach is strewn with disorganised supplies, though I can’t say with any certainty if that’s Gabbro’s doing or the cyclones’. My fellow traveller doesn’t acknowledge me as I draw near. If I didn’t hear their music, I’d think I'd caught them in the middle of a nap.

“...Hello?” I say, sidling up beside their hammock. They lower their flute and spare a glance my way, tucking an arm under their helmeted head.

“Nice, it’s you. Good to see you made it here in one piece,” they say nonchalantly, as if it’s only been a few hours since we last saw each other instead of—I take a quick tally—eight months. They tap their flute absently against their thigh, and a makeshift anemometer atop their helmet spins lazily in the breeze. “The first solo launch is a doozy, isn’t it? So hey, don’t freak out or anything, but lately I keep, like, dying repeatedly. I dunno, it’s pretty weird. What about you? Have you died lately, or is it just me?”

“Oh, yeah, no—Me too,” I stammer, shocked. Gabbro knows? How does Gabbro know?

“Okay, cool, that’s what I thought,” they continue. There’s an unfamiliar tension in their voice. Subtle, but alien enough that it doesn’t take me long to catch onto it. “It was all way too vivid to be a dream. I radioed Hornfels to ask if they had died, too, but I’m pretty sure they thought I was being metaphorical. Well, if you remember dying, then I guess I didn’t just fall asleep and have a weird dream or something. But stars above, what’s going on, then?”

Shaking my head in disbelief, I plop myself down on the nearest rocky outcrop. “I have…sort of a theory…” Sheepishly, I explain my current hypothesis, struggling to find words that don’t make me sound like I tripped over the wrong edge of a crater. I’m not expecting the blasé response Gabbro offers in return.

“A time loop, huh? Yeah, that makes the most sense, right? Or at least, it’s some kind of fidgety time business. Hard to say what’s happening to the shape of time, exactly, but let’s go with ‘loop’ for now.” They spin their flute around in their fingers as they contemplate. “...So, it looks like you and I are the only ones who know. And even if you tell someone about it, they don’t remember by the next loop. What’s with that?”

“You’re…taking this pretty well.” Gabbro has always had a talent for being easygoing, but this is taking it to a whole new level. Though, I’m also casually sitting on a rock and carrying on a conversation instead of—you know—screaming. Gabbro chuckles.

“Right back at you. Personally, I like new experiences, and I’ve never been in a time loop before. I mean, I don’t think I’ve been in a time loop before this one. Here’s another new one for you—every time I die, all of my memories from that loop replay back to me. I’m pretty sure that’s related to this big stone Nomai statue I found on one of the other islands. I was looking at it, and the statue opened its eyes and started glowing. It replayed my memories like it’d seen them through my own eyes.”

I gape. “Really? That happened to me with the statue you dropped off at the museum!”

“You too, huh? Then the Nomai statues must have something to do with why we’re the only ones aware of the time loop. So…no glowing statue, no time loop awareness? I think that’s going to be my leading theory.”

It’s been good enough for me. Although, why exactly the statues triggered the time loop for us two, and only us two, still eludes me. After all, Hal and Hornfels had been eagerly investigating the Nomai statue at the museum long before I first saw it. And before that, Gabbro had been the one to haul it back…

I have to admit—despite my fear of expectations, it’s kind of nice to have someone to talk to who will actually remember our conversation. I’m already getting tired of Slate saying the same thing to me every time I wake up.

“So, what are you doing here?” I ask. The cyclones howl in the distance and my suit is getting awfully heavy from all the rain.

“Well, what are any of us doing here, really?” Gabbro muses, before: “Nah, I’m just kidding. I’m out here exploring our solar system, same as you. I tell you what, outer space really gives you room to think. It’s quiet and peaceful out here. I mean, it’s usually quiet and peaceful. Sometimes a cyclone comes by and lifts my little island paradise clean out of the water. Then: Less peaceful."

“Yeah, I had a transcendent experience with a cyclone or two on my way down,” I grumble. “What’s up with this planet?”

“Haha…I know, right?”

I rub my gloved hands together. Something about the campsite feels off, but I can’t quite place it…

The squeaks of Gabbro’s anemometer fills the silence I leave. Pointing to it, I ask, “What’s that for?”

“Oh, you know. The moment I mentioned Giant’s Deep to Hornfels, they asked me to study the air currents here. Whipped this up—completely passive monitoring. I think they had something more involved in mind, but this is getting the job done just fine. Don’t have to run simulations on my computer, and you can’t beat real-time data.”

“Wait—” Their computer—that’s what’s bothering me! “Where’s your ship?”

Gabbro props themself up and glances behind them, as if only now realising that their ship isn’t there. 

“That’s a good question…It’s definitely on this planet somewhere. I mean, unless a cyclone came by and tossed it into space, I guess.” They lay back down, shimmying to get comfortable. “Heh, that would be pretty nuts. I hope it’s not lonely."

…Okay. That’s enough Gabbro-isms for now. Besides, I should probably get going before a cyclone flings my ship into space—and I finally have something worth investigating! If I’m going to save the sun—and I am—I’ll have to learn more about the strange failsafe the Nomai created.

“I’m gonna see if I can figure out what exactly these statues are doing,” I say, getting up. “Where’d you find them?”

“That’ll be Statue Island. That’s what I’ve been calling it, seeing as it’s the island where I found the glowing Nomai statue...Get it? I was on the beach on Statue Island when the whole glowy business happened, by the way. It’s a nice beach for that kind of thing. I give it a solid 7 out of 10 on the Gabbro Relaxation Scale. Anyway, it’s the one with two islands connected by a natural rock arch. Well...mostly connected. You’ll see."

I give them a short salute as thanks, and head back to my ship, which is…still sparking. Dang it. I repair it as best I can with the finest duct tape Hearthians can craft before hopping inside and buckling up. I launch, and fly low over the waves, keeping an eye out for any wandering cyclones or floating tan-coloured islands. It isn’t long before one literally appears out of thin air in front of me, splashing into the ocean from its short-lived excursion into space. 

It’s rocky, and has arches, but they glow with the same purple as the gravity-tiled walls I encountered in the Hanging City. A single, tall tree climbs into the sky from a cliffside. I don't think it’s Statue Island, but I would be remiss to pass up an opportunity for more Nomai translations. I fly in close.

The arches rise in triplicate from the water, together forming a gigantic cylinder that could comfortably fit all of Outer Wilds’ ships inside. Behind it, in the rock, I can just make out what looks like some sort of workshop. From the back of the island, a square gravity beam pulses. It descends into the ground, and, despite not knowing what its purpose is, I land there—it’s the only patch of ground I can easily put my ship down on.

Its purpose doesn’t escape me for long. The moment I step out of my ship, I feel the force of it pulling on every inch of my body, rooting me in place despite the strong winds. If it works half as well on my ship as it does on me, I won’t have to worry about a cyclone separating us.

A well-lit set of stairs marches down into the cliffs of the island. I follow it, preemptively pulling out my translator tool. Two purple sigils depicting twisters glow steadily on the floor. Warning lights, perhaps? It would explain why they never flicker out–although I can’t see it, I hear a cyclone nearby. 

Nomai skeletons are scattered about the workshop. I am careful to not disturb them, though I’m surprised they haven’t been lost to the ocean depths or to outer space. A viewing platform looks out over the triplicate arches—though I now see that they aren’t arches at all, but three rings—and that is where most of the skeletons lie. One seems to have been sitting on a bench, and two more were gazing out over the balcony. One skeleton sprawls at the base of a display the likes of which I’ve never seen before. A matte black model of what I instantly recognise as the Nomai satellite orbiting Giant’s Deep revolves slowly, hovering in the air over a pool of liquid. I reach out and touch it, and my glove comes away wet and black. I smudge the fluid between my fingers. It’s grainy, like silty water. I pass my hand beneath the model and sure enough, encounter no supports. What suspends it in midair? I’m sure Hornfels would love to get their hands on a technology like this—I can already imagine the museum exhibits they’d design. 

A scroll is on the ground. I pick it up and place it into a nearby chalkboard. Instantly, it lights up with purple script. 

Cassava had never been so proud. So hopeful.

All of their preliminary tests were successful. More than successful–faultless. It had taken years of research and planning, months of construction, but this was it: their part of the greatest undertaking the Nomai had ever pursued, finished. 

Growing up on Brittle Hollow, he had questioned what their clan could achieve. He had heard the stories of the crash, spent years toiling in the Old Settlement, watching his clanmates struggle to recount all the knowledge that had been lost. His clan had everything taken from them, but they rebuilt. First, it was the Old Settlement. Then, it was the Hanging City. They pushed ever onwards, despite the setbacks, despite the hardships. This had been no different.

He looked out over the balcony. The last of the Orbital Probe Cannon’s three modules was suspended between the gravity rings, a few workers milling about, triple-checking every seam, every joint. The data had returned from their tests. It was as close to perfect as they could build it. Structurally sound, operations up and running, power and emergency power at the ready. It was the culmination of the greatest minds of their clan coming together to build something they could have only dreamt of mere years ago. Cassava had been on the project since its conception. In just a few days, he would see it to completion. The cannon was already orbiting the planet; the two other modules were secured weeks ago. There was only one last thing to do before they were ready to initiate launch.

He pushed himself away from the balcony and approached the scroll wall, staff in hand. It was time to make the announcement. Holding his staff up, he spoke into it.

“This is it: We’ve finished building the final Orbital Probe Cannon module and are ready to send it into orbit around Giant’s Deep for assembly!” He let the weight of his words sink in. Across the solar system, he was certain word was already spreading that the construction work was behind them. “To all my friends here at the Construction Yard, my gratitude for your tireless work. I had given up hope, but I truly believe this cannon may actually succeed where many other attempts have not.”

Cassava felt a tender hand on his shoulder. Daz gave him a bemused smile.

“Are you going gelatinous on us, love? I’m delighted by your words, but they’re atypical for you!”

Letting out a short laugh, Cassava replied, only half-joking, “If I’m ever half as gooey as Mallow and Avens behave together, Daz, you may launch me from the Orbital Probe Cannon.” 

Upon his mention of Avens, Daz’ smile quickly faded. A look of concern spread across his face.

“If I know my brother and his spouse, they will want to launch the probe with as much power as possible. I’m worried the cannon would break under the strain.” Cassava started to disagree, to say that the cannon would hold, but Daz interjected, speaking in gentle words he knew Cassava could not bring himself to argue against. “I propose we give Avens and Mallow a slightly lower maximum power setting than the absolute maximum possible,” he continued, “to create room for their enthusiasm.”

As much as Cassava wished to defend their creation, he knew his spouse was right. They could not risk jeopardising the project. Avens and Mallow were much too faithful in their work. Cassava would be the first to tout its flawlessness, but only within reason. They would not necessarily see the destruction of the cannon as the huge risk that it was. 

He met Daz’ eyes before blinking his agreement. Daz squeezed his shoulder and disappeared onto the lower half of the workshop, surely to discuss the new ‘maximum’ cannon power setting with his brother.

Cassava cleared his throat and returned to his message. “Our next step will be to send Privet up to the Orbital Probe Cannon to install the probe tracking system,” he finished.

I remember Cassava—and his weariness—from Brittle Hollow and the Attlerock. He was certainly a prominent figure, working on several projects, including what they had built here—some sort of probe launching device. That’s what the Nomai structure orbiting Giant’s Deep is. I gaze over the balcony, at the rings and the pathways that connect them. I’m shocked at how easily I can picture the cannon sitting in their centre. 

And there—tucked away between the rings is another platform. Even from here I can see the floating letters of a log, and the diagrams that are painted on the walls. I head down the stairs to take the gravity wall over, but I become starkly aware of the strength of the wind as it begins to whip around me, and the loud wails and splashes of air and water soaring together.

The island is picked up before I can react.

My boots float off the floor as we pitch into space. I flail out my arms as I drift, the horrors of a hard landing flashing through my mind, when I notice the cyclone sigils by the entrance. A soft purple haze rises in a column around each of them, and, unable to think of anything better to try, I use my jetpack to steer myself over.

The moment my body enters a column, I’m held still by an invisible force. I no longer feel weightless, but my boots fail to touch the ground. Suspended, I watch the stars be replaced by clouds, then wind and water as the island falls back down to the ocean. I feel none of it. Even when the island surges underwater before resurfacing, my little purple column protects me. I don’t even get wet, though no one other than me would be able to tell, since my suit is already soaked.

When the island stabilises, the haze fades away and I drop the short distance to the floor, left with one thought on my mind: the Nomai were ingenious. Cyclone shelters! Just wait until Gabbro hears about that! I’m not sure how they managed to withstand five whole loops on this planet, but I’d bet anything that even they’d appreciate the Nomai’s anti-twister technology.

Returning to the lower level, I use the gravity path to navigate over to the workshop. Diagrams of the Orbital Probe Cannon cover the wall, the shapes all familiar to me. Three chambers attach to the cannon’s base, numbered One, Two, and Three—those must be the modules they constructed.

Next to the blueprints is a square depression in the floor, with a pair of podiums rising up from it. A terminal with floating letters sits nearby. I scan it.

EIGHT MINUTES, FIFTY-SEVEN SECONDS AGO: LONG-RANGE PROBE SUCCESSFULLY LAUNCHED FROM THE ORBITAL PROBE CANNON.

Has it only been nine minutes since the start of the loop? I never thought I could be so productive. 

I walk to investigate the chalkboard that stands to the side of the room, but my boot bumps into a tablet-shaped rock that sits on the floor. I pick it up. A Nomai number One glows from it. I’m horrible at field translations, but even I know the numbers on sight. I bring it with me to the board and insert it into the vacant podium. The chalkboard lights up with Nomai writing.

“I have bad news, Avens." The script is the same as what I saw on the chalkboard on the balcony. Cassava. Avens, as I recall, was their spouse’s sibling. “Yarrow says there was a problem with the proposed power source, so the Orbital Probe Cannon won’t be asked to fire.”

“I hope you’re pulling my locomotive limb here, Cassava,” Avens replied, with either an interesting word choice or an amusing translation quirk.

“I wish I were, my friend, but no. They aren’t certain they can fix the problem, so the Orbital Probe Cannon is on indefinite hiatus. Tell Privet and Mallow they should return from the cannon. My spouse and I will remain at the Construction Yard, for now.”

The last burst of text is from Avens. “An update: Mallow and I will join you and Daz. Privet left to visit her brother. She fears Idaea may feel responsible.”

They never used the cannon? Then, why is it firing now, after the project had been placed on hiatus and the Nomai are long dead?

I pull the stone out of its hold and the podiums return to their separated positions. Just as I had on Brittle Hollow, I place the stone into the empty podium in the depression in the floor.

The ground ripples, the basin filling with black liquid—the same liquid that forms the Orbital Probe Cannon model on the balcony. Waves spread nauseatingly across my view, which is suddenly no longer of the water splashing against the workstations on Giant’s Deep, but a room somewhere, lit with purple and orange light. The room is walled with glass, affording a near-360 degree view of what lies beyond. Stars twinkle through the window. A dark shape swirls below—Giant’s Deep. I can just make out the lattice of the Orbital Probe Cannon, oppressively close, just beyond the glass. I’m standing in the first module.

Across the room, I see the shape of another stone. Despite knowing what will happen, I walk over to get it. As soon as my boots leave the liquid, the vision melts away. I’m back in the Construction Yard.

I notice, even through the onslaught of rain, the glow of another stone across the water. I have to know more. Fortunately, the gravity rings join the two sides of the workshop together. Unfortunately, I either have to make the trek upside-down or underwater. I choose upside-down.

Using my usual mantra to get me across, I finally land on flat ground. The stone rests on a table near an empty shelf, a Nomai skeleton hunched over it. I wonder, for a second, for as long as I let myself wonder, if I know this Nomai. Is this Cassava? Or Daz, Cassava’s partner? Or the overenthusiastic Avens or Mallow? 

Returning to the podiums near the chalkboard, I am again overcome with that strange sadness I felt at the Old Settlement, reading the messages on the walls. I feel the loss of these Nomai I have never known—would never know. With a distracted mind, I insert the stone.

“Conoy, Daz and I were lifting Orbital Probe Cannon components into orbit for assembly, and one somehow sank down beneath the current, ” Cassava said. Their tight spirals are easily discernible. 

“Conoy, you should’ve seen it! ” boasted Daz. “We’d thought it was impossible for any cannon components to sink even partially below the current, but ours sank straight to the core! Cassava convinced me not to try to recreate the phenomenon myself using other cannon parts, but we’re very curious to know what happened! How could something pass through the current?”

“My gratitude for your interesting question!” wrote back Conoy. “This is exciting: Spire constructed a model of Giant’s Deep here at the Brittle Hollow’s Southern Observatory, and it's revealed how an object might sink below the current.”

Cassava replied, “Conoy, I’m unable to grasp the answer by looking through the projection pool. If I visit the observatory, would you kindly explain?”

“If you don’t mind the trek beneath the surface to the south pole, I’d be delighted to see you! There are two trailheads, one at Brittle Hollow's gravity cannon and one at the Tower of Quantum Knowledge.”

Trailheads! I now know how to access the Southern Observatory on Brittle Hollow. I have no idea what a ‘gravity cannon’ is, but I recall the term from Riebeck’s notes. It seems Brittle Hollow is worth another look after all, especially if I can get into the observatory. If answers aren’t on Statue Island, they’ll be there for sure.

I remove the stone and look at the square depression in the floor. A ‘projection pool’, Cassava called it. That makes sense. When I place the stones, I see another location, but I’m not really there. I replace the Orbital Probe Cannon stone with the new one, anxious to see where it will take me this time.

Again, the ground ripples. Ice forms a panorama around me; a huge glass dome sits above. It certainly looks like the Southern Observatory, only now I’m viewing it from within. Two miniature twisters twirl around on one side, but, beyond that, I can’t see much. There is a second storey just beneath the dome, but from my vantage point, I can’t even guess at what’s up there.

Stepping out of the pool is far less shocking this time. I take a quick survey of the workshop and can’t find anything else worth investigating. Time to get back on track. I’m glad to see that my ship is still politely waiting for me and hasn’t been flung to the far corners of the planet.

It’s…a strange feeling, nosing through the Nomai ruins, hoping they have answers to give me. So far, only a fraction of what I read is useful information. So much more provides only insights into the lives of the poor race who had lived long before us. I wonder if anyone else thinks about that—that the things that we study, the translations Hal and I use, the artifacts Riebeck takes—they were all someone’s , at one point, thousands of years ago. The personal messages of mourning written across the Old Settlement. The playful flirting between a couple in the Construction Yard. The Nomai had left everything behind for us to see, but if Riebeck is right and they really had died out instantaneously, they hadn’t really had a choice, had they? Would those writings still be there for me to translate if they had, or scraped from the walls, scrolls hidden in cubbies away from prying eyes?

We always thought that the Nomai kept no secrets. Everything is right there for us. But they hadn’t chosen that. Would they have, if they knew what was coming for them?

An island rises from the waves in the distance. Well, an island, but also two—connected by a rocky arch, just like Gabbro described. From the smaller of the two, the ripples of a Nomai landing pad glow. I slow my ship for landing.

Chapter Text

I step out onto a beach not unlike the one Gabbro is lounging on. A pumice sea stack towers next to me, an arch spanning the gap that separates the two halves of the island merging to its peak. Trees are sparse on the smaller island, where I stand, but plentiful across the water. A lit staircase beside the sea stack leads to a ledge that juts out towards them. Remnants of a bridge jaggedly lines the edge. Beneath the swaying trees, a sandstone door is flush with the face of the cliff, and sculpted stone pokes out from fine sand. I jet over, barely making it to the other side under Giant’s Deep’s oppressive gravity.

A Nomai statue lays unceremoniously on its side, its three eyes wide open, revealing the brass beneath. This must be the statue that spooked Gabbro. It was weird enough when the statue at the museum turned its head to look at me—I can only imagine how much weirder it must have been to encounter one out here.

I translate the sign by the door. It reads: STATUE WORKSHOP.

That sounds like just the place I want to investigate. Too bad the door’s busted. I really am starting to wish that the Nomai put as much effort into their door construction as they did into their warp technology.

A path veers off to my left, hugging the cliffside. I follow it to a wall of gravity crystals and do my best to stay on the now-vertical trail. It isn’t easy—the island bobs on the ocean’s surface and the gravity crystal path weaves treacherously between exposed tree roots. Despite knowing I really should keep my eyes on my boots, I can’t help but spare a peek across the water, where half a dozen cyclones dance between ocean and sky. I’m not sure what would happen if one plucked up Statue Island while I stood on my precarious gravity crystal path, and I don’t want to find out. I quicken my pace, eventually ducking through an archway and finding myself in a small village.

Between crumbling buildings, trees sway and cyclone shelters glow. Wayward leaves slap weakly against my visor and clay mud clings to my boots. Not only do the trees seem to support the buildings—many trees hold up entire walls as they lean one way or another—but a few have roots piercing through the walls themselves. The ruin is worse off than the Old Settlement. In many cases, only the mere impression of a building is left.

Circling the village, there are dozens of disarticulated skeletons, the remains lying among broken furniture and smashed pots. Only one building persists in a state I imagine to be at all comparable to the original; it stands tall, large, and has an impressive set of stairs leading up to it. I enter, and immediately upon passing through the threshold my boots meet air. I tumble down to the lowest level, grateful that there’s still a floor there to catch me.

The floor I land on, on the bottommost level of the building, is grated. The holes are just big enough for me to lose my equipment through, but small enough that I can’t put more than an arm through myself. It reveals a cavern beneath the island—the Nomai must have hollowed it out. Chalkboards and statues decorate the room, a pool of water in the middle. The Statue Workshop. I shoot down my Little Scout, aiming carefully between the grates, but a quick series of snapshots doesn’t tell me much more than what I can already see, except that I get a better view of the broken door that guards the beach entrance.

On the wall next to me, there’s the scribbled handwriting of young Nomai. 

“They’re going to test the memory statues tonight!” Lami wrote. “ Phlox says it could be dangerous, so we can’t come. But, what if we didn’t use the door and snuck in the other way? Does anyone want to?”

“Phlox specifically told us not to do that,” Taget replied.

“I really want to see the test, too, Lami," Laevi reasoned, “but that’s a huge risk to take. We probably shouldn’t. Maybe Phlox’ll let us see a later test.”

The other way. Interesting. I drop down my Scout again, but the only entrance I see in the photos I take is the broken door. I keep that thought in the back of my mind as I head out of the building. 

An upward-curving path meets me, and, after checking that the cyclones are sufficiently far away, I follow it. The natural arch takes me to the peak of the sea stack. I have a nearly unobstructed view of the ocean around me as I walk, and I absolutely hate it—I see the massive cyclone at the north pole, and there’s the Construction Yard getting pulled into space again.

Much more interesting than the view is what waits for me at the top. Sitting central on the rocky tower is a curious surprise. Another warp platform! Same spirals, same low-lying walls. The log is inactive, but just to be safe, I jump into the middle of the two spirals and stomp around a bit for good measure. No, it’s like the one on Brittle Hollow—a place to warp to, not to warp from. Further investigation of the platform reveals only a quick note placed beside the warp zone, from Phlox, Plume’s son:

“Welcome to Giant’s Deep, friends! I’m excited for you to meet the statues! If I’m not in my dwelling, I’m likely in my workshop below (inside the island).”

I stare long and bitterly at the note, ears folded back and my jaw set. That doesn’t help me at all. Inside the island. I know the workshop is inside the island. I also know that there’s a second entrance, but that there isn’t a second door, unless it’s hidden somehow. But why would the Nomai disguise a second entrance? That doesn’t seem like something they would do. I cross back over the arch and return to the building I was in before, just to gaze down hopelessly into the workshop I can’t enter.

The chalkboards below glow tauntingly. The broken door just out of sight teasing me with the promise of information I so desperately need. What if the workshop holds the key to figuring out this whole mess? What if it tells me how to stop the Orbital Probe Cannon from firing, or how to stop the time loop? I need to find a way inside, but…

I launch my Scout. It lands beside a statue, and I spin the camera around, searching every snapshot for something that looks even vaguely door-shaped. Recalling it, I launch it again, by a projection pool. Still, no door. Thinking that maybe the second door is on a lower level, not the upper levels of the workshop I’ve scanned, I shoot my Scout at the wall, where water meets rock.

I miss. 

I’m about to press RETURN, but I take notice of the location marker for my Scout on my visor. 39 metres away. 60 metres away. 55 metres away.

Confused, I take a snapshot. It takes me a moment to decipher what I’m seeing. The electric flashes of the core. The blur of the underwater current. And, as my Scout floats back to the surface of the pool of water, the underside of the island.

Oh, stars above.

Thunder claps overhead.

I have to go swimming.

The moment the thought enters my mind, my body rejects it outright, a creeping shiver running up my back. I hate swimming. I hate being underwater—I hate the feeling of the water pushing against me from all sides, and I hate that strange static noise that fills my ears. And I especially hate not knowing what’s below me, lurking in the dark depths. But I stare long and hard at the snapshot I took, and it’s undeniable—I have to take a dip if I want to get inside.

“Oh, stars above,” I repeat.

Recalling my Scout, I go back to the arch I had crested the island through. This time, I don’t use the gravity crystals. Hoping beyond hope that I’m not delusional, I plunge into the waves before I can convince myself not to.

The sounds of the cyclones muffle. My breathing is loud in my ears. Bubbles rise around me, and before long, I feel myself rise with them. The oxygen in my suit keeps me buoyant. Good. I usually sink like a ball of lead.

It’s difficult to remember that I don’t need to hold my breath. Inhaling and exhaling methodically, purposefully, I click on my flashlight to get my bearings. Silt from the island above trickles down in little waterfalls, sand grains twirling on eddies and clouding the water around me. The murkiness of the water makes my light useless. All it does is illuminate particles as they rain down from above. The faint glow of the sun is enough to form the shadow of the island as it drifts away from me. It’s all I need. I engage my thrusters and blast off towards it. Thank Hearth my equipment works as well in water as it does in space.

The darkness around me doesn’t help ease my mind. Who knows what slithers just out of sight? And the campfire story Spinel recounted to me before I left echoes in my mind. In space, at least, I can see what’s around me. As I float beneath the bottom of the island, tree roots slide across my visor, crumbling bits of sand and unconsolidated rock bouncing against the glass. The core sparks below. Glowing red somethings glide beneath the current. I turn my attention upwards. I see the shimmering reflections of Nomai writing on the surface of the pool of water, and swim towards them.

Breaking the surface, I beeline to a low slope to the side of the workshop. I clamber onto the beach, my suit covered in grains of sand, my boots and hands sliding clumsily as I drag myself from the ocean. I thought I hated Brittle Hollow and the black hole…but Giant’s Deep just keeps on giving.

The workshop is centred around the pool of water in the middle, circling it on a slope. Tunnels are excavated from the rock, presumably to free the stone for carving, and unfinished statues stand around the space, faces poking out of boulders. A Nomai skeleton lays across one such boulder, chiselling tools at its feet. The statues, eyes closed, look peaceful in their sleep.

I haul myself up, try my best to scrape off the sand stuck to my shins, and start exploring. Following the slope through the arches of the tunnels, I spot a completed statue on a pedestal, eyes open and vacant. A mural sits across from it. I head over to get a closer look at the paintings, and can’t help but check over my shoulder occasionally, just in case the statue decides to move. 

The mural…I can’t figure out. A Nomai looks at a statue, and hovering above them both is a glowing Nomai space mask. Signals pass from the Nomai, to the statue, to the mask, and back to the Nomai, but I don’t understand what they mean. 

A Nomai log sits abandoned at the statue’s base. Perhaps it will tell me more.

“Yarrow, would you kindly step back so Daz is closest to the statue? When pairing, the statue will choose whoever is in closest proximity.”

Daz watched as Yarrow, stroking the fur on his chin, took a step away. Phlox pointed to him distractedly, then placed his hands on Daz’ shoulders, repositioning him in front of the statue. Daz could feel the jitters in Phlox’ fingers. His excitement was well-disguised, but not so fully contained. Their sculptor, with ever-steady hands, was shivering with eagerness. Daz could hardly blame him. If the test succeeded, they were that much closer to finally ending their search.

Under different circumstances, Daz imagined he would be excited, as well. He was, but it was magnificently overshadowed by his nervousness. It was one thing to have agreed to be the subject of the first pairing all those weeks ago, when all he had to justify his decision were diagrams and theory. And, the theory was sound. He himself was responsible for authoring half of it. But it was another thing entirely to be staring up at the statue Phlox had dedicatedly chiselled. It was huge—much larger than life. Its eyelids were serenely closed, its mouth curved in the smallest hint of a smile.

Nothing would go wrong. Daz trusted Phlox fully. Still, his anxieties got the better of him.

Phlox took his position next to Yarrow, a few steps behind Daz. Daz tried not to think about just how far they chose to stand from him. Not a moment later, their sculptor tapped his staff, and the statue came to life.

All three of its eyes opened. It stared down at Daz, a purple glow emanating from its sockets, and he saw his memories of that day play back across his vision, data detailing what he was seeing flying in his periphery. He saw Cassava wishing him luck before he set out from the Construction Yard, Phlox greeting him at the entrance to the Statue Workshop, Yarrow arriving after him. As the last of his memories faded away, the statue’s eyes dimmed, until all signs that the statue was ever active vanished. All signs, except…

“See how its eyes have opened?” Phlox said energetically. He went up to the statue and indicated the brass spheres with a wave of his staff. “That tells us the statue has paired with Daz. Now, no matter where he is in this star system, Daz’ statue will record his memories and send them to the Ash Twin Project.”

Yarrow hummed his approval and approached the statue reverently. He reached out a hand, then, stopping himself, glanced to Daz and Phlox for permission. They assented. He traced the carved fur that cascaded down the statue’s neck. 

“This is extraordinary sculpting work, Phlox!” he lauded. Phlox gave a humble bow of his head. Daz smiled, all his apprehension gone with the success of their demonstration.

“He has outdone himself again, hasn’t he?” he said. “And now that we have our first successful pairing, we can test my memory storage prototype.”

He led the group across the platform, where a mural depicting their original vision for the project was painted onto a wall. 

“Each statue will send a single Nomai’s memories to his or her own storage unit within Ash Twin,” Daz explained, pointing between the statue and the mask painted across the stone. 

“Each storage unit will be equipped with a mask, the statue’s counterpart.” Phlox gestured towards Daz—it was his half of the partnership, after all—before continuing, “Which will be able to send those stored memories back to the corresponding Nomai.”

It was an incredible technological feat. Or, it would be, once all the testing had concluded. 

Daz heard giggles overhead. He, Yarrow, and Phlox looked up to see the children peering through the grated floor of Phlox’ meeting room, whispering between each other. Little Lami waved. Daz chuckled. It seemed they were not the only ones so eager to see the project off the ground.

As the last of the recording translates, I peer back at the mural. So, a statue pairs with a Nomai—or a Hearthian—that’s nearby when it activates and sends their memories to a database somewhere on Ash Twin. That explains why Gabbro and I see our memories play back before our eyes. We were the closest living things to the statues when they triggered, and now they’re uploading our memories to Ash Twin. That’s probably also why Gabbro and I know about the time loop and no one else does—we get our old memories sent back to us at the beginning of each loop. That makes…some sense. It doesn’t explain what activated the statues in the first place, or why the Nomai had developed such technology, but it does tie up the whole memory problem quite nicely.

But—I thought the Ash Twin Project had something to do with their search for the Eye? Why did they need an advanced warp core to carve statues and store memories?

Eager to learn more, especially since I probably don't have much time left before the supernova, I carry on upwards, until I reach the projection pool I saw from the top of the island. I don’t think twice about picking up the nearby projection stone and popping it into the podium by the chalkboard.

“I’ve installed the masks inside the Ash Twin Project, Phlox,” said Ramie. “They look beautiful—although I do feel as though I’m being observed! It’s comforting to know the statues will not pair until the project succeeds. Otherwise, I imagine the experience would be hard to endure!”

“Ideally, they’ll only need to activate once the project succeeds; as a safety measure, however, the statues will also activate in the event of equipment failure,” Phlox explained.

“They will? Why is that?”

“If anything goes wrong with the Ash Twin Project, the statues (and their masks) will make us aware of the situation and enable us to fix it. Otherwise, it would be possible for us to remain permanently unaware of the problem.”

“I hadn’t thought of that! What a profoundly horrific fate that would be.”

A strange, twisting feeling develops in my chest. Is that why the statues activated? The Ash Twin Project failed? But…how? Why now, after so many years?

I examine the stone more thoroughly than I had when I picked it up. An image of two planets conjoined by a column glows upon its surface. The Hourglass Twins, Ember and Ash. If Ramie had been installing masks inside the Ash Twin Project, that should be what the stone will show me. 

I insert the stone into the empty podium in the projection pool. My vision ripples and black liquid seeps out of the ground around my feet. There is a moment of darkness, of stillness, before I see it—the Ash Twin Project, though I can’t be certain. I can’t even comprehend what I see.

I am in a void. It’s dark. Stars swirl around me at an alarming pace, blotted out only by tall, shadowy columns that rise from the small platform I stand on. Out of the darkness, the dim glint of a Nomai mask emerges, eyes empty and hollow. I turn, and there’s another, only this one is glowing—its eyes are alight with purple, and energy pulses around it. There’s another. And another. All around me, masks are staring. Three are active—I think it’s three, but in the confusion of darkness and stars and masks it’s hard to tell—watching me with glowing, empty expressions. 

I pull the stone from the podium with a gasp, and the vision winks out.

What was that?

Where was that?

I’m not sure I want to find out. Just picturing the masks sends chills across my skin. And the stars—that can’t possibly be on Ash Twin, can it? It doesn’t make any sense. But that’s what’s engraved into the projection stone, and that’s where they had installed the masks.

The masks.

Three are glowing. So…three have been activated. Or successfully paired. One of those masks is mine—and I shudder to think of my memories captured by that… thing, hidden away in the darkness. One is Gabbro’s. But the last…

Does it belong to Daz? As far as I know, no one else has paired with a statue. But, Daz is long dead…right?

Right.

Even the Nomai couldn’t live forever. So why is a third mask glowing?

An alarm plays in my ear, making me jump. Across my visor: WARNING: THREE MINUTES OF OXYGEN REMAINING.

How long have I been standing here? I blink and put down the stone. I only have one level of the workshop left, and an unknown amount of time. I have to hurry. 

The last section of the workshop sits across the empty space in the middle of the cavern. Even loosely judging the distance, I know I will never be able to make it across. Not with Giant’s Deep’s gravity, which is two times as great as Timber Hearth’s, and not with my jetpack’s fallible booster. Regardless, I figure I’ll give it a shot. 

The moment I leave the ground, I know where I’m headed—and it’s not across the gap.

I slam into the rock face with a thwack and fall into the water below. My helmet isn’t compromised, just…dented a little, and the shoulder that took the brunt of the force aches. Honestly, even I can’t believe I did something so stupidly pointless. Dejectedly, I swim back to shore.

There has to be a way up. I’m not leaving Nomai knowledge behind just because I can’t reach it. No. I have to think of a solution. I have to problem-solve, in a way that doesn't involve repeatedly smashing myself into a wall.

I can’t fly up. I can’t fly over. I can’t jump down to it from the grate. The water won’t help, not unless the island somehow becomes more submerged than it is, but it’s far too buoyant to sink for very long. The only way I could swim up to the platform is if the island fell down from space and I aligned myself within the hole perfectly. Which…I don’t have that much faith in myself. 

The wind whistles through the grate above. Leaves float down. Beyond, I see branches whip in the wind. A cyclone. Fantastic timing. It seems the supernova, the cyclone, and my depleting oxygen supply are all vying for the chance to kill me.

Even knowing that I will wake up regardless of how I die—hopefully—I don’t much feel like ending the loop prematurely. I head towards a cyclone shelter before it even activates.

As the island is tossed into the sky, the shelter flickers to life around me. Stars twinkle through the grate as we breach the planet’s atmosphere. Then—free fall. Statues and debris begin to lift off the ground. Everything is weightless—except for me. I look across the gap, now nothing but empty space below the island, and it hits me—I don’t want to be inside the shelter!

I’m either a genius or I’m insane. In ten seconds, I’ll find out which. I’m floating before I can fully push myself away from the protection of the shelter. Thank Hearth I still have jet fuel. Carefully, I fly across the chasm. Glancing down, I see the clouds of Giant’s Deep swirl, electrical storms lighting up the sky from behind a hazy filter. The storms are getting bigger. We’re falling fast.

I make it across the gap—and into a conveniently placed storm shelter—just before we break the cloud cover. The island plunges back into the water, rises up slowly, and then bounces on the rough surface of the ocean. The cyclone shelter fizzles out, and I’m firmly on the right side of the workshop.

I did it.

I am a genius!

My celebration is short-lived. The supernova will be any minute now, I’m sure of it, and my oxygen is depleting quickly. I jump over to the chalkboard and translate the text before either of my countdowns run out.

“I’m curious,” Phlox mused, “is sending a being’s memories back in time the same as sending the being itself back in time? As an example: if we were to send my memories back in time, is that the same as sending ‘me’ back in time? Not my physical body, but my essence?”

“I imagine they’re two different actions,” Daz replied.

“Wouldn’t both actions be effectively the same?” Cassava countered.

“Suppose that time was being rewritten. I believe this is different than receiving memories from what is effectively the future.”

His spouse didn’t seem convinced. “But isn’t the end result identical in either case?”

So…the time loop…isn’t a time loop? The masks just send our memories back in time, while our bodies are where they always were? But…not that exactly. Time is rewritten with each loop. What does that mean? Do I even leave the campsite, then? Do I ever talk to Slate?

Is none of this real? 

It certainly feels real. My shoulder is still tender from throwing myself against the rock. The panic I felt falling into the black hole was pretty real, too. 

‘Some kind of fidgety time business’ is definitely a more apt description than ‘loop’, though.

My head hurts.

The sky grows dark.

I look up through the grate in the ceiling. The light fades, as if night is falling, but it gets darker still. The treetops I glimpse outside become shadows, and, eventually, disappear entirely into the growing darkness. Lightning flashes. Once. Twice. And then a third time, although that one is different—a different hue, a different pace. A different source. It’s not lightning.

Everything goes black. I am left with only the faint glow of the Nomai writing in front of me and the sparse torches scattered about the workshop. Water laps calmly against the margins of the pool. The cyclones go on howling.

Then, an intensifying light. A light so bright it blasts away the trees, the grate, the cavern, everything, and then—

I wake up.

I have to tell Gabbro what I discovered.

Rushing to the lift, Slate tells me to get the launch codes. I ignore them. They won’t be mad for long—in half-an-hour, they’ll forget it even happened…or it’ll have never happened to begin with. I’m still trying to figure that last bit of writing out.

When I return to Giant’s Deep, with a landing that is only slightly better than my previous one, Gabbro is laying in their hammock, just as I left them. They wave when they spot me; I guess they’ll be expecting me from now on, now that we've established that we’re in the time-loop-but-not-time-loop together.

“How’s it going?” they greet. “You know, I kind of wish I'd built a hammock here before we ended up in this time loop.”

“That was fast. I left Timber Hearth, like, two minutes ago.”

They shrug. “I’ve had practice.”

Nearly vibrating with anticipation, I prompt, “I went and visited Statue Island.”

“Oh, nice. How’d you find the beach?” Gabbro asks. 

“Beachy,” I say quickly, waving them off as soon as I realise they won’t be asking the questions I want them to ask. “Anyway, I found a way inside the workshop. It’s where the Nomai made the memory statues—by the way, the statues are memory statues; they scanned our memories and now we’re paired with them! That’s why their eyes are still open!”

“Huh.” Gabbro nods. “Yeah, I can see the Nomai doing that. Seems like their sort of thing. That statue on the beach looked at me funny. That must be my memory-friend!”

I pause, waiting for them to say something more than just, ‘memory-friend’. They don’t. Instead, they go back to fiddling around with their flute.

“...Okay,” I continue. “I also found out that it doesn’t end there. The statues record our memories and send them off to a storage database…somewhere. I haven’t actually figured that part out yet. But I think it’s around Ash Twin and there are stars and spinning stuff and creepy Nomai masks. Anyway—when the supernova hits, our memories are sent back to us when we start the loop. I think. Honestly, this is where the translations started to lose me. It’s this whole complicated philosophical thing even the Nomai were debating.”

Strangely, it's this Gabbro perks up at. “You’re saying the statues were made so memories could be sent back in time?...I guess that makes sense, considering we both have our memories of every loop we’ve gone through.” They start twirling their flute in their fingers, and it spins faster than the anemometer atop their helmet. “Wait, then it’s just our memories being sent back in time to us, right?”

Not sure what they’re getting at, I nod.

“Then…are we really experiencing multiple time loops, or not?" they ask ponderously. "That’s pretty deep…Like, maybe our consciousnesses have been through all these loops, but maybe our bodies haven’t, because technically the loops never happened. Meaning we’re receiving memories of things that will never happen to us. Cool, huh?”

My thoughts are still roiling around in my head, but Gabbro’s interpretation makes sense, and I think it's what the Nomai were getting at back in the Statue Workshop. If the statues only record our memories, then the masks can only send our memories back to us at the start of each loop. So, every loop except the one I’m currently in…Those are just memories. I wasn’t sent back. When I died, I died, and since I was no longer making any new memories, that’s where the loop ended for me. When I got hit by that boulder, Gabbro was still here, still experiencing everything, until the supernova hit.

If everything I’ve lived through is just memories, have I really lived it at all? Exploring the Attlerock, the Hanging City…None of that happened to me. I just woke up with the memories of them, like waking from a vivid dream. But, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t me experiencing it all, right? Is there any difference between the statues sending me back in time and the statues sending my memories back in time?

“...Yeah,” I say, wanting desperately to massage my ears. “Cool.” With a shake of my head to clear my mind, I heave my pack higher onto my shoulders. “I’m going to go check out Brittle Hollow,” I prompt. “I think I found a way into the Southern Observatory.”

“Cool, cool. Keep me updated. I’ll be here.”

I linger for a moment more, until it’s clear that Gabbro isn't going to be getting up and they aren’t planning on asking me any more questions. Deflatedly, I trot back down the beach to my ship. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that I have my next destination set. I learned from the Construction Yard that the Southern Observatory is accessible from two trailheads on Brittle Hollow. Now, I have no clue where these trailheads are , exactly, but perhaps that map at the crossroads can help steer me in the right direction. As much as I wonder why Gabbro and I are in a time loop, or why the statues activated, I need to make some headway in figuring out the minor issue of the sun exploding. What better place for that than an observatory?

I load into my ship, mind spinning with plans for this loop, and engage the downward thrusters. My ship rockets into the sky, quickly rising towards the cloud cover. I go to open my map to check where Brittle Hollow is in its orbit, and—

What is that?

Chapter Text

I close my map, the clouds just beginning to streak across my windshield, and squint at a twisted dark dot on the horizon. I fly lower to get a better look, a small breath escaping me when I realise what it is.

It’s an island, or so I think at first. Unlike the others on Giant’s Deep, this one isn’t made of pumice cliffs, sandy beaches, or small forested patches. This one is ice, and vine, and thorns. It’s unmistakable. A fragment of Dark Bramble, drifting across the ocean. But…how?

I recall Chert’s recording from the Attlerock. When the bramble seeds tore the planet that used to be in Dark Bramble’s place apart, shards of it were flung to the far reaches of the solar system. Is this one such shard? Here, still, after so long?

My sight of it sharpens as I approach, the rain between the island and my ship lessening and lessening. I don’t know what’s worse—the brambles or the ominous red glow coming from their centre.

Landing on an open block of ice held in place by a vine, I am sure that this tops the charts for all the stupid decisions I’ve made. Of all the planets, we know the least about Dark Bramble, and what we do know is terrifying. And, upon an encounter with a piece of Dark Bramble in the flesh, my first thought is to land on it. Feldspar hadn’t ever been the best role model, and I spent far too many of my formative years listening to them recount their foolhardy adventures around the campfire. Landing on a giant piece of Dark Bramble was so something they would have done.

The moment I hop out of my ship, a message pops up on my visor that makes the island all the more eerie: DANGER: GHOST MATTER DETECTED NEARBY.

I don’t have to look hard to find it. Even in the relentless rain, I see the source of the warning instantly. A large, hollow bramble vine curls away from the ice block I landed on. It’s filled with pearlescent crystals, a clear sign that ghost matter is present. The crystals blaze in the lantern light. Wait—lantern?

Inside of the hollow vine, sheltered from the onslaught of rain and wind, sits a Hearthian lantern. 

I pull out my Little Scout and take a cautious picture. The ghost matter is restricted to deeper down the tunnel. Good. I take the opportunity to investigate.

It’s strange to see a piece of home centred in such an otherworldly scene. And, the lantern is a piece of home—it’s lit with purified Hearthian ore, light constant, unflickering. I pick it up, turn it over, and see on its base three stamped letters. ‘OWV.’ Outer Wilds Ventures. Weird that Gabbro hadn’t mentioned that they visited such a spooky place. I would have expected a relaxation rating: 2/10. Not enough sand. 

Continuing down the vine, I’m met with a fork. Taking a few pictures with my Scout, the safe path through is clear. To the right, blue and green matter swirls in the dark. To the left, nothing, except a short gap I have to use my jetpack to overcome. At the end of the tunnel, the vine opens up, revealing another block of ice entangled in the bramble thorns. A few tenacious trees grow from the vines, and past those, a tower of ice exudes that red glow I saw from the skies. The ice distorts the image of the source—the picture morphing whenever I move or the light changes. There’s only one way to figure out what it is. I set off across the ice.

The place is…alien. Of course, all of the planets are alien—Brittle Hollow has its peculiar quirks, as does Giant’s Deep, and the Hourglass Twins. Dark Bramble, however, is different. It just isn’t… right. It doesn’t belong. Ice and vines curve around me, trapping me despite the open air surrounding me. Ghost matter crystals blanket the cold ground, dancing with play-of-colour as I walk by. None of this is supposed to be here.

I snap photos with my Scout. Eventually, I am able to navigate a path where the ghost matter is absent. Winding between twisting vines, trees, and ice shards, I come to the base of the tower. Here, its contents are clear: the ominous glow comes from two jellyfish trapped inside.

Red jellyfish. Are those what I glimpsed beneath the current? Are those what Gabbro described in their fireside tale to Spinel?

Chert once gave a lecture at the museum about their ponderings about the planet Dark Bramble destroyed. It was likely large, like Giant’s Deep, for the orbit to remain stable once it was shattered. Despite being relatively small, the core of Dark Bramble is surprisingly dense. So, a large planet. Icy, judging by the unique shards that litter the impact craters Chert has studied. Beyond that is anyone’s guess—Was the whole planet made of ice? Was it rocky? Glacial? No one knows, because no one had any evidence to point them in any one direction over the others.

But this…perhaps our lost planet was more like Giant’s Deep than we thought. If the jellyfish came from it, there must have been an ocean. Did the ice come from its poles? Was the whole planet an icy crust overlying a cold ocean? Or did it have periods of freezing and thawing? I doubt we’ll ever know for certain, but even the thought that the creatures that swim below the current aren’t of Giant’s Deep at all is fascinating. When the planet shattered, how many interlopers had been cast into the nearest ocean? How many pieces of ice had jellyfish contained within? Did they thaw in the warmer waters, releasing their passengers beneath the current?

I could wonder about the jellyfish all day, but something even more shocking sits at the bottom of the glowing tower: a campsite.

The logs in the firepit are charred, but long cold. Empty tins of marshmallows and soup lie around the clearing, a container of jet fuel propped against a nearby tree. A recorder sits on the ground, discarded, and I silently chide Gabbro for being so careless with their logs. I pick it up and hit PLAY.

“Trip Four, entry number whatever. Crashes: two. Boring crashes: zero (remember to see Slate when I get back).

Ha ha, yeah! Yeah! All the way down to the core! Consider yourself conquered, Giant’s Deep—you just got Feldsparred.”

My jaw drops. This was Feldspar’s camp? They were here, and on their fourth trip no less. Wait…that was—

The audio recording continues. 

“That was one of my more dramatic feats, if I do say so myself. Can’t believe I wasn’t electrocuted! Ahhh, can’t wait to tell Hornfels and Gossan about this one—I guess brute force isn’t always the answer. Right, so that’s one more off the list. Seems all that’s left is the big one now. Dark Bramble, here I come!”

Dark Bramble. No. I can’t believe it. But…

Feldspar was always one for showmanship. Between regular launches for research and maintenance, they always wedged in a ‘real’ voyage, as they called them. Hornfels, Gossan, and even Slate would argue with them as they overloaded their ship with supplies, but their mind had always been long set by the time they got to preparing for the launch. With these journeys, Feldspar intended to get lost in exploration. No one knew when they’d be back. In a month? In six? 

The worry of them not returning—despite the dangerous and often groundbreaking things they accomplished on these trips—had faded significantly after they came home safe and (mostly) sound for the third time. Though energy still ran high when Feldspar announced they’d be heading out on a fourth trip, the most exciting one yet, most of the village let them fly off without much protest. They had done exceedingly dangerous things before and always came limping back. Trip Four would be no different. And then they never returned.

That was nearly three years ago.

I wouldn’t doubt for a second that Felspar flew straight to Dark Bramble on some sort of adrenaline high, regardless of the state of their ship. If anything, their recklessness was part of why they’d grown so famous. I’m certainly guilty of admiring it when I was younger, though my training—and subsequent crashes—swiftly diminished my thirst for danger. I also wouldn’t doubt that Feldspar didn’t think to check in with ground control before rocketing off. Feldspar’s penchant for radio silence on their ‘real’ trips had become standard practice by their fourth. It was one of the reasons why Hornfels was always so desperate to break the silence with Gabbro: they already had one astronaut disappear on them. Like Feldspar, I don’t think Gabbro is even aware of the stress they cause our ground control.

But—wait...

I have to try something.

Looking around the camp one last time and seeing nothing more of interest, I journey back to my ship, snapping picture after picture with my Scout just in case the ghost matter decided to move while I wasn’t looking at it. I jump into my ship, buckle up, and flip on my Signalscope even before I break through the heavy atmosphere into space.

There’s no better place to get reception than the vast endlessness of the cosmos. I bring my ship into a wide orbit around Giant’s Deep and check my map for the location of Timber Hearth. I plug in the coordinates and point my Signalscope that way.

It doesn’t even take a second for the haunting music of a harmonica to fill my cabin. It drowns out the tone of my gravity crystal and the whirring of the reactor. Although a far cry from silence, a dead calm overcomes my ship. We drift. I close my eyes and picture a campfire, Feldspar sitting on a log, lit by the flames, playing along with the other musicians in our orchestra. 

It’s the same tune. What's more—it’s the same player.

Feldspar.

I can’t believe I almost forgot. I heard that signal from the Attlerock’s north pole on my first trip, before I knew a loop existed and that my voyage would be far from routine. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Feldspar isn’t on Timber Hearth. But the music is undeniable. Even Esker had noticed it.

Without taking even a moment to think on it, I set off for a familiar planet.

I keep my Signalscope locked on the mysterious sound. Orbiting low around Timber Hearth—low enough to see all the major landmarks of my planet, from the Observatory to the radio tower to the geyser mountains—I keep my eyes peeled for what the source of the noise could be. I’m surprised when it brings me to Youngbark Crater. It's a crater not notable in any sense of the word, aside from the fact that it’s a nice getaway from all the explosions in town. Well, usually.

Tektite mentioned in their note on the firewatch platform that they had gone to investigate smoke they saw near Youngbark. I even saw this smoke during my first liftoff. The smoke is still here, unsurprisingly, but the damage is far greater than I initially assumed. Trees are down, roots ripped from the earth, still clenching boulders for support. A few lucky ones are caught in the green boughs of their peers. They might still make it. Others have taken on the brunt of the impact, trunks spanning across the entire crater, dried needles already falling from their branches. That isn't even the worst of it. The worst of it is what’s in the middle, surrounded by that same dark, hardy ice I just explored.

A Dark Bramble seed. 

It lights up the bottom of the crater with its glow, casting strange shadows against the rocky walls. Its vines have already taken root—five, that I can count, penetrating deep into the ground of Timber Hearth. Thorns as tall as I am stick out from the vines at odd angles, sharp and menacing. I set down my ship at the crater’s edge and, keeping on my suit, use my jetpack thrusters to ease myself down to the bottom.

Surrounded by ice, vines, and freshly exposed dirt, Tektite stands in the light of the bramble seed. They mutter to themself, hand up, shielding their eyes from the unnatural shine. From the sky, the damage looked bad—but here, on the ground, everything is so much more severe. The seed absolutely dwarfs Tektite. The vines are wide enough to walk through. The shards of Dark Bramble ice embedded in the ground are large and uniform; if I didn’t know better, I would have assumed they had always been a part of the landscape.

There’s no mistaking the seed as the source of the vines’ propagation. Nearly as big as my ship, it boasts hostile-looking flowers that bloom across its spherical surface, thick and red and spined, like the tongues of rockscraper fish. Each flower is filled with hazy light, rays catching the dust that is still finding its way down through the air after the impact.

I can’t believe it’s here, on Timber Hearth. And I can’t believe how close Tektite is to it. Seemingly unbothered, they survey the seed, leaning against a pickaxe I doubt would do anything of consequence to the hardy vines.

They wave when they hear my boots crunching across the debris field. I take off my helmet and tuck it under my arm, never moving my eyes from the seed.

“Heyo, hatchling! Thought I heard you lift off earlier. What’re you still doing on Timber Hearth?”

Tektite is an older Hearthian, but one still keen on action, unlike some of our other veterans who rather sit back and relax their worked bones. Their ears are even droopier than Esker’s, their freckles broadening across their face until they merge into one another. Wrinkles meet the corners of their orange eyes. A wooden leg of Slate’s making replaces the one that had been burned off by ghost matter. They used to work the mines until the incident, using any breaks they had to go off exploring. When they lost their leg, they switched to firewatch—although the job is hardly easier on their wooden limb. With the amount of fires we get, Tektite is kept plenty busy, and I think they prefer it that way. Unlike Gneiss, who likes to loiter in the village, I can’t imagine Tektite sitting still.

“Just couldn’t stay away, you know?” I joke tersely. “I saw your note in town.” Coming to a stop beside them, I examine the seed up close. It looks even grislier from here. It isn’t hard to imagine that these things and those anglerfish come from the same place. 

After a moment, despite already knowing the answer, I ask, “Is that a Dark Bramble seed?"

Our firewatch glances my way. “You think so? It’s nothing I’ve ever seen on Timber Hearth before, so you’re probably onto something there.” They turn back to the seed, shaking their head. “Whatever it is, it put down roots in a hurry. I don’t like the look of this thing, hatchling, and that’s a fact. Think I’ll set Marl and Hal loose on it. Best get rid of this mess sooner rather than later, and no one can remove an unwanted plant faster than a tree-keeper can.”

No one has ever tried to hack apart a bramble seed before. Tektite has the right idea—if anyone can make quick work of it, it’s Marl. Still, I wonder if they really are up to the task. The seed certainly didn’t waste much time in latching onto our planet.

Tektite narrows their eyes and purses their lips in thought. “I’ll have to get a look at what’s inside the seed, first, though,” they continue. “Don’t want to set anybody to hacking up a potentially dangerous plant without a better idea of what’s lurking inside there. Tuff can help me haul the old scout launcher over here. Obviously the opening is too small for someone to fit inside, and anyway, I’m not gonna blindly stick my hands into anything that looks as unpleasant as that seed does. That’s a good way to lose an arm or two."

“I have my Scout with me,” I offer. Tektite hmphs in response.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

I aim my Little Scout from where I stand, not wanting to get much closer. Tektite probably has a point about losing an arm. I launch, and my trusty Scout disappears into the seed. Only—that can’t be right. I watch the readings on the launcher display on my arm. 50 metres, 100 metres, 200 metres—and climbing. Tektite gapes over my shoulder. I take snapshot after snapshot, following alongside my Scout as it flies through the impossibly large interior of the seed.

From the haze, thorny vines emerge and disappear as the Scout shoots past. 500 metres. 600 metres. In the distance, something begins to take shape in the fog, sharp and long like the bramble thorns. Another comes into focus. And another one. And another. 700 metres. 800 metres.

An anglerfish jumps out of the haze, its teeth bared. I startle, Tektite jolting beside me. We watch in silent horror as it grows, my Scout flying closer. It’s bigger than the one in the museum. Much bigger. But…it isn’t moving. Vines grow out of it. Where its eyes should be are only sockets. It’s dead. More than dead—skeletal. Its lure still glows, its mouth still yawns, but it seems the Dark Bramble vines have overtaken it, too. I take another snapshot, and stop. I stare at the picture displayed on my launcher.

Are those…trees?

My Scout comes to a rest 850 metres away from us. What’s puzzling is that my launcher displays a duplicate signal, 26 kilometres away. I’m tracking two Little Scouts through the solar system. That…isn’t possible.

I meet Tektite’s eyes, but from the moment they open their mouth, it’s clear we do not share the same takeaway from what we saw. 

“It’s bigger on the inside than on the outside?” they grumble. “This is going to be a chore to chop up, and no mistake. Can we even remove a seed that doesn’t have the decency to stay the same size all the way through? Maybe I’d better grab an extra axe or three, just in case."

Just like nothing space-breaking has happened, Tektite goes back to muttering and kicking around the base of the seed, undoubtedly trying to figure out a plan for how to uproot it. And—obviously, that’s still a big problem. I’m the last person who wants something from Dark Bramble on Timber Hearth. But how they couldn’t comment on the pictures…

Thinking I can probably get away with leaving my Scout inside the bramble seed for just a little longer, I pull out my Signalscope. The sound of the harmonica still comes through on the Outer Wilds Ventures frequency. I focus on the signal, waving my Signalscope until it locks on. There—I have it. Staring past the end of my device, I see, perfectly centred, the flower of the bramble seed I shot my Little Scout into.

I glance down at the duplicate Scout coordinates on my launcher. Taking a gamble, I track the coordinates to a location beyond the far side of Timber Hearth. Aiming my Signalscope at the ground, pretending not to notice the sidelong glance Tektite casts me, I listen.

And I hear it.

The harmonica. Right where the duplicate signal of my Little Scout is. I throw my helmet over my head and pull up my map. My stomach drops.

My Little Scout is on Dark Bramble.

That means the harmonica is coming from Dark Bramble.

But also…it’s here, on Timber Hearth.

It doesn’t make any sense. I recall my Scout.

“Blasted seed did a lot of damage when it crashed,” Tektite mutters. “I liked this crater.”

“My Signalscope is picking up the sound of a harmonica coming from inside the seed,” I say, loud enough for them to hear.

“Inside the seed?” Tektite chuckles. “Dunno what to tell you there—the only harmonica player I know is Feldspar, and they disappeared ages ago. Listen here, don’t go telling Gneiss about the harmonica music, okay? They’ll never let me get rid of this darn seed if they suspect it has any musical talent."

Does anyone ever try to be helpful aside from me?

A little irritated from their apparent lack of despair over the seed and its implications, and my mind still preoccupied with teasing out exactly what my discovery means, I wave a hurried goodbye to Tektite and fly back up to my ship. Upon sitting down in the pilot’s seat, I open my map again.

Dark Bramble. It’s where the harmonica music is coming from. And from the campsite on Giant’s Deep, I know it was next on Feldspar’s to-do list. Is it really them? It seems impossible. It’s been three years. I don’t care how little we know of it—no one can survive on Dark Bramble for three years. Especially if the anglerfish can get as big as—I shiver—that skeleton.

Hesitantly, I lock on to it. I close my map and blast off, heading towards the planet where all the signs are pointing, despite my fingers shaking with fear.

No Hearthian has landed on Dark Bramble before.

For good reason.

Except, just maybe, Feldspar.

I leave Timber Hearth’s atmosphere and set off up over the sun to intercept Dark Bramble as it rounds the opposite side.

I am an idiot. This is the dumbest thing I have ever done. Going to Dark Bramble on my first solo flight? Even Feldspar waited until their fourth ‘real’ trip. And that was Feldspar! The greatest, most accomplished pilot Outer Wilds Ventures has ever produced. And now I’m off, and I can’t even say I’m following in their footsteps, because I clearly have even less of a sense of self-preservation than they had.

Unfortunately, what I do have is a sense of loyalty. And, apparently, a death wish. If Feldspar really is still out there, and hasn’t gotten themselves blown up like half the village believes they have, and if I think I know where they are…

Supernova be darned. I have to go find them. 

I had only just started in the program when Feldspar disappeared. At the time, I was mostly listening to lectures on astrophysics from Hornfels and running through the basics of ship anatomy with Slate. I never had any lessons with Feldspar, and most of the time they were off gallivanting in space, anyway. But I knew that the program was where I wanted to be, ever since I saw the Attlerock Nomai ruins at the museum. The strange symbol—what I now know as the Eye of the universe—called to me just as much as the stars above did. I thought, or I liked to think, that Feldspar had noticed. I’d be sitting at the campfire long after all the other hatchlings got tired, hanging onto every word of their stories, asking questions at all the right moments, screaming on cue when they reenacted the terrors they had encountered. I stayed out until the adults shooed me away and Porphy brought out the sap wine. Still, I’d sit awake in my bed, peering out of my window, seeing nothing but shadows blocking flame, hearing nothing but songs and laughter. And I was entranced.

Maybe to them, I was just another annoying hatchling. But to me, Feldspar was everything I admired about Outer Wilds. They were brave, exciting, and they never ceased to bring home new tales of the secrets the planets held.

They’re one of the reasons why I had worked so hard to be in the space program. I don’t care if no Hearthian has landed on Dark Bramble before. I don’t care that it’s full of bramble seeds, vines, thorns, and—apparently—spatial impossibilities. I don’t even care that the anglerfish can grow big enough to swallow my spaceship whole. I owe it to them to find them. Even if they don’t know it.

Oh, Hearth, I hate myself.

My ship crests the sun and there it is—the planet of my nightmares. Its core, a giant bramble seed, lashes out vines that grasp the icy remnants of its predecessor. It isn’t spherical. It isn’t even sub-angular. It is a messy tangle of a long-lost planet and the thing that killed it. Against my better judgement, I fly in close. The core is covered with holes leaking haze and sickly yellow light. They’re large. Large enough to guide my ship through. If my theory about Dark Bramble is correct, if it really is a spatial anomaly…

Carefully, I pilot my ship inside.

Through the dense haze, I see nothing but the core walls immediately to my sides. Everything is fog, and then, slowly coming into focus, dots of lights begin to shine in the distance, white and red. The lights radiate, their glow rippling through the haze. Everything is eerily quiet. Still.

On Timber Hearth, you can always hear the geysers. On Brittle Hollow, there’s always the boiling of Hollow’s Lantern, or the rumble of deteriorating crust. On Giant’s Deep, the cyclones wail continuously. Here, there is nothing. No sight. No sound. It’s impossibly big—by now, I should have drifted out the other side of the seed and back into space—and impossibly empty. I pull up my Signalscope, to lock on to the harmonica signal, yes, but also to break the unsettling silence. I follow the signal and engage my thrusters. Something dark emerges from the fog—

I jump, but it’s only a bramble vine. I take a deep breath to calm myself down. I’m getting in my head. Pushing the side sticks forward, I sail on.

My thrusters begin to sound…strange. There's a low noise rumbling through my cabin. I cut the engine and the strange sound continues. I mute my Signalscope to listen. My ship drifts forward on momentum alone. We must be in a near-vacuum.

There are two lights in front of me. At first, I swear my eyes are playing tricks, but the more I watch, the more I know that what I'm seeing is real. One of the lights moves. Then, inch by inch, my worst nightmare materialises from the haze.

An anglerfish.

Much, much bigger than the one in the museum. So big, that I can’t even think of anything to compare it to. Each tooth could easily be longer than my ship. And there are dozens of them protruding from its mouth. Its blank eyes stare out from either side of its head, its fins waving in slow motion behind it.

It breathes. 

It wasn’t my thrusters I had heard. It was the anglerfish. Hissing.

Nope.

Without even glancing down, I pull back my side sticks. My forward-facing thrusters engage—the flames from them lick my windshield.

That is, clearly, not the correct thing to do.

The anglerfish screeches. I feel the reverberations of it in my bones. The monster lurches towards me, maw gaping, teeth reaching for my ship.

Nope nope nope nope nope nope nope—

I rocket backwards. I don’t care where I’m going—just that I’m getting as far from that thing as I can. Its teeth nearly graze my ship as it swims after me. I hear other screeches echo through the seed’s interior—other anglerfish on my tail, no doubt—but all I can think of is to shoot backwards, as fast as I can, burning fuel at a greater rate than I ever have before as my heart pounds explosively in my chest.

Just as one of its gargantuan teeth brushes across my windshield, the haze clears. The seed appears before me, growing ever more distant as I cruise backwards through space. 

I gasp, not realizing I had been holding my breath. I made it out. I’m alive!

I look back at the core of Dark Bramble, at its twisting vines and chunks of ice. It grows smaller, and smaller. And I am still breathing. My heart is still beating. Stars above, that was a close one.

Instantly, I know I’ll never get a good night’s sleep again.

Guilt wracks me for going back on my plan. What if Feldspar really is trapped in there? With those…things? I can’t just leave them, but at the same time, I am in a time loop. It’s not like taking my time will really change anything. Even if I rescued Feldspar, they’d be right back where I found them half-an-hour later.

So…maybe I’ll put a pin in Dark Bramble for now. A nice big asterisk next to it in my ship’s log. I’ll get some more practice on piloting my ship and then I’ll come back to pick them up. Hopefully, I’ll be able to put an end to the time loop and the supernova by then, too, so the rescue will really stick.

Yeah. That’s a much better plan.

As Dark Bramble shrinks away, I feel my breathing finally calm, the tension flowing out of my muscles. The important thing is, I tried. And, I have a very solid lead on where our missing astronaut is. I just don’t know how to find them without getting eaten—yet. But I have the time to think on it.

Anyway, with that tangent…somewhat resolved, and Feldspar hopefully safe (if it is indeed Feldspar I am hearing, and not some spooky space-time anomaly), it’s time to return to the small matter of the sun exploding.

Knowing I won’t have much time—or crust to walk on—this late in the loop, I pilot my ship far above the plane of our solar system. I sit my helmet on the floor, unbuckle my safety harness, and throw my feet up on my console as I watch the planets turn. There are the Hourglass Twins, spinning conjointly around the sun. Timber Hearth, full of my friends, unaware that the world will end in just a few minutes. Brittle Hollow is a shade of what it used to be, entire village-sized chunks of crust—gone. Giant’s Deep rages on, the spinning of the cyclones visible in the air currents of the atmosphere, electrical storms lighting up its clouds. Dark Bramble hovers ominously at the very edge of our solar system. I even spot the Interloper—I watch it streak across the sky, coming in for its routine slingshot around the sun before it gets launched back out past Dark Bramble. It flies in close, accelerating as it approaches its perihelion, and disappears into the fires of the sun.

I bolt upright.

That…isn’t supposed to happen. The Interloper is in a stable orbit—it has been for, well, ever. I check my map—sure enough, the Interloper is gone. Flares erupt from the sun’s surface as it boils and rages, red flames of plasma licking the space around it.

The sun begins to expand before my eyes. Mottled with sun spots and blazing, it grows, until its plasma nearly grazes the Hourglass Twins. Just as it seems the Twins will be consumed, the sun pulls away. It collapses into a ball of blinding white light, and bursts.

I have only one thought as the ionizing energy engulfs my ship.

I know what causes the supernova.

Chapter Text

The answer waits for me when I open my eyes. 

Giant’s Deep, its atmosphere swirling, hangs in the starry sky overhead. The Quantum Moon floats next to it, flickering out of existence when I blink. The Orbital Probe Cannon drifts across the dark clouds of the ocean giant…and explodes. The destruction is so peaceful from so far away. So quiet. The cannon splits into three parts and a purple dot shoots away. I don’t have to check my map to be certain—the trajectory lines up. Whatever the Orbital Probe Cannon is firing, it’s firing it at the Interloper. Destabilising its orbit. Sending the comet straight into the sun, where...

If a star is massive enough…

...It causes the sun to go supernova.

That has to be it. 

Why the Nomai created the cannon in the first place, I have no idea. Why would they want the sun to explode? At one point, it was as much theirs as it is ours. It makes no sense. And why is it firing now?

Maybe it isn’t working. Maybe the years have taken their toll and the cannon is firing randomly. It would explain why the cannon splits apart when it activates. The strain is just too much for its weathered seams. So, either the cannon mistakenly locks on to the Interloper, or we’re all just really, really unlucky.

I don’t have the answers, but the Nomai do. And I know just where to go looking for them.

Aboard my ship, I suit up and buckle in. I set my autopilot for Giant’s Deep, although that isn’t exactly where I’m heading.

Seven loops in, it’s clear I have two major questions to answer: One, why am I in a time loop? and two, why is the sun exploding? From there, there are two natural follow-ups: How do I end the time loop and how do I stop the supernova?

I know now, sort of, why I am in a time loop. I had been standing a little too close to a Nomai statue when it activated (though I still don’t understand why it activated) and it uploaded my memories to a storage mask in the Ash Twin Project. Either the loop will end on its own when I achieve whatever goal the Nomai had in mind when they created it—I used to think that was saving the sun, but I’m not so sure anymore—or I have to find a way to switch it off. Switching it off before I answer my last question would be sentencing the solar system to a fiery, permanent death, so, I can put off figuring out that one for now.

I also know, sort of, why the sun is exploding. The key information I’m missing is how to stop it, and if the Orbital Probe Cannon is doing what I think it’s doing, maybe I’ll actually be able to figure that out.

Of course, there are still so many loose ends forming with what I’ve been learning from the Nomai. What exactly is the Ash Twin Project? What is the Eye of the universe, and did they ever find it? Why did they need to create an advanced warp core?

All that can come later. Task Number One: Save the solar system. Task Number Two: End the time loop, so the solar system stays saved. I am impossibly close, just a breath away from the answers. Or, in a more literal sense, a landing.

Giant’s Deep spins like a slow top, its clouds lagging ever-so-slightly behind its rotation. Lightning lights up the atmosphere. Through the vacuum of space, through the sealed seams of my ship, the Giant is silent. A green-hued shine embraces the edge of the planet: the sun lighting the mist of its atmosphere. From over its horizon drifts the broken parts of the Orbital Probe Cannon, flying steadily around the planet’s equator. And, shockingly fast.

I speed to catch up with the largest chunk. The blueprints I saw in the Construction Yard flash in my mind. Glowing ripples pull at space from a Nomai landing pad at the base of the structure, and that's what I aim for.

The parts of the cannon turn over themselves as they drift. As if trying to land on such a fast-moving target wasn't difficult enough. When I finally catch up to the base, the glowing pad faces the thick cloud layer of Giant’s Deep below, creating only a narrow gap for me to fly up into it from, unless I don’t mind the downward tumble into cyclones.

Unfortunately, it's either act now or risk having to reposition my ship when the cannon turns over again. Sitting straight in my seat, hands firmly on my controls, I ready myself for landing.

I watch my velocity. I watch my thrust indicator. Gently, I push forward, flying in low above Giant’s Deep, careful not to catch myself in its gravity or atmosphere. All I have to do is get close enough to the clouds—close enough for the force of gravity to unbalance my ship, for the atmosphere to be just thick enough to reduce my speed—and I'll have to race to catch up to the base all over again. The planet darkens, casting shadows across the cannon. A shining veneer of light is all I have to discern the outline of the cannon from the planet itself. At least the landing pad is still glowing. I follow it, until I arrive underneath it, wedged between planet and satellite.

Now comes the hard part. Holding myself steady, I roll my ship, until the sunrise over Giant’s Deep sparks above me and the landing pad waits beneath my landing gear. I engage my upward thrusters, brow furrowed in concentration, until the pull of the gravity beam snatches me up and brings me down to the landing pad.

I let out a surprised laugh as I touch down. That was the best landing of my life! No damage, no panic—just a flawless descent onto a landing pad smaller than anything I’ve ever landed on before. Unfortunately, I’m the only one who saw it. No one will believe this. I don't think even Hal would, not after seeing last week's landing in the village.

Unbuckling my safety harness and updating my log, I leave my ship, spirits still high from my demonstration of impeccable piloting skills.

Instantly, I fall into nothing.

Well, ‘nothing’ is a bit of an exaggeration. I fall down a short tunnel and drift weightlessly into an airlock. After getting over my short burst of panic, I twist the sight-guided ball into position. The chamber lock spins on its axes. No gravity latches onto me as the interior of the Orbital Probe Cannon is revealed.

The central room is massive. A space-facing tube, with a domed window at its other end, tempered and overlooking the latticed tower of the cannon, the part which had fractured into pieces upon firing. Three entrances to three sections of the satellite border the room: the three modules I had seen in the blueprints in the Construction Yard. They’re numbered. In the false zero-G of orbit, I float over to the terminal labelled ‘One’ and translate the sign beside it. CONTROL MODULE. It’s as good a place as any to begin.

Through another tunnel, and through another chamber lock, I finally spot the familiar light of a gravity crystal tiled floor. I head down—it’s nice to have my feet on firm ground, at least when I know I’ll be reading.

The Control Module is entirely glass, except for the floor and the ceiling, which is just another floor, glowing with gravity crystal tile. Up there, I see a projection pool. That must be where the projection stone in the Construction Yard centred me when I had the vision of this module. Trees fill the room, and a large control tube encircles it, but the most notable thing is the huge, sloshing pool of matte black liquid that sits in a deep depression in the floor. It looks like the same liquid that fills the projection pools when I use them, which in turn is the same liquid that formed the model of the Orbital Probe Cannon in the Construction Yard. Copper wires pour into the pool, connecting it to inactive terminals and beyond those, the large tube. What will I see when I stimulate it? What will it show me?

A sight-guided ball sits at the end of the tube. I raise it, and lead it to the first terminal. As it falls into the basket beside it, the terminal begins to glow, revealing its words to me. The copper wire attached to it comes alive with energy, power pulsing into the pool. I watch in awe as the particles in the liquid bubble, and two structures, still dripping, lift out of the pool, floating into the middle of the room. One, I know instantly—the Orbital Probe Cannon. The other structure is spherical, a ring of protrusions poking out from its middle, encircling its equator. Identical towers jut out prominently from its poles, lined with sharp-edged panels. It takes me a moment, but I recognise it, too: Ash Twin of the Hourglass Twins.

The reason why I don’t recognise one of our very own planets instantly is because it isn’t how I usually picture it. The Hourglass Twins are so-called because of the sand that shifts between them. We don’t yet understand the phenomenon; we just know that it happens. Ember Twin’s canyons will be plugged with sand, and then, after a while, the sands will shift, flowing to Ash Twin in a column that can be seen from space. Then, after a while of having its surface hidden by the sand, the sand will flow back to Ember Twin. It isn’t clockwork, but it is constant enough. Every several days, the sands shift. The sands are shifting right now, actually, exposing the towers of Ash Twin for the first time in an unusually long while. And that is what I see in the floating model before me: the towers of Ash Twin, poking up from an equatorial bridge. We don’t know much about the towers, except that each has a unique design. No astronaut has really catalogued the planet yet. Gossan landed there a few times, before the accident had them swearing off exploratory travel. Feldspar, too, although they mostly investigated the column of sand, not the ruins.

The Nomai must have built them for a reason—they are undoubtedly the most impressive buildings the Nomai had constructed, and they must have required an unbelievable amount of resources. Perhaps they’re worth a visit.

I turn back towards the terminal, and my translator tool starts working away.

5 MINUTES, 49 SECONDS AGO: Request to launch probe received from Ash Twin Project.

Probe aligned with randomly selected trajectory. Gravity field activated.

The Ash Twin Project is storing my memories…and firing the cannon? I can’t think of how to consolidate the two. And, it’s firing along a randomly selected trajectory…So, the probe knocking the Interloper into the sun is a coincidence? The probability of it hitting such a small body, moving at such a quick pace…it’s staggering. The Ash Twin Project creating the memory loop can’t be a failsafe in case the sun explodes, then, because it happens when the loop starts, before the probe has even hit the comet. So, if that isn’t it…what is?

I drag the ball further along its path, letting it drop into the next basket. The liquid models sink back below the waves as the second terminal springs to life.

From the liquid, a larger version of the cannon emerges. As it comes to a stop in the centre of the room, a capsule—a probe, the same probe I see launch at the beginning of each loop—speeds out of the latticed tunnel. The model shatters, the lattice splitting in three, stabilisers breaking from the base. One module races downward, until it is consumed by the liquid that pools below.

A module has broken off? And fallen. Fast. It must have been captured in Giant’s Deep’s gravity. It must be somewhere on the planet! Though, not on the surface; I surely would have seen it for all the times I circled the ocean looking for islands. A pit forms in my stomach. The core—that’s where it has to be. Though, how it passed through the current…

Wait—Cassava and Daz had something to say about that! The same thing happened to them while they were constructing the cannon. A piece sank down, and a Nomai named Spire had built a model within the Southern Observatory to find out why. 

A plan is coming together in my head. My excitement growing, I turn back to the terminal. It reads:

BEGIN LAUNCH LOG: Orbital Probe Cannon. Launch request received. Probe launch successful.

Probe Tracking Module is receiving data from probe.

WARNING: Orbital Probe Cannon structure compromised during lunch. Damage to multiple modules detected.

The probe is transmitting information. That makes sense—the cannon firing at the Interloper is accidental. The Nomai hadn’t designed it to do that, and the probe had been created for something. Something important, too, if it’s connected to the Ash Twin Project.

I move the ball to the final basket along its path. As a piece of the shattered lattice flies by beyond the window, an enlarged view of the base of the cannon rises from the liquid. I can see the damage to the modules clearly. The Control Module is unharmed, but one module has been completely dislodged and the tunnel to the other is crushed. The log says as much:

ORBITAL PROBE CANNON DAMAGE REPORT: Severe structural stress detected. Assessing damage to modules...

Control Module: Intact. No structural damage.

Launch Module: Viewport window fractured. Module exposed to vacuum of space.

Probe Tracking Module: MISSING.

Whatever information the probe is transmitting is being captured by the Probe Tracking Module, which as far as I can tell is sinking beneath Giant’s Deep’s current, inaccessible. At least, inaccessible until I visit the Southern Observatory. At least I know the method of getting below the current—whatever it is—won’t kill me. Feldspar had made it to the core, too, after all, if they hadn’t been exaggerating in their audio log.

Before heading back to the main room, I turn my eyes upward. The projection pool sits overhead, a chalkboard in the corner, and two glowing projection stones lay across the room from one another. Next to me is a circle on the floor free of tile, three gravity crystals around it. I cautiously step on it, and suddenly my world is turned upside-down, and I float gently to the ceiling. A Nomai lift, much less jarring than the gravity beams that are commonplace on Brittle Hollow.

Without wasting a moment, I take the projection stone from beside the chalkboard and insert it into the podium. Nomai script fills the board, the spirals familiar.

“I have bad news, Avens.” Cassava wrote. “Yarrow says there was a problem with the proposed power source, so the Orbital Probe Cannon won’t be asked to fire.”

“I hope you’re pulling my locomotive limb here, Cassava,” Avens replied.

It’s the same conversation I read on Giant’s Deep. Cassava, who was working in the Construction Yard with Daz, was delivering the news that the Orbital Probe Cannon was on hiatus to Avens, who had been stationed here. I don’t bother rereading it all, but it sparks a curious thought: if the Orbital Probe Cannon couldn’t fire, if the project was shelved, why is it suddenly working?

I cross the room and bring over the other projection stone, which has a large number ‘Two’ written on it. 

Avens watched the message fill the wall, a smile spreading across his face as Cassava’s handwriting etched itself in a glowing script.

“This is it: we’ve finished building the final Orbital Probe Cannon module and are ready to send it into orbit around Giant’s Deep for assembly!”

The cannon was nearly complete, and, finally, they were getting to the fun part. It had been months of design and construction and tests. To have, at long last, reached the end was thrilling. The assembly would be trivial. The final module would be brought into orbit and guided to its place. With a quick twist of the locking mechanism and some precautionary sealing, the cannon would be perfect. And, more importantly, primed for the activation signal from the Ash Twin Project.

Everything was coming together. Giddily, Avens hopped over to the projection pool and inserted the Launch Module stone, which was already lying askew on the podium, from all the times he had used it before.

His vision rippled, and the stone floor was replaced with projection liquid. Avens knew his likeness had suddenly spawned into existence one module over, and he saw Mallow perk up from her log upon seeing him. She grinned and skipped over, eagerly awaiting his news.

“Mallow, my better 50 percent!” He greeted. “Cassava is sending the last of the cannon components. Soon, relatively speaking, we’ll know the Eye’s precise location!”

She laughed in disbelief, then crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head with a bright smile. “The thought of concluding our elders’ curious and challenging search increases my heart's temperature, my love!”

Avens felt his own heart warm upon hearing her flowery language. He continued, “Cassava tells me he and the Construction Yard crew have determined a power setting we are not, under any circumstances, to go above.”

Mallow raised a brow. “I see!” Her eyes twinkled. “And am I right to think that, consequently, we’ll be ignoring that setting?”

Ah, she always knew precisely what to say. How fortunate was he to have found someone like her, who not only understood the importance of the Ash Twin Project but revelled in its progress? Avens often wondered what it had been that drew his brother to Cassava. He always seemed so adamant to scrap their most innovative projects, despite the advances that were to come from them. He was, for lack of better words, so unimaginative, and so frustratingly stiff. It was a miracle he had even signed off on the cannon’s completion. It had probably been his idea to artificially lower the cannon’s maximum power setting—he was always ruining their fun.

Forgetting his brother and his prosaic spouse, Avens returned his attention to his love. 

“I can posit with nearly 100 percent certainty our friends have accounted for our natures, so I suggest we do! Giving the Orbital Probe Cannon all the power it can structurally withstand creates the greatest chance of finding the Eye of the universe.”

Mallow beamed. She understood how vital locating the Eye was. Their predecessors spent lifetimes on the search. Now, it was time to finish what the survivors of the crash had started.

“Yes,” Mallow agreed, “the probe must travel as fast as it can, as far as it can.” She turned towards the launch controls, waving Avens’ way as she did. “I’ll make some adjustments!”

That is why the cannon rips apart when it fires—Avens and Mallow had pushed the power setting as far as it could go. Whether the explosion skews the probe’s trajectory or if it's just pure random chance is inconsequential. The probe collides with the Interloper. That’s what matters. 

But, now I know why the Nomai had built the cannon: to aid in their search for the Eye. They must have been getting desperate to have switched from sophisticated locators to firing probes at random in the hopes of finding what they were looking for. And then, with Mallow and Avens causing the destruction of the cannon…If the project hadn’t been shelved, how long would it have taken them to rebuild before they could send out another probe? How many probes had they made? 

Out of curiosity, I take the stone and place it into the projection pool. A room nearly identical to the one I stand in ripples into existence. Immediately, I see the extent of the damage reported by the final terminal. The lights have flickered out, controls are warped and twisted, trees dead from exposure to the vacuum of space. An ugly gash cuts jaggedly across the observation window, shards of glass and broken stone twirling in the low-gravity air above my head. Lightning flashes across Giant’s Deep’s surface, starkly lighting the room in high-contrast snapshots. Red. Purple. Then, the weak glow of the gravity crystal floors, and the cast of an orange light from a lone working torch.

The Launch Module. The damage report showed me that the tunnel to it is crushed. I don’t know what I’ll find inside, but now I know how to get in.

I step away from the projection pool and my vision turns to vapour in front of my eyes. Jetting up to the chamber lock, I reenter the main room. I already know the names of the other two modules. I fly to their respective tunnels to confirm the damage for myself. Sure enough, the tunnel leading to the Launch Module is too warped to fit through, lights flickering from mangled circuitry, and the tunnel to the Probe Tracking Module—I have to engage my retro-rockets to slow myself before I drift out into space. It’s completely missing, debris floating in near zero-G.

As I return up the tunnel to my ship, still perching atop the landing pad, waiting for me, I find myself regretting not taking up Gossan’s offer of one last zero-G practice session. The landing pad holds me in its gravity field, but my gaze turns outwards. The sun spills over the side of Giant’s Deep, and I hold a gloved hand over my face, watching the golden glow spread across its crest. I take the beautiful moment to calm myself. I need a steady head and a firm hand. I brace my fingers against my jetpack controls, and step over the edge of the platform, instantly drifting as I escape the artificial gravity field.

There is something wholly humbling about drifting through space, shipless and tetherless. One wrong move will send me spiralling down to the ocean below or tumbling through the spaces between the planets. I could do my best to correct myself with my jetpack thrusters, but my fuel would only last me so long. There’s comfort in the fact that death isn’t exactly permanent for me, but going out via supernova or boulder-thwacking is quick, painless. I die before my nerves send the pain signals to my brain. Burning up on reentry or choking on oxygenless air would not be so pleasant. Though I am without consequence dying, I still have enough of a reason to make my flight coach proud.

I was smart enough to have made a note of the Launch Module’s relative location before disembarking. It isn’t a long journey from the landing pad to the module, but it feels like one. My skin prickles as I soar through space, carefully moderating my velocity. My breath is loud in my ears, shockingly calm and steady. I’ve done this hundreds of times. Gossan takes emergency ship repair training seriously, and I can’t blame them. Not only is it a vital skill—the difference between life and death in many ways—but Gossan has more reason than anyone to be especially cautious of equipment failure.

I duck through the gash in the window, dodging plates of glass, and chuckle to myself as I float into the module. I’m still weightless, but at least I won’t be lost to space.

The gravity floor below me glows faintly. Trying my luck, I drift towards it, and it latches onto me. My reflexes aren’t so fast this time—half-expecting the floor to be defunct, like its twin on the ceiling, I land hard on my back. I lay there for a moment, before bursting into laughter. A popup on my visor snaps me out of it: WARNING: THREE MINUTES OF OXYGEN REMAINING.

Have I used up that much already? I glance around the room. It’s alright. With all the damage to the equipment around me, there isn’t much left to explore.

I haul myself up, and almost bump into a floating projection stone above my head. I pluck it from the air and turn it over. It’s for the Control Module. Does it have anything different to say?

I plug it into the chalkboard podium, and the same flirtatious exchange I just read from Avens’ perspective stretches out before me. Does every projection stone with the same image emblazoned upon it hold the same conversation, then? Perhaps they only record the most recent exchange. It would make sense, as a temporary storage to review dialogue before officially logging it in a more permanent way.

A second projection stone catches my eye, a glowing number ‘Three’ lighting its surface. The Probe Tracking Module—the one that had been disconnected during the probe launch, the one I believe sits at the bottom of the ocean. Eagerly, I insert it into the podium.

“Imagine, Privet: the Probe Tracking Module will be the first to know the coordinates of the Eye of the universe! You’ll be the first to see them!”

Mallow’s vision rippled. Privet stood at the edge of the projection pool, her clothes neatly pressed and the jewellery she typically wore replaced by intricately woven ties to keep her fur away from her face. A utility pouch was fixed to her waist, and she idly stroked the fur of her arms, glancing from the projection of Mallow to the view of the gravity cannon beyond. She had never been as comfortable in space as others of their clan, and ever since Filix’ passing, she had been given more work than she had asked for. Her knowledge on locators was vital to the success of the Ash Twin Project, however, and Mallow had to admit that there was no better Nomai to be stationed aboard the Orbital Probe Cannon.

She, like Avens, was only a room away, keeping an eye or three on the Probe Tracking Module. Now that the cannon was completed, they were all anxiously awaiting the go-ahead from the Ash Twin Project for launch. They were tantalisingly close. Everyone was in high spirits. Years of planning, decades of searching, finally to come to an end. They were all so unbelievably fortunate to be living in such times, and Privet was the most fortunate of all. So, why was she acting so worried?

Avens, in the Control Module, would be the first to receive the order to launch. Mallow would then be notified in the Launch Module, and she would oversee the probe launch with the power settings she had modified. The gravity field would activate, the probe would fire, and, if all was sound with their power source, the Ash Twin Project would initiate. They would finally find the Eye, and Privet, stationed in the Probe Tracking Module, would watch as the coordinates solidified in front of her. She would be the first to know the location. Everything that came after was trivial. They would store the coordinates and build a Vessel to reach the Eye. After all they had done, all they had built, constructing a Vessel would be simple. They had the technology, reforged from the knowledge they had lost. The hardest part was over.

“I am honored and terrified!” Privet replied. Then, with a cautious glance Mallow’s way, she asked, “You won’t ask the Orbital Probe Cannon to use so much power that it breaks, will you?”

Mallow laughed and waved her off. “Fret not, my nervous friend! We only need to fire the probe once, anyway, so who minds if it compromises the Orbital Probe Cannon’s structural integrity slightly?”

Privet suddenly shifted before her, her stature bristling, her eyes narrowing seriously. “I would mind, Mallow!” she huffed. “I would mind, because we won’t be capable of receiving our probe’s data if the Probe Tracking Module is destroyed!”

Privet would be happy to know that the Probe Tracking Module had not, in fact, been destroyed by Avens’ and Mallow’s modified power settings. Submerged in the ocean, yes, but not destroyed. According to the Control Module terminal, it’s still receiving information from the probe. And…if it’s still receiving information from the probe, perhaps the probe is transmitting something that can help me prevent it from intercepting the Interloper. It’s a long shot, but if I really do know where the Probe Tracking Module is, and if I know how to find a way down there…

I glance around me. Each module is enclosed by glass. A perfect panorama. If I can still connect with the Probe Tracking Module, and I should be able to, since it seems to be functioning normally, perhaps I can confirm my theory about where it’s ended up. 

Bringing the stone with me, I head to the projection pool in the middle of the room. My vision ripples when I place it, and my view of the damaged Launch Module is replaced by that of a more pristine version.

I am amazed by the Probe Tracking Module’s condition. Lights are on, terminals spinning. If I hadn’t read the log, I would have assumed it was still attached to the cannon’s base. Well, if I hadn’t read the log, and if I couldn’t see beyond the glass.

I am surrounded by an inky blackness, broken only by blinding flashes of lightning. Or…not lightning, exactly, but the erratic arcing of electricity across a conductive surface. I am on Giant’s Deep. I am in the core. The module had indeed fallen below the current.

I look around. Controls sit above me, a pool of black liquid just waiting for my commands. Activated terminals spin, trees fill the room, and…I meet three, brass eyes. 

A statue. An active statue. But…how? Paranoidly, I glance around the module, but I am alone in my vision as far as I can tell. Who is it paired with? And, more pressingly: Where have they gone?

I pull the stone from the podium, and my vision disappears. 

Three active masks.

Four statues with eyes open. Mine, at the museum; Gabbro’s, on the beach; Daz’, in the statue workshop; and the one in the core of Giant’s Deep.

What does that mean?

Maybe I am mistaken. Maybe a fourth mask is glowing within the Ash Twin Project after all. I was terrified of the vision I received; shocked, nauseated, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. At the same time, my surprise had ingrained the memory in my mind, clear as day. Three glowing masks. Four statues.

And…one ageless Nomai, wandering around? That’s ridiculous. But how else can there be three active masks? 

Even back in the Launch Module, completely alone, with no living thing in sight, I feel as though I’m being watched. Chills run up my spine as flashes of Nomai masks skip through my mind. I’m glad that I have nothing left to explore in the cannon, despite what that means for my self-given mission. All I want to do is get far away. 

Carefully, I make my way back to my ship, via one last untethered excursion into space. Giant’s Deep looks so massive from up here. It’s difficult to believe that it’s so much smaller in reality; take away the atmosphere and the watery ocean, and the core at its centre probably isn’t all that much bigger than the Attlerock. It’s certainly more dense, hence why the gravity is six times as strong, but not all that big, when I think about it. 

Having to get down to the core makes me nervous. Since I discovered Feldspar’s camp, I can’t really say that no Hearthian has travelled that deep before. But, it’s as if we haven’t. I know nothing of what the core is like, aside from the observations I and other travellers have made from above the current. It doesn’t look very inviting. Is it even possible to break through the sparking exterior? When Feldspar said they reached the core, maybe they meant that they had gotten through the current and could see the exterior. But, they also said they were lucky to have not gotten electrocuted…

No, there has to be a way. Not just because of Feldspar’s note, but because if there isn’t a way, then the knowledge held in the Probe Tracking Module is lost forever. Even if I race to the Orbital Probe Cannon at the beginning of the loop, it would be impossible for me to reach it before it sinks below the current. Breaching the core is my only hope. If I can’t figure out how to shut down the cannon, or redirect the probe’s trajectory, I’ll be faced with having to deal with the Interloper myself, and that isn’t something I think I’ll be able to do. Altering a probe’s path is one thing, but an entire comet? I can’t just slam my ship into it over and over again—even a miniscule adjustment would require so much more force than that. And the loop doesn't give me enough time to ask for anyone else’s help. Maybe if Slate had the time to build a new ship, or if Hornfels and Chert could help me plot out the orbits…

The landing pad grabs hold of me, bringing my feet to firm ground. I enter my ship and update my log. Next stop: Brittle Hollow’s Southern Observatory. I still have to find out where the gravity cannon is, or Tower of Quantum Knowledge, but I figure heading to the map at the crossroads is a good place to start.

I set my autopilot for Brittle Hollow and blast off from the Orbital Probe Cannon. The broken shards of the defunct station dance, and they grow smaller and smaller, flying farther and farther away as I rocket across the solar system, until they fall behind the curved atmosphere of Giant’s Deep and disappear from view.

Chapter Text

My ship touches down next to the small village that sits above Riebeck’s subterranean campsite—a village that is more a conglomeration of workshops, I know from my previous visit. Brittle Hollow is in sore shape. I know how destroyed it gets so late in the loop, but it’s entirely different seeing the damage from the ground; only bridges of crust remain, twisting and conjoining, separated by worm trails across the surface. Why is it falling apart so quickly? 

It’s a sort of comfort that I know about the white hole. None of Brittle Hollow’s crust is lost, just…displaced. If the crust formed once, I’m sure it can form again. After everything is over, Slate might even be able to rig my ship to tow pieces back into place. Or maybe the planet will reform again, only around the white hole, this time.

Volcanic bombs hover in the sky like deadly stars. I head down to relative safety before any of them decide to head my way.

The map is waiting where I left it, lit by Riebeck’s lantern and surrounded by scrawled notes. I flick on my flashlight to brighten the image and survey the mural. North is the Hanging City, south is the observatory. East and west are two towers I don’t know the names of, but both have paths to the southern glacier. Scanning a few of the signs around me with my translator, I find one that reads: Gravity Cannon (east 400m). Oh, right—Riebeck mentioned it in their notes. And, according to Conoy, a trailhead to the Southern Observatory starts there. Eager to head out, I accidentally trip over the stack of rocks, sending ancient pieces of Nomai history clattering starkly to the ground. I wince, figuring that at the very least the evidence of my destruction of important archaeological specimens will be undone by the next loop, but as I turn to slip away before Riebeck notices, the rocks begin to move. They rattle on the floor before hopping back up into place—almost as if time had rewound. Weird. But I guess the Nomai wouldn’t have left the toppling of their signposts to chance.

Leaving the self-righting signpost behind, I follow a narrow cliffside path. Rocks bounce down the side of the basalt column to my left, and stone guardrails lean precariously over the edge. I skirt around a corner, and far across the crust I see what must be the gravity cannon.

It is huge. Even from this distance. I’m shocked I haven’t spotted it from the surface, because its latticed tower protrudes right through the crust. It’s hollow, like the Orbital Probe Cannon, and points skyward. Is it a probe launcher, then? Or is it something else?

A stone circle greets me at the end of my platform, before it falls away into nothingness. A control panel sits beside it, and, upon guiding the ball to one of the two triggers, a gravity beam appears, flowing upward. I enter and rise to a series of disconnected platforms littered with torches. Pieces of long-lost bridges jut out from the platform sides. I’ll have to make my way along with my jetpack. Nothing could be more difficult than the zero-G maneuvers I pulled off while exploring the Orbital Probe Cannon. Bolstered with confidence, I engage my booster and hop between the orange-lit platforms.

The torches…aren’t all that helpful, and my flashlight doesn’t have as far a reach as I would like. As night descends over this side of Brittle Hollow, I can only just make out the vague shapes of the basalt columns across the starry background. Rocks crumble, movement streaking across the dim, and I find myself pausing more and more frequently. I really don’t feel like getting hit in the head by a boulder again. As I travel, explosions burst overhead. I’m overly conscious of the stability of the rocks below me. Does the platform I stand on suddenly start moving? Is the pull of the black hole getting stronger? I know I’m psyching myself out. That’s what happens: I get in my own head. That’s how every single one of my crash landings began. I don’t want a repeat of the geyser–jetpack incident.

I follow along the curvature of the planet. The rocks arc overhead and curve beneath my boots. And then, there it is—so much closer. The gravity cannon stands out prominently against the starlit background, ruins lit with torches casting a warm glow against it. The sky erupts into a violent orange flare as a lava bomb strikes nearby, and the ground shivers, and dust falls over me. Still, I wait just a second longer before moving, just to take in the impressive sight before me. Sunlight from the opposite side of Brittle Hollow streaks across the underside of the crust. A golden spotlight shines on the cannon from beneath. I’m almost there. I drag myself away from the view.

Only a few platforms remain. I hurry across, and basalt soon gives way to sand-coloured stone, and I am guided towards a modest tower, the lowest floors of which have already succumbed to the force of the black hole.

I climb chipped steps. The building reaches to the surface, and the remnants of what may once have been a courtyard lay beyond, trees and grasses still in the windless air, torches circling the yard. Within the building sits a projection pool and a chalkboard, surrounded by all the tellings of a workplace: pots, shelves, tables. A lone Nomai skeleton lays deteriorating on a bench, the skull dislodged from its shoulders, unceremoniously resting across the dust-laden floor.

A projection stone emblazoned with the unmistakable image of Brittle Hollow sits beside the pool. I insert it into the empty podium.

What I see is…I’m not sure. It’s on Brittle Hollow, that much is certain. A cavernous room, glass lining the walls, trees long dead and an empty chalkboard in front of me. A gravity path stretches vertically on the opposite side, the faint purple glow of crushed gravity crystals serving as the only source of light in the dark room. There is a second level above me, but the path to it is broken, with too large a gap to jump across. 

Taking the stone from the podium, I plug it into the chalkboard, hoping to get an explanation of what I saw.

“I’m at the shuttle! I’m ready to make my first pilgrimage to the Quantum Moon.” 

I smile. It’s Solanum again! Her writing is as neat as it was on the wall of her room in the Eye Shrine District. She must have been much older than she was when she wrote the essay I found in the school—she was going on some sort of pilgrimage. And…am I reading that right? To the Quantum Moon? I didn’t think that was possible. The moon hops so joyously in and out of existence, winking off to some far-away location in the solar system whenever you blink. Could the Nomai really land on its surface? 

I tried to, once. It’s sort of an unspoken rite of passage among the astronauts in the program. You aren’t ever truly a traveller until you decide to try your hand at landing on the shy moon. No one has managed to do it, but that isn’t the point—the point is that you saw this enigmatic piece of our solar system, and you tried. I was sitting in my ship, Gossan behind me, preoccupied with typing commands into the navigational computer. The moon drifted around the edge of Timber Hearth, and, without even really thinking, my fingers were on the side stick, slowly steering us towards it. I was able to get to the cloud layer before Gossan noticed we were even off course, and they watched in excitement as the cockpit darkened, the thick atmosphere of the moon consuming us.

And then, it was gone. Distant stars replaced the swirling grey of the moon’s atmosphere, as if we had passed right through the moon itself.

I thought I was going to get told off for my impulsivity, but Gossan just clapped my back and laughed. Everyone had to do it once, at the very least to get it out of their system. Apparently, though, I had been the only one keen enough to try it in the middle of a training session.

“That’s exciting!” a Nomai named Bells wrote. “You’re almost ready, but there’s still one more rule you need to learn. Come see me at the Tower of Quantum Knowledge. The tower is on the opposite side of Brittle Hollow. If you follow the path west to the Crossroads, you can reach the tower from there.”

“My gratitude for the directions, Bells. I’ll see you soon!”

So, the other tower on the map at the crossroads is the Tower of Quantum Knowledge. It seems the Nomai needed some kind of training before they headed off. Is reaching the moon that difficult? 

I return to the bottom of the building, passing more remains on my way. On a balcony, a Nomai skeleton overlooks a miniature one surrounded by toys. I don’t linger.

The gravity cannon is not isolated. It’s surrounded by a sloping path, and it’s this path that I follow. I reach a sign that is exactly what I am searching for: The Southern Observatory (south 550m). But the glow of something below is too alluring to pass up. What is this cannon for? What sits at its base? Besides, the loop will be ending soon, anyway, and having as much time as possible to explore the Southern Observatory is probably a wise choice.

I follow a neighbouring path to the centre of the gravity cannon’s tower, leaving the turnoff to the observatory behind. The lattice surrounds me as I enter, and smoky white lights marbling like storm clouds face inward from all sides. The sun circles around, and light drips down from the highest point on the tower, falling and falling, until all shadows around me are replaced by a warm glow. The light glistens off of the brass rosette pattern at my feet. I descend further, the rosy colours of a new dawn—the final dawn—lighting up my path. I hop across cracks and shift away from unstable edges. Then—I am there, at the base.

A small control platform sits facing the cannon. There’s an active terminal, glowing with text, and a large U-shaped structure with a sight-guided ball sitting within. There appear to be two operations the structure can perform. I translate them.

ACTIVATE GRAVITY CANNON.

CALL THE SHUTTLE HOME.

The shuttle. That’s something Solanum mentioned, although I had been so swept up in the possibility of landing on our impossible moon that I hadn’t even grasped the words. The Nomai had shuttles! In hindsight, it’s obvious—they had visited Giant’s Deep, Timber Hearth, and the Attlerock, after all, and Solanum herself had mentioned how she grew up on Ember Twin. And, I am sure I have seen one of their ‘shuttles’ before, in miniature, in the school. 

Turning around, I read the log.

“The shuttle is currently resting at the Quantum Moon.”

My ears drop. Solanum had made it to the moon for her pilgrimage, but then…she never made it back. It was her writing that filled the projection stone at the tower. She hadn’t been gone for long.

Whatever wiped out the Nomai must have hit right as she set out. It’s heartbreaking, thinking of her alone on that moon, although her death probably wasn’t all that different from the rest of her clan. Dead before they knew what was happening. After seeing all her writings throughout Brittle Hollow, it feels like I have lost a friend.

Trying to clear my head, I examine the controls.

Call the shuttle home.

…Should I?

What if I find something I don’t want to find?

Without breathing, I move the ball into place.

A bright light emanates from within the gravity cannon. I throw a hand in front of my face, and the sleeve of my suit becomes warped, space-time curving around the belly of the cannon. Gravity. A white hole. In a second, the light flares out, replaced by a constant purple glow.

The shuttle stands upright on the gravity cannon platform, gazing into the stars. It’s huge. Towering. It stands high off the ground on three angular legs, strength bolstered by triangular buttresses against the ship’s shell. A gravity beam pulses from its base; a large glass-domed windshield points skyward.

I waste not a second. I race up to the platform.

It is so much larger up close. It looms over me, a tower rising from the platform. It’s so streamlined. The curved glass windshield slopes down seamlessly towards the legs, the body itself tapering at the entrance at the bottom of the craft. How fast does it fly? How straight? It looks so much more sophisticated than my own ship, despite the technology the two crafts share. 

When I ride the beam inside, a gravity floor grabs me. I stand sideways—behind me is the cannon platform, and ahead is the observation window and controls. The ship is so…different from ours. Four…what I think are seats line the walls, each with its own side table. The observation window masks the view beyond instead of enhancing it; the glass is etched and decorated with intricate patterns, as if seeing where they were heading was not of great concern to Nomaian pilots. Instead of all the buttons and switches and throttles that fill my console, the Nomai shuttle has only three controls, activated by sliding a sight-guided ball along its trifurcated path. I don’t dare look at the ball directly—not until I finish exploring.

A log, still encased by an inscription tool, sits on a table. I ready my translator. Had the shuttle really landed on the Quantum Moon?

Solanum’s fingers were numb from gripping the log so tightly. She gazed through the narrow field-of-view of her spacesuit’s mask, outside of the window, where the grey clouds spun in the sky.

“I am here!” she reported to her log. The inscription tool scribbled her wavering words into the stone as she spoke. “After watching it wander the skies for so long, I am about to stand—for the first time—on the Quantum Moon.”

Her heart sped to an exhilarating rate. She had spent weeks training under Bells for this, and now that she was here, her whole body was shaking from nerves. Less than a year ago, she was a child, sitting in the halls of the school house, helping her teachers explain the way of the universe. Now, she was making her graduation: it was time to leave the lessons behind. After this pilgrimage, she would begin her apprenticeship. She would learn—first hand!—from the greatest minds of her clan. Conoy had already prepared a workspace for her at the observatory, and Spire had sent her a congratulatory mural of the solar system’s alignment at the moment of her shuttle launch. She kept it with her—a little stone, no bigger than the palm of her hand, with all the planets right where they were in the sky that she couldn’t see from beneath the Quantum Moon’s clouds.

She reached into her pocket and drew her fingers across its surface. She couldn’t feel the little bumps and depressions of the carvings Spire had made from within her gloves, but she knew they were there. Despite the pause in the probe's launch, Solanum was still eager to begin her apprenticeship at the observatory. The original plans for her first project had involved monitoring the Eye from the probe data, but now she was eager to join Spire and Conoy in studying the newest addition to their solar system. Hopefully some preliminary data would be in by the time she completed her pilgrimage—although, she was cautious not to rush home. She had been waiting for this moment for half of her life.

Turning her eyes to the terminal, she tucked the log under her arm and typed a few commands into her staff. She read the results.

“As expected, my shuttle has landed at the moon’s south pole. I will make the remainder of my journey on foot.”

But, for some reason, her legs didn’t feel like moving. She breathed a sigh, and turned around, seeing the basalt-crusted ground that waited for her beneath her shuttle.

“We don’t know why the Quantum Moon always welcomes its visitors at the south pole,” she reflected, buying time, “just that this is true. As a child, I considered such unknowns sinister.”

How many unknowns waited for her beyond the shuttle, beyond the Quantum Moon? The Eye, the Ash Twin Project—when she was younger, all the questions they teased would have frightened her. She was always so overcautious, unlike her friends. She thought on these unknowns, thought on the excitement they now filled her with. For now, they were question marks, uncharted territory on the map of her clan’s understanding of the universe. And wasn’t that so wonderful, that, one day, they no longer would be?

“Now, though, I understand they bear no ill will,” she continued. “The universe is, and we are. I am ready.”

She switched off the log and set it on a table. Brushing off her spacesuit, she looked at the ground. It was ground that she had never touched before. Nothing evil lurked beneath. The universe wasn’t sentient. It bore no ill-will for her.

What laid beyond, was hers, and hers alone—at least until the next Nomai graduated onto the next stage of his or her life.

Solanum left her shuttle. She was ready.

They did it. They had landed on the Quantum Moon! But, how?

Solanum had been instructed to complete her preparation for the voyage at the Tower of Quantum Knowledge. That must be where they kept what they knew about the Quantum Moon. I’m not usually one for daydreaming about fame, but wouldn’t it be amazing to be the first Hearthian to set foot on the Quantum Moon? I have to check out the tower at some point—for the pursuit of knowledge above all else, of course.

I leave the shuttle and look back to the trailhead to the Southern Observatory. I still have time left—it will probably be a good idea to test the waters and see how bad the terrain ahead is.

The path brings me to a gravity beam ring. Switching it on, the purple light pulses away from me, directed between two low-hanging basalt columns. Beyond, I can just make out the glow of more beams. I hop into the beam’s path, and it carries me away, over the whistling of the black hole below. As I float through the columns, a choice reveals itself: there are two beams up ahead, one pulling left, another right. I can see in the distance that the paths reconverge after some time, so, engaging my thrusters, I push myself indifferently into the beam to the left.

That is the wrong choice.

Almost as soon as I fall into the beam, I see a lava bomb collide with the crust ahead. The ring that powers the gravity beam buckles, and the whole chunk of crust begins to fall. And me with it.

I look behind me. The other beam is still active, and, as far as I can tell, stationary. Throwing my joystick to the side, I push myself back the way I came, hoping to be caught in the gravity of the other beam before the black hole secures its grip on me. 

It’s too high.

The beam I’m in falls away. I gained enough momentum to free myself from it, but my new situation isn’t much better: I’m still tumbling towards the black hole, and although I know I won’t die, the feeling of warping away to the white hole isn’t much better.

The black hole grows bigger, and bigger, and it takes up more and more of my vision until—

I sail past it.

I didn’t even notice that my hand was still on the joystick of my jetpack, pushing me forward. Thanks to my panic, I’m in an unstable orbit around the black hole. If I fall just a bit lower, the hole will have me, but, by pushing forward, I am constantly skimming the event horizon, gaining speed as I accelerate with every loop. I glance at my jet fuel indicator. It isn’t going to last long, and when it runs out, I’ll have nowhere to go but down.

As I speed around the black hole, the subsurface landscape of Brittle Hollow flashes by. The gravity cannon, the Hanging City, the crossroads—

A gravity beam whips past, low enough to nearly graze me. It happens so fast I barely process it. It was pulling upward from the crossroads platform. I keep my eyes peeled as I circle the black hole, and—

There it is! Only a little to my right. I push my joystick in that direction just as my fuel sputters out. I speed forward, but fall, and fall, and fall, and—

The beam grabs me just before I disappear into the void. Slowly, I rise, my heart pounding, my hand shaking over my jetpack controls.

And I laugh.

I did it! How did that even happen?! I’m either the best jetpack pilot ever or the luckiest Hearthian alive. For my ego, I let myself think the former. 

Riebeck’s banjo music grows louder as I float up to them. Did they see that? I hope they did—not that they’ll remember. They’d never believe I pulled off such a feat if I told them. Though, I doubt they make a habit of looking down.

It doesn’t matter. I saw the whole thing. That was incredible! And I can’t stop cackling with relief. In my moment of elation, I don’t even notice the light snuff itself out around me. Only when the blue streaks of ions shoot out across the sky do I know that the loop is coming to a close.

I’m not even upset. The sun erupts, and everything goes black. I watch my achievement play back in reverse, surging with pride in myself, completely at peace with the fact that I’ll never do anything so impressive again. And, when I wake by the fire, I don’t waste a moment before heading back to the surface ruins on Brittle Hollow.

Dropping down to the crossroads, I decide I’ll check in with Riebeck. I have more time to spend this loop, and they’ll be eager to hear about the things I’ve learned. Perhaps my discoveries will inspire them to venture out beyond their campsite. Plus, I’ve explored nearly all of the Hanging City, and feel that I should at least tell them about some of what I found, even if they’ll forget it all.

Riebeck waves when I enter their camp, and I cut them off before they go on rambling about the terror-filled trip they had getting here. 

“I visited the Hanging City!” I say, jogging over. “You really ought to check it out.”

They perk up, hands dropping away from their banjo.

“You visited the Hanging City?” they ask excitedly. “Oh gosh, how was it? Was it amazing? Was it beautiful?” They lower their voice. “Was it scary? ”

I let out a laugh. “Not any scarier than anything else around here.”

With a nervous titter, Riebeck continues, “The Hanging City is where the Nomai settled permanently on Brittle Hollow. It was their most advanced settlement here! Why they chose to build their most advanced settlement so close to a you-know-what is beyond me. Maybe that kind of thing makes sense to a Nomai, though...Maybe they needed the black hole for something?”

“I think you’re right,” I agree. “I used my translator—there’s something called a ‘Black Hole Forge’ there. I haven’t been able to get inside, yet, but—”

“A Black Hole Forge?” Riebeck squeaks. “You mean…they used the… you-know-what?”

I shrug. “It can be lowered into the black hole, so it must have been built like that for a reason. I read something about warp cores. Maybe that’s how they made them?”

“Oh, wow…That’s…interesting…”

From the shake in their voice, I know they’re debating whether they’ll be exploring the forge when it comes time to see the city for themself. Doing them a favour, I change the topic.

“I also went to that tower off in the distance, the big hollow one. Apparently the Nomai went on some sort of pilgrimage to the Quantum Moon. I found a whole shuttle and everything!”

That seems to do the trick. “A pilgrimage to the Quantum Moon? The Nomai mentioned the Quantum Moon in a lot of their writing, so it was clearly special to them.”

“Yeah! And, it seems like they went through a whole bunch of training before setting off. When I explored the shuttle, only Solan—Um, only one Nomai left a log behind. Maybe they went by themselves?”

Riebeck ponders this, then quickly sets their banjo aside and gathers a bundle of notes. “Training beforehand? Going there alone? If the moon really was all that special to them, then maybe…” They write something down, nodding. “It sounds like a coming-of-age ritual, like how hatchlings stay hatchlings until their stomachs are strong enough to drink sap wine. Maybe once a Nomai journeyed to the Quantum Moon, they were considered an adult?”

I cross my arms over my chest and marvel at how swiftly Riebeck’s demeanor changes when they focus on what they enjoy.

The border between child and adult, I know all too well, because I sit there myself. Old enough for the program, but not yet old enough for the villagers to stop calling me ‘hatchling’ all the time. Nobody calls Riebeck or Gabbro 'hatchling’, and they’re only a few years my seniors, but it is what it is—I cannot for the life of me keep down a sip of wine. And, at this point, I’m wondering if I’ll ever be able to. But, surely, saving the solar system will more than make up for my weak stomach.

Was that how Solanum felt, getting into her shuttle and leaving her home behind? Like she was on the verge of some great precipice, unable to return after going over the edge, but not really wanting to?

Distractedly, I say my goodbyes to Riebeck. Distractedly, they wave goodbye back, hunching over their notes. They don’t seem to really notice as I leave, but I don’t take that to heart—I’m just happy that they stopped worrying about the black hole for a moment.

I start heading to the gravity cannon trailhead, but I turn on my heel before I disappear down the path and inspect the crossroads map.

If the gravity cannon and the Tower of Quantum Knowledge both have paths to the Southern Observatory, why not change the scenery this time? The crust crumbled under my feet when I took the gravity cannon trail, so maybe I’ll have better luck around the tower. Deep down, I know I just want to learn more about the quantum pilgrimage the Nomai went on, but I disguise my intention under pragmatism. I’m not sure why—I only have myself to fool.

The path to the tower is right next to Riebeck’s camp. This time, they don’t look up as I walk by, furiously scribbling with pencil on paper. 

I activate the gravity beam, just like I did for the gravity cannon trail, and it springs to life. In fact, it’s exactly like the gravity cannon path: the beam diverges into two, and reconnects at the tower. Hopefully the crust doesn’t decide to fall at precisely the wrong moment this time, although I do know a shortcut out of the black hole if I can manage to pull off a feat that cool twice.

I jump into the beam and let it carry me to my destination. The Tower of Quantum Knowledge is shockingly close, and I arrive in less than a minute. Fantastic! More time left to explore.

The building is impressively constructed. Standing on stretching stilts, wide and robust, even getting inside seems to be part of the test. The same vertical path I saw in the projection at the gravity cannon reaches upward, but so many chunks are missing that I won’t possibly be getting into the building through the main entrance.

A chalkboard sits to the side at the bottom of the crumbling path, scroll still inserted. I investigate.

“Be welcomed in this place! Above you stands the Tower of Quantum Knowledge. If you are making your first pilgrimage to the Quantum Moon, ascend these stairs, and obtain the last of the knowledge you need for your journey.”

The note was signed by Bells, a Nomai who appears to have been in charge of guiding Nomai on their passage from childhood to adulthood.

I turn back to the vertical path, the building above tantalizingly out of reach. What knowledge did the Nomai need to land on the Quantum Moon? The question burns inside of me. I notice a lone gravity beam in the corner, shooting upwards. Flashbacks to the Statue Workshop on Giant’s Deep play through my mind. Is there another way in?

At the other end of the gravity beam is a window peering into the upper levels of the tower. Shelves and trees line the purple-tinted room, and a wide hole in the ceiling affords me a glimpse into the space above. Three glowing symbols hang on the wall. One is the symbol the Nomai used for the Hourglass Twins, and one is a circle covered by trees and geysers—Timber Hearth. The third…I don’t recognize. It’s a circle filled with labyrinthine lines, six dots around it. It hovers beneath Timber Hearth, but it looks to be fixed onto a track that it can slide along freely.

I shoot my Little Scout through the window, trying to get it to land on the upper floor, but my angle is all wrong and it falls to a lower level. Just before I recall it, I note the surface integrity reading it sends to my visor. 28%. I have to hurry, then.

A set of stairs sits to my right, and I take them two at a time. I reach the surface just in time to watch a volcanic bomb impact a nearby chunk of crust, sending it cracking below. The wind whistles by, and Hollow’s Lantern boils above. A sign sits beside the top of the stairs, and I pull out my translator tool. It’s another message from Bells.

“Beneath your feet lies the Tower of Quantum Knowledge. If you are preparing to make your first pilgrimage to the Quantum Moon, descend the steps to the entrance below. The knowledge held within will help you on your journey.”

I huff. I know I need the knowledge within. Why had they made it so difficult to get inside?

At least a large skylight lets me get a good look at the hanging symbols I spotted from the bottom of the stairs. There are even more than those I glimpsed below, all easily recognizable: there’s Timber Hearth, the Hourglass Twins, Dark Bramble, Giant’s Deep, Brittle Hollow…

…And the Eye?

I search the track, and find the mysterious symbol is now positioned beneath Brittle Hollow. I look up, and—there! The Quantum Moon, hovering on the horizon, clouds shifting as it turns. So…I’m looking at a massive locator, but not for the Eye of the universe—for the Quantum Moon. I turn back to the locator below and it moves. The seventh symbol races across the track, coming to rest at the Hourglass Twins. I check my map, and, sure enough, that's where Quantum Moon is hovering. 

The Nomai were indeed adept at building locators. So, why couldn’t they find the Eye?

A chalkboard pokes out from one side of the tower. I know I should be getting a move on if I hope to reach the observatory before the path there crumbles away, but I can’t resist.

“The trees are moving!” Plume exclaimed. “The trees in this grove wander about freely (the entire plant, roots and all)! This is not normal, even for this alien planet. And I never see them move! Is that even possible?!”

In all my excitement over the Quantum Moon locator, I hadn’t even noticed. Looking around now, it’s obvious. The trees, the grasses—they all wander. Even more disturbingly, I hadn’t spotted the second tower that occupies the grove. A tall pillar of marled stone, pocketed with vesicles, smooth like obsidian and bedded like warped siltstone, stands on the margins of the clearing. When I blink, it shifts, floating around the Tower of Quantum Knowledge motionlessly. It’s a quantum rock! Aside from its massive size, it’s just like the one in the crater on Timber Hearth and its sibling in the museum. There are torches atop it, and a large chalkboard. I’ll have to check it out next. 

“If anyone else witnesses this disturbing behavior, I implore you, record your observations here,” Plume continued. “Either these trees are aberrant, or my brain must be!”

“Plume is right; the trees do move!” Thatch wrote. “I confess I didn’t notice until I read his notes. Alarmingly, it isn’t only the trees: there is other matter in this area (such as that unusual shard of rock) moving in this same eerie way.”

“That rock is unusual for another reason, too, Thatch,” Filix added, “it possesses color and texture I’ve never seen elsewhere on this planet! Hypothesis: This rock shard’s presence is significant. We should study it! Could it be what is causing other nearby objects to also move about this area?”

It’s amusing to envision the confusion the Nomai must have had over the Quantum Moon and its sibling shards. I had grown up with them—all Hearthians had—and I’ve always accepted their behaviour as normal. Sure, sometimes rocks just up and move behind your back. No big deal. Looking at it through the lens of someone not from our solar system, I see how truly strange it is that rocks, trees, and planets can simply disappear when not observed. We always thought it was an optical illusion, light playing strangely across the surface of the rocks, but pondering it now...That doesn’t explain how the trees move, does it? Are we wrong? If we are, how does the quantum nature of the rocks work? They don’t change when they’re observed…Are they conscious of their observation? Or, at the very least, does being observed affect them in some way?

My booster is just strong enough to get me to the top of the quantum rock. I read the Nomai notes left there.

“Plume, Filix, and I have determined this atypical shard of rock is the reason objects in this grove are behaving in a quantum manner,” Thatch wrote. “The only other object we’ve observed displaying this quantum behavior is the wandering moon. I imagine the moon’s behavior and this grove’s are related.”

“In her note from earlier, Filix mentions this strange type of rock isn’t found elsewhere on Brittle Hollow. What if it isn’t originally from this planet?” posited Plume. “Hypothesis: This ‘quantum shard’ is from the wandering (quantum) moon. Perhaps it is even a small piece of the moon itself.”

Filix had added her own footnote. “Of note: A unique signal is coming from this shard! Curiously, our friend the wandering moon sounds the same. I’ve also heard the same signal this shard produces calling out from Giant’s Deep, Timber Hearth, and the Hourglass Twins. Suppose there are other shards like this one!”

A unique signal? I point my Signalscope at my feet, and there it is—the wailing tone I’ve heard before. Chert was right. It comes from the quantum shards! And if I stay on this frequency and point my Signalscope to Timber Hearth…There it is again, although there are two tones instead of one, ever-so-slightly misaligned. The quantum shard from the crater, and the one from the museum.

Chert and Filix noted that the same signal comes from the Quantum Moon. I check the Quantum Moon locator inside the tower. The moon is around Dark Bramble, and, looking starward, I spot it. Waving my Signalscope in that direction, I hear it: the same wailing tone.

Are the shards really pieces of the Quantum Moon, then? It makes sense…They, too, jump around with a mind of their own. But they also somehow influence the things around them…Is that something the Quantum Moon does? Is that why it’s so difficult to land on its surface? 

I don’t know, and I feel that I won’t know until I access the interior of the tower. But…I also don’t know how to do that.

At the top of my visor, an update pops up: surface integrity is at 7%. That’s my cue to move on. I retreat down the stairs and find the trailhead for the Southern Observatory, my mind still swirling with quantum thoughts winking in and out of existence as they please.

Chapter Text

The southern glacier, like the northern glacier, is stable. Lava bombs crash against the hard-packed ice and the surface integrity readings from my Scout don’t flinch. However, as integrity strengthens, the path only becomes more treacherous. My boots hit slippery ground instead of stone and my pack begins to pitch me off-balance with every step. Bridges and walkways are splintered, overtaken by the glacial ice and torn apart, ancient paths brecciated and pulverised. A string of gravity crystals brings me alongside a crevasse that winds through the interior of the ice. 

I have the feeling that I’m about to stumble across something big. I have to, soon—I’ve read far too many translations to not be on the brink of something that will finally answer more questions than it poses. 

If I’m honest with myself, I’m wearing thin. Every time I wake, I wake relatively refreshed—I got a full night’s sleep by the campfire, after all. But each loop grinds me down. My mind never has a second to relax. The loop starts, I search until I die, and everything repeats. And I have gotten nowhere. Have I learned anything of substance? Anything that wouldn’t be valuable if the Nomai had built front doors that withstood the test of time?

The Southern Observatory was the first place I went after the Attlerock. I could have learned its secrets immediately if the door had opened. Any other time, I would have enjoyed the hunt—and I did, at first, when I thought it would be easy. But when it comes to saving the sun, it’s just loose end after loose end. My ship’s log is beginning to look like a garbled mess, and still, the sun dies. And I have no idea how to stop it.

Well, I have an idea. I don’t know if it’s a good one, but it’s the best one I have. The only one I have. Everything depends on what I learn in the observatory. Everything depends on this. That fact isn’t light on my shoulders. I feel it weigh on my body as much as it does on my thoughts. This has to be the place where every question is answered, because, if it isn’t, what hope do I have of saving the solar system? 

I come to a sudden stop and groan. A stream of green-blue crystals intersects my path. I take a photo with my Scout; a river of cool-coloured auroras, shimmering across the ice. There’s always a roadblock. It makes me want to bang my head against the hard side of the glacier. Fortunately, I spot a snowy platform to the right before I become too tempted. Careful to not let my shifting gravity send me spiralling into the black hole, I jet towards it, and hop from it to the gravity crystals that continue on the other side of the patch of ghost matter. I’m not prepared for what I see when I reach the glacial interior.

Cresting an edge, my feet are finally supported with good old normal gravity. A huge cavern walled by ice surrounds me, filled with benches overlooking the chasm to the black hole below. A fallen tower, half-eaten by the glacier, is slowly crumbling, only held together by the very thing that had torn it apart. The ice glints in the strange light.

That isn’t what takes my breath away.

My oxygen tank fills. Needles litter the snow. Waving in the gentle breeze are dozens of tall trees, their roots prying into the ice. Ragged red bark lines their trunks. Trees. My trees. Pines from Timber Hearth, mixed in with species from other planets in our solar system. I spot the thick, waxy leaves of Ember Twin palm trees, the tall, flexible trunks of trees from Giant's Deep. I don’t ask what they’re doing here—it’s clear the Nomai brought them. But…it’s such a dreamlike sight, seeing the trees of my home growing from the ice beside alien neighbours, within a sunless chasm, so far away from our planet.

I circle the area, which is clearly some sort of arboretum, until I reach the bottom of the collapsing tower. Inside the building, nothing is left; no pots, no benches, no bookshelves. Only a lone gravity beam, pulling air up into the ceiling. I fly to meet it. And, suddenly, I am there—the place I have been trying to reach since the beginning. The Southern Observatory.

It’s surreal. The observatory itself is carved straight from the ice. The stairs, banisters, tables—all Plume’s handiwork, chiselled and cold. Frost develops around the edges of my visor, the moisture in the air from the Brittle Hollow trees that breathe from under the dome settling on my warm space suit. Frost crunches under my boots, and, soft and powdery, accumulates on nearly every surface. Though oxygen is plentiful, I don’t remove my helmet. The Nomai were fortunate to have had fur; we Hearthians are not so cold-tolerant.

The observatory is just like I had seen it through the projection pool. The massive glass dome overhead, stars twinkling beyond, the two twisters that spin to one side of the lower level. A great pool filled with black liquid lies in the middle of the room, agitators embedded into the floor. A set of controls sit on the second storey, sight-guided balls within their baskets. In a daze, I cross over to where the twisters spin, watery and green, howling just like they do on Giant’s Deep. A chalkboard rests between them. What knowledge has been preserved beneath the ice? My hand shakes with anticipation as I hold out my translator.

Spire waved cheerily to Conoy as he entered the observatory, leaving his belongings by the door. Conoy was hunched over the pool of ferrofluid in the centre of the room, tinkering with one of the copper agitators. His fur, as always, was neatly groomed, and a symbol of the Eye hung from around his neck. Though clearly preoccupied, he returned Spire’s wave. Spire was fortunate to be apprenticing under him, though he knew his subordinate role would soon be coming to an end. Conoy had already visited the school to test the waters for his next apprentice—and Spire’s, too, he supposed—although he still felt like a young apprentice himself, most days. Spire knew he shouldn’t be so boastful, but whoever was to join them at the observatory would surely have an excellent mentorship. Conoy, unlike so many others, was more than accommodating, and often their days were as equally filled with laughter as they were with research.

“Would you appreciate an extra eye?” Spire asked, trotting over. Conoy waved him off.

“Not at all. I’m finished now.” He pushed himself to his feet and brushed the snow from his knees. “The models were looking droopy, so I was just examining the agitator.”

“And everything is fine?”

“As far as I can tell,” he sighed, then let out a yawn. “Excuse my exhaustion. I was entertaining Cassava while you were out—you just missed him.” Conoy gave him a tired, though appraising, look. “He was very impressed with your work. He left you a note. I’m sure it says as much.”

“So, he really came all the way from Giant’s Deep?” Spire crossed the room with a lopsided grin, heading to his workstation. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“The nature of the current around Giant’s Deep’s core has apparently sparked the interest of both him and Daz,” Conoy said. “I can hardly blame them. It certainly captivated our attention, did it not?”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

“I wouldn’t phrase it that way; though the agitator would have likely required less repair if we had remembered to keep up routine maintenance in all our excitement,” he teased.

“I checked on it a couple of days ago,” Spire retorted, scrunching up his nose. 

Conoy chuckled, then dismissed him with a light-hearted, “Read your message.”

Bemusedly, Spire turned his attention to his scroll wall, which stood firmly between the two models he had prepared. The moment Conoy had told him about Cassava’s and Daz’ dilemma, he was enraptured. Conoy’s initial note was still central on his scroll wall.

“Cassava’s Construction Yard has been using the cyclones on Giant’s Deep to lift Orbital Probe Cannon parts into orbit, but one component was pushed down past the current that usually prevents anything from sinking.”

The observatory's role in the search for the Eye had long concluded, so Spire was eager to begin a new project. It was his idea to model the cyclones on Giant’s Deep, though Conoy helped him greatly, not least of all by letting him use a corner of the lower level. Cassava obligingly allowed the pair of them to commandeer the projection pool at the Construction Yard to analyse cyclone movements. And that was when it hit him: not every cyclone was the same. Spire had broadcasted his message to those on Giant’s Deep. He had two models, one of each type of cyclone. One rotated clockwise, as was common on the ocean world. The currents of these cyclones raised objects into the air—these twisters, the Construction Yard crew had been using to lift the Orbital Probe Cannon parts into space. The second, rarer form of cyclone rotated counterclockwise, and these in turn drove objects deeper into the water, passing even the current encircling the core. Spire had provided his explanation to Cassava, and guided him on a tour via the projection pool, though he insisted on coming to see the models for himself. Spire was sorry to have missed his visit, but he had a prior commitment to lecture at the school, and had stayed late when one of the older students busied him with questions.

He wasn’t complaining—she seemed bright, and had a keen interest in the Eye and its place in the universe. He was thinking of proposing to Conoy that they offered her their apprenticeship.

Diverging from his explanations, a new message glowed from the wall. Spire placed the point of his staff onto it and Cassava’s voice played over the howls of the model twisters beside him.

“My gratitude, Spire. Conoy is showing me your handiwork, and I’m intrigued by this secondary type of cyclone. But was it really necessary to build a model to tell me that?”

Spire laughed, and he and Conoy shared a knowing glance as he spoke his reply into his staff.

“The model will be useful as we continue monitoring Giant’s Deep,” Spire said. “Also, I very much wanted to make a model.”

I compare the two cyclones that twirl on either side of the board. Sure enough, one rotates clockwise and the other counterclockwise. Wanting to test out the models more thoroughly, I hop into the one on the left—and instantly regret my decision as I rocket upward, my helmet crashing into the glacial ice above. Not my best moment.

To test out the second cyclone, I decide to use the much more pragmatic approach of firing my Scout into the howling winds. Immediately upon entering the twirling gale, my Little Scout is pushed down until it’s pinned to the base that supports Spire’s model.

Wow!

Cassava didn’t, but I certainly appreciate Spire’s dedication to model-building, even if I banged my head pretty hard. I know how to get to the core of Giant’s Deep. I know how to reach the Probe Tracking Module! I knew the Southern Observatory would have answers!

I look up to the second storey, where controls poke out from behind the icy guardrail that borders the balcony. Right. How to get to the core wasn’t the only question I hoped this place could answer. Climbing the stairs, I reach another chalkboard.

“What have we learned thus far in our search for the Eye of the universe?” Conoy asked.

“Based on our knowledge of the Quantum Moon, we believe the Eye is in orbit around this star system’s sun,” Mallow replied. “This would mean the Eye is located within a finite (albeit enormous) range.”

Plume added, “Those of us on the Vessel originally followed the Eye’s signal to this star system, but we were unable to warp to the Eye itself.”

“The locator we built on the Attlerock and the new, more sensitive locator we built here were both unable to detect any trace of the Eye’s signal,” wrote Privet, Filix’ apprentice.

“Hypothesis,” Avens posited, “the Eye has stopped emitting its signal.”

“Suppose the Eye doesn’t wish to be found. ” I can almost hear the bitter edge to the words.

“Cassava, how can you suggest that?” chided Plume. “The Eye’s signal called out to summon us to this star system!”

“I’m aware,” Cassava continued. “I grew up hearing the Eye’s story. Yet we’re no closer to finding it than you were when you first arrived here.”

I suck in a breath through my teeth. Cassava’s pushback is exactly what I had willed before, when reading the Nomai’s proposed solutions to acquiring an advanced warp core for the Ash Twin Project, though I hadn’t wanted it to unfold in this way. I agree with Cassava’s sentiment: they had invested lifetimes into finding the Eye, and were met with only more questions. But to say as much to one of the survivors of the crash—one of those who had carved out the cities Cassava grew up in—I couldn’t imagine acting in such a way with my elders. I don’t always agree with Rutile, but I never argue with them, not like this. Cassava must have been in a dark, dark place. It’s no wonder why he was rubbing so many of his clanmates the wrong way. He wasn’t exactly sugarcoating his thoughts.

Turning around, I examine the line of controls behind me. A locator. I knew it was here ever since I read my very first translations on the Attlerock. Six controls, each with a symbol denoting a celestial object at their base. The most sophisticated in the solar system. I make my way down the procession, peering interestedly at all the now-familiar symbols the Nomai had chosen to represent the planets. 

First are the Hourglass Twins, with their shared ocean of sand. I activate the control, and the liquid in the pool below begins to take form. A ball of black fluid rises until it is central beneath the observatory dome, then expands. A black sun with a ring around it, and two planets floating next to each other on their shared orbit. I pull up my map and the four planets drift in unison. The model is showing me where the Hourglass Twins are at this precise moment in time.

Next is Timber Hearth. I activate the control, and there it is: my home, orbiting just a bit further out than the Twins, with its little, craterous moon. Then, Brittle Hollow, with Hollow’s Lantern hovering beside it. Then Giant’s Deep, then Dark Bramble and all its vines. I activate each one, until all of the planets in my solar system are there, travelling along concentric paths, right where they are supposed to be.

I look to the last control. Upon it is the pointed maze-like symbol representing the Eye of the universe. I read that this locator, like all others before it, had failed. Is that still true?

Guiding the ball to its active position, the liquid below bubbles. And the model of the solar system in front of me abruptly shrinks.

A new orbit forms. Much farther out than Dark Bramble. In fact, the orbit is so great that the solar system becomes just a speck in a vast emptiness. It's a scale so grand I can hardly comprehend it.

Once the orbit reaches its full diameter, it begins to swing wildly around. It takes me a moment before I notice the symbol for the Eye along the orbit’s path—it, too, is constantly shifting.

To my left, a terminal comes to life.

“ERROR: Unable to determine orbit. No signal detected matching any known criteria for the Eye of the universe.”

It failed. Despite knowing this, seeing it myself hurts. Perhaps Cassava was right: the Eye doesn’t want to be found. But then, why had it allowed its signal to be discovered by the Nomai in the first place? All that assuming the Eye was conscious and not, like Solanum had thought, a simple coincidence.

Though, after all they had invested, all they had sacrificed, I don’t think many of the Nomai were ready to test that hypothesis.

In the room sits one, last chalkboard. I walk over to it, my boots leaving behind footprints in the snow, my breath fogging my visor. 

Conoy’s eyes were tired. To the north, the world was waking, but here, beneath the ice, it felt as though time meant nothing. The sun was spinning around the horizon, and as it circled around to light the window Conoy watched from, the stars he had been examining faded one by one. Beyond, Hollow’s Lantern was returning after a night of floating above a distant part of the planet. The darkness in that part of the sky had made it fantastic for watching the cosmos. Impossibly faraway stars had blinked across the black, twinkling blue, white, yellow, orange, red. Pulsars spun like beacons, detectable only with the third eye, and even Giant’s Deep had shone with a brilliant reflection of the sun Conoy couldn’t see. This solar system felt like home. That was a dangerous thought for a Nomai, but it was true.

The planets were welcome lights in the sky. The stars, a familiar background. Conoy could point out the constellations he had named from memory alone, and they were beautiful. So many times, he had circled the upper floor of the observatory, gazing into the darkness beyond, eyes alight with stars and planets. He would run his hand along the icy railing, shake the pesky snowflakes from his boots, and take a night to breathe in the building that was often his and his alone. He would stay awake for so much longer than he should, charting the stars and the movements of the planets, supervising the star system from his observatory.

Last night had been one such night, and as day broke beyond the nearest window, he was regretting it.

Not only had he spent the day wide awake, thinking and pouring over logs, but he had forced himself to stay sharp long past dusk—or, at least what he had designated as ‘dusk’, since the sun never truly set at the poles. That was the consequence of having such a stellar location for the observatory; the isolation it offered him weighed heavy on his eyelids, and time all too readily slipped away. Now, all he wanted was to crawl into his bed, but in the Hanging City, his colleagues were rising. He pulled a bench over to his scroll wall and held his staff with a weak grip. His breathing was deep. His muscles could barely keep him upright. 

He had defied sleep because he knew what was happening in the city. His friends would have clear minds after a restful night and he hoped that they could help him solve the problem that had burdened him ever since he ran the fifth test of the advanced Eye locator.

Pressing his staff to the board, hoping that his voice came across crisper than he felt, Conoy spoke, casting a message out to his fellow searchers, hoping his line would snag at least a few of them.

“How should our methods change as we continue our search for the Eye of the universe?” he pondered. The Eye locator that sat beside him, that filled the southern glacier, had failed, as its predecessor on Timber Hearth’s moon did before it. They could not possibly expect it to suddenly work—no, they needed to regroup, to plot out their next steps. Certainly the search needed to continue, but he was stuck in a mental rut. Every idea he had circled back to building another locator, but clearly that method was ineffective.

His thinking was validated when Privet, their locator expert, replied to his message. 

“As we couldn’t find the Eye’s signal using two different devices built for this exact purpose, we should discontinue this search method,” she said, in gentle words.

It meant a lot for Privet to say as much. Though exceedingly modest, she would not so quickly dismiss her own work unless it was truly proven unsuccessful.

“We know what the Eye looks like thanks to the Quantum Moon,” Mallow reasoned, “so what if we try to find the Eye visually, instead? Let’s send out a probe!”

Now, that was an interesting thought. 

Perhaps their locators had failed because they had been looking for a signal that had since fallen silent—too silent for even Filix’ or Privet’s handiwork. It wouldn’t matter how many locators they built, or how sophisticated they were, or how prime a location they chose for them. They would never lock onto the signal from the Eye because it simply wasn’t there anymore. But, launching a probe…

Filix had come up with the foundational—and brilliant—theory years and years ago. Upon noticing the unique properties of the strange rock on the surface of Brittle Hollow, and the strange signal both it and the Quantum Moon emanated, she proposed that the rock had originated on the Quantum Moon. Subsequent visits to the moon had confirmed her suspicions. They knew what the moon looked like, and therefore they also knew what the Eye looked like. If the probe could visually identify the Eye using a set of input parameters, and then send them the coordinates…

Cassava agreed, but expressed his reservations, “Mallow’s idea is clever, but we have no idea where the Eye is in relation to here. The probability of launching a probe in the correct direction would be absurdly small.”

Stroking the fur on his chin, Conoy pondered. Cassava was correct, of course: launching a probe in the right direction, especially when the Eye’s orbit around this solar system was so great, had an infinitesimal probability of happening from chance alone. And the resources required to construct a single effective probe would not be negligible. Much effort would need to be invested to undertake such an endeavor, and for it to have but a small chance of succeeding? No, it wouldn’t do. Lifetimes would pass before they even got close, and they would dig every planet out to its core before they could create enough probes for the project.

Though…there was perhaps a way to circumvent the unfavourable probability, as well as lessen the resources required. A pair of their friends were experimenting with a very interesting concept on Ember Twin, a concept which, if developed, could lead to an extremely advanced and less resource-intensive model. In fact, the more Conoy thought about it, he began to realise just how elegant a solution it was. He would be greatly disappointed if it couldn’t be done. Greater minds than his would have to validate the theory, but…

“I believe I have a solution for that problem!” he said. “Have you spoken with Ramie and Pye about the technology they’re developing?”

This statement appeared to remove much of the hesitancy surrounding Mallow’s idea. Clearly, his peers had heard of the tests within the High Energy Lab and the mood shifted instantly. Avens, ever quick to support his spouse, proposed a plan for the probe.

“We’d need to build a probe-launching mechanism to cover those long distances quickly. A cannon in orbit around a celestial body would circumvent the need to escape gravity’s pull.”

Not a second later, Cassava replied optimistically. “Giant’s Deep would be a good choice. It’s furthest from the sun, so it would provide the best angles for launch. And it’s moonless—except when the Quantum Moon is visiting.”

“Yes!” Avens’ enthusiasm was clear, even through the board. “Let’s build the cannon in orbit around Giant’s Deep!”

That…wasn’t what I had hoped for, coming here. Still, I suppose it is useful in constraining the Nomai timeline that has been forming in my head, if nothing else. They crashed here, expanded to other planets, and built the lunar Eye locator, which failed. They then built the locator here, in the southern glacier of Brittle Hollow, and that, too, failed. Still desperate to find the source of the signal that brought them to this solar system, they decided to construct the Orbital Probe Cannon. Somehow, a technology Ramie and Pye had developed aided in its construction.

I try to remember why those names sound familiar, and then it hits me: Ramie and Pye were investigating the warp time anomaly at the High Energy Lab! How this benefitted the probe launch, I don’t understand, but that must have been what Conoy was hinting at. And how does all this fit in with the Ash Twin Project? Why had the Nomai carved the statues and built the masks? Why is there a time loop?

Though I am disappointed in what I’ve discovered, I do learn one useful thing, from Spire’s models, no less. I can pass through the current of Giant’s Deep and get into the core. I can (hopefully) read the log from the Probe Tracking Module and figure out how to stop the probe from knocking the Interloper into the sun. After that, I’ll be able to focus on figuring out how to end the time loop, and then when I have all the information, when I’ve set all the pieces in place, I can finish this. Then, I’ll have plenty of time to explore the remaining Nomai ruins and translate everything I’ve missed. Perhaps I can even convince Riebeck to join me.

Outside the dome of the observatory, the stars are fading. The sun hovers bright and massive at the horizon, its surface painted a deep red. Its corona flares, tendrils of plasma whipping into space. And then it begins to shrink.

An icy table faces the window. I hoist myself onto it and sit, watching through glass I know won’t protect me. The sun erupts into pure energy, and as the wind blows across Brittle Hollow’s surface, I see the hint of an aurora shimmer in the sky. It doesn’t last long—the wind grows so strong that I watch the atmosphere tear from the planet. The energy reaches the observatory in no time at all, flashes of blue washing over the glass dome.

I wake again by the campfire. I’ll never get used to watching the sun rip itself apart, not as long as there are new places to watch it from. It's strange to think that, when all this is over, only Gabbro and I will have seen it. I'm certain Chert will have a million questions, but I'm not confident enough in my ability to describe what I've seen. How could one accurately recount the death of their solar system?

Rubbing my eyes, and ignoring Slate’s protests, I pull myself to my feet and go to my ship. My log is getting…messy. Dead ends everywhere, the links between them speculation at best. After I save the sun and stop the loop, maybe I’ll pay a visit to the Hourglass Twins. Chert may have some leads, and the High Energy Lab sounds like it will round out quite a few theories I have.

As it stands, Giant’s Deep is my best bet at progressing. I have to get to the Probe Tracking Module; I have to learn more.

My ship rockets upward. I barely need to steer—the ocean planet is directly overhead. I slow my ship as I approach its thick, green atmosphere and watch the spirals of the cyclones twirl beneath the cloud cover. They seem to be concentrated around the south pole, for now. To the north, the air currents rotate so widely that a Hearthian who knows less about the planet would think they’re typical. But I know that, too, is a cyclone—the massive storm that circles the pole, never drifting.

I recall what the Nomai said about quantum fluctuations. Not only did they match the signal from the shard at the Tower of Quantum Knowledge to that of the Quantum Moon, but they also detected signals from Timber Hearth (expectedly) and…Giant’s Deep.

Curious, I flick on my Signalscope. Immediately, the sound of the wailing tone of the quantum shards fills my cabin, and I hadn’t even had to search for it. It’s coming from Giant’s Deep, all right. It’s loud and clear through the clouds, and I think I know why. My ship is directed right at it. It’s calling from within the northern cyclone.

I hadn’t thought that anything could be within that massive storm. The winds are so strong that, much like the current that surrounds the Giant’s core, they are impenetrable. Though…I learned that the current has a weakness. I wonder: Does this cyclone have one, too?

I make myself a promise. Each loop, I’ll have exactly one pass on a stupid decision. After I use it, I have to be smart until the supernova—or something that is hopefully not a result of my stupid decision—ends the loop. That sounds like a fair deal, especially considering all the reckless choices I’ve made so far.

My ship floats over the north pole. I can pinpoint the eye of the cyclone, centred right at the planet's axis. The quantum fluctuation calls from inside it.

I decide to cash my pass in early.

Chapter Text

From the moment I guide my ship towards the massive cyclone, I regret my choice. But Giant’s Deep’s gravity has already latched on. Even if I try to reverse now, I’ll have to weather the storm. Water vapour streaks by, particles flashing from friction with my ship. I watch my position as the winds begin to bash against the hull–I’m drifting, shuddering, and I lean hard on the side stick to maintain a semi-stable path.

What was I thinking? I hadn’t even survived the smaller cyclones without damaging my ship! And now I’m steering directly into the biggest storm in the solar system? I’m insane. Actually insane. I should have listened when Hal and Slate suggested I be grounded for medical reasons. But—of course I didn’t, because I am insane. 

I feel my ship shake underneath me. The windshield vibrates. I throw my full weight onto my side sticks, hoping the strain of conflicting forces won’t tear my ship apart at the seams. Water splashes the glass, and loose chunks of debris—tree branches, pumice stones, tangles of leaves—hit the side of my ship as I shoot with it through the eye of the storm. Each collision pushes me further off course, until I hover at the very edge of the cyclone, at risk of getting snatched up and carried away. I’m not sure what will happen if the massive storm overtakes me—will I be thrown into space? Pushed underwater? Or will I be trapped within the strong winds, unable to break through, forced to hold on for dear life until the supernova or my death ends the loop?

I can’t even wonder. My hands grip the controls, my eyes flick between my thrust indicators and the green spiralling sky before me. All my attention is focused on keeping my ship steady as we fall. My muscles are beginning to cramp—

And then the world around me breathes. 

The violent winds that berate my ship are replaced by a motionless haze. My ship isn’t level. I fly at a canted angle, my view skewed to the side. It makes what emerges from the suddenly serene fog all the more alien.

What waited at the centre of the storm? No one knew–and there wasn’t any point in guessing. Our Scouts got swept away in the cyclone, and nothing could navigate the storm itself. But dropping in from its northernmost point, right into the eye of the storm, I’ve made it.

A tower sits solitary. A tower on a modest island, slick with rain. Trees wave, leaves flutter, and the breeze here doesn’t compare to the gales that whip on in the background. The water laps lazily at the beach in stark contrast to the jets of water shooting skyward all around. The storm thunders. Lightning flashes. And the tower rests tranquilly, the island unmoving; a calm in the centre of everything.

My ship is still falling through the air. Snapping back into myself, I hastily pull upward, circling the island along the cyclone’s periphery. The tower is giant. It’s nearly as tall as the cyclone itself, rising high into the air, base emerging from the island hills as if the tower had sprouted simply from the dirt one day. 

Not only is the tower tall, but it’s sturdy; thick at its bottommost point and narrowing at the top, it’s strangely reminiscent of a tree trunk stripped of its crown and branches. Its walls are fortified with supports that extend from the island all the way to the tower’s highest point. Across its side is a huge symbol, forged from brass. Twisted branches within a circle, six dots around it. It’s a Nomaian symbol: the Quantum Moon.

What is this place?

I couldn’t have imagined that this is what hid within Giant's Deep’s greatest storm. It’s been here the whole time, since the Nomai walked the planet, and reaching it hadn’t even been all that hard. Draining, yes; terrifying, yes—but not hard. 

A Nomai landing pad sits empty in the sands below, just waiting to be used. I fly down to meet it.

From outside my ship, the tower is all the more impressive. It looks impossible: impossibly big, impossibly steady. How has it managed to survive so long, when every other building on Giant’s Deep has been broken down into slabs of stone and shattered tile? Has the cyclone at the pole really not moved since the Nomai constructed this place? For thousands and thousands of years, the same winds that battered and broke every other ruin on this planet have kept this place secret and safe. It’s…incredible.

The sky is dark as I make my way to the base of the tower, my boots squishing through waterlogged sand, catching on gripping plant roots. The tower is not as indestructible as I thought at first glance. It has sunken unceremoniously into the sand, its base fracturing, columns succumbing to the cracking pressure. Still, to have survived so long and still be this intact is an impressive feat, especially considering the ferocious forces that wait just out of sight.

I enter through a yawning hole, meeting a deep pool of water. To my left, a path stretches upwards. I follow it. It curves around the side of the building dangerously, stone tumbling over the edge and into the waters below. Just as I escape the reach of the tree branches that curl toward the path, walls rise around it. I walk through a hall lined with torches. At the other end, brass supports rise, crossing, into the sky, and I know I am below the Quantum Moon symbol that looks out from the side of the building.

A signpost rests in my path.

“Be welcomed in this place. ” It reads when translated. “This tower shares with all who ask the knowledge needed to make his or her first quantum journey.”

A gravity beam, power fizzling out over such a great distance, tugs on the space beside me from the top of the tower. There’s nowhere to go but up.

I know there are better uses of my time. I am so close to finally figuring out how to save my solar system. But I also know I can’t resist.

I enter the beam, and it sweeps me into the air. I climb past the Quantum Moon symbol, and higher and higher still, until I am dropped into a wide room, surrounded by dead trees and fragments of broken wall. The wind this high up is strong and tropical, pushing at my body from the gaps in the sides of the room. A Quantum Moon symbol surveys me from the ceiling, its image encompassing the chamber. Another sign waits for me beside an arch.

“Enter this place without friends, however; these are lessons to learn for yourself.”

Lessons. Is this where Solanum trained to prepare herself for her journey, before arriving at the Tower of Quantum Knowledge? Was Bells the Nomai who authored these notes, guiding me as they had guided Solanum?

I approach the arch. Beneath it lay a hole in the ground, so long and so narrow that what waits at the bottom is nothing more than a hazy hue of purple light. Immensely intrigued, I let myself fall forward.

Just as I am about to engage my jetpack to slow my free-fall, a gravity beam switches on, catching me and carefully placing me on the tiled floor.

I look around the room. Motionlessly, potted trees dance, skipping from one corner to the other, sneaking up behind me when I’m not looking. An arch does the same; jumping from the tops of the short stairs that border the room, eager to surprise me when I blink. They behave just like the quantum shards do–like how anything does when near one. I read the sign in the middle of the room. 

“Seek the wandering arch.”

I know well from my mischief with Hal that quantum objects dare not move when eyes are on them. I watch the arch with two eyes at a time, so not even blinking obscures my view. I nearly trip as I walk backwards up a set of stairs, but I make it. The arch sits still before me, another hole at its base. I hop down, and again, a beam eases my descent.

I stand at the top of a set of stairs, three more identical alcoves framing the room. A pocketed rock jumps around when I’m not watching, streaks of blue, silver, black, and purple colouring its surface. It’s the quantum shard! The one I detected from orbit! That’s what’s making everything dance around so playfully. I hold up my Signalscope and hear the wailing tone it shares with its siblings and the Quantum Moon. Through another hole in the ground, I enter the next room.

Instantly, I identify the problem before me. Two sets of walled stairs sit opposite each other, each leading to two platforms. The arch I know I need to reach hops between them. Walking up one set of stairs, my sightline is inevitably obscured and the arch vanishes—jumping to a platform across the way, only lingering long enough to bait me over.

The sign in this room hops around just as merrily, but I catch it much more easily than I can the arch.

“Observing a quantum object; observing an image of a quantum object. These are the same.”

…Can it be so simple?

Standing on top of the platform, I have a perfect, clear view of the arch across the way. Pulling out my Little Scout, I snap a picture and display it to my visor. Never taking an eye off of my picture, I walk back down the stairs and cross the room, the arch disappearing from view as I walk through the second set of stairs. Then, rounding the corner with bated breath…

There! The arch is still there, waiting for me.

Is the solution to landing on the Quantum Moon this straightforward? Had no one thought to take a picture as they rushed towards the grey clouds of it?

No. Of course not. Why would they? I certainly hadn’t thought of it when I made my landing attempt.

My mind still reeling, I jump down into the next room. Glancing around, the room is apparently empty, until I spin on my heel and the quantum shard fills my view. I startle, then laugh abashedly at getting frightened by a rock. To test my theory, I take a snapshot of the shard and turn around. Sure enough, the rock is right where I left it. And if Filix was right and the shards and the Quantum Moon are the same...

Will this really work?

Four walls border the next room. On one, a gravity crystal glows purple. Above another sits an arch on its platform. I smile to myself and spin, watching the two scatter about the room. I have to admit it—I’m having fun. The most fun I’ve had since waking up after the first supernova. For a second, I forget about the sun exploding. I forget about the time loop. This is why I became an astronaut. Pure, unadulterated discovery, and allowing myself to revel in the joy of it. Every other time I learned about the Nomai, I had seen their skeletons, their crumbling cities, their hopes and dreams falling apart before them. But here—I can imagine the pride they felt when they first learned the nature of the quantum shards. I can imagine the excited apprehension that sparked across the skin of the young Nomai that entered this tower before embarking on their pilgrimages. I imagine they felt the same delight I do, as the lesson begins to solidify itself in my head.

I read the sign that sits in the room, though I already know what I have to do.

“The arch and the crystal do not naturally meet.”

No, they don’t. Not naturally. 

Eagerly, I snap a picture of the arch with my Scout, then blink (with all eyes this time) until I catch the gravity crystal on the wall beneath it. I take another picture, and there they are, appearing in the corner of my visor: the arch and crystal, together. Using the gravity field the crystal emits, I climb to the arch, and fall through the next tunnel, still grinning.

Again, the shard greets me. It feels like a friend, ready to congratulate me when I complete one of the tower's trials. I look away, and it disappears. Is it behind me? In another room of the tower? The only certain thing is that I will catch sight of it eventually. I drop down to the next room.

This room is tall. High walls stretch toward the ceiling. On one wall sits two gravity crystals, although where they are positioned changes every time I close all four of my eyes. I find the sign in the corner of the room.

“This is the last one (but we made it harder).”

I snort my laughter. How wonderful would it be to meet the people I read about? I’m no scientist, I have no objectivity. My fondness for a race I will never cross paths with is ever-growing. I wish I could exchange words with Bells and Solanum about the pilgrimage. I want to tell Cassava to listen to his spouse and lighten up. I want Poke to explain to me how their warp technology works, and I want to bask in the explosively positive energy of Avens and Mallow. I want to tell Spire to put a guardrail around his models, lest an idiot of a Hearthian decides to take a ride in them.

Would we all get along? Of course not. I don’t get along with every Hearthian, though I certainly give my love and respect to each one. Would they enjoy our attempts at space travel, despite them being nowhere near as advanced as their own? Would they let us into their cities? Would they share their knowledge and theories?

I like to think that they would. I think that, just maybe, they would appreciate our differences. I certainly do.

Turning back to the wall, I blink until one of the two crystals is low to the ground. I take a picture of it, excluding its twin, and let its gravity field bring me to the wall. I blink again until the other crystal is reachable, and walk over to it. I replace my picture with a new one of the crystal I am closest to, then wait for the first crystal to fill the last gap between me and the top of the wall. When it does, I take a picture of it, and make it to the end of the puzzle.

The arch waits for me at the top. I jump through the hole beneath it.

The final room is welcoming. The ceiling is low, homey, and warm torches fill the room. Trees dance in the presence of the quantum shard that has joined me on my journey through the tower, and a large mural sits in the middle of the space. Two Nomai stand beneath the glowing symbol of the Quantum Moon, both in spacesuits, one green, one blue, masks pulled down over their faces. Between them is one last note.

“We offer our congratulations! You’ve learned the rule of quantum imaging. Take this knowledge with you on the remainder of your quantum pilgrimage. Remember, the other quantum shards have other lessons to teach. Our curiosity goes with you on your journey. You walk in the footsteps of those who came before you, and your path guides those who will follow later.”

Other quantum shards? Do they mean the ones on Timber Hearth? Or…Wait—there’s one at the Tower of Quantum Knowledge, where I know there is still more information about the Quantum Moon waiting. They must mean that one, but…what other one are they referring to? Is there another tower somewhere?

I survey the room for something else, anything else, and come up with nothing. As if a switch flips, all my responsibilities come crashing back down over me. I don’t want the tests to be over. I don’t want to have to get back on track. But the exit sits, gaping, behind me. And there is only one place I can think of to explore, and it waits for me beyond the confines of the tower, beyond the unnavigable gales of the polar cyclone.

I drop down into a deep pool of water—the same pool I saw on my way in. I surface, and there is my ship, waiting for me right outside. As soon as I leave the shelter of the tower, the rain drenches me, water running down my visor, leaves slapping against my suit. Giant’s Deep wouldn’t be half as bad as it is if the rain let up every once in a while.

Water forms wide puddles across the wooden floor of my ship as I board. Sopping, I plop dispiritedly into the pilot’s seat and buckle in. The one good thing is that my ship won’t be wet for long—it’ll dry off when the loop restarts. Or, thinking back to the musings of Cassava, Daz, and Phlox, it will have never gotten wet in the first place. 

I hate time travel.

Or…not time travel. Whatever it is, I dislike it.

Firing up my thrusters, my ship is airborne. I cruise around the tower one last time, still mourning that my trials have come to an end, before shooting up and breaking through the clouds.

I orbit low across the surface of Giant’s Deep. The huge current of the north pole cyclone vanishes behind me, and, gradually, I reenter the atmosphere.

The scene I am met with is identical to my first ever view of Giant’s Deep. Half a dozen cyclones race across the surface of the water, flashing with lightning, spraying water horizontally across my windshield. Below, a ship nearly identical to mine, insignificant against the expanse of sea that surrounds it, bobs on the surface. I guess I’ve found where Gabbro’s ship ended up—kilometres away from their camp. At least it’s not adrift in space.

Unlike my first visit to the Giant, I am in much better control of my ship. I’ve gotten used to the strong gravity that pulls me down and the thick air that slows me. I watch as the cyclones turn, as they stride across the surface of the ocean, navigating the waves with ease. 

For the second time this loop, I fly towards the storm instead of away from it.

My knuckles ache as I steer my ship through the cyclones. Wind lashes at us from every direction: pulling, pushing, swirling. I weave between twisters, my eyes sore from glancing this way and that way, trying to keep track of so many things at once. I check my altimeter, I watch my thrust indicators, I maneuver my ship through the rough winds, careful to not cross paths with any of the cyclones until I know they’re the type I’m looking for. 

If Gabbro is watching, they surely think I’m trying to get myself killed.

My ship rumbles. Something metallic clangs from within the cabin. An especially strong breeze catches me off guard, sending me and my ship into a spin, until I throw all the strength I have into righting our trajectory.

I survey the twisters as I fly. Not that one, not that one—that one, too, is no good. All of them are spinning clockwise, and then—

Right in front of me, the clouds begin to twirl downward, stretching towards the ocean as the waves rise to meet them. I pull my ship back just as the cyclone forms, water and wind whipping around. Leaves floating in the air get snatched into its spiral, and—

Head down.

I lean over my console, as far forward as my safety harness allows, gawking at the currents. They are spinning counterclockwise.

Before I have time to psych myself out, I throw my ship into the cyclone.

The sound is explosive. All around me: wind, water, debris, battering my poor ship. All I see is grey water splashing against my windshield, but I know we are sinking, that me and my ship are plummeting, down, down, and down…

And then, almost instantly, nothing. We are underwater.

Bubbles rise around my ship, illuminated by my headlights. My ship doesn’t rise with them, although I know it’s buoyant enough to. We roll backwards, until my windshield points up through the ocean. I can see the bottoms of twisters spin from behind a ubiquitous current.

I did it.

I am under the current. And everything…is slow.

Firing up my thrusters, I rotate my ship until I am looking beneath me. The core of the Giant, unobscured. A hazy dark void sparking with arcs of deadly electricity. Through the fog, I can just make out the tips of what looks like coral within. A red glow emerges from the electric storm; a round head, long, flowing tendrils. More follow. Jellyfish, just like the ones I had seen encased within the Dark Bramble ice, dipping in and out of the fearsome core. Their tentacles buzz with their own electricity, and they show no signs of distress. Here is where they made their home, after their original planet was destroyed from the inside-out. Did the coral, too, come from the planet preceding Dark Bramble? Or was it pure luck that the jellyfish had been able to carve out a niche for themselves here?

I push my ship forward, my heart racing. It’s so quiet that I can hear every beat. Is the Probe Tracking Module really right there, hiding in the dark? Am I really this close to finding out how to save the sun? What else lurks in the core of Giant’s Deep? What else will I learn? I drift slowly towards the core, creeping closer, and closer, and—

A bolt of electricity arcs to my ship’s metal casing. My lights go out. For a split second, the energy surrounds my ship, crackling across my windshield. Then, my ship drifts away from the core, and the electricity stops. I feel the surge of it long after the bolts are gone, electrons severed from their atoms still livening the air. If I hadn’t been insulated inside the cockpit, I would have been fried.

Still, I can hear the snap of electricity travelling through fluid.

I glance down at my console. Electrical systems are down. The core shorted my power. The water slips by beyond my windshield, and I know what I have to do—I just don’t want to do it. I wait until my ship has floated far enough from the core that I won’t get shocked if I leave, then flick on my flashlight and, begrudgingly, disembark.

My skin prickles not from electricity, but from agitation. The jellyfish are huge—as long as the launch tower on Timber Hearth is tall. Their flesh distorts and jiggles in the water, and an uncontrollable shiver runs through me, head to toe. If the jellyfish had made it to Giant’s Deep…What else had?

Quickly, I swim to the back of my ship. The wires connecting my reactor to the rest of my ship’s systems had fried right through their rubber casings, and are now sparking in the conductive water. My suit has rubber-tipped fingers for situations just like these. I snip the wires and replace tarnished copper with fresh line from a spool at my belt. Then, I rip off some handy electrical tape and wrap it all together. It only needs to get me through the next ten minutes, so I don’t care as much as I would have otherwise. I get to go back inside my ship much sooner.

Getting back inside, I sit back in the pilot’s seat and buckle in. The core still looms below, and still sparks with deadly electrical currents. If it’s enough to fry my ship, it’s enough to kill me—my suit isn’t so fully insulated against rogue electrons. There is no chance I’m getting down there, not if my ship keeps getting fried. I could ask Slate to insulate my ship better, but the modifications would take much longer than I have each loop. I’m not reaching the core. I’m not reaching the Probe Tracking Module. 

I’m back to square one. 

It hits me all at once.

My one lead—gone. Feldspar must have exaggerated their achievement in their note; they hadn’t exactly made it down to the core. They had gotten as far as I have, probably fried their ship a few times trying to brute-force it, then rose back up to the surface. The feat is still impressive—how they managed to figure out the trick with the cyclones without visiting the Southern Observatory is beyond me—but not what I had hoped for.

The module is lost. And all the information it contains, lost with it.

I hang my head over my console, cradling it in my hands. What am I supposed to do now? The cannon fires so soon after the loop starts; there’s no way for me to intercept it. And if I can’t reach the module before it sinks to the core…

For the first time, I…I don’t know what to do. Nothing is driving me forward. Sure, there are other things I could investigate, but I explored the Nomai city, I explored the observatory, and I even managed to make it through the current. And still…nothing is left to guide me. I could try landing on the Quantum Moon, but what good will that do? It has nothing to do with the sun exploding. And I hadn’t even found any documentation of the Interloper or the sun at the Southern Observatory—the observatory! Surely, if the observatory doesn’t have the information I need, it doesn’t exist. The Nomai can’t help me.

Is there no way for me to save my solar system? No way to end the loop? That can’t be. I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve to watch my universe die, over and over and over again. There has to be something I can do, somewhere I can go. Right now, though…I don’t know. I don’t know what my next step is. What it should be.

My vision blurs. I take off my helmet and wipe my eyes on my sleeve, though I’m still so drenched from rain and seawater that I only make my face wetter. Salt stings my eyes. A stone is in my throat, a pressure on my chest, and I sob.

For nearly ten loops, I pushed forward. I rarely took a break, and if I did, it was short-lived. Finally, finally, it’s all crashing down around me. I should have expected this. I should have known that my calm wouldn’t last. Determination alone could only carry me so far. And now here I am, more alone than I have ever been before, isolated beneath the current of Giant’s Deep, shaking in my pilot’s seat like the child I know I still am. Why did it have to be me that the statue paired with? Why couldn’t it have been Hornfels—someone who might have actually known what to do? I flew from planet to planet, masquerading as someone who is clever, someone who is a good astronaut. That isn’t me. I’m a terrible pilot. I crash my ship just as much as Feldspar used to, except I’m not cool, or brave, or adventurous. And, clearly, I’m not even lucky. I’m scared. And now, I’m sitting in my ship, crying over my controls.

Who am I kidding? I can’t save the world. I’ve been surviving on the theory that if I die, I’ll just wake up—but what if that isn’t true? What if I only have ten loops, ten loops to figure everything out? What if there’s a limit to the Nomai’s failsafe? If there is, then I have failed. I wasted my time playing games in secret Nomai towers and flying around a black hole. And now our solar system is dying, and there’s nothing I can do about it. And no one but me knows. And no one will remember even if I tell them.

Well…that isn’t true. There’s Gabbro. The thought isn't as comforting as it used to be.

Body quivering, I wait for the sun to explode. In fact, I will it, sitting in the cockpit of my ship, watching jellyfish and electricity move around me. I don’t want this. Any of this. The pressure, the responsibility. All I wanted to do was go to space and bring some good news about the translator home to Hal. I never expected to end up here, the water raging all around me, wet and devastated. Maybe I really do only have ten resets, and if this one would just hurry up, I won’t have to worry about anything anymore. But nothing happens. The jellyfish float, the core sparks. Cyclones still rotate above me. And after a while of demanding that the sun die, I feel…tired. Tired of feeling tired.

I don’t know why. Maybe my body is sick of shaking, my breath sick of getting caught in my throat. I’m still absolutely crushed, all my plans and hopes sitting in an inaccessible cage of electricity beneath me. But…

…I no longer want to stay here, beneath the current.

I let my muscles relax. I wipe my face with my wet sleeve. Then, I put on my helmet and engage my downward thrusters, shooting up to the base of a cyclone that will bring me up through the current.

Bursting into the middle of a dozen cyclones makes everything feel real again. I sink my concentration into guiding my ship between the twisters, and notice that my body feels weighted in my seat. My breathing is steady by the time I break away from all the twisters.

An island bobs on the surface of the waves, with a single thin pillar of black smoke rising from the cliffside. I bring my ship down and step out, thankful that my gold-lined visor hides the puffiness of my eyes.

“Heyo, time buddy. It’s a good thing I never get bored of rain, huh?”

Gabbro is lounging in their hammock, same as always. And this time, I don’t mind it. I hover at the edge of their beach, just out of the shelter of the rock tunnel. Sheepishly, I tap my fingers against the equipment at my waist. It takes me a moment to find the words.

“Mind if I just…hang out here for a while?” I say, with a voice smaller than I intended.

Gabbro turns to look my way. I can’t see their face through their visor—I have no idea what they’re thinking. But after a moment, they gaze back towards the ocean, flute in hand.

“Yeah, sure,” they say indifferently. “You can use my campfire, too, if you want. It’s just up the path a little ways.”

“Thanks…I’m alright for now.”

I make my way over to the boulder I have sort of claimed as my own, and sit down. Gabbro starts playing their flute, and distant cyclones howl. I am soaked. Exhausted. Aimless. Everything feels like it’s moments away from collapse. And it is. I’m not sure what made me come here, but hearing Gabbro’s music reminds me of home. I wish I had my own instrument. It would be nice to play a tune with my—as they put it—time buddy.

The air is thick and humid on Giant’s Deep. Though Gabbro’s suit allows them to play their flute, it doesn’t sound the same as it does when they play on Timber Hearth. The tune is identical—just the pitch is off. It feels right, for Giant’s Deep. So much of this planet is familiar: the water, the rain, the plants clinging to rock. Yet, so completely foreign. Sitting on the beach, the rain pattering down, the cyclones twirling far away...I feel a new appreciation for the planet. It is pretty relaxing, in its own way. The twisters are strangely mesmerising, the gasses in the atmosphere coasting along, morphing as the wind changes. The howling dies down, and all I hear is the sound of the waves and Gabbro’s music, which fills the space left between notes an orchestra separated by planets plays.

“I saw your ship,” I say. I’m not sure why my exhausted brain thinks that’s the right way to begin the conversation. “It’s by the cyclone on the north pole.”

Gabbro finishes their note before lowering their flute.

“Oh, cool. So, it’s floating in the ocean, huh? Did it look like it was having a good time?”

“...Yeah, sure did.” I pause for a long moment, focusing my eyes skywards. “Have you seen the purple flash in the sky?”  

“You mean the one at the beginning of every loop?”

“Yeah. It’s from the Nomai satellite. It’s a probe. It launches from what they called the ‘Orbital Probe Cannon.’ The cannon breaks apart when it fires.”

Gabbro lets out an impressed breath. “Woah. For real? Did you figure out why?”

“...Overenthusiasm.” I sigh, still in disbelief that I had found so little useful information on board. “A pair of Nomai set the power a little too high, and, well…”

“...It’s kind of scary how much that sounds like something Slate or Feldspar would do. I’m pretty surprised the Nomai built something that actually broke! Come to think of it, though, ‘broke’ might be the wrong word, if it's still firing.”

That’s the problem.

Do I dare to tell them about the Interloper? About my running theories? About the Probe Tracking Module and my failure to reach it?

Would that make me feel any better?

Where do I go from here? I don’t know. And me not knowing changes nothing. The supernova will still tear us apart. I’ll wake up, and I’ll have to do all of this over again. I’ll have to think, and act, and I don’t want to do that. I really don’t. I’m tired. So tired.

…Why does Gabbro stay here? They went through the same terrible realization that I did. And they’ve done nothing. They act as if the rules of the universe aren't breaking, like we aren’t in a time loop for a reason. I’m angry. I’m frustrated. But mostly…I’m jealous. Why can’t I be like that? Why do I have to race around finding answers, when I could just as easily set up a hammock and drift from loop to loop until it all melts together?

“How do you stay so calm in the face of… repeated impending death?” I ask them suddenly. I can tell that my question catches them by surprise. 

“Deep breaths,” they say a moment later. I give them a look, and even though they can’t see it from behind my visor, they reply as if they can. “No, seriously, I meditate.” After a second, they add, “Want me to teach you? It’ll be the next loop before you know it.”

I look out over the ocean. The end of the loop will be soon anyway, and I have nothing else to do. Nothing important. Nothing helpful.

“Sure, why not.”

Gabbro tucks their flute away and, after checking for cyclones, removes their helmet. I know they’re only a few years older than me, but it’s easy to forget how young they are when they hide behind their visor for so many of our interactions. Their face is long and narrow—not unlike the rest of them—and their orange eyes are bright. Oval spots darken their skin. They give me a reassuring smile as I remove my own helmet.

“Okay,” they say, “close your eyes.”

And when I focus on the sound of the cyclones, the sound of my own breathing, I don’t even feel the supernova ripping through the planet.

Chapter Text

Our sun is beautiful. Had I really noticed that before?

On Timber Hearth, there are breathtaking sunrises and sunsets. The way the light filters through the atmosphere allows for the most spectacular displays of colour. Shifting, evolving as the sun breaches the horizon or sinks low below it. Even just sitting in a grove of pine trees, seeing the daylight dance through green needles, or watching it light every droplet of a geyser spout, or seeing the rays shine on the dust in the sky from behind a cloud—it's magnificent. Once, after an especially large solar flare, Hal and I watched an aurora drift through the night from the lip of the southern crater. It was as ethereal as ghost matter, only much less deadly, and so much livelier.

All those moments were a consequence of our atmosphere, of our trees, of the magma that boils deep within the crust of Timber Hearth. Sunrise and sunset are distinct on every planet. The sunlight diffuses differently, is shaped by different environments. And in space…

In space, our sun is beautiful, too. It boils and flares, raging on with yellow-orange light. If I had never seen it before, I would be terrified—a gargantuan ball of fire, burning so close to my home. But it is as familiar to me as the geyser pools are, and though it flings charged particles with ire and ferocity, it feels…harmless.

It’s strange, how space tames it. Solar winds whip away, constant enough to rip any semblance of an atmosphere from the Attlerock, powerful enough to create the twin tails of the Interloper. They spew radiation in every direction, harmful enough that we have to line our glass with gold, that we have to insulate our suits and ships from it. And the winds are loud. So loud. The winds roar loud enough to deafen me, and the only reason why they don’t is because the space around the sun is too empty to sustain their sound. But if I flew my ship close enough for the sun’s corona to lick the hull…What would I hear? What would I see? Would I watch the solar wind streak across my windshield? The metal of my exposed equipment glow white-hot? The solar flares look so small from this distance…Would they dwarf my ship up close? Are they large enough to consume us?

On every planet I have been to, the sun has been a friendly face. Timber Hearth, the Attlerock, Brittle Hollow—even the diffuse light of the sun through Giant’s Deep’s clouds is familiar; it reminds me of those rare times the sun shone behind storm clouds back home. There is only one place I have visited where I can forget that the sun in the sky is the same one I have always seen.

The sun never looks as otherworldly as it does from the Hourglass Twins. The pair of planets are the smallest in the solar system, and the closest to our star. The sun fills the sky when it’s day, and burns across the surface with a crimson shine like no other when it sinks at dusk. The Nomai satellite that orbits the sun can be seen clearly from the binary planets, much too risky to fly to. I doubt even Feldspar had tried.

My ship floats around the larger of the two twins. The first thing I did upon waking this loop was fly over, though I haven’t quite gotten to the point where I am ready to land. For now, I watch as the sand begins to rise from Ash Twin, as it forms a great column that reaches for its other half. The sand glistens in the sunlight as it falls through space, filling Ember’s canyon. I see streaks of dust as sand is inevitably blown away by the muzzled solar winds. One day, no sand will pass between the planets. What will we call them then, when there are no shifting sands to keep the time to?

I feel…‘better’ isn’t the right word. The realization that I am no closer to saving the sun still weighs heavy on my shoulders, and I am afraid of what that means. But it isn’t the sharp stab of terror I felt before—no, this is new. It’s a constant shadow of dread, dipping in and out of my consciousness. It’s something I hope I can grow numb to, like I have grown numb to the vastness of space, and, more recently, my repeated death. Like I have grown numb to the great fires of the sun.

‘Refreshed’ is a nice word. I feel refreshed. Gabbro isn’t always a big help, but they sure know how to take a step back from everything. I awoke at the campfire in a more serene state than I ever had before, and my new outlook stayed with me as I climbed into my ship. This is my blank slate. As far as I know, I have an eternity left to solve the puzzle the Nomai had unwittingly left behind. I don’t have to rush. What is the difference between being dead once and being dead a thousand times over? Expertise? That’s a price I am definitely willing to pay.

The sun is spectacular from up here. There are no clouds to block its light, no atmosphere to dull its spectrum. And, below, on the smooth red sandstone of Ember Twin, I am certain it will be beautiful in a whole new way.

Slowly, I bring my ship down for landing.

Ember Twin can be described as two halves of a whole. Either side of its canyon is a hemisphere, the deep chasm planar to the Twins’ orbit around the sun. As the planets transit, the sun fills the empty space left by the canyon, blocked only by the core that holds the two halves together and a few natural rock arches that have managed to survive the relentless bombardment of sand. 

Once, long ago, Ember had been crowded with lakes and rivers and aquifers. Geysers likely blasted from heated springs much like they do on Timber Hearth, stirred by the volcanic activity beneath the crust. Eventually, Ember’s subsurface fell quiet. The legacy of the volcanism—the igneous rocks it left behind and the metamorphics formed from the overburden—are probably all that keeps the planet from eroding away completely.

I have only been on Ember Twin once before, helping Gossan do a supply run to Chert. The sands were hibernating then, but even so, the planet was breathtaking. Now, I fly alongside the shifting sands as they carve through the equatorial canyon that runs all the way down to the planet’s core. Ember’s thin atmosphere glimmers its spectra as the sun passes behind it, and the sand sparkles with starlight. The red sandstone is dappled with scrub brush, rippling with the cross-bedding of vanished dunes. Somehow, life had survived on the unforgiving desert surface of the planet. Cacti and other desiccation-resistant plants dot the sandy ground. They seem to exist despite the sun, not because of it—the sun had been what had evaporated away all of Ember Twin’s standing water, after all.

It’s nighttime where I land on the top of a butte overlooking the canyon—but the sun is beginning its crawl along the surface. When daytime comes, the heat will be only just bearable. For now, though, the air is cool and crisp beyond my insulating suit.

I disembark my ship. My boots crunch on loose gravels. Scrub brush waves in the gentle wind. Beside me, Ash Twin drifts through the sky, its sands singing as they fall into the void. Soon, they will clog the caves that riddle the subsurface, the caves that had once filled with groundwater. The sun crosses the planet before me, casting long shadows from distant sandstone pillars. There is something else backlit by the sunrise, something that had prompted me to take this place as my landing site. I continue towards it.

I eventually meet with a three-windowed ship. Aside from Gossan’s, it is the oldest ship Outer Wilds Ventures has left—the only ones older having long since crashed, exploded, or gone missing. Still, it’s remarkably similar to my own, marking itself as the first of the second generation of Outer Wilds ships. It stands on three legs, has fire-stained thrusters and a mix of metal and barrel siding. Its headlights point north, to a pillar of smoke I saw from space. 

Chert’s camp is on an island rising from a dry lakebed. The lakebed, like everything on Ember Twin, is magnificently eroded. Standing from the overhanging plateau, I can’t see to its bottom, my view obscured by darkness and haze. A couple of arches join the island to the surrounding sandstone, one stretching from where I stand next to Chert’s ship and the other on its opposing side. Columns of Nomaian design bolster the strength of tunnels that feed into the canyon. Had they drilled the tunnels themselves or had they been carved from runoff from the ancient polar lake? If Tuff or Tektite were here, they surely would have been able to tell me.

Leaving the canyon behind, I head for Chert’s camp. Seeking out my fellow travellers is, historically, what I've done on every new planet I've visited, but something feels different this time around. Maybe it's because I really am starting from the beginning all over again, or maybe it's because I don't want to be alone with my worries, but something a little deeper than wanting to chat drives me towards our astronomer.

Ember Twin’s gravity is low—not quite as low as the Attlerock’s, but noticeably lower than any of the other planets I’ve visited. My jetpack is so much more effective here. I use my booster to easily scale the tall pillar that smokes with woodfire.

As with all my fellow travellers, I hear Chert’s music before I see them. The pounding of their drum, the tinny percussion of their stick against the metal rim. Though I am in awe of all of our musicians, especially when playing in concert, I’ve always been so enthralled by Chert’s sense of rhythm. The pauses between the beats are just as important as the beats themselves, and Chert dances around them masterfully.

The camp is surrounded by palm trees. Their bristled leaves rustle calmly, the low-lying bushes at their bases green and waxy. What moisture they can’t pry from the rock, they gather at twilight from the condensation on the air. Here at the north pole, the sun circles us in the sky. There is never a true day or night, and there never will be—the Hourglass Twins spin, like all of the major planets, without an axial tilt, and with a remarkably short rotational period. It's a perfect setting for the water-starved plants, but it makes me dizzy, watching the dim sun whirl around the horizon. For Chert, the location is prime: a perfect view of all the stars that twinkle above our solar system’s plane.

And, as I round a boulder on the outskirts of their camp, I see our lead astronomer themself. They sit on a rust-coloured boulder, playing their drum, the oval visor surrounding their head reflecting back the flames of their fire. They wear a starry blue handkerchief tied around the neck of their suit. It’s something I’ve never seen them without, the tattered and burnt look of it owing to that fact.

Chert is…small, even for a Hearthian, and even though they are much older than I am. Standing, they come just up above my waist, which isn’t saying much—I’m certainly on the shorter side myself. Someone taller, like Gabbro or Riebeck, absolutely dwarfs them. But anomalous Hearthians aren’t really anomalous . From eye colour to freckles to body size—everyone is different. Riebeck had even been born with an extra finger on each hand, and that’s probably what makes them one of the best banjo players to come out of our village. Gneiss was sad to see them leave the orchestra for the cosmos.

Chert’s music dies down once they spot me. They pop off their egg-shaped helmet and keen blue eyes glance over me, a commending look on their face.

“Goodness, it’s you! Hello!” they greet. “I take it your first launch went well, then? Welcome to the Hourglass Twins. Mind the sand, now.”

For the first time, I don't mind the sand. Anything that finds its way into the crevices of my suit will be gone by the next loop. Assuming there is a 'next loop.'

I decide not to think about that.

“What are you up to?” I ask, sitting down by their fire, taking off my own helmet and peeling open a tin of marshmallows.

“Hornfels asked me to update our star charts, so I’m out here observing. This is one of the best places in the solar system to spot astronomical events, you know. Please don’t tell the others I said this, but sometimes I think I’m the only traveller out here interested in doing any science at all.” They let out a terse laugh, then give me a look. “...Er, maybe don’t tell Hornfels, either. I think they’re pretty deep in denial.”

Honestly, if I hadn’t been trying to save the sun, I would have probably been behaving more like Gabbro than I want to admit. At least Chert doesn’t have to know that. I push a marshmallow onto my stick and let it roast above the flames.

Ash Twin circles around, its sand pouring into the canyon, glittering the whole way down. The tops of its towers begin poking out from its dunes; two on the poles, and a couple along its equator. Gesturing to the sand with a thumb, I turn to Chert.

“How dangerous is that big column of falling sand?”

They tilt their head and frown, considering my question.

“On a scale of one to dead, I’d give it a seven or eight. Awfully pretty, though. We’re not completely sure why the sand flows back and forth between the Twins, but it seems to be a natural phenomenon.” Then a new thought surfacing, they make an attempt to snap with gloved fingers. “Oh, if you’d like to see something interesting, check out the other Twin once a little more of its sand drains off. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

At this, I perk up. It isn’t the sort of recommendation I expected to hear from Chert. “Oh, cool! Anywhere in particular I should go?”

They look down bashfully. “To be honest, I’ve only been a few times. Beautiful towers; lots of sand. I’m not much of an explorer…Since getting here, I haven’t even left this lakebed. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m really quite good with the Little Scout, so I’ve been taking pictures of everything from right here in my campsite.”

I try not to show my disappointment. Seeing that my marshmallow is a perfect golden colour, I slide it off my stick and toss it into my mouth.

Chert continues, “What’s weird is I’ve actually seen a couple of supernovae today. Usually, I’d be fortunate to see just one. Keep an eye or two on the stars, and maybe you’ll spot one yourself!”

I choke on my marshmallow, and Chert pretends not to notice. If only they knew how many supernovae they’d really seen. Or…No, wait, the time loop doesn’t work like that. None of what is happening now is really happening. Well, it is, but when I wake at the start of the next loop, then it won’t have. So…technically, Chert hasn’t seen the sun explode. Technically, I haven’t even seen the sun explode.

Nervously, I ask, “How do I know if I’ve spotted a supernova?”

Our astronomer grins. They’ve always liked having someone to lecture to. I think it’s the only reason why they ever come back to Timber Hearth—that, and to help Hornfels update the museum. 

“Supernovae look like extra bright stars to the naked eye,” they say, “but if you zoom in with your Signalscope you can tell that they’re actually enormous explosions. Massive stars go supernova at the very end of their life spans, which is why it’s so unusual to see two in a single day…I wonder if some of these stars are older than we realised?”

That would be pretty neat, actually. I know Hornfels is working on a new exhibit at the museum about our universe. After the Observatory telescope was installed, they discovered that hundreds of thousands of galaxies exist in just one little patch of our sky. Imagining how many worlds are in our own galaxy is mind-boggling, but if half the stars we see are actually more galaxies…

Not only that, but further calculations showed that the galaxies are actually shooting away from us, alarmingly fast. That led to the speculation that our universe had an origin, everything blasting into existence at once and hurtling outwards at impossible speeds. What the Observatory telescope can see is limited by our atmosphere, and the deep space telescope is far too rudimentary to see the galaxies farthest away from us. Because light has to travel across space for us to see it, and because light has a finite speed, if we could see the most distant galaxies, we could begin to make estimates about how old our universe really is. It’s all work for people much smarter than me, but I am glad to see it done. I’d love to read the exhibit description one day. 

To humour Chert, I pull out my Signalscope and hold it skyward. I scan the stars until an especially big and bright one catches my eye. I zoom in and find that what looked like a star is actually a ball of charged particles, flying ever outward. It’s something I’ve seen before, many times. The first time I saw one, I was laying in the grass with Hal on Timber Hearth, back when I was still pestering Hornfels at the Observatory until they decided to let me into the program. It was a life-changing sight, and one I remember well. Hal was rambling about the then-new Nomai ruins at the museum, about the strange text engraved into them, but I hadn’t been listening. All I’d seen was the strange symbol next to the writing—the Eye of the universe. It ran through my head, over and over again, and then, overhead, we saw one of the stars erupt. I couldn’t possibly have fathomed at the time what seeing a supernova up close and personal would be like. From Timber Hearth, it was quiet and peaceful, stunning enough for even Hal to fall silent.

I lower my Signalscope to put it away, but another bright star twinkles in my periphery. Another supernova. Chert mentioned that they’d seen a couple today. But as the stars spin around us, quite a few of them look unusually bright. I gaze through my Signalscope and, sure enough, each one is a miniature explosion—someone else’s solar system being torn apart.

A short breath escapes my mouth. I turn to Chert, and point at the sky.

“I found more.”

“Yes, yes. I’ve counted three so far myself, all in that part of the sky.”

“No…I found…more, more.”

“Hm?...What?”

I use my hands and Signalscope to rattle off rough astronomical coordinates, which Chert then investigates with their own device. The campsite is oddly silent as they double-check my findings, only the crackle of the fire breaking up the endless desert wind and the singing of the sands. Eventually, they lower their Signalscope from their eyes, disconcertedly pulling a notebook from their suit pocket.

“That’s, what, ten supernovae? Twelve? That’s…you know, not normal. Not normal at all…”

“What does it mean?” I ask, trying to mask my worry. “Is that bad?”

“Um, no,” they reply, though their voice cracks as they speak. “It’s possible that the stars are older than we realised. Or maybe our models are wrong and they don’t live as long as we expected. Honestly, I’m not fond of either option! If our charts are wrong, what else is wrong? And our sun…No, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I–I’m probably overlooking something. That’s it, I just need to collect more data. You should get on with exploring. If you do discover anything you want to talk about, I’d be happy to help!”

That sounds much more like a dismissal than an encouragement to explore. Confused, I watch them for a moment longer, but their eyes are already flashing between star charts and their Signalscope viewfinder. I get up, and they don’t even notice I'm leaving until I’m hovering at the edge of their camp.

“Watch out for the stars!” they call after me. “Sand! I mean, sand.”

What…was that? I don’t know if I should be concerned or perplexed. I’ve never seen Chert so agitated. Supernovae aren’t all that uncommon…Sure, a dozen a day seems like a lot, but we’ve been seeing at least one every couple of weeks for as long as I can remember. Stars…die. Their remnants are all across the galaxy. White dwarfs, pulsars, black holes. Perhaps many of the stars we observe in our galaxy formed around the same time, and that’s why they’re all dying out now. I don’t know. I’m not an astronomer, and my knowledge of stars really only extends to what's practical in-field. If anything, I’m a linguist—although much of my knowledge on that comes from Hal. Point is, I don’t understand half the things Chert and Hornfels debate about.

What I do understand is that Chert was uneased. I’m still trying to decipher my takeaway from that, but I know it’s nothing good. I decide not to think about it. The last thing I need right now is to spiral out again. I’m already on thin ice. 

As I head back to my ship, I find myself shaking my head. It doesn’t matter what’s happening to the stars beyond our solar system. I know why our sun is dying. I know what causes it, and I know that I will fix it—even if it kills me. I also know that, more than anything else, I need a distraction. If I have something to do, something to focus on, then I won’t be left with my thoughts, and then I won’t think those things I thought before. My translator tool slaps against my hip as I walk. Ember Twin isn’t known for its ruins, but there are a few around, and there’s the High Energy Lab to investigate. Perhaps translating something will redirect my attention enough for my heart to stop racing in my chest. 

It doesn’t take me long to locate the lab in question. It’s positioned at the edge of the equator on the northern hemisphere, and not very far from where I set my ship down.

It's just as I had seen it in the projection. The base of its short tower pulses with purple electricity, flowing into cables that feed into the subsurface, and it sprouts with panels that oscillate with pearlescent colours when they catch the light of the sun. Only then does it click in my mind—the High Energy Lab…Are the leaflets poised towards the sun solar panels?

A part of me hopes they are. Aside from the reactors in our ships, we harness the sun for our power, too. Although, our solar panels are much more…rudimentary. It would be nice to share yet another technology with the Nomai, and, what's more, a technology we hadn’t stolen.

By the time I finish marvelling, night is beginning to fall, the light of the landscape fading. I click on my flashlight and look around. Next to the tower is the projection pool, though I hadn’t noticed all the cacti plants that cling to it when I’d been projected here before. A warp platform spiral glows orange in the night, inactive, log sitting still in its terminal beside it. Nearby, between two torches, sits a set of stairs, which I descend to a platform overlooking the canyon. As if on cue, Ash Twin flies by, its sands raining down over a pair of rocky archways. Already, I can distinguish the tallest tower easily from its surface—a rosette-shaped building, brass-trimmed. 

Once the sands move on, I continue to investigate. In the cliffside sits a door, though the unlocking mechanism is broken. I sigh. Is this the case for every Nomai door on the surface? A note is scrawled into the rock below it. Eager to have something to think about other than my…dilemma, I translate it.

“Note: This door will need to remain closed for some time!” Ramie wrote. “Pye and I are running an experiment based on the extraordinary findings from the White Hole Station.”

Pun aside, I know those findings—the warp time interval anomaly! 

“Ramie and I will be running this experiment until one of us (specifically, me) can prove the other wrong, so although it’s inconvenient, the lab currently can only be accessed by the path from the Sunless City,” Pye added.

“Inviting sand inside would disrupt our setup and could have enormous consequences. We realize this is an intriguing prospect, but the door must remain closed nonetheless!”

Then, at the very end, an update from Ramie: “The High Energy Lab is now being used to design the Ash Twin Project! If you’re here to help (or even just to observe), be sure to use the Sunless City path to the lab.”

I stare long and hard at the note, not because I learned that the door had been locked intentionally, but because the rest of the note doesn’t make any sense. ‘The Sunless City’?

As far as we know, the only Nomai settlements are on Brittle Hollow. There are ruins on nearly every planet, but nothing large, and nothing that would house more than a few Nomai at a time, if any at all. Is the Hanging City what they were referring to here? 

No, it couldn’t be. The Nomai used colourful language on occasion, but they were precise in their terminology. They would have been specific, especially when giving directions. Is there really a whole second city, undiscovered? I wouldn’t be surprised. If it’s on Ember Twin, there are countless caves to house it, and plenty large enough to hold a settlement to rival the Hanging City.

A nearby signpost all but confirms it: The Sunless City (300m).

Something stirs in my chest. A whole city…and so close, too! This is just what I need. Excitedly, I follow the path. 

Chiselled sandstone stairs hug the canyonside, switching back and forth until they join a natural arch at the base of the High Energy Lab. A single, thick cable carries energy from the lab across the arch, running into a cave that contains a downward-pulsing gravity beam.

Though, it’s never that easy. As I jog closer, I begin to make out crystals poking from the sandstone, green-blue and luminescent…

A warning pops up on my visor. I pull out my Scout to verify and…Yes. Ghost matter. The cave is full of it. Irritated, I kick a grainy rock into the mouth of it, green and blue smoke billowing behind it as it passes through the deadly matter.

It would have been nice to catch a break. I shake my head and turn around, but see a stack of stones out of the corner of my eyes, nearly completely occluded by the mouth of the cave. A signpost. It reads: Crash Site Caves (60m).

Crash site.

Of course, there are settlements on Ember Twin. They had crashed here, too! That mural back in the Old Settlement showed me where the Nomai escape pods landed. One was stuck on Dark Bramble, one is on Brittle Hollow, and the final one landed somewhere on the Hourglass Twins. That alone would mean I have two whole planets to explore to find it, but I remember the seed-shaped pod from Brittle Hollow. I'd seen it before, on the wall of the museum. Chert had taken a picture of one with their Scout! Both Ramie and Solanum had expressed growing up on Ember Twin. Were they born in this ‘Sunless City’?

Without hesitation, I follow the narrow path as it twists alongside the canyon. Ash Twin circles again, and I flatten myself against the cliffside, breath stifled as the column of sand pummels ever downwards, just metres away from me. I risk a glance over the side when the planet leaves; the sands are rising. Am I too late? Is the city already buried?

The path terminates at a foliated alcove. That’s good—my oxygen is running low. I refill my tank in the shade of the trees and paint the walls with my flashlight. The path continues through a tunnel at the back; a tunnel I’m not anxious to enter.

I wouldn’t say that I am a claustrophobic Hearthian. I crawled through old geyser tunnels as a hatchling, hid in tree trunks and barrels. Training for the space program involved more cave exploration than one would think, and many days I hadn’t seen the sun at all, spinning gravity-less in the Zero-G Cave from before dawn to after dusk. Gossan tested my repair skills on mining equipment, which usually involved maneuvering into small spaces to access fried wires or misaligned gears. All that, and to even be an astronaut you had to subject yourself to squeezing into your suit and helmet on nearly every excursion. 

However, there is a major difference between most caves and the caves on Ember Twin. Sand. And gazing down into the canyon, I saw that the sand was fearfully close and rising terribly fast. Even knowing I’ll wake up (probably), I don’t exactly want to be squished to death in a cave by the sediment.

I stand for a minute at the tunnel entrance, debating with myself. Eventually, I let out an exasperated groan. I march on in.

Thank goodness my flashlight has great batteries, because if it had so much as flickered when I reached the tunnel’s end, I would have died. A deep gorge cuts through the cavern, filling with sand, but not enough that I wouldn’t have a nasty tumble if I stepped over the edge. Two sandfalls wash into the chasm, their songs just a whisper compared to the sound of the sand outside.

The cavern is breathless. Not that I am breathless taking it in, but that the cave itself isn’t breathing. There is no wind, no breeze, just the music of the sandfalls. Stalactites hang low from the ceiling, meeting stalagmites on the cavern floor, sharp teeth grinning. Nomai writing is sprinkled around the cave, glowing that telltale purple.

The most interesting thing, however, sits across the gorge. Metal and tempered glass glint in the beam of my flashlight. I use my jetpack to cross the gap. The metal is warped and burned and scraped. It opens into a white hall dusted with sand and grit, and the glass I had caught with my light lines the inside of the hall, guarding cylindrical chambers that sit like pins on a wheel.

I would recognise the strange design anywhere.

I am staring at Escape Pod Two.

Chapter Text

Annona’s hands were flat against either side of the chamber, pushing outwards to steady himself as the escape pod trembled. They were blasting through space. Blind. Filix hadn’t had a chance to survey their surroundings after the warp. Where were they? And where was their pod taking them? Did it matter, as long as it was far away from those terrible vines?

Their Vessel…their dear Vessel…

The vines had pierced the hull as if it was cloth and not bolstered metal. Their home, trapped—and how many others with it? Two of the five escape pods had been snagged on the thorny vines, and their pod was not nearly half as full as it should have been. Had Filix and Escall reached the other two pods that had launched? Were they rocketing away from those awful vines, too?

They never should have warped. Annona knew he was complacent; eager as Escall to find the source of the unexplainable signal their Vessel had heard. It was such a large warp, and he knew they would have to wait for the core to cool down before warping again. It was his fault that they hadn’t been able to warp away at the first sign of danger. It was his fault for not pushing safety above knowledge…

And now, how many perished because of his mistake? He hoped none. He hoped the other two escape pods were packed, shooting far away to some safe place. But his hope was only that: hope. Annona knew it down to the core of himself: many of his clan were dead.

And it was his fault. His fault.

He should have known better. He designed the warp core, after all; he knew well its limitations. They should have taken the necessary precautions. They had gotten so used to drifting through empty space that they had forgotten its perils. Escall had always been overzealous. He inspired them to explore, to discover, but his enthusiasm was easy to get lost in, and it was Annona’s job to force him to see reason. He had failed. He had failed, and their Vessel was wounded beyond repair, and their people scattered or dead, and they were shooting through an unknown solar system.

Yellow warning lights flashed in the hall. Through the glass of his chamber, Annona could see the others within their cylinders, cowering as the pod hitched and kicked. Ionized particles flashed outside the window of the observation deck, the friction of an atmosphere slowing their descent.

COLLISION IMMINENT. PREPARING FOR IMPACT.

Annona gripped the sides of his chamber and squeezed his eyes shut. Distantly, he heard terrified cries. Muffled. The light outside grew brighter beyond his eyelids, and stronger, until—

The bottom of the pod scraped along a hard surface, pulverising the ground beneath and roaring across the landscape. Annona felt every tremor in his bones, reverberating through every hard part of him. He felt like his legs would give out, like his bones would shatter, as their momentum was cancelled by the sudden impact. If it wasn’t for the safety of the cylinders, they would have been killed—even so, the rough landing left Annona with a tenderness in his muscles he was certain would later bruise.

He waited for their pod to settle after the collision. It did not. It was a worse landing than he thought, then; their pod must have fused with the crust they had landed on. He could feel the heat from impact rising through the pod. After a moment, the yellow emergency lights faded, giving way to the white of normal functions. Were the systems back online?

Wasting no time, he opened his chamber and pulled a recording log out of a nearby closet. He set the inscription tools in place, then turned to see his clan staggering out of their chambers behind him. The pod had landed at an angle. Many had their hands to the walls to balance themselves as their boots slipped across the smooth floor. Hands reached for each other. Areas of pain were inspected. Annona felt the tenderness in his own skin, beginning to warm and tense. Bur, Annona’s friend and a Nomai well-learned in communications, gave him a reassuring look before passing him by, heading to the main terminal to check for distress signals from the other escape pods.

Rhus, his hand rubbing his horns, teetered over to Annona from the middle of the crowd.

“We need status reports for all systems,” Annona said to him, “but initial things first: is everyone unharmed?”

“Our escape pod’s passengers are afraid, but physically well, Annona; everyone survived the crash.”

His eyes were swollen from the panic of the impact, but sharp. That was good. Annona would need him to check the condition of the escape pod's systems. They didn’t know how hostile the world outside was—the air could be poison, the rocks giving way beneath their feet. Under such circumstances, they would need their pod in top health. Rhus was skilled in emergency repair, and Annona was grateful to have him on board. Though, that felt selfish. The other escape pods might be unable to undo damage sustained in their own landings without him there.

Annona placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “This is a relief, at least. You have my gratitude.” Rhus returned to the crowd of worried passengers, and Annona turned to the observation deck. “Bur, were you able to find the other escape pods’ distress signals?”

Bur’s ears were primed towards the terminal, her fingers tapping precisely on her staff.

“I can hear both signals somewhere in this star system, but I don’t believe either escape pod crashed on the same planet as us.”

Annona breathed a sigh of relief. If their distress signals were echoing, they were at least alive. At a later time, Rhus could help Bur rig the pod to triangulate the signals. They were separated, for now, but soon enough they would find each other. 

Bur continued to type commands into her staff, but Annona was drawn to the observation window. The sun was rising. Angry. Hot. And incredibly close. They were lucky that their escape pod hadn’t been pulled into its blaze. The sun burned across the landscape. The ground itself seemed forged of fire. Red sandstone, coarse and banded, undulated as far as he could see, broken only by stratified pillars and loose boulders, dotted with palm trees and dried brush. Heat waves shimmered on the horizon. He had thought their pod was warm from the friction of their landing, but that didn’t seem to be entirely true. The sun baked their pod as much as it did the planet they were on.

Behind him, Bur ran an environment scan.

External temperature is prohibitively high. Verdict: INHOSPITABLE. Do not seek shelter on planet surface.

The scan only confirmed what Annona had been beginning to fear. If they remained in their pod for much longer, they would be cooked.

Annona exchanged a worried glance with Bur, then looked back outside the window, staring at the foreign landscape with trepidation. Wherever Filix and Escall had landed, he wished they had found a much more suitable environment than the one they were faced with now.

Below, whispers began to spread. The hall erupted with the purple glow of a recording log lighting up the face of one of their clan’s geologists, Melorae. Annona left Bur with a reassurring glance and hopped down to the lower deck to see what had triggered the commotion.

Melorae was eagerly showing environment readings on her staff to the crowd that had gathered around her. Of course—she still had her field equipment with her. She and her apprentice, Coleus, had just returned from a geological survey of a nearby asteroid when the Vessel had received that strange signal. In fact, she and Coleus still donned their spacesuits, the blue fabric standing out from the neutral colours of everyday wear that laid across the other passengers’ shoulders.

“The heat from this star system’s sun is more bearable below the surface,” Melorae said, showing Annona the results of her scan. Coleus stood by her side, alight with eagerness but much too shy to weigh in himself. “When our escape pod punctured this planet’s surface, it broke into what scans show is a cave system with much cooler air. I would recommend we seek a site down there to build a long-term shelter, Annona, but these passages are a maze!”

Annona browsed her scans. Her staff showed models of the chambers surrounding them, tunnels twisting and turning and morphing. Still, their escape pod would only grow hotter. 

He wished it could be anyone other than him having to make the call. He had already made one tough decision that day, and he had made the wrong one. But, looking from Melorae's scans to the desiccated landscape beyond, Annona couldn't deny that the temperature readings from the planet's subsurface were promising.

Hesitantly, he replied, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Even with this danger, they are still our best chance for survival. We’ll form teams and descend into the caves to look for a shelter site. We can mark our findings on the walls to avoid becoming irreversibly lost.”

As he spoke the words, his heart languished. Was this the right decision? Certainly, he could think of no other. But after so gleefully rushing into the unknown and losing both their Vessel and their clan, Annona was not so keen on making snap decisions. If they had the time, he would have wanted Bur to run a more sophisticated environment scan, and for Melorae and Coleus to examine the stability of the caves themselves. Currently, they had only the preliminary scan to rely on, and preliminary results could be vastly different from reality…

But already, he found himself tugging on his collar. Others were panting, removing jewellery and scarves, fluffing their fur away from their skin. Time was something they had a diminishing amount of. Rhus began to hand out suits, until a crowd of masked faces looked out at Annona. With his third eye, he unlocked the emergency hatch, and it clattered earth-shatteringly loud down the piles of rubble their escape pod had generated, out into a meandering cave system. Nomai paired off, and even Bur dropped down to join them after she had set up the distress beacon outside.

Annona looked to the surviving members of his clan.

“Be cautious, everyone,” he said with sincerity.

And then down into the dark depths of the caves they went.

I lower my translator. 

I knew who had survived the crash from my journey to the other planets, but it’s another thing to see the writing here. Annona, the creator of the advanced warp cores. Melorae, geologist and aunt to Thatch, mentor to Coleus, who would go on in turn to mentor a Nomai named Cycad. They were here. Alive.

How did their reunion go? I know it had to have happened, at some point. Did those from Escape Pod One find those from Escape Pod Two, or the other way around? They never did end up finding the passengers of Escape Pod Three…

…How did they react when they noticed not all of their loved ones were among the survivors?

Shaking the thoughts away, I refocus on what I read. The Nomai couldn’t bear the heat on the surface, and so sought shelter within the caves. We really are two different species, aren’t we? I wouldn’t say that I am comfortable on Ember Twin, but I can easily remain on the surface even when my helmet is off. Us Hearthians evolved from cave-dwelling ancestors, after all, and the caves of Timber Hearth are heated with subterranean magma pools. We have thick skin and a natural predisposition towards warmth, our ears and long limbs historically helping us keep cool during geyser storms, which used to be much more common hundreds of thousands of years ago, when we were still constrained to the aquifers.

The Nomai, contrarily, seemed much more at home in the cold. They had fur covering their skin, thick and voluminous, if the Nomai statues are accurate in their depiction. And the Southern Observatory had been excavated right from the glacier! I couldn’t imagine working in such an environment without the insulation of my spacesuit to keep me warm. Their haste to head into the shelter of the caves spoke magnitudes about our different evolutionary histories. On what sort of planet had the Nomai evolved? Did they even remember?

In any case, the Sunless City is definitely subterranean. That explains why we haven’t discovered it yet, and why Chert failed to spot it with their Scout Launcher. I am about to turn back into the caves to investigate the rest of the writing I spotted, but a thick cable pushed to the side of the white hall grabs my attention.

Just like with Escape Pod One on Brittle Hollow, the emergency hatch on the upper deck is open, the power cable for their distress beacon flowing through. And there the beacon is, sitting on the sandstone, shining its light into the sky and wailing out its call. It’s bright, especially so with the sun dim on the horizon. The purple light shoots straight towards the stars, painting the sides of nearby rock formations with an unnatural colour. A butte pokes high into the air beyond, oddly-shaped capstones at its top. 

Wait...Those aren’t capstones. Ruins crown the pillar of sandstone beyond. But…I thought the Nomai couldn’t bear the surface?

I cruise towards it with my jetpack, sailing over the wreckage that litters the crash site. This site is much gorier than the one on Brittle Hollow. The pod is dented and rusted, whole parts of it twisted, melted, and ripped off in their entirety. The thin atmosphere wouldn’t have done much to slow their descent, and the added distance from Dark Bramble might have meant that their escape pod was landing with a much greater velocity.

When I reach the first, dilapidated building, I am surprised to find the remnants of a campfire and a tank of fuel amidst the palm trees. A lone Nomai scroll sits forgotten on a collapsing shelf, and a Hearthian recorder waits for me on a bench. PROPERTY OF CHERT is taped across the log in thick letters. I press PLAY, and Chert’s voice begins to crackle over the speaker. 

“Clearly, the Nomai were making astronomical observations here,” they said thoughtfully. I can imagine their keen eyes playing over the landscape as they speak. “They chose an excellent spot! What is this big, rotating device for? What was it the Nomai were observing? I'd posit there's something special about the orange symbol on that device. Hal and the new astronaut's translator tool would be nice to have handy about now.”

Hey—that’s me! Or, more accurately: my translator! I’m glad the other Hearthians are genuinely interested in Hal’s and my device, and not just pretending to be. I am always anxious to get more translations in.

I don’t know what ‘big, rotating device’ Chert is referring to in their research notes, but every rotating device I have encountered so far has been a locator. Is this another one? Across a gap I think was probably once a river, more ruins sit crumbling. A Nomai chalkboard blackens the stars, and something behind it is definitely moving…

Taking the scroll from the shelf preemptively, I hop across the gap. The device before me is similar to the lunar Eye signal locator, but appears to be much more primitive in design—surely Filix had no hand in its construction. A circular platform stands in the middle of five concentric rings, carved right into the sandstone of Ember Twin itself. Podiums topped with brass semicircles drift in each rut, one for each planet, except for the Hourglass Twins, which are denoted by the central platform. Each podium appears to track the movement of its respective planet. The Nomai symbols for each are familiar to me now. There’s a forested circle, following Timber Hearth, and there, a large, swirling symbol that aligns with Giant’s Deep. And, of course, Dark Bramble’s silhouette is unmistakable. The locator’s position on Ember’s south pole allows it to easily track the planets on the horizon.

The final podium is emblazoned with that same maze-filled circle I’ve seen before, within the Tower of Quantum Knowledge and the tower I discovered at Giant’s Deep’s north pole. The Quantum Moon. Right now, it’s keeping pace with Giant’s Deep, and I can see a hazy grey sphere in orbit around the ocean planet. But if I blink…I hear the scraping before I open my eyes. The Quantum Moon is gone, and with it, its associated podium. Now, both the moon and the podium align with Timber Hearth. It’s a Quantum Moon locator! Coleus mentioned its existence in the workspace of the Attlerock's locator. I blink again, and…

That can’t be right. 

The podium for the Quantum Moon races steadily around and around, passing each planet marker. I look up, but the moon isn’t orbiting the Hourglass Twins. That’s strange…

I pull up my map, but before I can even study it I hear the podium scraping predictably along its path again. The Quantum Moon is back, floating in the sky around Brittle Hollow.

The Quantum Moon wandering is typical. It likes to hop between the planets, and can I blame it? So do I. But I have never seen it vanish outright before. Or…have I, but I just couldn’t tell? Not all the planets are always visible from the village crater. Maybe I just assumed that it was off orbiting one of them when in reality…it wasn’t.

The thought of the moon jumping from planet to planet is one thing, but it disappearing entirely…Where does it go? Why does it go? I turn to the chalkboard for answers, scroll in hand, but find that Nomai writing already spreads across its surface.

“This planet sometimes (and only sometimes) has a moon!” Melorae wrote. “This is also of note: it disappears if no one is watching it! Isn’t that a fascinating orbital characteristic?”

“I found your note, Melorae,” Bur added, “kindly count me among this moon’s admirers! What is happening when it disappears (I doubt it ceases to exist)? Does it move to another location?” 

Annona supplied their own theory. “I believe so. Not only does the moon appear around Brittle Hollow, I can confirm it sometimes orbits Timber Hearth, as well.”

“This is my first time encountering a natural satellite with the ability to vanish when not being watched,” Melorae said, and I swear I can see her excitement in the characters of her sentences. “ We should study it! Or, even better, we should travel there!”

Bur agreed. “Our first step would be determining a method to track this phantom moon so that we can always know where it is.”

“Given its reluctance to move while consciously observed, it might be a form of macroscopic quantum mechanics,” Annona posited.

‘Macroscopic quantum mechanics’?

So, it is quantum. Or at least, it acts like it is. I feel a small surge of pride for us Hearthians—we were right! 

The sun passes by behind the chalkboard, and my contentment fades. It's massive. So much more massive than it has ever looked before, even within the time loop. I have to tilt my head back just to see it in all its glory. It takes up nearly a fifth of the entire sky. Solar flares erupt from its surface and sunspots boil across a sea of deep red.

I’m running out of time.

I peek over the edge of the butte to see that the escape pod has almost been entirely overtaken by sand. Even the light of the distress beacon has been snuffed out from the sediment. Glad that I hadn’t been in the caves when they were buried, I replace the scroll in the chalkboard with the one in my hand, and the conversation continues, albeit at a much later date.

“The Quantum Moon locator is functioning,” Anonna announced. “We have markers for each of the places the moon goes.”

“Annona, Bur, I just observed the Quantum Moon in orbit around Dark Bramble,” Melorae said.

“You have keen eyes, my friend. So this moon travels to a total of five locations, not four.”

“I added a marker for Dark Bramble,” Bur updated. “I thought the locator now accounted for all of the phantom moon’s locations, but sometimes the locator can’t tell where the moon is. Perhaps there’s a problem with the device?”

“It’s also possible there exists a sixth place in this star system to which the phantom moon travels,” suggested Melorae.

A sixth location?

Of course, we have more than five celestial bodies in our solar system. Discounting all of the major ones, there's still the Attlerock, Hollow’s Lantern, the Interloper, and the recently discovered (by me!) white hole. But the Timber Hearth and Brittle Hollow markers would surely account for the Quantum Moon orbiting their moons, and we Hearthians would have noticed if the Quantum Moon joined the Interloper on its elliptical path. And the white hole…surely we would have seen the moon drifting in that part of space, even if we didn’t realise the white hole was there. In fact, it would have probably prompted us to send a probe that way.

So that leaves…nothing. But the moon can’t orbit nothing, right? Then it would no longer be a moon! Besides, the Nomai seemed confident enough that a sixth location is plausible…

Can there be a sixth planet? Really?

We would have seen it by now, surely. Except…No, we may not have. We know plenty about the stars and galaxies beyond, but those emit light. It had taken Chert up until eight months ago to track down a black hole outside of our solar system. A planet would be similar—what is a small patch of shadow amongst the darkness of space? We wouldn’t have seen it unless it transited our sun, or was close enough for the sun to light its atmosphere (if it had one). So, maybe it orbits beyond Dark Bramble…beyond the Interloper, even.

I think back to the Quantum Moon Locator on Brittle Hollow. There hadn’t been five symbols above the moon’s track. There had been six. The Eye of the universe had been one of them.

Is that the answer? Is the Eye a sixth planet, drifting somewhere in the furthest reaches of our solar system? But…Chert would know about it, then, wouldn’t they? They would notice that the planets’ orbits don’t work out quite as they should. I should go back and speak with them, see what they think about this strange location…

But as I head back towards my ship, the sun, which I can no longer avoid seeing, is red as fresh blood. Time is up. There’s no point in flying north. I’ll be dead before I reach the lakebed.

Finding a nearby boulder, I sit down, a hollow feeling filling my chest. The sun seems to merge right into the sandstone. As it floats behind my back, I look out into the dark sky, which is so much darker than usual. Constellations are missing key members. The sun never sets at the pole—the light masks all but the brightest stars. 

I pull up my map, to see just how much the sun has expanded outwards compared to the orbit of the Hourglass Twins, but…

Something catches my eyes. I zoom in on my map, squinting.

The sun has expanded, unquestionably. I can see it clear as day on my map, and I have all the evidence burning right in front of me. But, there too, is the Interloper, opposite the sun from where I sit on Ember Twin.

But that’s…impossible, if the Interloper is indeed what prompts the sun to explode. The deep space satellite isn’t nearly far enough away for there to be any substantial lag between what it observes and what I see on my map. No—it’s all accurate. Furthermore, I know it isn’t a ghost signal; the Interloper has plummeted into the fires of the sun before, and disappeared from my map right on time. I watch on my map as the Interloper flies in close for its slingshot around the sun, as it gives in to its gravitational pull, as the marker vanishes from view. 

I close my map just as the sun comes back around. It’s still huge, and red, and unchanged, as if an icy comet hadn’t just plummeted into its depths.

The Interloper isn’t what causes the sun to explode. It just orbits too close, and after the sun expands the bloated star simply swallows it up.

But if it isn’t the cause…what is?

The sun begins to morph, but I’m too distracted by my confusion to care. It turns orange, its size diminishing, then yellow, then white, then…

What is Chert thinking right now, watching the same horrific sight from the other side of Ember Twin?

Blue particles fly by, the wave of ionizing energy racing towards me. And my view of the stars is replaced by a familiar Nomai mask, drifting through the void.

When I wake, I watch the Orbital Probe Cannon fire. The purple light of the probe rockets away, and a pit forms in my stomach.

I haven’t been paying close enough attention.

The probe’s trajectory is random. Not just random, but random each loop. I don’t know how the Nomai had been able to program it to transcend the loops, but whatever calculations the cannon is making, it adjusts them each reset. I don’t need to find the Probe Tracking Module to know this: I can see it with my own eyes. Because, for the first time, I notice that the probe is flying away from the Interloper, not towards it. Even with the Interloper’s eccentric orbit, there is no chance for the two to collide, not this loop, not with the probe flying so fast. It will breach the edge of the solar system in seconds.

I open my map.

Everything is right where it should be. The planets all spinning, the sun burning yellow, and the Interloper out by the white hole, carrying on as if it hadn’t just been swallowed by fire.

Comparing the sun’s size relative to what is still fresh in my mind from the last loop, I can see that it is much, much smaller. There’s a healthy gap between the farthest reaches of its corona and the nearest orbit of the Hourglass Twins. My map displays for me the predicted orbit of the Interloper, and I see that it, too, doesn’t intersect the sun. 

The probe doesn’t knock the Interloper off course. The Interloper doesn’t cause the sun to die.

I was wrong. And, what’s worse, I was despairingly wrong. I had banked everything on the Interloper causing the death of our solar system and I had failed to notice the evidence against my theory. Every loop I saw the answer blasting off above my head, and every loop I had decided to ignore what I saw in favour of an answer I wanted so desperately to be true.

Something is causing the sun to explode. But now, I don’t know what. And, for some strange reason I can’t quite grasp, it feels…nice, to not know. As long as I don’t know, I can continue doing what I do best: exploring and translating. Without the fate of the Interloper looming demandingly over my head, I can finally do some real research. I truly do have a blank slate. It's the best discovery I've made since I got stuck in this time loop.

The other planets I’ve been to offered me no answers, but I don’t take that to heart. I still have the Hourglass Twins, and if a city really does exist on Ember, I can’t imagine the knowledge it must contain within its bounds.

Climbing into my ship, I head for Chert’s camp.

They are in a much more chipper mood now, after the reset, than they’d been in when I left them last. I suppose the same could be said of me; I enter their camp with a renewed excitement for the mysteries laid out by the Nomai. Chert removes their helmet and smiles at me.

“Goodness, it’s you! Hello!” they say, same as last time. “I take it your first launch went well, then? Welcome to the Hourglass Twins. Mind the sand, now.”

“I have a question for you," I say, cutting to the chase. “I…found something.”

“Oh, please, do tell!”

“I found Nomai writing about the Quantum Moon on the south pole, and—”

Without waiting to actually hear my question, Chert dives straight into another one of their lectures, nodding knowingly. “Oh yes, everyone loves a good mystery, don’t they? Who wouldn’t wonder about a moon that’s sometimes there and sometimes not! I’ve observed the Quantum Moon orbiting each of the five planets, but sometimes, it appears to disappear from the sky altogether. Maybe there’s another place it travels to!” They sigh. “Unfortunately, if there is, I’ve never seen it. Perhaps if I take a closer look at these star charts…”

“Well—” I interject before they can reach for their notes. “It sounds like the Nomai thought it orbited a sixth location in our solar system, too.”

Chert’s eyes widen. They marvel for a moment before speaking. “How fascinating! It might interest you to know the existence of an additional planet is entirely plausible, if you look at the physics of our solar system. It would just have to be incredibly far out there—farther than Hearthian ships would be able to travel. And honestly, we don’t know all that much about what’s out there. The farther you go, the less we know! As such, it’s well within the realm of possibility such a planet exists.”

“So…there could be a sixth location that the moon orbits? One we don't know of?”

“Certainly! Although, it would be entirely speculation, of course. I myself haven’t observed anything indicating the presence of a sixth planet, but it isn’t out of the question. Again, it would have to be very far out. The orbit would need to be many times greater than Dark Bramble’s in order for the physics to work out as they do.”

That triggers a memory—the Southern Observatory, and the huge orbit of the Eye of the universe, rotating wildly. 

The Eye is the sixth location. But if the Nomai could get to the Quantum Moon, how hadn’t they found the Eye? What if it’s undetectable somehow? But even a black hole would be detectable so close—I would know—and the Nomai were brilliant. So why hadn’t they found it?

…Or had they?

I still don't have the answers, but I know where I might be able to find some.

Distractedly, I thank Chert. They smile a self-congratulatory smile, then warn me, “Watch out for falling sand, okay? I’ve had to dig myself out once or twice, and that’s not half as fun as it sounds.” 

I get in my ship and head back to the south pole. If I’m going spelunking, I'd much rather do so at the beginning of the loop. I hadn’t realised before that the sand gets so high…

Landing my ship on a tall pillar near Escape Pod Two, just in case the sand decides to bury it, I take the path through the wreckage to the caves below. The walls are pitch black, only the spirals of Nomai writing creating any light at all. I turn on my flashlight and drop down into the cool cavern, minding the gorge that slices through its middle.

Getting a better look at the cavern than I had last loop, I see several dark mouths of tunnels that branch off from the central chamber. Next to each, unfailingly, is the glow of Nomai writing. They had done as Annona had suggested then; they left notes on the walls so they wouldn't become lost down here.

I read a few of the messages, struggling to balance both my flashlight and my translator tool, especially with my Scout strapped onto my shoulder.

“Of note: This passage leads to breathable air. Refill your supply tank there (we cannot tell how far or deep these tunnels may wind), but do not linger, as the area is exposed to the heat of this alien sun.”

“Keep moving, friends: There is nothing of interest at the end of this passage but rocks. And while these rocks are interesting, they can wait until a less urgent time.”

“Do not follow this tunnel to its end! Coleus and I will examine the horror that lies at its terminus later, provided we live through this.”

Now, that has me intrigued. Ignoring Melorae’s caution, I march down to the end, where I am greeted by a cage of stalactites and stalagmites and a dark void beyond. Well, sort of dark. A diffuse ball of light hangs in the middle of the cavern, but it’s inaccessible from here. Out of curiosity, I launch my Little Scout between the gaps. How bad could this ‘horror’ really be?

My Scout arcs through the air and settles in the centre of the room. Upon landing, it automatically triggers its floodlights. The light pulses through the cavern, illuminating the scene in one great wave. The glowing sphere hangs from a curved white rod, which joins a great big dome, which in turn is connected to a slanting surface. And this is connected to dozens of long, bleached teeth, sharp as cactus spines and big enough to rival the surrounding stalactites.

An anglerfish. Long dead—just fossil and dust, now.

A shiver chills me to my bones. It's not just the frightening skeleton that worries me, but the implications it poses. What is that doing here?

Had a bramble seed really made its way here, too? Or had the anglerfish been cast from the precursory planet, like the ice and the jellyfish? And this anglerfish…it's much larger than the one in the museum. Though, does it look smaller than the one I encountered during my brief visit to the dark planet? Or is my mind inflating the terror of what I saw?

My Scout doesn’t make the sight any less alarming. The light it emanates brightens the cavern with high contrast, sharpening the white of the skeleton and deepening its shadows. Every tooth looks all the more pointed, every bulge of its skull more menacing.

I recall my Scout, and the lights go out. All that is left is the gentle glow of the anglerfish’s lure.

Returning to the main cavern, my blood surely drained from my face, I have only one note left to check.

“We have found an enormous cavern at the end of this passage that appears promising!” Melorae began. “I believe we could construct long-term shelter there.”

“The cavern Melorae found is a wise choice for shelter,” Annona remarked. “Could one of you mark directions for the others to follow?”

“This is the start of the path to the shelter site. I’ve left directions to guide you there,” wrote Coleus, Melorae’s apprentice.

“Of note: We must hurry, as the pathway there is filling with sand,” Melorae added. “Do not allow yourself to be buried by sand, and make sure no one is lost!”

The Nomai crash-landed on Ember Twin during a sand-transfer. Not only that, but the same one I am undergoing now. Ember Twin’s caves, which are full of typical cave hazards, are even more dangerous than usual when they fill with sand. I suppose it’s better than if they had gotten stuck here afterwards, when the caverns were filled. But that begs the question: how did they survive in those subsequent days, when Ember was fed and the surface remained unbearable? Either they were reunited with the Escape Pod One passengers remarkably soon after their crash, or they had devised a way to survive beneath the sand-clogged surface. If so, then instead of a painful death, I may find a sanctuary at the path’s end. I’d much rather wait for the supernova to render my body to atoms than to be crushed slowly by the rising sediment. With that reassurance, I happily follow the narrow path that curves alongside the gorge.

The gorge expands into a vertical, cylinder-shaped cave, with platforms supporting the collapsed edges of disintegrated stairs. A Nomai note glows from a platform below me, and I jump down, slowing my descent with my jetpack thrusters. As promised, Coleus is the author, and he had directions to share.

“The path to the shelter site is somewhat convoluted, so follow the instructions ahead closely!”

That, I can do. All around me is the sound of shimmering sand. Ember Twin is filled with the stuff by the time the loop is over, so I have less time than that to find the city if I don’t want to be squished against a stalactite-filled ceiling.

Across a gap, in a tunnel in the cavern’s side, is the glow of the next note. I fly over.

“To reach the shelter site, walk forward until you meet the sandfall at the pit, then turn left. Continue to the room filled with rock column formations and climb upward through the opening above them. The sand here is rising, so you must be cautious but swift. ”

I follow his directions, and sure enough, I find the column-filled room. A hole is in the ceiling—drainage from when the planet was covered in burrowing water?—and I sail up through it. My heart beats steadily, but hard. I really wish I had the forethought to get a watch before the time loop triggered. It would be handy to see how much time has passed. My map provides me with an estimate, but only an estimate. Has it been seconds? Minutes? The walls all look the same; the caves warping my sense of time. I push onwards.

Following a short tunnel, I find another of Coleus’ notes.

“Be cautious crossing the chasm ahead. The bridge Melorae and I crafted will do its job, but it isn’t strong. Once on the far side, look for the tunnel hidden behind the falling sand. Follow it, and you’ll reach the shelter site.”

Unfortunately, their temporary bridge hadn’t withstood centuries of being battered by sand. With my jetpack, I fly across the gap, dodging the sandfall in its middle. A smaller sandfall flows against the far wall, and, holding my breath even though I am securely within my suit, I cross beneath it. I half-expect to fall down into a pile of sand, but the ground on the other side is just as sturdy as the ground before it. I meet with more directions.

“You’re doing well! There’s only a little farther left to go now until you reach the shelter site. You can rest there. Hurry, before the sand comes!”

My spirits rise at getting praise from a geologist who lived thousands of years ago. I find myself approaching the next leg of my journey with an even greater eagerness.

Any constructs the Nomai had made to aid them through the next cavern are long eroded away. The floor falls down into nothingness, and I can barely see what lies on the far side. Where am I supposed to go?

I shoot my Scout across the room, and it lights up a natural arch across the chasm. Unfortunately, the arch is flowing with sand and surrounded by cacti plants that will almost certainly puncture my suit if I’m not careful. My oxygen is nearly half depleted already, and, not knowing what awaits me at the tunnel’s end, I can’t risk wasting it all because of a puncture.

But…I can’t see where else to go. My loop will end one way or another, so...

I ready my hand on my jetpack controls and jet off, aiming for the gap in the middle of the collar of cacti.

Oh Hearth, let me be able to pull this off.

I sail over the chasm, and my aim is true—I’m heading straight for the gap. But one cactus has a spine perfectly primed for poking, and it’s getting closer, and I don’t want to accidentally overcorrect my trajectory trying to dodge it—

I hear my suit tear and a warning message pops up across my visor. I shoot through the sandfall and immediately my hand is on the spool of duct tape at my waist. With practiced hands I rip a piece off and locate the hole in my suit. It's not hard to find. A powerful stream of oxygen shoots from the cloth. After patching it up quickly and painlessly, I have only lost about ten percent of my oxygen. Not bad. I silently thank Gossan for their rigorous training.

Another sandfall washes over my path. I step through it, and am met with a fortified door, with a tall set of stairs rising from the ground beside it. Before I tackling what waits for me beyond, I skirt around and up the steps, into a cramped cave with a narrow window, Nomai text sitting above.

“This is amazing—look inside the cave!” Melorae wrote. “How did this come to rest here? We haven’t encountered others in these caves; I think this is a rare find.”

I glance through the narrow opening into darkness. Except…Wait, no. A dim ball of light hovers in the middle of the cavern beyond. Can it be…?

Shooting my Little Scout through the opening, the anglerfish skeleton reveals itself to me yet again. Somewhere along the cavern’s walls must rest another little porthole; the very one I looked through earlier. The anglerfish’s teeth look just as fearsome from this angle as they did from the other one, although they’re nothing compared to the live one I had seen within the impossibly large interior of Dark Bramble. 

Melorae continued, “From what we can see, Coleus and I believe the specimen must be very old indeed. Imagine what we might learn if we could examine it!”

“We both agree it’s unlikely this dry planet is this horror’s place of origin,” Coleus wrote, “especially considering what we observed during the Vessel’s evacuation.”

I think I know well what Coleus was alluding to.

“Clearly this hole is too small for it to have fit through,” Melorae added. “Hypothesis: There is another entrance to this cave. If there is, Coleus and I will find it! We can’t leave valuable information undiscovered!”

Beneath the larger conversation is a small tangent. An update, from Coleus. “We need to find a way inside quickly, Melorae, because when I returned here to search for an entrance to the cave, there were children playing on the specimen!”

Recalling my Scout, I let slip a small chuckle. It sounds a lot like the sorts of problems our scientists on Timber Hearth struggle with. Hal and I have always been messing around the museum, and I know that Tephra isn’t much better than we were at their age. And Arkose never strays too far from that patch of ghost matter in the village. I’m certain they’d be soaring around the Zero-G Cave, too, if they could ever manage to give Gossan and Tuff the slip.

I skip back down the stairs to the massive door that obstructs my path. It’s impressive, by Nomai standards, surely designed to keep the sands at bay. The design would have been necessary for how frequently the sands shift. It can be days before the sediment abates, returning to its secondary home on Ash Twin. This must have been how they managed to survive down here.

The door is bulky, and locked, and decorated with faded colours, paint etched away by generations of sand scratching at its surface. I don’t know what lies on the other side. I know what I hope for, and what I expect to see based on my readings on the surface. A sight-guided ball rests within its alcove. I drag it along its path, and, miraculously, the door slides open.

Chapter Text

The Sunless City is no rival to the Hanging City, with its double towers and twin bridges. In fact, it’s hardly a rival to the Old Settlement. A few neglected houses cling to the rock walls of the cavern, and a small treed plaza, lit by a single yellow lantern, pokes out of one wall. Beyond that…dark emptiness. Really, it isn’t much of a city at all.

I’m not sure what I expected. Ember Twin was hostile to the Nomai, and most of their labour had probably gone into the construction of the fortified doors that kept the sand from smothering them. Still…I wanted something more. 

The small conglomeration of houses seems just enough to shelter those who had survived the crash. The Brittle Hollow survivors certainly had the advantage. Not only were the Nomai better suited to the cold of its surface, but they had Plume with them, who seemed to be familiar with raising buildings from stone. Did Escape Pod Two have anyone matching his skillset on board? There was Coleus and Melorae, but I got the impression that they were geoscientists more than engineers. Perhaps the dilapidated buildings before me are all the Nomai of Ember Twin had been able to construct before they reunited with those of Brittle Hollow. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they moved there and left the city to gather dust—even with Hollow’s Lantern and the black hole, Brittle Hollow seemed much more hospitable. 

In any case, the city hasn’t fared well against the test of time. The door I entered through survived, yes—but it no longer keeps out the sand. Sandfalls cascade down from the roof of the cavern, and I can hear their song loud and clear rising up from the dark depths below, echoing against the smooth stone. I’m not safe here. Not for very long.

The plaza, at least, is cozy and quaint, sitting in a nook of the long-depleted aquifer, palm trees and scrub brush spattering the red sandstone with greens and yellows. A court juts out from the overhang, a few feet out into the darkness. Faded coloured tile sits beneath four controls at its forefront, which overlook the rest of the cavern. A cable—the same cable from the High Energy Lab?—runs up from the dark depths to the machinery. Wanting to refill my oxygen tank after the scare I had with that cactus plant, I figure the square is as good a place as any to start.

My boots fall dully on the vegetated stone. Soil and plant detritus is scant across the ground here, but enough is present to dampen my footsteps as I walk. My tank replenishes its oxygen supply and the fresh air hisses by my left ear. A set of stairs leads up to the back of the treed area, and I follow them leisurely. After the race to get to this ‘city’, I’m grateful for the respite, though I know in the back of my mind that the sand is still rising. 

Following the pathway, I am led to a wall with glowing inscriptions. They don’t seem… purposeful, here. Not like the ones in the park in the Hanging City. These writings aren’t framed and showcased. My eyes aren’t naturally drawn to them. They are almost…sheltered. Hidden away—as if the words themselves posed some kind of threat but were too important to stow away. I take out my translator.

“Should we build the Sun Station to power the Ash Twin Project?”

I read and reread the question. The Sun Station? Is that the satellite around the sun? It’s a power source? I never get a good look at it; it’s much too close to the sun for comfort. Maybe it, like the tower above the High Energy Lab, is covered in solar panels. Is that how the Nomai powered their technology? I read on.

“Are there other ways to generate this level of power?” Yarrow asked. I recognise the name from Statue Island and Brittle Hollow—they must have been deeply involved with the Ash Twin Project, because they popped up in all the right places.

“Theoretically, yes,” Pye said. “Practically, no. I can’t imagine discovering them in our lifetimes…”

The next inscription was Ramie's. “I understand this proposal is unsettling, but the Sun Station must be built if we hope to complete the Ash Twin Project.”

“I almost can’t comprehend this is being suggested seriously,” Idaea wrote. Them, too, I remember from a few choice conversations. “The purpose of the Sun Station goes against every standard we hold ourselves to and everything we believe in as a species!”

“Unsurprisingly, Idaea, I disagree,” Pye replied. I feel as though I’m jumping into the middle of a longstanding argument—and I probably am. “We’re pushing a possible new technology further than ever before. That, in my experience, is the defining characteristic of our species.”

“If we fail (and the probability of this is not insignificant), we will without question destroy ourselves, all life here, and the rest of this star system,” Coleus argued. “I wish to protect these species.”

“The potential annihilation of an entire star system is too severe a cost,” Idaea agreed. “We shouldn’t build the Sun Station, no matter how badly we want the knowledge that comes with it.”

“Fear of failure is a poor reason not to try. I believe, if we’re cautious, the Sun Station will work,” Poke said. “I believe in Pye.”

“Poke, I’m deeply honored,” Pye replied. “Idaea, I comprehend your position; however, if we aren’t all but certain the Sun Station will not cause destruction once we’ve built it, then I won’t support the station’s use. ”

Now…I am probably biased, but I’m not so confident about what was being proposed. Idaea and Coleus seemed to have the right idea. I, being one of the species native to this solar system, didn’t particularly wish to be destroyed. On the other hand, the Sun Station had definitely been constructed, and the solar system is still here. Well…for now, at least.

Evidently, the Sun Station houses something much more sinister than a few solar panels. If the Nomai were worried about tearing apart the solar system…What were they doing up there? 

The plaza holds no answers. And, based on the sorry state of the rest of the city, I doubt there are any down there, either. Perhaps I can find the trail to the High Energy Lab; surely, the lab will have something to steer me in the right direction. Maybe I’ll even find out something about the probe, which would be nice, although I’m trying very hard to not push myself too far down that road after what happened on Giant’s Deep.

I turn to the controls and see that they are separated by district, much like how the Hanging City is divided. Wondering how the small settlement could possibly be separated into four distinct areas, I activate the lowest one.

Lights flicker on at the bottom of the cavern. The light is soft, warm, and bounces across the cavern walls like an echo, and suddenly I can see how truly chasmal the cave I’m in is. The darkness recedes so much farther than I thought it would. Houses rise from the bottom of the chamber, clinging to the lower walls. Rapidly, I activate the other controls, and the cavern reveals itself to me in all its glory. It's huge. Much larger than the Zero-G Cave, much larger than any cave I've ever set foot in. In every wall, there are houses, climbing all the way to the top of the cavern, which towers several storeys high. It’s…amazing.

And quickly getting buried. The lowest district is almost gone, and the second lowest is succumbing to the rising sediment fast. Any information stored down there—gone. And I'm not sure just how much time I have left to discover the rest. I figure, at least until I get my bearings, I should tackle the highest district first, to reduce the likelihood of me doing something stupid and getting engulfed. I dim the lights until only the fourth district is illuminated: The Eye Shrine District.

That’s interesting. It’s the only district to share its name with one from the Hanging City. They must have built the cities before the two groups reunited, so it’s a peculiar coincidence. Although, the Eye certainly had its hold over the Nomai.

The Eye Shrine District is a collection of buildings near the top of the cavern, one with an Eye symbol cast in metal across its side towering far above the rest. I fly over, the sand climbing, and hurry to get all the information from the building as soon as I can.

Unfortunately, the first door I run into is covered in green-blue crystals. Ghost matter really is everywhere in our solar system if its deep within the caves of Ember. How did it get here? In fact…how did it get anywhere? Ghost matter is something that we know just enough about. It’s invisible. It’s dangerous. It can kill you. Recognising the signs that ghost matter is nearby is all most Hearthians want to know. How does it kill you? We have only guesses, and it isn’t a line of research anyone is very keen on exploring. Whatever it does, all the cells in affected areas die. Just not soon enough to dampen the pain as it races from neuron to neuron. Best case, you need Slate to design you a prosthetic (which they aren’t very good at). Worst case…

Beyond its lethal effects, we also don’t know why ghost matter exists. I mean—why does anything exist? Things don’t need a reason. But ghost matter fills pockets of our solar system at random, overtaking Nomai ruins, filling tunnels, shimmering beneath trees. Does it seep from the earth? Does it come from the crystals we nearly always find in its presence, or do the crystals grow from the invisible matter? One thing we do know is that ghost matter can be neutralized in water. One unlucky (or lucky, depending on how you look at it) Hearthian slipped off a rock in a rainstorm once, right into the patch by the Zero-G Cave. But the rain doesn’t wash it away, or at least not enough of it for us to detect the change, because after the sun comes back out, there the patch is, shimmering as always in our photographs. 

For all the passages blocked by ghost matter I’ve encountered, it might be worth it to set Slate on inventing some way to protect us from it, or to neutralize it so we don’t die. Though, I doubt anyone would want to be their test subject when the price of failure would be their life. Aside from Feldspar, that is.

Reluctantly, I turn away, heading into a smaller building to the left. A gravity beam pulses upwards, and I hop in, riding it through multiple floors, until—Wait!

I try to slide out of the beam, but I am too late—I'm already through another floor. I only caught a glimpse, but the purple glow of Nomai writing plays distinctly in my mind. When I reach the top floor, I’m disappointed to find that there is no working control for the beam. Instead, I jump back down to the first floor and ride the gravity beam up again, keeping an eye out for that characteristic flash of purple.

There it is! I jump out early this time, and find myself in a modest room. The writing on the wall is messy, each letter shaky and large. I take out my translator.

“I don’t know why everyone says the Eye is important. They say it brought us to this solar system, but is that good? Dad told me lots of Nomai died when our clan came here. What if the Eye wanted that to happen? What if the Eye isn’t something good?”

Solanum. This is what she referenced in her room on Brittle Hollow. 

I now have text from nearly every stage of her life. Snapshots of childhood, of adolescence, of her journey to the Quantum Moon—her final journey, quite possibly, if the shuttle has been left on the moon’s surface for all these years. And to see how she had grown…

Like her, I once thought the universe was malevolent. I think most children do, at some point. There comes a time when we are met with a hard truth we never had to deal with before, and, unable to process it, we grow scared. Angry. The beginnings of the space program weren’t easy. There were accidents and deaths. So many graves in our cemetery are testament to that. And when I was younger, I didn’t understand why the astronauts and engineers didn’t just give up. Was space really that worth it? Worth all the explosions, all the pain and sadness, worth our village burning to the ground?

I was young. I was awed by the space program until it was my room that burned to ash in one of the fires it caused. Then, I felt wronged. Slighted. Only half the village burned. Of course, wind played a key role in deciding which houses succumbed to the flames, but I didn’t understand that at the time. To me, it seemed like the universe had chosen my belongings to destroy, that it had chosen me to hurt. And I wondered why the mayor was even letting the space program continue, if the launches were so dangerous.

It wasn’t until I was older that I reconciled risk and discovery. Outer Wilds Ventures evolved, as all things do, and there were less crashes, less fires, and more stories. I began to set aside my anger, and that was when the museum opened. And it captivated me.

And now, here I am, on my own pilgrimage of sorts. I’m flying alone through space, uncovering the truths of our solar system, much like Solanum did before me. I still have my reservations, and not all the truths I uncover are pleasant, but I know now, just like Solanum, that the universe didn’t target me. Why would it? How could it? If two space-faring species existed in our solar system, how many more are soaring through other galaxies? The universe doesn’t have time for me.

Hopping back into the gravity beam, I am carried again to the top floor of the building. A set of stairs leads up towards what I assume must be the shrine, and I follow them.

The Eye Shrine District of the Sunless City is remarkably like the Eye Shrine District of Brittle Hollow. The shrine sits central, and all around it, houses are cramped, multi-storeyed, and full of still lifes. Tables, benches, toys, shelves filled with belongings—all covered in sand, all eroding away like the rest of Ember Twin. Small skeletons sit beside balls and blocks, adults watching over their children. I look away. Crumbling in the corner of a room that used to be full of life is a set of downward stairs. 

Following them, I come to a complex of debris-filled rooms. The sand must have been too much for their supports, and the houses crumbled into one another. Ghost matter crystals blanket the lower floors and climb up the walls. Before taking a single step more, I pull out my Little Scout and snap a series of pictures of the deteriorating platforms. 

Beneath the level I stand on, the building is filled with blue-green auras, ribbons sweeping as the deadly matter ebbs and flows. But my floor and above: nothing. I examine the far side of the room. Cacti plants cling to the wall, and beyond…I swear I can make out the light of an upward-pulsing gravity beam. I shoot my Scout over and take a picture. There it is, just waiting for me over a void filled by ghost matter. What does it lead to? The door to the shrine is covered in ghost matter…Is there a second way in?

It’s time to use my ‘stupid decision pass’ for this loop. I recall my Scout and, fingers on the triggers of my jetpack, take off across the building.

The path over is twisted and dangerous. One misfiring of my thrusters will send me spiralling to my death below. Hornfels says ghost matter is ‘uniquely painful.’ Tektite often recounts their accident with a series of curses. I don’t want to validate either of their descriptions.

I land on the final platform heels-first, teetering treacherously over the edge to avoid the prick of the cacti plants in front of me. Steadying myself, I look to my left—the gravity beam pulses, weak at the bottom but growing stronger higher up. I don’t want to take my chances. Triggering my booster, I fly up to meet it.

When I reach the next room, it’s…warm. Low-lying shelves trim the walls, filled with pots and vases that are in impressively good condition compared to the state of the rest of the city. The lights are bright and orange, the rooms small and intimate. A message sits engraved into the wall nearest to an archway into the next room. 

“Be welcomed in this place. This shrine is a space to reflect on what brought us to this star system: the signal from the Eye.”

Am I in a time loop within the time loop? The words sound bizarrely familiar.

“We observed the Eye’s signal in our travels, and followed it here to find its source. What we know is this: the source of the signal (which we have chosen to call the Eye of the universe) is older than this universe itself. The rest, we have yet to learn. Enter, and open your mind to its possibilities.”

I remarked from the exterior that the shrine reminded me of the one in Brittle Hollow. How unusual is it, for them to bear such striking resemblance if they were built before the reunion of the crash survivors? Maybe they weren’t built before the merge, but after, representing the consolidation of what they knew about the Eye and what they speculated it to be. The greetings are identical—the shrines had to be built after the survivors could communicate, or at least one was modelled after the other. This must be the youngest part of the Sunless City, and it makes sense—it’s labelled as the fourth district, after all. In fact—it makes sense with the Hanging City, too, only there it’s the penultimate district, with the Black Hole Forge District being the newest addition, clinging to the ceiling.

The Black Hole Forge District. I’d forgotten about that. It’s the last place on Brittle Hollow left to explore, as far as I know. I still haven’t stumbled across a warp platform for it. If I had, I almost certainly would have stepped on it without question to see where it led.

Continuing through the arch, I am met with two sets of stairs flanking either side of me. A chalkboard glows with Nomai writing.

“If the Eye called to us, why won’t it reveal itself? Why is it so difficult to locate it? Did something happen to it? Did the signal stop? Does the Eye no longer desire to be found? 

Perhaps this isn’t the Eye’s choice. The Eye may not be able to communicate with us more than it already has.”

The Sunless City shrine is not as identical to the one in the Hanging City as I thought. 

I read the questions. One, after the other. Do these sound like the propositions of a race dedicated to empirical truths? To me, they don’t. They sound more like my internal ramblings when faced with something I can’t comprehend. They sound like…denial. And justification.

The Nomai had spent so many years suffering because they followed a signal that, seemingly, abandoned them in the tangle of Dark Bramble. The Eye had to mean something; it had to be trying to communicate. Because, if it didn’t, if it wasn’t, then what was it all for? And, on the same line of thinking, the Eye couldn’t possibly have just stopped emitting its signal. It must have been silenced. Their arrival in the solar system couldn’t be coincidence, not when their Vessel was destroyed, not when their friends and family had died, not when they poured every ounce of their efforts into figuring out the reason for their stranding. To accept that the signal was chance was to accept that they had failed. That generations had failed. For nothing.

Even the most objective species in the universe couldn’t handle that. Not at first. Not when the wounds cut so deep. So, they rationalised, as anyone in the same situation would.

The children weren’t so affected, I’ve noticed. They didn’t know those who lost their lives in the search. They grew up in glowing cities, safe, well-fed, well-educated. They questioned and they reached their own conclusions. Solanum wondered if the Eye was sentient. Ilex wondered why they didn’t build a new Vessel with all the resources they were spending on the Ash Twin Project. How did the Nomai handle their children challenging all they had come to accept? Did they laugh them off? Say that they were just too young, that they’d understand when they were older?

I walk up the stairs, and the shrine widens before me. Torches bathe the room in an orange glow, brass decorations glinting in the unwavering light. A large, circular window peers down at me, drilled from the surrounding sandstone, glass framing a metal symbol of the Eye of the universe. Two chalkboards border the space, both alight with ponderings. I skirt around a skeleton sprawled in the middle of the room to read them.

“Is the Eye natural, or artificial?

Maybe someone built it. The Eye is older than the universe itself. How could something exist before its creator? 

It could be naturally occurring, though this doesn’t answer how the Eye could be as old as it is."

“Did the Eye deliberately call out to us by sending the signal, or did we hear the signal by coincidence? We could be seeing meaning where there is none. Suppose the signal was produced incidentally. Does that mean the Eye is any less important, though?

Perhaps the Eye wanted to be found (could it be sentient?). Maybe it chose us. Does the Eye desire something from us? Could it need us in some way?

Maybe it doesn’t have to be us.”

Light streaking across the wall draws me away from the ancient messages. Through the window, the sky lightens until a fiery ball of orange glides by, casting the shadow of the Eye on the wall opposite. I watch it fly by, much too fast. And then it’s gone. The sky once again darkens, distant stars twinkling like fireflies above a black lake. 

The shrine sleeps on.

This is what made the Nomai stay here, within the sandy tunnels of Ember Twin, instead of travelling out there, among the stars. This. 

The Nomai didn’t know that they were going to die, but if they did, would they have fled? Or would these shrines be full of even more disintegrating skeletons?

I pan my flashlight across the room. The walls are bare, now. Anything that wasn’t crafted from stone has been long destroyed by time. We’ll never know how ornately they decorated their shrines. 

In fact, there are so many things the Nomai crafted that are likely lost forever. We’ll never know what their clothes looked like (aside from the few spacesuits that have been preserved, and the depictions in the occasional mural I’ve been able to find), or how they expressed themselves through linen and twine. Did such things even matter to them? They must have. Their spacesuits are elegant enough to justify the speculation. Our spacesuits are drab, inspired by the protective gear we have for mining and metallurgy. Theirs are colourful, detailed—their masks so pristine and intricate. What would a perfectly preserved Nomai settlement look like? Painted in multicolour, decorated with murals and fibre. So much of the Nomai has dissolved away with their fur and flesh. How many pieces of the puzzle are we missing? 

My flashlight deepens the shadows in one corner of the room, where the wall and roof have fallen away to reveal a narrow fissure. Using the booster on my jetpack, I jump up and through it, falling through a sandfall on the other side down to a lower level. My boots land with a thud on a skinny sandstone path. The city is nearly buried. Any trail is better than the one I came from, so I follow the narrow path until I reach another huge door. A neighbouring signpost labels it: Gravity Cannon.

That’s interesting. Another gravity cannon? It makes sense—if they launched their shuttles with them, and they had travelled between the planets before they reinvented their warp technology, then they’d have to have a launch pad on both Brittle Hollow and Ember Twin. I found Solanum’s shuttle on Brittle Hollow…is another shuttle waiting for me on Ember?

It’s probably far too optimistic a thought, but I had gotten chills when I stepped aboard Solanum’s shuttle. Exploring another one, seeing where the Nomai had visited…

I pass through the impressive door and continue along a path that rims a lake of sand. A building sitting in the middle of the path is caved in, full of stone from a roof collapse and shining with ghost matter crystals. I bypass it by walking over the shimmering sediment, hoping the whole time that there isn’t a pocket of air under my boots that will open up and swallow me. It isn’t until I reunite with the stone path on the other side that I let out a breath. 

And then…the path stops. Brecciated stone blocks my way—another cave-in. But, just above me, I see stars, disappearing one at a time as the sun spins around the planet. I clamber up the unsteady rocks, which apparently haven’t had enough time to settle, because they slip and topple as my gloves and boots meet them. When I reach the top, the surface expanding out around me, the sun is passing behind a latticed tower. Instinctively, I raise a hand to shield my eyes, despite my gold-filmed visor doing a fine job on its own.

There it is. The Ember Twin gravity cannon. Its tower is strongly angled across the sandstone surface, parts of its lattice fallen and crumbling. The wind blows, ruffling the scrub brush next to me. I peer over the edge I stand on, down into the hole the tower rises from, but all I see is sand. No landing platform, no controls, no shuttle. At least, not this far into the loop.

I catch a glimpse of the sand falling from Ash Twin as it circles the equator. The sand is barely coming down now, and looking up at the source, it’s obvious why. The sand-transfer has come and gone in record time. What started the loop as a ball of rippling dunes is now completely alien. The rocky core of Ash Twin hangs dark in the sky, so much smaller than one would imagine. It had been carved out of the planet thousands of years ago; a skeleton of foliated metamorphics. For some reason, the Nomai had hollowed out Ash Twin, taking the rock and piling it up high. Rising up from the core are some of the most breathtaking structures the Nomai had ever constructed. 

A great bridge—even greater than the double bridges leading to the Hanging City—spans the equatorial line, a series of carefully constructed towers reaching up from it. We don’t know much about them, other than that there’s one that sort of looks like a star when viewed from the top, and one that reminds everyone of a geyser mountain from Timber Hearth. When pressed, Riebeck says that the towers likely had ‘ceremonial purposes’, which is archaeologist-speak for ‘I have no idea why the Nomai did that.’

In any case, when Ash Twin is stripped of its sand, it really does look stripped— like a dead pine, empty and eerie, almost feeble in appearance. In fact, it hardly looks like a planet at all. A small core holds it together, but aside from that, it’s only a twisted crown of spikes. As it transits the sun, the difference can really be seen–the haze of its thin atmosphere glows, accentuating the size difference between Ash Twin now and Ash Twin half-an-hour ago. It’s…baffling. The Nomai aren’t known to so drastically alter planets. Take Brittle Hollow or Ember Twin: from the surface, one can hardly tell that the Nomai had lived on them at all. Perhaps Ash Twin was where their mines were located, but so much material had been used to create the towers, it seems unlikely that any of it went elsewhere. There is no settlement on Ash Twin, not one that we know of, anyway—so why did they build the towers?

Perhaps there are answers there, or in the city that dozes beneath me. It’s far too close to the supernova now to do much more than wait. The sun is violent, red, and dark—and it looms so near to Ember that it seems as though the whole planet is ablaze. 

When it erupts, I barely flinch as the energy blasts towards me. I'm eager for the loop to reset. It seems that the Hourglass Twins have more buried beneath the sand than I could have possibly dreamt.

Chapter Text

Finding the gravity cannon is painless once I know to look for it. In the harsh shadows of Ember Twin, it’s easy to mistake it for just another oddly-shaped rock formation. But once the soft glow of sunrise catches on its lattice, the gravity cannon readily reveals itself from the landscape. Much harder, I presume, will be locating the shortcut to the Sunless City I discovered, but that will have to wait. 

As I bring my ship down beside the angled tower, the sands only just begin to fall from Ash Twin. Clearly, I can see the gravity cannon controls at the tower’s base, the sight-guided ball resting between the two arms of the U-shaped interface. The landing pad itself has an odd purple hue to it, brass decorations glowing mysteriously as the sun makes its rounds. No shuttle waits for me. With the loop reset, the sand gone, I see that the platform is barren.

But, so was the one on Brittle Hollow.

I let myself fall down into the cannon’s tower, landing unsteadily on the platform. The angle is far more than I anticipated, and I have to brace the edges of my boots against the raised brass symbols to keep myself from tumbling over backwards. I hear the hum of a gravity field, but it seems to have little effect on me. Looking up, it’s clear why the Nomai had angled the cannon as they did—Timber Hearth passes by overhead, then Brittle Hollow, perfectly within the sightlines of the cannon. They built it to face the solar system’s orbital plane.

For the first time, I think of the strangely specific name the Nomai had given their launch pads. Gravity cannons. The Nomai were adept at crafting devices to manipulate local gravity fields. Is that what propelled their shuttles and probes? A gravity field so concentrated that it could launch a rocket? 

I remember Solanum’s shuttle. The control panel within I dared not touch. Only three controls; left, right, and centre. Our ships are nowhere near as advanced as the Nomai’s, even if the shuttles they used in our solar system were only a shade of what they could truly accomplish. Even with borrowed technology, it took years for a Hearthian to learn how to pilot a ship without crashing. Had Solanum trained as hard as I had, for as long? So far, any mention of training or preparation for her pilgrimage alluded to quantum knowledge, not piloting. How did they fly their shuttles? I can direct my ship in three dimensions, I can flip it around, roll it, rise and dive. With only three settings, and one sight-guided ball between them, surely the Nomai shuttles couldn’t have been so elaborate. Especially if, as it seems, Solanum didn’t need to go through rigorous training to make her journey alone. But if the cannons are aimed at the orbital plane of the solar system, the Nomai wouldn’t have needed to move their shuttles in all the directions I can move my ship in. They would have just had to wait for the planets to align, and launch…

Above me, Giant’s Deep sails by. Is Brittle Hollow’s gravity cannon also aligned with the plane of the solar system? If it is, it would certainly give more strength to my theory.

Returning to my original goal, I slowly and carefully climb up the side of the launch platform. Standing at its highest point, I get a perfect view of the controls. Unfortunately, they’re covered in cactus plants. Using my jetpack booster, I sail right through the middle of the U to avoid them, landing on the control platform without a single tear in my spacesuit. The sun disappears beyond the horizon, and shadows race down the side of the cannon. I click my flashlight on and turn to the controls.

ACTIVATE GRAVITY CANNON.

CALL THE SHUTTLE HOME.

A terminal sits next to me, glowing with purple text. I know what that means—the shuttle associated with this platform is out there, somewhere. I translate the log, anxious to know where the Nomai had been exploring. I’m not expecting what I read.

“The shuttle is currently resting at the comet.”

The…comet? The Interloper?

I was under the impression that the Interloper hadn’t yet visited the solar system when the Nomai were still living here. Up until now, I hadn’t seen a single mention of a comet, not even when I visited the locators or the Southern Observatory. And, it must be the Interloper—if it was a random comet that passed through, would the gravity cannon still be receiving location information from the shuttle? No one has tested it, but theoretically our maps stop working when we travel far enough out of the solar system. The signal just won’t triangulate beyond the deep space telescope’s range. For the cannon to know where the shuttle is, it has to be in our stellar neighbourhood. That, or it’s broken. The Nomai were much better at crafting their space-faring technology than their doors, however. Discounting the overwhelming success of the Orbital Probe Cannon, I’ve encountered nothing in space that’s broken. 

No, the shuttle must be on the Interloper. I didn’t know that anything could land on the comet. It shoots by so fast, and its core is so small, so icy, its orbit askew from its adventitious entry into our solar system. But, miraculously, the Nomai had done it. With only three controls, no less.

Without lingering on the thought, I activate the controls to call the shuttle home.

A bright white light shines before me, distorting the latticed background. In an instant, it is gone, and there in the centre of the cannon stands a Nomai shuttle.

It’s different from Solanum’s. Not in design, but in thick blocks of ice clinging to its surface. Thin wisps of vapour rise from the frost. In this heat, it won’t last long.

The ice erases any doubt in my mind: the shuttle was at the comet. At the Interloper. But…Why hadn’t I seen any mention of it before?

Stairs following the sandstone walls take me to the cannon’s base. I walk steadily along the path, not daring to take my eyes off of the shuttle. The ice hanging from it glints with the purple glow of the gravity beam rising up into its belly. The shuttle seems far too tall, far too heavy at its peak, to be standing so perfectly stable atop the slanted platform. I know that a gravity field is holding it in place, but my mind still reels from the the impossibility. An impossibility as great as landing on the Interloper.

I walk up the ramp to the platform, until I am swept into the gravity beam and into the ship. This shuttle, like Solanum’s, is sideways. The gravity floor within grips me, stopping me from falling back through the entrance. 

The first thing I notice is the skeleton on the floor.

Oh, no.

Averting my eyes, I focus on everything else. The shuttle is identical to Solanum’s. One group of survivors must have created the shuttle technology, then found the others. Then, they had likely built the second gravity cannon to allow travel between Brittle Hollow and Ember Twin. A teal spacesuit sits in the corner by the entrance, and a Nomai mask hangs from a brassy rack just below the ceiling. A log is perched atop the table nearest the skeleton, and I can’t help but assume authoring the log had been the last thing the poor Nomai in front of me did. The words that begin the inscription don’t cast doubt on my suspicion.

“I fear our situation may be dire: Pye, Poke, and I landed here on this comet not long after its arrival in this star system. Our shuttle’s equipment heard strange energy readings coming from somewhere beneath the surface. Pye and Poke were able to locate a fissure in the ice on the comet’s sunward side, and they descended inside to investigate the source of the readings.

“But...Pye and my sister have been gone for a long time now. They haven’t contacted me since descending below the surface, either. Should I leave the shuttle to look for them? I want to follow protocol, but I don’t know what I’ll do if they aren’t well…

“Poke...Pye...Come back to me safely, my friends.”

The log had been transcribed by Clary. Clary, the supportive sister; one of the Nomai who had worked in the Black Hole Forge to recreate warp technology, who made it possible for me to even recall this shuttle from the Interloper. Who is laying as a crumbling pile of bone at my feet.

Solanum had not been the only Nomai to stand alone at the conclusion of her species. Clary, like her, was on an alien world, only uncertainty waiting ahead. But while Solanum knew what the Quantum Moon held through her training, Clary, Poke, and Pye knew nothing of the Interloper. Its late arrival into the solar system must have been why I hadn’t read anything about it—there hadn’t been any time to document the comet before whatever catastrophic event wiped out the Nomai passed. 

How long had Clary waited for Poke and Pye to return? Only one spacesuit sits in the shuttle, only one pile of bones is on the floor. They never did manage to make it back, did they? Clary never knew whether they were safe.

I suppose it didn’t matter, in the end, because then whatever killed the Nomai ripped through solar system in seconds.

Skirting around Clary, I head to the controls, feeling very ill knowing the name of the remains beside me. Just like Solanum’s shuttle, three controls wait for user input beneath the observation window. If this shuttle had been programmed to go to the Interloper…can I somehow prompt it to take me there?

I move the sight-guided ball to the leftmost trigger.

A distortion forms outside the window. The glass is far too decorated for me to see it properly, but, slowly, steadily, the oranges of Ember Twin recede to make way for a dark blackness. I’m not confused for long. Stars begin to shine beyond the window. Without even feeling the pull of inertia, the shuttle shot silently into space, and me with it. There was no warning, no safety harness, and no explosions—both Slate and Gossan would have had a heart attack.

The shuttle coasts smoothly through the solar system. I glance behind me only once, then swear to never do so again—there is no hatch at the back of the ship, nothing stopping me from falling out into space except for my own sense of self-preservation. Which, in all honesty, is dwindling with every death I come back from.

As I watch the stars through the window, I feel the shuttle tilt. Stars begin to disappear as the dark sky grows lighter, until…

The sun creeps into view. Flaming, bubbling, and growing unseemingly closer, until I swear I can hear the howling of the solar winds across the particles strewn through the corona. And the shuttle is bringing me straight by it.

Remnants of flares streak across the glass as the Sun Station races by. Two platforms, joined by thick beams and stabilised with counterbalancing weights, a spiral design glowing from the top of one of its halves. I am probably the first Hearthian to see it so close, and that’s far from a good thing, because the orange flare of the sun encompasses more and more of my view, and I am suddenly swelteringly hot within my insulated suit, and now I can definitely hear the solar winds, in their full, skull-shatteringly loud force as the shuttle gives into the pull of the largest gravitational source in the solar system.

Panicking, I stare hard at the controls, moving the ball from path to path, the sun yawning to swallow me up, my skin boiling, my heart racing, and—

I am back on the launch platform on Ember Twin, my hands cramping from gripping the control console so tightly, my skin feeling raw from my close encounter with the sun, and the echo of a distant fizzle still fresh in my ears.

I let out a disbelieving breath, then a chuckle, then before I know it I’m laughing so hard I’ve doubled over the console, tears streaking down my face. How am I still alive? I should have died! I was so close to being burnt to a crisp—or, more accurately, passing out from acute heat exhaustion. No one would believe this. Not even Hal. Hearth, I don’t even believe it. 

If it wasn't for the tree sitting next to me aboard the shuttle, I surely would have died from suffocation; I waste so much oxygen laughing. After a few minutes of hysterics, I recompose myself, and it isn’t until then that I sort of wish that I had died. Adrenaline fading, the consequences of my close encounter grow apparent. My head is hot and foggy, my skin tender, and every muscle in my body is unnaturally tense. When I move, the seams along the inside of my suit scrape against blisters. The rubber of my gloves is squishy and malleable in places. I guess there’s a reason flying your ship near the sun is discouraged, despite the obvious.

Painfully, I leave the shuttle and Clary behind. I’m surprised to find a door to the Sunless City in the stone walls behind the gravity cannon controls. I open it up, and only a couple of steps in I find my path blocked by pesky cactus plants. I turn around, not even considering trying to climb over them. The worst feeling I can imagine feels an awful lot like poking my blistered skin with one of their sharp spines. Besides, I have my shortcut.

Locating the rockslide is easy, but finding out which boulders my shortcut is nestled between proves difficult in the monotony of red sandstone before me. I worry for a moment that I’m wasting too much time, but then I accidentally take a step into nothing and drop right down into the very hole I was searching for. Following the path back to the ghost-matter-and-rock-filled building, I’m happy to see that the sand hasn’t yet reached the upper caverns. The void that replaces the pool of sand I had used to bypass the ghost matter before gives me pause, but not for long. There’s a safe platform to my right I hop to before reaching one of the several fortified doors into the city. Opening it up, I find myself back on the narrow path in the Eye Shrine District, the plaza—and all its light controls—waiting below.

This time, I turn on the lights for the aptly named Anglerfish Overlook District, which rests in a nook nearest to the anglerfish fossil cavern. Though I’m not wholly enthused by the idea of getting up close and personal with the anglerfish skeleton and its teeth, Melorae and Coleus had mentioned wanting to study it. Maybe they found something useful? As much as Dark Bramble makes me shiver, the music of the harmonica I’ve been hearing still haunts me. Morally, I can’t just leave a fellow traveller there. I have to know if it really is Feldspar. 

The Anglerfish Overlook District is different from the Eye Shrine District in that it’s more of a maze of broken walls and debris than it is a neighbourhood. Cacti plants cover the floor, sandfalls sprinkle down through holes in the ceiling. Skeletons are strewn about without rhyme or reason, disintegrating, damaged, missing bones or scattered across the floor. Unlike the Hanging City, this place is far from undisturbed. No longer are articulated remains sitting life-like at tables or resting in beds. Shifting sands have washed any indication of day-to-day life away. Walking through the bones, it feels more like a graveyard than any other place has. I wonder what Riebeck would have to say about it. I’m sure they’d be thrilled to learn of another large Nomai settlement, even if interpreting the remains would serve as a test of the imagination.

In the midst of the maze of broken stone sits a single solid building. I can tell from the purple glow emanating from the cracks that it has something to share with me. Sure enough, peeking through a window I see a scroll and a chalkboard, in a room with a single small sandfall. But how to get inside? Circling the building yields me nothing. The walls are flush with the cavern floor and ceiling; nearby houses offer no way in. I’ve been lucky, so far, to have been able to read everything I’ve wanted to. There’s always been a way inside tricky places, eventually, but I’m bound to encounter a room with no backdoor at some point. I shouldn’t be surprised.

Nearby is a weak gravity beam rising into a second level of living spaces. I ride it up, avoiding the prick of the cactus plants below it. 

Other than affording a great view of the plaza and surrounding cavern, the upper level of the district doesn’t have much to offer. More broken buildings, more broken pots, more sandfalls. In fact, it’s in an even worse state than the level below, with the walls of the houses that used to sit here only defined by lines of beige rocks criss-crossing the sandstone floor. The sandfalls batter the stone, dotting the landscape with treacherous holes leading back down to…

Huh. 

I circle back around to one of the sandfalls. The stone beneath is buffed around the edges, glimpses of what waits below flickering through the sand. I hold out a hand underneath it. It comes down much more gently than I thought it would, probably owing to Ember’s reduced gravity. Hesitantly, I hop down. 

The sound of sand on my helmet is…not helping the headache I developed after my experimental shuttle flight. At least the fall only lasts a few seconds. Stepping out from under the sand, I find I’ve fallen back down to the lower level. Right there is the gravity beam and its cactus friends, and a short ways away is that inaccessible building with the sandfall and the glowing Nomai text.

I wonder…

Returning to the house I can’t enter, I peek through the windows. This time, I’m not looking for scrolls or doors. This time, I look up. The modest sandfall within pours down from the ceiling, like all others on this level. The gaps in the window frame are just large enough for me to fire my Scout through…

My Scout shoots from my launcher, landing on the floor beside the sandfall and lighting the room with a harsh white shine. The location information displays to my visor. Now, wherever I go, I’ll see that little arrow, pinpointing where my Scout is relative to me. 

Using the prickly gravity beam, I drift up to the second level. Again, I am met with the ghosts of buildings and a maze of sandfalls, all gushing to the level below. But there is only one sandfall I care about. Tracking my Scout’s location, I follow the signal until I am directly above it—a sandfall pours immediately to my left. I jump down, brain aching beneath the grains, and step out into the house that I thought might be impossible to enter.

I pat my Little Scout and return it to my launcher, feeling more than a little accomplished. It’s nice to have thought through the solution to a puzzle for once, instead of throwing myself at it until it all clicks. 

Nomai text fills the chalkboard that sits to once side of the room. I ready my translator tool.

“Who’s been computing shuttle trajectories to the Sun Station? Don’t worry; the station is in such a low stellar orbit, we’ve constructed a different, safer way to travel there from Ash Twin.”

Light played against the boundaries of the room as the message popped up on Idaea’s scroll wall. He stared at it for a moment, conflicted. He had only just sat down at his table and was rather looking forward to a slow morning. After a long moment of deliberation, he stood, leaving his notes and morning drink behind to fetch his staff from the other room.

“That would be Pye,” Idaea replied exasperatedly upon returning, massaging between his eyes. Who else could it have been? Few were directly involved with the Sun Station. Like seemingly everything pertaining to the Ash Twin Project these days, it was controversial. No Nomai would go so far as to sabotage the equipment, but the fewer people involved, the fewer arguments they’d have over the ethics of the station itself, and the fewer disagreements Yarrow would have to settle. At least, that had been the theory. The project wasn’t even off the ground yet and Idaea had already gotten into a healthy number of stalemates with his research partner, Pye. Her eagerness to test the theory behind the station was—disconcertingly—second to none. 

That was likely why Yarrow had paired them together. There was no stopping Pye from working on this project. No, with her experience at the High Energy Lab, and her expertise in the warp time anomaly, and her enthusiasm, she was perfect for the role. All she needed was for her excitement to be tempered, her ideas to be tested. That was where Idaea came in. 

Initially, he had been glad to be put on the project. If anyone was going to ensure that every safety precaution had been taken, it would be him. Besides, Pye was an energetic, intelligent, friendly Nomai whose research was, admittedly, ingenious. She had in herself a skeptic, too; Idaea recalled that when the warp time anomaly was discovered, Pye wasn’t so easily convinced that it wasn’t the result of standard equipment error. He thought that would make her easy to work with, that she wouldn’t allow herself to be so easily swept up in her emotions, but now, still months away from the station’s completion, she was wearing him down. She was passionate, to say the least. Idaea knew what that felt like, seeing only success after success on a project, letting that eagerness overwhelm you well past when it should. It seemed her success at the High Energy Lab had only bolstered her confidence, and she threw herself into this next project with the full force of an apprentice who had just been given their first solo assignment. 

It wasn’t unusual for Idaea to wake in the middle of the night with a message from her on his wall, or to have her appear at his doorstep unexpectedly, to drop off a new bundle of equations for him to look over. This would all have been fine if their placement on the station was mere days away, but with the station not even fully constructed, Idaea thought the enthusiasm was…excessive. And, his involvement in her extracurriculars was—not to be overly bitter—completely pointless. He would finish running through her notes, commenting on semantics and feasibility, and just when he was ready to send them back, she came knocking with a whole new bundle, eagerly explaining that her old equations were outdated and that Idaea’s edits were no longer needed. It took all his self-control to not throw every new package he received from her straight into the trash. He knew the moment he did, those would be the notes that stuck, and he didn’t want Yarrow to catch him not taking the project seriously.

Which—he was. He was taking it seriously. In fact, more seriously than most—he was actually concerned about the risk of failure, unlike the others involved. He just didn’t see why Pye wasted her time on pointless calculations, when she should be allocating more energy towards figuring out if the power source was even viable to begin with. He dreaded the time when the station would be fully operational, and no longer just because he disagreed with its use. If Pye was already exhausting him, how bad would it get when their work truly began and they were trapped aboard the station together?

“I told her we wouldn’t be traveling there by shuttle,” Idaea continued, shaking his head, “and that the Sun Station doesn’t even have a landing pad, but she said she knew.”

Just then, a new message played. 

“It’s a purely theoretical exercise on my part, Yarrow,” Pye replied. Her voice was far too chipper for it being so dreadfully early in the morning. “Who doesn’t love computing a good low stellar orbit shuttle trajectory?”

Idaea read over her last sentence a second time before groaning.

“Pye, I look forward to working with you, but I’m also relieved it will be easy to return to Ash Twin regularly.”

For the first time, I consider—really consider—the Sun Station. My thoughts have never lingered on it for very long before. My mediocre piloting skills, though markedly getting better, I have to admit, prevent me from landing on the station itself. There are too many ways I could fail, not the least notable involving an inescapable dive into the deadliest celestial body around. My skin is still tight from drying out, tender from blisters and burns. I’m not eager to get so close again so soon.

The Nomai were much cleverer than I am. They hadn’t flown to their solar station, no—they had warped. And, I should have known this. I had seen the glowing spiral myself just this loop: a warp platform, housed within one of the two halves of the station. 

This is, what? The sixth such warp receiver I’ve seen? And the fifth that I’ve failed to find an activator for. The White Hole Station warps to Brittle Hollow’s northern glacier, of course, but then I saw similar spirals in the Black Hole Forge District, on Timber Hearth, at the Statue Workshop on Giant’s Deep, at the High Energy Lab, and now on the Sun Station, of all places. It’s strange that I’ve travelled across nearly the entire solar system and have so far failed to locate the activators for any more of the platforms I've discovered. Are they all like the White Hole Station, drifting in some far corner of space?

No. The warp platforms make travel more convenient. The only reason the White Hole Station is so far out is to aid Nomai who had slipped into Brittle Hollow's black hole. The rest shouldn't be so out of the way. What is it Idaea had written? Something about returning to Ash Twin…

Is the warp platform there? Buried beneath the sands?

Ash Twin is the last proper planet I have to explore, and the last place I know the Nomai had left their mark—more so than any other planet, in fact. It’s also a planet I’ve never personally visited, and one Hearthians haven’t so fully documented. Feldspar had been there, and, briefly, Chert. But aside from those handfuls of trips…

I think about its equatorial bridge. About the towers it connects, about what I know about the planet. The towers must have been important for the Nomai to have expended so many resources building them. That, and, clearly the small planet played a key role in the eponymous Ash Twin Project. Two towers, not dissimilar to the one that rises from the High Energy Lab, covered in pearlescent leaflets, stand from Ash Twin’s poles. Then the collection of other towers along its equator, like the one that looks like a geyser mountain, and the one that's shaped like a star, or the rosette of a compass; circular and pointed. Or, it looks like…

The sun.

Is that it, then? The tallest of the towers on Ash, the one that flares outwards in a starburst—does it house the warp platform to the Sun Station? Chert’s commendation is truer than they could have possibly known.

Looking over the writing again, I take note of the speakers. Pye and Idaea. Idaea had added their trepidatious thoughts on the Sun Station’s construction to the wall in the plaza. What did I learn from the debate there? The Sun Station was to power the Ash Twin Project, and the Nomai were worried that it would destroy the solar system…

It’s far too seamless a solution to be mere coincidence. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but the Sun Station is the reason for the supernova. It has to be. The theory is far more sound than my convoluted—and not particularly well-thought-out—suspicion that the Orbital Probe Cannon randomly knocked the Interloper into the sun. I know the Sun Station was dangerous, and that it needed to produce a profound amount of energy. I know that its construction was controversial. I know that it had an important role to play in the Ash Twin Project, and, as I am beginning to realise, everything comes back to the Ash Twin Project.

And, well—it has 'Sun' right there in its name.

Something is going on up there, and I don’t like it one bit. But, I’m hopeful. If the Sun Station really does cause the death of our sun, there must be a way to stop it. An OFF switch, or a plug I can disconnect. I’ll even push it into the sun myself if that’s what it takes. But whatever waits for me on that station, I’m ready for it. It’s just a matter of figuring out how to get there.

At least I know where I’ll be headed next, after I finish my exploration of the Sunless City, of course. No need to rush.

Chapter Text

I explore the Anglerfish Overlook District one last time, and am surprised to find that there’s no path to the anglerfish; at least not one I can find with my flashlight. That’s…disappointing. If I really have pieced together how to save the sun, all I have to do before everything goes back to normal is turn off the time loop. Then, I won’t want to waste too much time before exploring Dark Bramble again, not if Feldspar really is stuck inside. I’ll need as much information as I can get to bypass those horrible anglerfish inside, and I was hoping the fossil fish had the hints I’ll need.

Next up on my list is the Stepping Stone District. Getting back to the plaza to refill my oxygen and turn on the lights, I notice the sand is climbing ever higher. I hope I’ll have enough time to finish what I want to do.

The Stepping Stone District is oddly familiar. Houses line a stone path, each one overflowing with personality. Bookshelves, beds, tables, chairs, and toys—all broken or overturned by the sands. Skeletons fill the halls as they do in the Hanging City. Some remains are scattered, but some are remarkably whole: families in their beds, children being their mischievous selves. I stumble across two children at play in one house, the smaller of the bodies peeking through their neighbour’s window. It’s something Tephra and Galena did on days I had no training scheduled. I would do my best to sleep in, but if I failed to secure the latch on my window I would surely wake far too early to a pair of expectant hatchlings wanting to play. I couldn’t even be upset—I was guilty of it myself when I was their age, seeing if Marl or Gabbro or Riebeck were awake so they could take me on a trip outside of the village.

The skeletons rest beside clumsy writing on the floor. The lettering is so large and slanted that I can't help but think of the notes the hatchlings wrote me when I left for training. It's with a strange feeling in my chest that I pull out my translator tool.

It was late. Well, not that late—everyone was still awake, and it would be several hours still until bedtime. But to Lami, it was late. And, when it was late, she was supposed to practice her writing or go to Taget’s so he could help her with her numbers. Instead, she was sitting on the floor of her house with her brother, Laevi, and their friend, Ilex, stifling their giggles. They were planning their game, leaving a note behind for the other children to find when they came looking for them. It had become a routine now, a routine that their parents didn’t seem to approve of yet never disciplined them for. Dad said that it at least got them out of the house. Mom said to be careful and that they could continue to play as long as Melorae and Coleus said they could. And Melorae and Coleus had said they could, as long as they didn’t climb on the fossil like they used to.

Lami had agreed reluctantly. She loved racing her brother up the back of the skeleton to see who could get to the top of its skull the fastest. She never won, but she thought she was getting close.

It was her brother who held the staff. It was always Laevi who was in charge. No one ever complained, except for Ilex. Ilex wanted Yarrow’s job when he was older, and Lami thought he could do it, easily—though she’d never tell him that. Laevi was great at coming up with games, but Ilex was always the one to find the best rules that worked for everyone. And that was basically what Yarrow did, wasn’t it?

“We’re meeting in the Fossil Fish Cave to play the game!” Laevi typed into the staff. They had to be quiet so that Mom and Dad didn’t catch them. Not that they’d get in trouble; it was just far more fun to be secretive. “If you’re too big to climb through the Anglerfish Overlook hole, you’ll have to go the long way, but it isn’t far. Go to the Stepping Stone Cave, and then up and into the Fossil Fish Cave.”

Through their open door, they saw Taget walk by. He poked his head in and they motioned him over excitedly, shushing him before he could get a word out. Ilex pointed at the note on the floor and mouthed ‘Tell the others.’ Taget furrowed his brow, his third eye narrowing, before he took the staff from Laevi and typed in his own message.

“I tried to get to the fossil fish through the Stepping Stone Cave, but I couldn’t find the entrance. Where is it?”

Lami giggled and snatched the staff from Taget’s hands. 

“Taget can’t fit through the Anglerfish Overlook hole anymore because he grew bigger! He’s taller than Laevi now.”

Laevi glared daggers at her and yanked away the staff. Lami had to bite her sleeve to keep quiet—Laevi always looked so funny when he was angry. Even Taget was watching with an amused expression. She wasn’t supposed to know, but Laevi and Taget had a bet going on who would be taller by the end of the year.

“Who cares?” Laevi typed furiously. “Ilex is still tallest.”

“I thought we were writing directions?” Ilex whispered. Lami shushed him, but the boys ignored her.

“These are directions!” Laevi whispered back.

“Arguments are not directions!” Ilex retorted, before grabbing the staff for himself. He typed his own message into the interface, and the floor lit up with his words. He had such nice handwriting. Lami hoped hers would look as neat and precise as his one day.

“Remember to feed the fossil fish first! If you go to the Anglerfish Overlook and throw a light into his mouth, he’ll show you the way.”

“Those are directions,” Ilex said, handing Laevi back the staff.

Lami, Laevi, and Taget were apparently masters of secret entrances; they saved me before on Giant’s Deep, where their lamentations on the wall of the big house gave me just the push I needed to get into the Statue Workshop. Now, they tell me about the Stepping Stone Cave. Does the namesake of this district still house a back-way into the fossil cave after thousands of years of erosion?

Before I leave, I regard the skeletons on the floor. Are these the bones of Lami and her brother, Laevi? Or had other children moved into the house they used to conspire in? Through the window, there is another house, with more toys, another child, and another patch of glowing purple on the floor. Turning back the way I came, I spot a platform I hadn’t seen before. A natural rock bridge arcs over the path. I use my jetpack boosters to reach it, and I read the writing inside.

“Are we playing the fossil fish game tonight?” Taget asked.

The next name, I am surprised to see.

“I fed the fossil fish a new lantern,” Solanum said. She must have been very young, before she moved to Brittle Hollow for school. “If you go to the Stepping Stone Cave, the entrance to the Fossil Fish Cave is easy to see now.”

Laevi wrote next. “Gratitude, Solanum! It’s good you’re small enough to climb in through the hole at the Anglerfish Overlook.”

“I’m still small enough!” Lami added.

“You won’t be for long,” Laevi countered. “Mom and Dad are tall, so you and I will be tall, too.”

So, the way forward reveals itself by feeding the fish a lantern? It sounds like the playful imaginings of children. Hal and I used to make up such games, pretending that felled trees were great vessels or that boulders were mountains. My mind fills with fond memories, and I think that I should visit my friend again soon, even if I know every word they’ll say when we meet. I follow the stone path until it falls away into an overlook at the cavern’s edge. 

Another fortified door waits for me. The Stepping Stone Cave. Acutely aware of my time constraints—not even needing to peer over the side of the lookout to see the sand—I open the door. There’s a walkway through the stone that turns and twists, meandering like the water that had carved it until it falls away into…nothing.

No torches brighten my path. Only the vague shapes of pillars emerge from the deep blackness. The floor, roof, and surrounding walls of the cavern are all much too distant to catch in the beam of my flashlight. Aiming for some wall I hope is there but cannot see, I launch my Little Scout.

It flies much farther than I anticipate, much farther than the stone pillars my flashlight outlines. It snags a surface 40 metres out and its flood lights switch on, filling the room with light so intense that I can finally see the sandstone that confines us. 

The Stepping Stone Cave’s name becomes apparent. Pillars of all shapes and sizes fill the cavern, so far forward that I can’t even see where they end. They rise low, and high, and some are multileveled—all very reminiscent of the stepping stones that sit unevenly across certain rivers and ponds on Timber Hearth. Except, instead of water flowing between the stones, it’s sand.

Hopping from platform to platform, and having a bit too much fun doing so, I reach the pillar my Scout attached itself to. In the distance, I spot a torch-lit path. Is that the way to the anglerfish cave? I recall my Scout and head that way. A set of stairs carved into the rock switch back and forth as they rise through a narrow alcove, until I meet with a humble door. I unlock it with its sight-guided ball, and…

I am back in the Stepping Stone District. Before me, my original way to the Stepping Stone Cave, and, a short fall below, the way I entered the district. I made one big loop.

The sand is rising quickly, but I’m not ready to quit. Despite the complexity, the forest of pillars and their misshapen edges, I can’t believe that I missed the way into the anglerfish cave. Children had stumbled across it, so it can’t possibly be that hard to find. Moving quickly, I refill my oxygen at the plaza and return to the cave to search for the entrance.

The lowest of the platforms have already succumbed to the sand in the short time I was away. There isn’t all that much distance between myself and the roof of the cave, now, but I glimpse a few crevices in the ceiling that set my mind at ease. Perhaps they will offer me protection from the rising sand, or, better yet, shelter the entrance to the fossil cave I so desperately want to get into. I find my eagerness to get into the cave growing with every tantalizing thought of it—if there's a way to bypass the anglerfish, I have to know it.

…But the sand keeps rising, and my breath shallows with every metre it deepens. The uneven stratigraphy of the pillars acts like a measuring rod, and I watch with growing worry as the sand climbs and climbs the parallel lines. Walking across the surface of the sand, boots crunching over the grains, I anxiously shine my flashlight into the folds of the ceiling, lighting up any suspicious shadows in an attempt to locate my way out.

It’s not long before the ceiling grows much too low. I lose sight of the exit stairs and have to duck into the shelter of a fissure to keep myself from being crushed. Do all the fissures connect? I have to hope so, or else I’ve trapped myself. My steps quicken as my desperation to find a way out turns practical: if I don’t find another exit—any other exit—I’m done for. I know, or think I know, that the loop will restart regardless of how I die. None of this is happening. I mean, it is, but only for now. In a couple of minutes, it'll just information sent back in time, to me, sleeping uncomfortably under the stars. But it’s one thing to know all that, and another to convince my survival instinct that it's true.

I shoot my Scout above my head. It illuminates only intact stone, and it rests only 11 metres above my head.

10 metres. 9 metres…

I navigate the fissures, but only find dead ends after dead ends. My oxygen depletes faster than it should as my heart races, thoughts now only centred on my impending death.

It won’t be pleasant, and it won’t be quick. It won’t be like any death I’ve experienced before.

I follow a tunnel that curves downwards. I see a light at the end, but it’s already so far away, and the way through is so impossibly narrow. My heart breaks as I watch the door to the Sunless City disappear beneath the sand. 

The cavern roof is far too close now, the sand rising all too quickly. Throwing up my Scout again, I stare hopelessly at the distance marker. 5 metres. 4 metres. I just saw my exit slip away from me, and all I’m left with is a maze of twisting tunnels and an entrance to a cave I can’t see.

I should have just fed the stupid fish a stupid lantern.

Standing under the light of my Scout, a feeling of suffocation overwhelms me as the space I occupy grows smaller and smaller with each passing second. I know what’s coming. I have no way of delaying it. Is there a worse death than feeling every bone in your body snap?

I try not to think about that, but suddenly it consumes my every thought. Visceral images fill my head.

3 metres. 2 metres.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I breathe in, and out, and in, and out—just like Gabbro taught me—and focus my thoughts on anything but the sound my bones will make when ceiling meets floor. Anything but that, anything but what will happen in just a few seconds. I flood my mind with memories of Timber Hearth, of the quiescent rivers I fish in, in the pine tree groves where Hal and I played. Of the grass waving in the breeze, and the dew clinging to pine needles, and the packing snow that sits atop our tallest mountains. I think of the village, and the launch tower, and all the campfires I’ve had there, sitting in the belly of the crater…

I take a deep breath in, and there I am.

Crickets chirp in the shadow of the launch tower. The Orbital Probe Cannon rips itself apart above my head, the purple probe flying off somewhere new. The Quantum Moon hovers above, and I blink, and it’s gone. An unsettling feeling still clings to me, burying itself in beneath my skin. It takes me a few moments to realise that I’ve woken up. It’s a new loop. I fetch my Signalscope, mutter to Slate that I’ve already picked up the launch codes, and head up the lift to my ship, which waits for me, ready as always.

My mind is fuzzy, as if I haven't fully woken from a dream. Placing my Signalscope on a shelf, I examine my ship’s log. All my notes are still there. I type up what I’ve learned, but distractedly—my eyes keep dropping to the power cables that feed the computer from the underbelly of my ship. The energy pulses along them, and I can't help but be reminded of the cable that connects the Sunless City to the High Energy Lab, and where it sits at the very bottom of the caverns of Ember.

The cable isn't the only thing stolen from the Hourglass Twins. I can’t see it, but somewhere inside is a small chip of stone. The same stone that connects me to the Ash Twin Project connects my ship to it, too. It’s incredible, really, that the statue that trapped my memories can trap the ‘memories’ of a computer, too. 

One day, when I have fewer things on my plate, I’ll have to ask Chert and Hornfels how they came to understand that the statue rock stores information. Honestly, I’m rather appalled by my past self, not asking questions, not pushing further. It’s a version of me I no longer recognise, after staking my life and the lives of my friends, my whole world, on finding answers to the questions I uncover. Though, I’m not doing so great at that, looking at all the asterisks and unknowns that plague my ship log. At least I know one thing: how to get into the anglerfish cave.

Taking a seat at the console of my ship, I head off towards the gravity cannon on Ember Twin. Following my shortcut back, I arrive in the cavern of the Sunless City, lights dim and floor far down below me. I switch on the lights at the plaza and head back through the first door I had encountered; the one that leads back to the crash site and its caves.

That tunnel, I do not take. Instead, I march up the stairs beside it and peer through the small window that overlooks the anglerfish fossil. In the dark, I can see only the diffuse light of its lure. Neither it nor the light from my flashlight do much to reveal the terrifying fossil I know waits patiently below. 

I aim my Little Scout into the void, and fire.

I watch it grow smaller as it arcs through the cavern. Landing on the sandstone floor, its flood lights spark, and suddenly the whole cavern, and every towering tooth, is starkly illuminated. Re-aiming my Scout launcher, I recall the probe and fire it again, hoping it will land where I want it to this time. And, it does. Upon reaching the ground its lights again fill the cave, only this time, it doesn’t darken the fossil fish’s mouth. Instead, every tooth is lit in full, casting long, sharp shadows across every wall from where it sits in the fish's lower jaw. I’m not sure if I prefer the fossil in darkness or in light—it makes my skin crawl either way, especially knowing how the monstrosity moved and hissed in life, and how it would have screeched a world-shattering screech if it spotted me…

My short-lived trip to Dark Bramble felt like a bad dream more than an excursion. The only thing worse than the memories it left me with is knowing that I’ll eventually have to return if I have any hope of rescuing my friend. If they’re even still inside.

Easily, I navigate down to the Stepping Stone District. What once had seemed like a messy conglomeration of houses begins to take shape around me. The more I explore the city, the more I understand the logic behind it. Just like the Hanging City with its vertical paths and bridges over emptiness, I get used to the strangeness of it. The Sunless City has its own personality, and after spending several loops in its caves, I’m beginning to get to know it quite well.

When I end the time loop, will my fellow Hearthians believe all that I have done? Will they believe that the newest astronaut discovered an entire city, or survived the black hole of Brittle Hollow, or dared enter the tangle of Dark Bramble? Even if I give them evidence…Will they believe it?

Hal might, after some convincing. That’s not saying much—they can be pretty gullible. I’m not so sure about anyone else. I wonder if Gabbro will even believe it, or if they’ll just nod and sprinkle in anecdotes in an attempt to appease me. Thinking about it, there might be a very real possibility that I get grounded for good. If that's the case, I'll just have to make my time in the loop worth it.

The Stepping Stone Cave is nothing like when I left it. The sand is far, far below, but still—I’m uneased by the rough-edged cavern, with all its nooks and crannies just waiting for innocent Hearthians to get trapped. The shadows grip the walls, fill the floor. They perfuse into every single space outside the reach of my flashlight, except…

Right there. Light is shining down from the ceiling, a light I hadn’t seen last time, and a light that even the dim glow of my flashlight nearly drowns out.

I switch off my light and hop between the stepping stones, until I am bathed in the glow of my Little Scout resting overhead, though I can’t see the probe from where I stand. In one of the crevices in the ceiling is a hole only just large enough for me to squeeze through. No wonder I missed it in my panic. The Nomai children must have played here every day for them to have discovered the tunnel. And how, then, did they reach it? The distance marker from my Scout is just south of 50 metres. Did they wait for the sands to flow, or did they craft some sort of ladder up to their favourite secret spot?

If Melorae and Coleus had indeed visited and studied the fossil, I have to assume that there had been some sort of infrastructure leading into the cavern at one point. Though, even if there used to be, it’s long gone, now. I'll have to find my own way up. Putting my jetpack boosters to the test, I fly up towards the light, but the lip of the tunnel above my head is only just too high, even in Ember’s low gravity. 

Great. In my eagerness, I’ve arrived too early. I can’t reach the cave now; the platform I stand on is too low. But when the sands rise, the distance between myself and the ceiling won’t be so great. If only I fed the fish last time, I would have had it all timed perfectly. 

Turning my flashlight back on and looking down, I see only small patches of sand scattered around the bottom of the cavern. About to sit and wait for the sands to arrive, something pulsing catches my eye—a thick cable, glowing with purple light. The same cable I saw at the High Energy Lab powers the Sunless City. Could this be the trail that joins them?

I drop down to the sandstone, avoiding the spines of the cactus plants I pass on my way down. Sands begin to spill across the floor, but I’m not worried. I don’t plan on spending too much time on my tangential investigation. I’m set on reaching the fossil this loop. 

The cable snakes across the floor, curving around the sandstone pillars. I follow it to yet another fortified door, and, opening it, see a great big cavern. A tower of houses I think I recognise fill the space, but upon seeing the yellow glow in the distance, I am certain: I’m back in the Sunless City.

The fourth district, the lowest district in the city, is called the High Energy Lab Trailhead. Fearful of the sand, the lowest district is the last I have to explore, and, apparently, it leads to the bottom of the Stepping Stone Cave. I only dare stand outside the door for a few seconds before turning around to returning to my Scout. The sand is coming quickly, now, so quickly I wonder how I’ll ever be able to make the trip to the lab. I haven’t wasted much time, but already the cable is disappearing beneath the fine sediment. I have a feeling that the headache of reaching the fossil is nothing compared to that of locating the lab, at least when so many pitfalls and setbacks are sure to lie in my path. Even getting to the Sunless City, I encountered twisting trails, sandfalls, sudden drops, and cacti ready to deplete my already dwindling oxygen supply.

That is, however, a problem for future-me to deal with. Present-me has a lift to wait for. 

I have to admit—sitting on an upper platform in near-darkness, patiently waiting for the sand to rise, is sort of nice, in a mildly terrifying way. I don’t exactly want to die from compression again, but when was the last time I leaned up against a rock and just waited? I should use more loops to sit back and relax. Gabbro has the right idea. 

Before too long, the sand meets the top of my pillar and begins to pour around me. I stand, waiting for a couple of metres to shave off my Scout distance marker, then jet up towards the light of my probe.

The stone is no longer orange, but white. Instead of a rough, sandpaper-like surface, my boots slide across curved, smooth ground. Dozens of stalagmites rise from the floor to join arches of stalactites overhead, and, when I recall my Scout, I see a ball of white light glowing above me. I now understand why the lantern has to be inside the fossil’s mouth. The tunnel runs right up through its belly. I’m standing inside of its skull. And those aren't stalagmites I'm looking at...

I waste no time in jumping from the fish's maw. It wasn’t ever a sight I wanted to see, staring at its pointed teeth, curving in towards me. 

The Fossil Fish Cave is dark. Even after tossing down my Scout, there are corners that remain steadfastly unilluminated. What I do see, I dislike even more than the darkness. Four, small, fragile skeletons are collapsed on the floor, a small stack of toys between them. Their bones are chipped and scattered, discoloured from the iron that makes Ember Twin’s sandstone its telltale colour. Whatever had caused their deaths, I hope it happened much too quickly for them to even feel the fear of what was coming.

All the Hearthians back home…they must see the sun die. Even though each loop isn’t…real for them, not for long at least, it still happens. I can imagine the confusion that must blanket the village as the sky gets darker than it ever has before. I can imagine the panic as the realisation that the sun has disappeared settles in, the quiet fear that follows. Do Hal and Hornfels leave the museum at the sound of the terrified shouts outside? Does Gneiss reach comfortingly for Tephra and Galena? Does Rutile try to instill some semblance of calm, or do they freeze?

Tuff must not even know what hits them, deep within the shelter of the mines. And Tektite and Esker are alone and distant. 

Then again, Hearthians have always been plagued with hardship. I like to think that when faced with the end of everything, they stand together with resolution. We’ve done just that more times than I can count, when winds shifted fires in all the wrong directions, or when relentless rainwater swelled our rivers, or when storms sent tall trees tumbling. 

They have it easy, in the village. It’s Esker, I worry for. All alone on the Attlerock, eyes rarely tearing away from home.

On the floor is a scribbled note. I translate it and try to smother out the ache that suddenly fills my chest.

“Whoever was 'it' when we ended last time is the anglerfish,” Laevi wrote. “And rule change! The anglerfish now has to wear a blindfold. And do not peek! The rest of us (the littlefish) line up against one wall. When the anglerfish says go, the littlefish sneak across to the other side. If the anglerfish catches you, you’re eaten. Last littlefish to be caught is the new anglerfish! The old anglerfish gives the new anglerfish the blindfold and becomes a littlefish.”

“Why are we changing it?” Lami asked. “It’s too hard if you can’t see anything!”

“Aunt Pye says real anglerfish are blind, so you have to wear a blindfold! The rule stands!”

The anglerfish are blind? I think back to my trip to Dark Bramble, though I can barely remember it through the fog of fear that swallowed me. I remember floating weightlessly through the bramble seed, and seeing dim lights—anglerfish lures—through the haze. One moment, there was calm, and the next, sharp teeth emerged from the mist, and a haunting screech sent me flying backwards before I was eaten whole.

Had I made a sound? Is that what set the anglerfish on my tail?

I return my attention to the note. Apparently, Laevi’s rule did not stand, because Ilex added an update.

“It’s okay if younger kids don’t wear the blindfold when they’re it. The rest of us will still wear it for scientific accuracy and to make the game more even.”

I feel a small, sad smile tug at the corners of my mouth. Tephra and Arkose would probably love this game.

Overhead, the purple light of a gravity beam calls me upwards. Scaling the smooth side of the anglerfish’s skull, I engage my jetpack thrusters and soar up to meet it. It pulls me up and into a circular cave. It’s well-lit, cosy, and is filled with nothing more than a chalkboard and a door. The chalkboard, upon translation, appears to be filled with research notes.

“Anglerfish study:

Visually, the specimen appears to be of the same species as the anglerfish in Dark Bramble,” Melorae began. “We don’t believe it originated from this planet. The long growth protruding from its head is bioluminescent. Perhaps it used this growth to attract prey (a lure?).”

“This anglerfish’s digestive tract suggests death by starvation,” Coleus wrote. “An update: Melorae, while I was here making sketches of the anglerfish, I observed the children I saw earlier playing here again. They’ve added a rule to their game that incorporates our research. It’s wonderful!”

“I’m entirely delighted!” Melorae replied. “It’s never too early to appreciate biology!”

I purse my lips as I read through the notes. The anglerfish is indeed from Dark Bramble, or so the Nomai speculated. How is it then that it ended up in a cavern beneath Ember Twin’s surface?

I fear I already know the answer. There’s no way it had made it down to the depths at the size it is. No, it must have started off small, small enough to move through the claustrophobic tunnels, probably back when Ember was filled with water and not sand. There must have been other organisms here, then, for it to feed on, at least at first. Other than the sparse plant life, we don’t know if anything else had once called Ember Twin home. But if there were little creatures living in its caverns, the anglerfish would have had plenty to eat. It had grown and grown, until its success became its downfall and it trapped itself in a cave with no certain exit, starving to death.

How did it come to be here? Was it flung from the icy planet Dark Bramble overtook, or did it make the mistake of exploring the inside of the wrong bramble seed?

I know that the bramble seeds can bridge the gap between worlds in an instant. The one on Timber Hearth took my Scout to the dark, twisted planet. If a seed had ended up—somehow—on Ember Twin, it would have been easy for a small anglerfish to swim right through. And, if that had been the case…

Then there is still hope for my home. If Ember Twin survived a bramble seed, then it isn’t a death sentence. Not entirely. Yes, the bramble had ripped apart one planet, but maybe the seeds have to meet certain conditions or else they die out, leaving nothing but a skeleton of what could have been behind. Perhaps that's why they set down roots so readily. 

Of course, I have no way of knowing if my theory is correct without seeing a bramble seed here for myself. And my chances of that are slim. The anglerfish was a fossil even when the Nomai investigated it thousands of years ago. Whatever remains of the seed that may have brought it here is long since buried in the rock record or turned to dust.

Still, I like my theory. Without it, we only know of one planet that encountered a bramble seed, and it had been warped beyond all recognition. With my theory, we have two: fifty-fifty odds for whether the bramble seed on Timber Hearth will really spell the end of our planet. I prefer those odds. I vastly prefer those odds.

With a newfound hope, justified or not, and newfound knowledge, I turn to the door that sits in the sandstone. I am surprised to find that it works, and even more surprised to find where it brings me.

I am back on the surface, sun raging, wind rustling the scrub brush tucked between boulders. To my right, a bright beam of light shoots into the sky—Escape Pod Two. To my left, the gravity cannon, slanted across the landscape. Ash Twin makes its circuit around the equator, dwarfed more than usual by the swelling sun.

Any second now, the loop will end. That suits me just fine, because I know where I’m heading next, and I know that the only way to get there is buried now. I’m going to follow that cable that winds between pillars in the Stepping Stone Cave, that cable that powers the lights of the Sunless City. And that cable will lead me straight to the High Energy Lab.

Chapter Text

I stand at the overlook separating the plaza from what waits for me below. It took me only a couple of minutes to fly back over when I woke by the campfire. Directing my ship toward the Hourglass Twins has become second nature to me after all the times I’ve done it. In fact, I no longer need to consult my map at the start of each loop—even without being able to see the planets in the sky, I know where each one is, and I can steer my ship over the pines and geysers of Timber Hearth with a confidence I’ve never felt before.

Navigation, I’m decent at. Charting the movements of planets and stars is far beyond my comfort level, but I know enough to get by. Slate had been testing out piloting aids on my ship in preparation for his next project, including my rudimentary autopilot and some distance markers I can program to display to my windshield. It’s all incredible stuff, growing ever more redundant as I begin to internalise the script that the planets follow each loop. 

Navigating in open space is one thing. Navigating through dark tunnels, not knowing what waits ahead—if there even is an ‘ahead’, and not just a dead end—is something else entirely. I’m not anxious to take the plunge to the High Energy Lab, but the warp-time anomaly has intrigued me ever since I read about it. Even more so, the practical applications of the anomaly I keep seeing hints about. The anomaly in warp time is minuscule, a hundred-thousandth of a second. How can anything meaningful be accomplished with that small of a degree of difference?

I don’t know, but I want to find out. 

Already my nerves are eating away at my gut. From where I stand, the lights of the Sunless City burning bright, I can see the trailhead below perfectly. I don’t like what I see. The sand is just barely beginning to fill the bottom of the cavern, but even the few grains that roll from trickling sandfalls send my gut twisting. The sand-transfer starts so soon. Even if all goes perfectly...will I have enough time?

I jump down to the very lowest point of the cavern, slowing my descent with my jetpack thrusters. A tower, filled with furniture, with skeletons, with the remnants of lives lived, crumbles at nearly every corner. A single gravity beam cuts through its storeys, and I ride it up, once, to see if anything beyond emptiness waits for me inside. Nothing.

Returning down, the purple light of the cable from the High Energy Lab pulses towards me. In front of a fortified door, it disappears beneath the stone. 

Sand falls beside me, much more readily now, splashing across the surface of the sandstone, filling the air with dust. I’m glad that I have my pure oxygen to breathe, but my supply also worries me. Six minutes. Six minutes is all my tank can store. I have to hope that the High Energy Lab isn’t a seven-minute walk away.

With a breath—but not one too deep—I open the door.

And there I am, back at the base of the Stepping Stone Cave, cacti sitting in piles, stone pillars rising higher than the light of my flashlight allows me to see. Somewhere overhead is a small, inconsequential hole in the ceiling, and the skeleton of a great big fish I now know well. Pushing forward, I follow the cable through the maze of pillars, until it brings me to a tunnel I hadn't noticed before, with a large sandfall at its terminus, up high on a ledge. Behind it, near the ceiling, the rock walls darken. A tunnel. I see the prickly spines of cactus plants within, and, sadly, the glow of the cable. Either a quick fall back down to where I stand or a tear in my suit awaits me, but it seems I have no other choice. Sand spills over my boots and I know I can't wait here forever making up my mind. I jump, jetting up to the tunnel on the other side of the sandfall.

Instantly, I hear the tear. My oxygen begins to leak, and in its place, sand fills my suit. I fall down with the sand until I land hard on a rising pile of sediment. Quickly, I locate the breech and kick myself away from the sandfall, patching up the hole with duct tape.

My oxygen is sitting just above 60 percent. Not ideal, but it could be worse. 

I hate sandfalls.

Even in the low gravity of Ember Twin, they come down with enough force that I can’t use my jetpack to fly through them, boosters or no boosters. But then, how am I supposed to get up to the platform if the sandfall in front of it will send me crashing to the ground every time?

I pan my flashlight around the cave.

The sand is rising.

The sand is rising.

Reminded of the Stepping Stone Cave, I pull myself to my feet and wait. I can’t fly across the gap, but I can walk. The sand rises, and as long as I spread out my weight, I rise with it. As the exit tunnel grows closer and closer, my oxygen readings grow lower and lower. I’ve spent so long avoiding the sand that I'm unnerved just standing here, waiting for it to carry me up to the tunnel. Precious seconds are eaten away, and flashes of the Ash Twin towers revealing themselves from the flowing sand fill my mind. The metaphor of the Hourglass Twins has never been so apt.

When I reach the tunnel, I wait for the sand to cover the spines of the cacti and step through just as a warning pops up on my visor. Three minutes of oxygen remaining. At what still feels like the beginning of my hike, it’s not a message I want to see. But as I enter into the narrow tunnel, I know there is no turning back now. My way back is buried. I quicken my pace and follow the glowing cable forwards.

If the Nomai could see me now, they’d probably think me insane. The trail to the High Energy Lab clearly wasn’t designed to be used during a sand-transfer. For a species so prudent and forethinking, my strategy of barreling down tunnels, hoping beyond hope I can reach the end before my oxygen runs out or the sand catches up with me, would have seemed like a death wish. If I didn’t know that I’ll wake up from any death that befalls me, there’s no way I would have risked this. I’m growing more like Feldspar every day, and in all the wrong ways. I rarely repair my ship anymore, unless necessary, because it’ll repair itself at the beginning of the next loop. And how many times have I been battered and bruised and failed to seek the medical kit in my ship? How many times have I thrown myself at my problems just to see if my half-baked plan would work?

Sand fills the floor in uneven patches, and the cable suddenly disappears through a small gap in the ceiling. There’s no way I can follow it through—no way even my Little Scout can follow it through. Is this the end?

No—there’s a short detour beside me, blocked by cacti. I wait again for the sand to rise to cover their spines, watching my oxygen drop as I do. A little over 40 percent capacity remains. Over the cacti and around the bend, I am once again met with the cable. The direction of the energy flow confirms it—I’m still on the path towards the lab. 

Except, no, there’s another dead end. The cable runs through the sandstone again, and now I’m feeling turned-around. Have I gone back the way I came? No, that’s impossible. I take a path around the corner and see only undulating sandstone. The sand is rising. I feel the tug as my pack drags across the ceiling above me. There’s another tunnel to follow, to the left of the cable, and I climb towards it, feet sinking in the sand...

I stumble forwards. I can’t even stand in the tunnel anymore, and the sand is coming so quickly, so relentlessly, and I feel the pressure on my chest and my back. That suffocating, crushing pressure. I can’t move. My vision is blocked by grains of sand. I squeeze my eyes shut and just hope that, whatever happens, I won’t remember it when I wake up—

I gasp, throwing the sleeping bag off of my chest. Cool air hits my skin, and I close my eyes, breathing deeply. I’m alright. Slate eyes me warily, but I ignore them. I’m just glad that I hadn’t heard my bones snap…

Not wanting to waste too much time, I give myself only a minute to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. I don’t want to experience getting crushed by the sand a third time, so I can’t afford to get turned around again. I’m close. I have to be close. This time, I can do it.

I return to the Sunless City with a new fire burning in my chest. I fill my oxygen at the plaza and hop down to the trailhead. 

At least I know now not to throw myself at cactus plants and hope for the best. I wait patiently for the sand to rise and step through the first sandfall without incident. That saves me a decent amount of oxygen. Then, following the cable to where it disappears into the stone for the first time, I turn right and step cautiously over sand-covered cacti. Keeping calm, I rejoin the cable, and it again disappears. This time, I go left, and follow a meandering tunnel to where the cavern opens up slightly. The cable runs upwards through a cylindrical cave, but—more importantly—a gravity beam sails alongside it. I step into its pull and it brings me up, far above the reaches of the sand. For now, at least.

I was so close last time. It would have made me angry, if I wasn’t so elated to finally be done with the lowest caverns of Ember Twin.

When I reach the top, I am dropped into a squarish tunnel hazy with blowing sand. A breeze ruffles the cloth of my space suit. The cable runs through the tunnel a short distance before snaking up into the ceiling, alongside a gravity beam pulsing down. Having my suspicions about where I am, I continue down the tunnel past where the cable and gravity beam pulse in tandem. The breeze gains strength as go deeper, until the wind begins to whistle through two narrow windows carved into either side of the tunnel. I look through one just in time to see Giant’s Deep and Brittle Hollow soar past, framed perfectly by steep canyonsides. I’m at the equator, inside a natural sandstone bridge that joins the two hemispheres. More precisely, I'm inside the bridge where I first followed the cable as it pulsed from the exterior of the High Energy Lab to the Sunless City. Which means, at the end of the tunnel...

At the end of the tunnel sits a cavern, with a lone, crumpled tower. Where the tower used to meet the ceiling, I see the light of a gravity beam. Climbing atop the ruins, ever upwards, I reach a ledge I think stretches high enough. Using my boosters, I fly to meet the beam.

I almost miss. Almost.

A small, blue-painted room greets me at the end of the gravity beam. It’s circular, lined with tables and pots. A brass design ornaments the ceiling, reminding me of the adornment that borders the observation windows of Nomai shuttles. The most beautiful sight sits in the corner of the room: a tree. My tank hisses as it refills, and I take a long, deep breath of fresh oxygen, savouring it like a fine wine (if I could stomach one) and not, well, air.

The roundness of the chamber is broken by a short hallway that opens up into the main room beyond. Nestled between two stairs, I am faced with a symbol I know well, glowing orange on the wall of the lab. Two spirals, interconnected. It’s all the confirmation I need that this lab was the site of warp research: it’s the same symbol that forms the warp platform receivers.

Everywhere, copper wires run. Up the stairs, down the stairs, to the main room behind me and to a mechanism before me. A sight-guided ball sits along its path, just waiting for activation. Without reading what it does, I move it. Nothing world-breaking happens. Panels beneath the warp symbol shift until they reveal a narrow window into a sandstone-bordered nook. I see nothing of interest inside. But the window is large enough to toss my Scout through, so I do—though several snapshots later I confirm the nook to be completely empty.

Under the window, and attached to a twisting mess of copper panels, are two conjoined diamond-shaped alcoves. The wall to my right has seven warp cores, which I recognise not only from Nomai technology, but from our own. These cores are what we repurpose for our Little Scouts, and I know their octahedral shape well. In fact, they seem to perfectly match the alcoves beside me…

Trying not to get ahead of myself—there’s a reason the Nomai closed this lab off, after all—I turn to head up the stairs behind me, into the main room of the lab.

A huge glass window fills the entirety of one wall, balconies on upper floors overlooking the canyon beyond. The solar tower on the surface has its roots in the middle of the room. Energy pulses down a tangle of wires, to where another sight-guided ball rests at the tower’s base. Two main streams of copper pour from it; one pulsing with energy towards the Sunless City, the old entrance to which I can see clearly outside of the window, across the bridge, and the other down the stairs to the nook beneath the warp symbol. No energy is carried along the second line. Stairs circle the tower, joining the lowest level to the two balconies above me.

Beside the tower sits a chalkboard, Nomai writing spiralling out from a scroll. A second scroll sits abandoned on the floor. I've barely taken in a fraction of what surrounds me, and already I'm giddy. I have a feeling I will learn plenty here.

-

Pye cleared her throat. Ramie stood beside her, resonating with excitement, the energy from the lab’s solar tower glinting in her eyes. She wore a teal space suit, her mask sitting by the lab’s back entrance, and her fur was tied back in preparation. 

Despite Pye only being on the project to prove to Ramie that the so-called ‘warp-time anomaly’ was nothing more than equipment error, she couldn’t stop a small smile from spreading across her face. The prospect of starting a new experiment always put a spring in her step. Was there anything greater than employing the scientific method with colleagues who were just as—if not more so—eager to get to work as she was?

And Ramie was quite eager, indeed. She had been from the moment Poke sent them those unreasonable numbers from the White Hole Station. Poke insisted that the equipment wasn’t wrong, at first, until a few days had passed and she admitted that she wasn’t so certain as she had originally seemed. Pye was inclined to believe that equipment error was far more likely than the laws of causality breaking down, and was quick to agree when Poke suggested that their equipment couldn’t be calibrated to handle measurements so miniscule. It was the rule of parsimony: the simplest explanation was usually the correct one. And equipment failure was much, much simpler than generations of Nomai being wrong about how the foundations of time worked.

Ramie, however, let her mind fill with thoughts of discovery. She took the warp-time anomaly and ran with it, treating it like it was a scientific breakthrough and not pure speculation. Already, she had plans of what experiments could be run to test it. She had asked Pye for help, and Pye couldn’t say no. Firstly, Ramie was a dear friend, and any experiment was a joy, even if she expected the tests to fail. Secondly, Pye was worried that Ramie would fall into a spiral of rigorous work, as she so often did when hyper-focused on a project. Pye could ensure that Ramie was locked out of the lab just often enough.

As Pye tapped the interface of her staff, Ramie twisted the hanging cloth of her suit in anticipation. Pye glanced to the ceiling lightheartedly. Ramie was either going to be very fun or very tiring to work with.

With all the delight of starting a new project, Pye read out their research goals. Her words mapped themselves to the scroll in the wall before her as she spoke.

“Records show Nomai arriving at the warp receiver on Brittle Hollow very slightly before departing from the White Hole Station. Ramie and I are devising an experiment to test if this is a real phenomenon or simple machine error.”

Eagerly, Ramie continued in turn. “In theory, what we want to try to reproduce is a negative amount of time elapsing between something entering the black hole and exiting the white hole at its destination.”

“Initial things first,” Pye said, casting a knowing look at Ramie, already sensing that her friend was getting ahead of herself. “Our experiment setup will first pair a small black hole core with a small white hole core to mimic the setup on the White Hole Station. Hypothesis: It is possible for an object to exit a white hole before entering the corresponding black hole.”

She pressed her staff, and the scroll stopped recording. Ramie looked at her expectantly.

“Are you ready to begin?” her friend asked, hardly keeping still.

Pye sat at a table she had pulled into the middle of the lab and poured over the notes she had saved. The readouts from the experiment were…consistent, if nothing else. Ramie was at the board, updating their research log.

“Our experiment here reproduced the anomaly in arrival and departure times,” she dictated, sending a noticeable glance Pye’s way, “but Pye is unconvinced it’s more than an equipment error. I hope to strengthen the effect to render it visible to the unaided eyes.”

Pye replied, loud enough for Ramie’s staff to pick up, “To that end, we’ve decided to try adding more energy. I imagine the Sunless City’s energy supply should prove sufficient.” Just then, her eyes widened as she remembered a message she was supposed to pass on. “Of note, Ramie: Yarrow requests that we let him know before we reroute energy to the experiment.”

Ramie bit her lip, and Pye knew what was coming even before she opened her mouth.

“I’d hate to leave him in the dark!”

Her play on words was almost too painful to bear. Pye rolled her eyes, but a grin was already tugging at the corners of her mouth. Ramie’s enthusiasm for the project—the anomaly a result of equipment error or not—was overwhelming. Pye couldn’t help but get swept up in all the fun Ramie was apparently having, even with her hypothesis not gaining much support in the weeks of testing they had done.

“All available energy has been rerouted from the city to our experiment,” Pye said into her staff, tearing her third eye away from the power controls at the base of the solar tower. “Ramie and I are about to run a new test.”

She had just spoken with Yarrow. It was late in the night, the city was sleeping, and its occupants wouldn’t mind the torches dimming for a few minutes. Ideally, they wouldn’t even be aware that the power had been redirected at all. It meant a longer day than usual for them in the lab, but this would be the last test they would perform before Ramie’s project was shelved for lack of support. Pye had already offered her preemptive condolences to her friend, but Ramie didn’t seem that heartbroken at all; in fact, she seemed more ready than ever to run the test. 

Pye finished her recording with a quick tap to her staff and followed the copper cables down the stairs. They pulsed with energy—energy that should, theoretically, amplify the time difference by an observable amount, if a time difference was indeed present. If the warp time anomaly really had been the result of equipment error, they would get the same readout as they always did: a difference of a hundred-thousandth of a second. 

Pye joined Ramie by the test chamber and propped her staff against the wall. Ramie was already unlocking the chamber window. Panels of sandstone slid away until an elongated opening revealed itself, the sandstone beyond lit by the carefully placed torches overhead. 

The two alcoves below waited to be filled. Both Pye and Ramie grabbed a warp core from the neighbouring wall and placed them in their sockets. Immediately, space-time distorted within the test chamber as a white hole and black hole popped into existence. Ramie took out the test probe—a cylindrical, streamlined payload reminiscent of their shuttles. While they observed, the probe would take its own measurements of departure and arrival time. The difference, if one was truly present, would be unmistakable. Pye watched carefully as Ramie slotted it into a weak launching device. Then, Ramie surprised her by smiling.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Are you ready?” Pye responded, brow raised. “You know Yarrow won’t keep the project going forever. Not without results.”

“Showing a hypothesis has little support is a result,” Ramie pointed out, readying her aim. “Stop worrying. This will be the one.”

“Hypothesis confirmed! Hypothesis confirmed! I saw it! Pye saw it! Hypothesis confirmed!”

Ramie was screaming into her staff by the scroll wall. The probe and its launcher were forgotten, hastily placed on a wall-lining bench in her excitement. She had run off before Pye had time to even fully process the exchange that had just taken place. Pye blinked, stunned, eyes still aimed where the white and black holes hovered in the test chamber. The results were…undeniable. The warp-time anomaly was very real indeed, and, furthermore, could be amplified to a tangible interval when fed enough power. It was…incredible! Pye’s thoughts were already running wild with the possibilities. First thing was to confirm the results with more tests, then to come up with new tests to answer all the questions that were popping fully developed into her mind. Why did this anomaly occur? How? How much power was needed to create a certain time interval? But more than that, now that they knew the interval existed, what could it be used for? Pye reasoned that, given enough power, the interval could virtually eliminate travel times between locations. If one could always arrive somewhere before they departed, before they even thought to depart…

Ramie yelling into the staff pulled her from her trance. She hurried over to the board and swiped the staff from her hands. Ramie didn’t seem to mind, she was absolutely beaming with pride, joyously watching Pye as she spoke.

“This is beyond extraordinary!” Pye added, breathless from her excitement. “This changes everything! What a beautiful day for the intersection of abstract theory and practical application!”

-

The warp-time anomaly wasn’t simply a result of their equipment. It’s real. And what’s more, they had made it tangible.

My jaw drops. It’s possible for something to leave somewhere before it arrives somewhere else. My thoughts form a tangle trying to piece together what that means. I’m not sure, but the Nomai seemed enthused enough by the result that my heart can’t help but flutter. There has to be some importance to the interval, some application that the Nomai had used it for. 

What excites me more is that they had performed their experiments here, in the very room I stand in. Looking around, doing my best to ignore the skeletons, I can envision the building alive with Nomai. Gazing out the window in thought, carrying their staffs, wearing those brightly-coloured space suits of theirs, trimmed in gold. The village was always bustling when a new project for the space program was underway. Ore flowed from the mines, trees were felled and planted, and the founders of the program would run about the town, sharing blueprints and equations and mechanisms and—more often than not—complaints. That beautiful chaos after discovery...as a child, I had revelled in it. I remember so distinctly when Slate finally cracked how to incorporate warp technology into our Scouts, or, even earlier, when Feldspar brought back gravity crystals from Brittle Hollow. What followed was a scramble of experiments; campfires were filled not with stories, but with propositions and theories. And it was wonderful.

Was working in a Nomai lab similar? I could see it being so. I don’t doubt for a second that they felt that same exciting storm of questions as I do when my fellow Hearthians make a breakthrough. And, from Pye’s and Ramie’s notes, it certainly seemed as though they had made quite an incredible breakthrough, which is saying something, by Nomai standards.

My eyes slide over to the wall I had left behind; the one filled with warp cores. This is the lab that proved their theories. Can I witness their breakthrough for myself? Pye said that they redirected power from the Sunless City to the lab for their experiments…

Before I can stop myself, I move the sight-guided ball at the tower’s base to the second copper line. Immediately, the wires light up, energy cascading down the stairs and to the nook I opened below. Machinery whirrs as the lab comes to life around me, and I eagerly follow the wires to where they meet with the diamond-shaped alcoves below the warp symbol.

I peer through the window and…nothing has changed. The nook beyond remains empty. Staring at the warp cores to my right, I ponder. What had the Nomai been testing for, exactly? They had discovered an anomaly in the departure and arrival times from the White Hole Station to the warp platform on Brittle Hollow. Their warp travel replicated the properties of natural black and white holes. We Hearthians know enough about their cores to make them work in our Scouts, and very early on we discovered that although the octahedral casing is always the same, there are two very distinct types of core. Both need to work together for a warp to initiate at all. One has a black ball of energy inside, and the other has a white one. Although, it suddenly dawns on me—they aren’t little balls of energy at all.

All this time, we haven’t been messing around with warp cores. We’ve been messing around with black holes and white holes themselves. Knowing the ways Slate had tried to pry the core chassis open, I’m glad they eventually realised the cores work just fine inside their protective covers. I don’t want to know the consequences of releasing a miniature black hole onto the surface of Timber Hearth.

With a newfound appreciation for—and cautious respect of—warp cores, I examine the ones sitting in the wall with a purpose. Several of the cases are empty, but others contain those familiar balls of energy. Two with itty-bitty black holes, pulling ever inwards, and two with little white holes, expelling energy out. The warp cores must hold the holes in a vacuum to prevent any instabilities from arising within.

Carefully, I pull a white hole core from its socket. It falls out surprisingly easily for how secure it seemed. I bring it to one of the alcoves beneath the window and plug it in. It fits in nice and snuggly, but nothing changes. Am I doing this right?

I return to the wall and select a sturdy-looking black hole core. When I bring it to the alcove, it, too, fits inside perfectly. And, this time, something does happen.

The moment I plug in the warp core, the sandstone before me distorts in a way I have seen innumerable times. I hear that familiar hum, and although I can’t feel its pull, it’s there: a black hole. It sits perfectly still to one side of the sandstone chamber, and, a small ways away, a white hole sits, too. Perfectly balanced. And, seemingly, perfectly harmless.

Though, I don’t think I’ll chance sticking my arm through one of them, even if they are sitting close enough to reach. 

Instead, I raise my Scout launcher. The energy that powers the Sunless City is coursing through the machinery in front of me. I have two space-time distortions in my sight. The warp-time anomaly is supposed to be visible. From their written observations, it sounds like the Nomai could see things we Hearthians can’t. Will I even be able to process the time interval? I don’t know. What I do know is that Pye wanted to prove that the interval exists beyond reasonable doubt. The difference has to be obvious to rule out equipment error. As long as I don’t blink…

I aim at the black hole. I fire. And my Little Scout soars right through the void and out of the white hole.

I furrow my brow, ears shifting back. Did I even see anything? Recalling my Scout, I aim again. I fire, and, this time, invest all my attention. 

My Scout flies towards the black hole, and…there it is. For a split second, I swear I can see two Scouts at once. The probe lingers at the fringes of the black hole as it appears from the white hole, not fully within the space between them before it drops to the sandstone below. I try again, keeping a close eye on the distance marker, and—Yes! Right there, clear as day! The same error message I saw when I shot my Scout into the bramble seed. A duplicate signal.

That settles it, even if the difference is dubious to my unaided eyes. For a brief moment, my Scout existed in two places at once. It fell from the white hole before it entered the black hole.

The implications are…well, I don’t know what the implications are, but I am sure the Nomai did, and I am sure they are great. After all, Conoy had mentioned that Pye’s and Ramie’s research would be of use for their search for the Eye. Specifically, when constructing their probe…

The pieces are all there before me, I know it. I just can’t see how they fit together. Not yet, but there’s a whole upper level to investigate.

I mount the stairs, not even minding the weight of my jetpack as I do. The sun is shining bright outside, but I can’t feel its heat from within the lab. There was a strange coating across the window when I saw it from the outside…Is that the Nomai version of a gold-lined visor? Does the pearlescent sheen protect those inside from the intense solar radiation that bakes the rest of the planet?

The second floor of the lab reminds me of Slate’s workshop back home, albeit much tidier, even with shelves and pots having fallen to the floor. There’s a worktable, and notes on chalkboards around the room, and, the most striking similarity by far, a series of blueprints painted onto the back wall. 

Each blueprint is roughly as tall as I am, and I’m shocked to find I recognise a couple of the designs. There are six buildings and five blueprints, showing a side view and a top-down view of each proposed tower. If not for the rosette-shaped apex, I wouldn’t have known what the first blueprint depicts, but I’ve stared at that symbol every time I’ve been on the surface of Ember Twin: it’s one of the Ash Twin towers. The next blueprint has two circular buildings joined by a bridge, but the one after that I recognise, too. How could I not? The tower is roughly pyramidal in shape, wider at its base than at its highest point, semicircular projections bumping out from its sides all the way up. It’s a geyser mountain, or a recreation of one, anyway. This building, too, I know sits on Ash’s equatorial bridge.

Are all these blueprints for the Ash Twin towers, then? After the geyser mountain, two more blueprints follow; a sharp, trigonal tower and one that swirls upwards, thinner at its base than at its apex. I don’t know the rest of the Ash Twin towers as well as I should, but the numbers are right. Six buildings, two conjoined; five total towers. 

Why are the blueprints here?

The chalkboard on this level is already glowing. I pull out my translator.

Ramie began, and from the very first sentence, I am captivated. “The Southern Observatory is asking if creating a 22 minute interval is possible (that is, to have something arrive 22 minutes before it is actually sent through the warp). We’ve learned the negative interval of time between departure and arrival can be increased by adding more energy to the warp core. Problematically, the energy required to extend the interval increases at an exponential rate.”

A 22 minute time interval. Can it be? Is this really…?

“Hypothesis: Creating a 22-minute-long interval is possible, but we are currently unable to generate the necessary energy,” Pye wrote. 

“The energy is currently unavailable, you say?” Ramie interjected. “You’re a gas, Pye!”

“My pun was unintended, Ramie, so I believe it’s you who’s aeriform!” Then, she continued. “Ramie and I believe it would be necessary to invent a new method of producing energy, a thrilling but enormous undertaking. We would also require advanced warp technology able to handle such energy. We would also likely need an enormous space to fit these proposed new energy and warp technologies together. The only location large enough would be Ash Twin.”

22 minutes. Advanced warp technology. A new power source. Ash Twin.

Before me—I am certain—is the birth of the Ash Twin Project.

And, apparently, nearly everything I’ve read from the Nomai coalesces here.

What did I learn from the Southern Observatory? That Eye signal locators had repeatedly failed, that a probe was far too costly to construct. And yet, they had constructed it: the Orbital Probe Cannon, somehow, transcends the time loop and fires a probe in a new direction every…I’ve always said half-an-hour, but that isn’t true. The probe fires every 22 minutes.

This is the Ash Twin Project. Their search for the Eye. This time loop, the one I am somehow caught in, was how they could justify their probe. They didn’t need to hollow out planets for materials. They didn’t need to carefully narrow down trajectories. They could fire the probe an infinite number of times, the information returning to them 22 minutes later, before the probe had even fired.

That’s it.

They needed an advanced warp core not to travel across space, but to travel through time. They needed a power source to amplify the warp time anomaly. And Ash Twin…Ash Twin is, somehow, where they built it all. Images of the Ash Twin Project swirl in my head, masks haunting, eyes glowing, stars spinning at an incredible pace all around me. I don’t know where the Ash Twin Project is, not precisely, and from what little I’ve seen of it, I can’t make any guesses. But they had done it. It’s real. This is why I’ve been living the same 22 minutes over and over again. The warp-time anomaly. 

It’s almost too incredible to comprehend. Research from all corners of the solar system came together for this project. Cassava’s Construction Yard. Daz’ masks, Phlox’ statues. Poke’s, Clary’s, and Root’s work at the Black Hole Forge. Avens’, Mallow’s, and Privet’s placement aboard the Orbital Probe Cannon. It was all to find the Eye. To find that thing that seemingly didn’t want to be found. 

I sit down on a nearby bench, taking it all in. The reason I’m stuck in time is that the Nomai wanted to find what had brought them to my solar system in the first place. One of the reasons I became an astronaut was because of that ruin in the museum. The one with that enigmatic symbol, the one that made me cast my eyes skyward and consider—really consider—what it would be like to be surrounded by the stars. I was curious about that symbol, and my intrigue is what got me stuck in the time loop to begin with, walking by that Nomai statue at the precisely wrong moment. The time loop has allowed me to research the Eye, just like I wanted. In either an incredibly fortunate or incredibly twisted way, my whole reason for being where I am is because I, just like the Nomai, saw a trace of the Eye and wanted more. I had chastised them before for dedicating generations to their search, but here I am, following in their footsteps.

I want to say it’s out of my control, but certainly it isn’t: I could have turned my back on the Nomai whenever I wanted to. I could have been like Gabbro, and set up a nice hammock somewhere pleasant. But my thoughts are forming a whirlwind in my head, and my heart pounds in my ears, and I know that I would have it no other way.

I glance around the room, and notice a lone scroll sitting on a fallen shelf. Picking it up, I bring it to the chalkboard. Every death that led to this, every race against the sand, was worth it. Every scroll in this lab has contained so much information, so perfectly primed for my understanding. What else could the Nomai have to tell me? Carefully, I plug the scroll into the chalkboard.

“The Ash Twin Project will be one of our biggest undertakings (metaphorically and physically),” Pye wrote. “To build it, we need a way to travel quickly between Ash Twin and each location that holds crucial project materials.”

“What if we used warp towers (like the one we have on the White Hole Station) to connect Ash Twin directly to each critical location?” Root suggested.

“Poke, Root, and I can begin work on this immediately in the Black Hole Forge,” Clary offered. “This will keep us busy!”

“Of note,” Yarrow added, “each tower on Ash Twin will warp to a different planet.” Then, as an addendum: “My gratitude to those who noted my imprecise language! Yes, the sun is not a planet. I believe this has been sufficiently clarified (kindly stop reminding me!).”

I can’t help but laugh, reminded of how Hornfels constantly brings up Gabbro’s quantum shard theory whenever they want to have a good chuckle. Although, Gabbro’s theory turned out to be far more accurate than the other Hearthians gave them credit for. I should mention that the next time I see them.

“We can design each tower to visually reflect its warp destination!” Phlox said, apparently very excited about the undertaking. “The Giant’s Deep tower, for instance, could resemble a cyclone. And we could model the Timber Hearth tower after a geyser mountain!”

That’s why a geyser mountain stands on Ash Twin! Each of the towers, as I suspected, houses a warp platform. I return to the blueprints, examining them one by one. The rosette-topped building—that’s for the Sun Station. Next, two buildings joined by a bridge. The Hourglass Twins? There is a warp receiver on Ember, just outside of the High Energy Lab. The geyser mountain must warp to the receiver on Timber Hearth, the one east of the village, where a waterfall splinters Nomai ruins within a crater. I look at the next building. Angular, made up of triangles. The buildings so far have been in order of how far their corresponding planets are from the sun, so this one is Brittle Hollow. The triangular designs must represent its fragmentary crust. There are two warp receivers there—that I know of. One is paired with the White Hole Station. Will this building bring me to the other, the one waiting tauntingly on the Hanging City’s roof? As for the final building, it must connect to Giant’s Deep. Knowing Phlox had taken inspiration from the cyclones, it’s unmistakable. Stoney winds swirl up and around the side of the tower. If a warp platform is inside, I know which island it will bring me to.

The destinations are set. The Sun Station. The High Energy Lab. The Black Hole Forge. The Statue Workshop. All places important to the Ash Twin Project. The only one I’m not so sure about is the tower to Timber Hearth. Evidence of Nomai presence on our planet is limited…What could have been so important as to set up a warp station?

Right now, that’s unimportant. I know where to go next. I love it when that happens. The final set of stairs brings me to a walkway that passes in front of the massive window. Stars twinkle outside. I come to a door, locked with a sight-guided ball. Going against the note I know sits beyond, I unlock it just as the sun breaches the horizon.

Chapter Text

The sun is dying. The High Energy Lab has eaten away the majority of my 22 minutes; the sunlight is an orangey-red, not yellow, and the sun is gargantuan compared to the emaciated form of Ash Twin hovering beside it. I don’t have much time left, but that doesn’t bother me. The High Energy Lab is no longer a question mark, and, for perhaps the first time, it feels like everything is unifying in my mind. I understand what the Nomai were trying to accomplish. I understand why they had gone to the lengths they had. The only thing I don’t comprehend is why, seemingly, the project hadn’t come to fruition. Those answers, I believe, are housed within the towers of Ash—or, more accurately, where they lead.

I use my Signalscope to zoom in on the other half of the Hourglass Twins. Most of the sand has been swallowed by Ember’s caverns, and the core of Ash Twin is almost exposed; the towers stand clear as day. The designs are just as they’d been outlined within the lab. There's the rosette, and there are the two towers joined by a bridge. There's the geyser mountain, and then what I recognise now to be the columnar basalt of Brittle Hollow. Lastly, a cyclone stretches to the sky. They're all right there, just waiting for me.

Knowing I won’t have the time to do any of those buildings justice, I aim my Signalscope north. Through the viewfinder, I see a thin pillar of smoke rise from the polar lakebed. It’s been quite some time since I’ve visited one of my fellow travellers, and although they won’t recall our conversation, I’m curious to hear what Chert has to say about the Ash Twin Project. At the very least, they’ll be interested to know about the Sunless City and the Sun Station.

The journey across the sandstone planet is a quick one, even without my ship. No longer afraid of getting caught without my oxygen—no death could compare to the ones I experienced in the caves of Ember—I fly across the landscape, using my jetpack boosters and the low gravity of Ember Twin in tandem. I slow as I approach the north pole, landing at a jog near where Chert left their ship. I take the natural sandstone bridge over to the island in the middle of the ancient lake.

I hear the wind. And only the wind.

Chert isn’t drumming anymore. Obviously, my fellow astronauts don’t play their instruments all day long—except for Gabbro, perhaps, but since they’re in the time loop with me I can excuse a reduced sense of urgency to get any work done. Typically, music is a form of check-in before radio communications are established. It’s a quick and easy way for ground control and the Lunar Outpost to keep track of our astronauts, even when our radios aren’t powerful enough to transmit messages. Play once in a while, and everyone back home can rest easy knowing you’re safe. 

I’ve just grown so accustomed to hearing the travellers before seeing them. The quiet is unnerving, even more so when the sounds that fill the silence are so…empty.

Leaves rustle in the quietude. I climb up to the top of the pillar. Chert still sits by the fire, only now they’re flipping through the pages of their notebook, repeatedly clicking through their recorded logs. Their helmet is off, sitting a little ways away, the wide neck of their space suit making them look even smaller than usual. They dab their brow with the ratty blue cloth of their handkerchief. The kettle over the flames is steaming, but our astronomer pays it no mind. They cross-reference their charts and research notes single-mindedly, brow furrowed, eyes narrow, fingers flicking desperately between pages. A distinct feeling of tension hangs heavy over the camp.

I remove my helmet. Boots crunching over loose gravels, I cross over to where they sit. I raise a gloved hand in greeting.

“Hey—”

Chert’s attention snaps my way, and I freeze upon seeing the neurotic look on their face.

“The stars!” They exclaim, their voice sharp with panic. “They’re all dying! There’ve been too many supernovae for it to be anything else! We’re next, do you understand?! Our sun! By Hearth’s name, we’re next!”

A beat passes, then I stammer out, “We…Uh…What do you mean, ‘We’re next’?”

“It’s the stars, you see,” Chert explains, gesturing madly at the charts they hold, their eyes glowing with a fire not from the coals before them. “All the other stars are dying out. Oh, why did we have to be born at the end of the universe? And our sun, it…” They let out an exasperated, strangled sound. “The star charts! Why? Why did I want to update them so badly? I didn’t have to know, but no, oh, no, I had to update the star charts! I had to go looking for things I shouldn’t have! And now our sun is about to…about to…oh…”

…In all that wondering about how the other Hearthians handle the end of our solar system, I’d forgotten all about Chert. More than anyone else, they’d have seen the signs. The sun evolves over the course of the loop, morphing until it is unrecognisable. And here, on the pole of Ember Twin, the sun never dips below the horizon. It spins around continuously, just begging to be observed. Clearly, Chert had obliged.

Not knowing what else to do, I awkwardly fumble with my helmet. “Why are all the stars dying...?” I ask, in an attempt to appease them. 

In response, Chert frustratedly tosses their notebook to the ground and throws up their hands. “I don’t know—they’re old! Far older than we realised and now all of them are dying!” They shake their head. When they speak, their voice is pitched an octave higher than it normally is, and their words have a flippancy to them that takes me aback. “What does it matter?! It doesn’t! It doesn’t matter at all! Nothing matters anymore! All my research, my life’s work, wasted! Wasted, you understand?!”

With that, they toss down their recorder, too. It clacks across the stone hollowly, coming to a rest beside their abandoned Scout launcher. Chert turns towards the fire, and watches it with a mix of fear and hatred so intense I have to wonder if this really is the Chert I know. Slowly, so as not to make any sudden movements that would aggravate them further, I place my helmet down on the ground and sit beside them. 

I wouldn’t say offering comfort is my area of expertise. Hal has always been much better than I at calming down upset Hearthians. They brought gifts to Marl when they were recovering after their tumble from the redwood in the village, and encouraged Riebeck when they were unsure if space travel was really their thing. They know just what to say, just what to do—even though they're terrible at pulling themself out of the same pits of despair, on the rare occasions they fall into one. And they are so good with the hatchlings—settling arguments and dispelling fears as if it's as easy as sweeping pine needles from a porch.

My strategy is usually to distract the little ones with a ball or some marshmallows. Something tells me that won’t work so well on Chert, so I sit in silence for a few moments, thinking of what I could possibly say. I’ve been in their shoes before, after all. The first few loops were taxing, and I remember that first stab of terror upon seeing the sun collapse as if it had only engulfed me a few moments ago. What would I want someone to say to me, if I could relive those pivotal moments? What words would offer me reassurance?

The best I can come up with is another form of distraction.

“I found something, by the way.”

Those are not the right words.

“Why, isn’t that great?!” Chert cries sardonically. “Do you know what, I’ve found a few things myself! Most of them have to do with the sun exploding!” They let out a groan before cradling their head in their hands. “I...I don’t feel well. I’d like to be alone, please.”

I’ve said those words enough times before to not believe them. I fold my hands in my lap and watch the flames of Chert’s fire render whole logs to ash. The coals burn bright, the smoke stinging my eyes, as the sun expands. Its fiery face is well-known to me now. After so many loops, after so many rock bottoms, it no longer frightens me. But Chert… Chert, who will never—can never—know about the time loop…

Have they been like this every time? Scared and alone, panicking as they realise their world is dying and they don’t even have enough time left to fly home? I pity them. I really do. And I honestly can’t say which is worse—being aware of my impending death, and my subsequent return from it, or being ignorant to it all, experiencing the terror anew every loop but not having the same responsibilities thrust upon me.

Beside me, Chert grasps their handkerchief like a lifeline and rocks back and forth. I can hear their low mutters. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t…I won’t! I won’t believe it!”

And still, I have nothing to offer.

Of all my fellow traveller’s campsites, Chert’s is the most comforting. Gabbro’s is always at risk of being thrown into space, Riebeck’s is perched precariously on the edge of a basalt column, but Chert’s is safe, high above the sands, with a panoramic view of the enigmatic red planet and its twin. The sandstone matches the campfire in its warmth. Everything is calm. Everything is still, aside from the dancing flames and the rustling of leaves. I breathe in air that isn’t the same as the air on Timber Hearth, yet I feel that same sense of solace. 

The sun grows. The wind blows across the sandstone. The shimmering sands of Ash Twin fall down; in a mighty column, then in a trickle, and then not at all. 

And we sit like that until the sun turns crimson. Chert sniffles.

“We only get so much time, don’t we?” they ask quietly. “Ah, there was still more I wanted to do…”

The sun is so bright, so big, I can barely even see the distant stars anymore. Chert continues, speaking more to the wind than to me. I’m just glad that they aren’t yelling anymore, and that my being here seems to have helped, in some small way.

“How unlucky to have been born at the end of the universe.”

If only they knew that, in just a few moments, everything will be as if nothing had even happened. They’ll flash right back to whatever task they’re on when I wake up beneath the launch tower. They’ll have no recollection of any of this: Of the stars, the sun, of our conversation. Is that reassuring? Or would that send them down a whole new road of existential dread?

I won’t tell them. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t want to make things worse, and for someone who had helped design the translator tool, I don’t have much of a penchant for words.

The sun swirls. The few stars I can still see blink. Chert tears their eyes away from the fire and looks skyward, undoubtedly reflecting on the far-away galaxies they devoted their life to studying. What regrets do they have? I can’t say. I hadn’t known they had any.

“Any minute now,” they say.

They couldn't be more right. Steadfastly, we look to the stars, doing our best to keep our own out of sight. I scoot in closer to them, until I can rest my hand behind them on the rock they sit on, until our suits are touching. No one should have to be alone at the end of the universe.

“Everything will be okay,” I offer in a low voice. Chert chuckles.

“Yes,” they agree. “Everything will be okay.”

And the sun collapses in on itself, shifting through all of its colours until it erupts in that display of sparks I’ve grown so dull to. The lights rocket past us, surrounding us in the sky, and that great, unavoidable wave of energy pulses ever outwards.

Before everything goes dark, I can’t help but think that our sun is beautiful, even when it's gone.

Lying on my back, I watch the Orbital Probe Cannon fire its probe on a random trajectory. How long has it been firing for? For as long as I’ve been in the time loop, certainly. I’d have noticed a bright purple explosion overhead if it had happened before. And that makes sense within the world of knowledge I now have—the Nomai designed a single probe to launch over and over within the time loop. The loop isn’t for me, but for the probe. Gabbro and I being aware…it’s just a coincidence. The statues activated when the Ash Twin Project failed. The Nomai hadn’t found the Eye. Their power source wasn’t strong enough.

Despite reading so much about the Ash Twin Project, I still feel that I know very little. So many times my theories have proven to be wrong. Is this just another instance of me fooling myself into believing I have the story figured out? 

I heave myself up and head to the lift, scooping up my Signalscope. Slate hounds me about the launch codes, and I ignore them, not even feeling a pit in my stomach for doing so after so many times. How many loops has it been? I’m beginning to lose count. 

Once aboard my ship, I lift off, steering towards the Hourglass Twins. The Twins float between me and the sun, Ember’s canyon lighting up with a golden glow. Chert should be at their campsite, happily documenting the stars. How long does that last, I wonder? How long does seeing other stars go supernova distract them from seeing our own? I have to stop myself from directing my ship towards their camp. For the first time in a long time, I won’t be going to the hollowed planet.

Ash Twin sparkles in the sun, the grains of sand catching the light like snow. The bridge between the Twins is already forming, sand from all along the equator of Ash floating upwards in a great column. Ash Twin, before the sand-transfer, is unlike any world I have set foot on before. Completely homogenous. To the unattuned eyes, there is no way to tell where the equatorial line sits—even if you could place a marker, the dunes shift constantly across the barren landscape. But the Nomai, purposefully or not, though I have a difficult time believing they wouldn’t have planned their constructions so precisely, had built their polar towers just tall enough for their highest points to poke out of the sand. Beige apexes, nearly camouflaged against the grains, peek out even before the sand begins to drain. 

It is one of these beige pillars I search for as I circle the planet. Spotting one, I flick on my landing camera and guide my ship until I am in a low orbit right above it. I drift down slowly, watching my altimeter, although Ash Twin is by far the easiest planet to make an uneventful landing on. Right now, there’s nothing to crash into, and plenty of sand to cushion my impact. The biggest hazard is crossing paths with the sandfall, which is sure to tear my ship off the ground and send it to the deepest depths of Ember’s canyons. Thanks to the Nomai, though, I am certain my landing spot is a safe one.

My landing is perfect. I unbuckle myself from my safety harness and load into my suit, taking my time. It will be a while until enough of the sand drains off for me to make out even the tallest of the warp towers. It’s nice to have some breathing room, for once—to wait on the sand instead of outpacing it. As I click my Little Scout into the launcher affixed to my arm, I catch a glimpse of something sharp and pearlescent rising from the sand beyond my windshield. It’s the same material as the leaflets on the tower above the High Energy Lab—what I believe to be solar panels.

The Sun Station was set to power the Ash Twin Project, but something needed to power the towers. What better source of energy than two massive conglomerates of solar panels, one at each pole? The sun circles constantly, lighting each leaflet in turn. Unlike with the tower on Ember Twin, they wouldn’t even need to store the energy. There’s a constant supply.

The solar towers here, though, are so much more massive. And more elegant, too—the panels seem so much more commanding, laid out with much more intent. The Nomai had clearly improved upon their designs. 

Something strikes me that hasn’t before: how much energy warp travel must require. We only use a little bit of it ourselves—we haven’t dared do anything more than engineer the warp technology of our Scouts with it. It’s too complex, and dangerous, a thing to be experimenting with, for how little we understand of it. Though, Slate would have gladly strapped a warp core to an astronaut if Gossan hadn’t thrown a bottle at them for even suggesting the idea.

But something as big as a hub of warp platforms...The energy requirements must be great. Especially if the platforms function like the White Hole Station and are ready to fire up at every alignment. A constant supply of energy isn’t just a convenience; it’s a necessity for an operation of such scale. 

More and more of the solar tower reveals itself from beneath the dunes. The rosette of the first tower should be exposed now. Snapping on my helmet, I take a deep breath in, then open the hatch of my ship.

I have never been on Ash Twin before. I expect to feel…something, setting foot on its unstable ground for the first time. The view around me is completely foreign. No trees, no hills, no craters or canyons to break up the ubiquity of the sand. No…anything. The atmosphere is hazy overhead, sand grains dusting the outside of my visor as the wind sweeps around the planet. The sand stretches on forever, until it disappears over the curvature of the horizon. I’ve never seen so much emptiness, and yet…it’s exactly as I imagined it. Perhaps I’ve just grown too used to the sand on Ember Twin.

Beside me, the solar tower climbs. All three of its branches of solar panels stretch towards the sky, shadows cast by the sun long across the sand. A moving purple light atop the tower grabs my attention. A gravity beam! But, unfortunately, rising up from the pillar instead of falling into it. I circle the tower, looking for any sign of a switch. Nothing—yet, at least. Ash Twin is small, and it’ll only get smaller as the sand feeds Ember’s canyons. I can check again at the end of the loop. It’ll be a short walk back.

Looking to the horizon, I try to get my bearings. With Ash, Ember, and the Sun all swirling around—let alone all the other planets—it’s impossible to recall where along the equator the rosette tower is buried. My search won’t get any easier if I sit at the pole, so I pick a direction at random and set off, making sure to keep watch for Ember and the dangerous column of sand that follows it.

Marking my progress across the planet is difficult. The sand looks the same wherever I go, and my footsteps are buried by sand drifts as soon as I lift my boots. If not for my compass, showing my rough location relative to the planet's poles on my visor, I would have thought I wasn’t moving at all. The whistling of the winds has me constantly scanning the horizon for any indication of the sandfall (or is it a sand-rise?), especially as I inch ever closer to the equator. When I am close enough for comfort, and no closer, I change direction, following the plane of the solar system across the surface. Every time I think I hear the sand coming, my head whips around—but it’s always just the howling wind. I feel my skin prickle in anticipation. Without a canyon to guide me, it’s difficult to tell if I’m in the sand’s path or not, and with Ember Twin mysteriously hidden, I have a growing sense of dread regarding my first up-close glimpse of the sandfall on Ash.

The planet darkens as the sun creeps below the horizon. The sands glow with a blue light, reflections from the other planets, and, on occasion, the Quantum Moon. The Interloper streaks across the sky in front of me, heading sunward. As I walk on, a dark shape takes form in the distance, blackening out the distant stars.

The Sun Tower, growing taller by the second.

And, behind it, Ember Twin and the column of sand.

I hurry towards the door as the equatorial bridge reveals itself beneath my feet. Sand gives way to sandstone tile, and the column of sand draws closer and closer…

I let out a discontented breath as I arrive at the Sun Tower’s door only to find the lock broken. There will be no refuge inside, and, what more, no reaching the Sun Station—not unless another door still sleeps beneath the sediment. 

The singing of the sands is loud in my ears, even through my helmet, and the great column of sand destined for Ember Twin rises from right behind the tower…

I hop off the side of the bridge and skip just far enough away for the column to pass by without taking me with it. The column is so much larger than I thought, and it easily encompasses the entire tower and spans the width of the massive bridge. I watch in awe as it sails by, the sands rising into it defying all logic. How do the sands fall between the planets? Did the Nomai know? Even knowing my progress won’t be impeded for long if I do end up buried in Ember’s canyon, I can’t help but freeze watching the great column pass.

When the sands are gone, I let out a small breath. 

Jetting back up to the bridge, I decide the best course of action is to follow the column. Doing so will greatly reduce my odds of encountering the sandfall again, or of it sneaking up on me if my ears somehow fail.

The bridge is built from the same tile as the rest of the Nomai settlements, dulled shades of teal, red, and orange colouring the tan blocks. Torches light the path incrementally in pairs, and the globular form of a cactus plants occasionally cling to the side of the walkway.

No sooner do I continue my equatorial trek than does the next tower rise up from the horizon. Or, more accurately, the next towers. Two cylindrical buildings join the bridge on either side, connected by an elevated path that shadows the bridge below. One tower stands in what seems to be its original glory; the other crumbles—its upper half having apparently succumbed to the erosional power of the sand. I take a moment to appreciate Nomai construction—for all the flack I give them about their doors, their buildings have survived thousands and thousands of years under the constantly shifting sands. It’s baffling, in all honesty. I doubt any Hearthian construction would have lasted a fraction of that time.

Sheltering beneath the elevated path, I watch as the entrances to the buildings surface from the sand, accompanied by a diffuse purple glow. The glow pulses steadily, and even before the floor is fully uncovered from the sand, I know what is embedded in it. I’ve seen the glow before, on the floor of the White Hole Station. It's a warp platform.

I duck into the first building, sand still covering the ground. As the edges of the warp platform take shape, I am careful to avoid them. I don’t want to prematurely warp anywhere before I am certain the warp core isn’t damaged, not that I am an expert. I’ve seen a few scrunched up Scouts collecting dust in a storage room in the museum—relics from the warp technology tests, all with faulty cores. I don’t want to find out what it would feel like to end up like one of them.

A chalkboard sits against the far wall, scroll receiver empty. That’s unusual. Most Nomai messages had been left in their sockets because of their unforeseen extinction. But, knowing there’s a chalkboard I can use, I make a note to look for the telltale shape of loose scrolls.

Just as I am about to head to the neighbouring tower, a shadow overhead gives me pause. Ember Twin is back, the sand rising into the conjoining column pattering against the building like rain, only the sound comes from around me, not above me. I look up, and Ember is directly overhead.  A brass decoration sits embedded in a window in the ceiling; two pairs of lines stretch to its centre, before forming a circle that doesn’t fully close. A viewfinder, I realise—the warp stations probably activate when they align with their corresponding celestial (or constructed, in the case of the Sun Station) bodies, just like the one on the White Hole Station they were based on.

And if the towers are for warping…

There’s only one way to find out. As grains of sand rattle against the glass above me, I hop onto the warp pad.

A familiar, nauseating feeling overcomes me as I am pulled into my middlemost point and expanded in a fraction of a second. Gone is the purple glow of the interior of the Ember Twin tower—and it must have been the Ember Twin tower, because I am suddenly surrounded by red sandstone.

The circular walls of the tower have been replaced by a low-lying barrier of the same beige tone. Beneath my boots is the receiver, double-spiraled, log active, emanating a white glow. Hopping out of the spiral, I rush eagerly towards the terminal, just to see the words:

DEPARTURE TIME: 473.95602

ARRIVAL TIME: 473.95601

RETURN WARP STATUS: CHARGED. STEP ONTO WARP PLATFORM WHEN READY.

The warp time anomaly is still going strong, and I’ve confirmed my hypothesis for myself: The towers are warp platforms! And they still work! I’m outside of the High Energy Lab, its tower of solar panels shining.

What’s more, I haven’t left my ship abandoned on Ash Twin. The receiver’s been charged and it's primed to take me back. I hop into its light and, again, I'm struck by the split-second feeling of blinking out of and into existence.

Ember Twin disappears from view, and I am back inside the tower on Ash as if I had never even left. Knowing that the platforms are indeed still functional, my eyes are set on the half-fallen building across the bridge. The doorway is shadowed by cactus plants, spines sharp and long, and…

A Nomai. The body, within a spacesuit, is sprawled across the bridge on its stomach, arms stretching for the entrance. The walkway above it offers enough shelter to stop it from being carried off with the sand headed for Ember, though it isn’t enough to stop the damage incurred to the suit from years and years of wear. What once was a bright, teal suit—the colour is clear along the seams where the sand couldn’t quite permeate—is now a druzy brown, the thick fabric torn and tattered. The metal clasps are scratched and oxidized, the brass blackened by exposure. In some places, the suit is in such disrepair that I can see the yellow bone within.

It’s not what I hoped slumbered beneath the sands of Ash Twin.

With that same hollowness in my chest that I feel whenever I am reminded of the Nomai’s demise, I skirt carefully around the body. 

I am surprised to find that this tower, too, houses a warp platform. I know the other tower contains the warp platform for the High Energy Lab, so where does this one go? Is there another warp receiver on Ember Twin I missed? It’s not impossible. I thought I’d done a thorough job of exploring the subterranean caverns, but they are convoluted, to put it lightly. It would have been easy to bypass a cave or two. 

Aside from the warp platform, the second tower is empty. The glass ceiling above me is long-shattered, the walls smooth and barren except for a small alcove against the far side. Whatever I had been hoping to find, it isn’t here. As I carefully exit the building, I turn my gaze skyward. The walkway that connects the towers occludes the stars, and the first tower I explored rises high above it. 

Engaging my jetpack boosters, I shoot up to the path. Though I’m not fond of the sand, the low gravity of the Hourglass Twins has its perks. 

The upper half of the intact tower is reminiscent of Ember—the levels are split into two semicircles, mirroring the canyon that slices through the sandstone planet. One of the hemispheres houses a gravity beam, and I ride it to the highest floor, where I am happy to catch the glow of a lone scroll dangling precariously from its shelf. Taking it back downstairs, ever cautious of the warp platform centring the room, I’m anxious to see what I’ll learn.

“Friends visiting from the Hanging City, we are planning the Ash Twin Project at the High Energy Lab on Ember Twin’s equator,” Pye wrote.

“I became lost on Ember Twin—my gratitude that Ramie found me!” Conoy said, “But the High Energy Lab is the building with the large solar panels. I’m surprised I didn’t see it!”

“I imagine our otherwise immensely clever Conoy would lose his own head if it weren’t anatomically impossible!” Ramie added playfully.

This exchange must have happened just after the discussion I read beneath the dome of the Southern Observatory all those loops ago. The first steps of the Ash Twin Project’s development, swiftly following the failure that was the Southern Observatory’s Eye locator. A new idea sparking from a newly discovered anomaly, requiring the expertise of seemingly every Nomai in the solar system.

As I leave the building to head further down the equatorial bridge, Ember Twin is once again breaching the horizon and heading my way. I duck into the collapsing tower for shelter, and an idea sparks in my head.

I don’t know where this platform will take me.

But I can find out.

Eagerly, I step onto the platform and wait for the sands to catch up to me. The protective glass above me is shattered, which worries me, but the warp to Ember Twin had happened quickly enough. As soon as Ember is overhead…

The red planet shadows the world beyond the broken glass. The sound of the sand loudens and loudens, until it’s all around me. Grains of sand race up towards the planet, and as I brace for the warp, I feel the same invisible force tugging at my clothes. The walls rattle as sand consumes the tower. Grains strike my visor, and there’s a strange but familiar sensation in my stomach, as if I'm floating weightless—

It's then that I realise that the warp isn’t going to whisk me away. My boots leave the glowing warp platform behind. As Ember Twin streaks across the sky above, it pulls everything towards its canyons—everything, including me.

Quickly, I reach out to latch onto what remains of the brassy viewfinder before I’m carried off. My gloves feel large and cumbersome as I grip the smooth metal, sand whipping by as the column of sand fills the tower. The sound is louder than anything I have ever heard, the light around me coming in discordant flashes as swaths of sediment and debris shoot by. I feel the force pulling on my pack, and my fingers start to slip, until I’m only holding on by tips of my fingers. I grapple with the metal beam before I finally lose my grip, and my stomach turns as I float up, and up, knowing there is no way I can bring myself down—

Gravity pulls me one way, the sand another, until I reach the barycentre of the twins and everything flips. Suddenly, gravity works alongside the force that’s carrying the sand, and I’m tumbling, and tumbling, and so many grains are battering against me that I can’t right my jetpack in any one direction before I’m knocked into a different trajectory. I catch glimpses of red sandstone, getting terrifyingly close with every snapshot, until I can see the sand rising in Ember Twin’s canyon, and it’s coming at me so much faster than it should be—

Well, that hadn’t been fun.

Sitting up from my sleeping bag beside the campfire, I reminisce about my recent, unprecedented excursion into Ember Twin’s canyon for a moment before I get up and head back to its twin. There’s no way I’m getting wherever that platform leads, at least not until I can figure out how to warp before the sands kidnap me. I mean, it’ll be easy enough when the sand-transfer finishes, but that happens so close to the end of the loop that I’ll barely have any time to explore before the supernova, if the alignment even occurs in time. I’ll just have to wait until I’ve ended the time loop for good.

I take my time flying to Ash Twin, waiting for the sands to pour off so I can land beside the equatorial bridge. When enough does, I’m quick to continue down the procession of towers.

When the next tower rises from the horizon, it’s a familiar sight. Narrow at the top, wide at the base, cascading, semi-circular pools filling the space between. It’s a geyser mountain—a shape so distinct and so reminiscent of home that I can’t help but smile. I’m not sure why the Nomai had largely left Timber Hearth alone when all other planets in the solar system seem so patently marked by their presence, and I don’t know why it was, contradictorily, so important to them that they needed to build a warp tower to it, but seeing Phlox’ rendition of my home is astonishing. There is no finer landmark to represent Timber Hearth.

Behind me, I hear the roar of the great sandfall. The shadow of Ember Twin darkens the tower, and, hastily, I open the airlock door with a sight-guided ball that is—thankfully—intact.

TREES DETECTED—OXYGEN TANK REFILLED.

Fresh air hisses in my left ear. The light wavers inside the tower, and not from flickering torches. The warm glow filters through pine needles that rustle gently in the stirring air.

The tower is much more than a replica of a geyser mountain serving as a warp station. Sure, the warp platform is centred in the room, but all around it are the trees and bushes of Timber Hearth. It’s a terrarium, a model of our flora that reminds me of the botanical garden outside of the Southern Observatory. Red soil cakes the ground, covered with pine needles and dusted with beige sand. A glass ceiling lets the sunlight in to bathe the greenery. The Nomai had enjoyed the plants of my home planet enough to bring them all the way here, to the barren landscape of Ash Twin. It feels like a compliment—one given thousands of years before I could receive it.

Giving myself a bit more time to take in the contents of the tower, I notice that it seems like a place the Nomai liked to gather, or, at least, a place a few of them did. Pots and benches are placed throughout the room, broken and buried in the soil. Ripped teal fabric and the angular corners of a Nomai mask break the sand-coloured tones—a figure collapsed on the floor to one side of the room—but I can’t bring myself to investigate further. Not after the Nomai skeleton surprised me as it did at the last tower. Across the room is another airlock. I move the ball and the door slides open, and I am shocked to see that the landscape of Ash Twin had transformed massively since I entered the building.

The sand has abated enough this far in the loop that the original core of Ash Twin is finally showing itself. A dark, metamorphic crust meets with the bridge supports, and I wonder what Ash Twin, devoid of sand, looked like before the Nomai had scraped away its outer layers. I imagine it was covered in sandstone, if the Nomai built the towers from local rock, but did it, like Ember, have canyons and rivers and lakebeds? Or had it been smooth and unriddled with caves and caverns? I think back to the model at the observatory. It had been constructed long before the towers of Ash Twin were raised. Ash Twin was perfectly spherical—I assumed because the model showed it covered in sand. But is that not the case? Had Ash Twin really been full and round all those years ago? Or are the Nomai models at the observatory just not so detailed?

The ocean of sand I am so used to seeing is now confined to only the deepest crevices of the planet, and, apparently, to the poles, where the Nomai had carved out more rock than they had at the equator. I catch sight of Ember Twin as it dips below the horizon; its canyon is nearly full of sand, now, and the sun is looking more orange-red than yellow-orange.

The next tower is angular and blocky—an abstract rendition of the columnar basalt pillars that compose Brittle Hollow’s crust. A set of stairs lead up to a darkened arch. I follow them.

The interior of the tower is…dark. Few torches sit around the circular room, and those that are lit are dim. The warp platform glows in the middle, beneath a glass ceiling that is intact, and a gravity crystal poking out from the wall next to a hole in the floor paints the space with a weak purple glow.

Following the crystal brings me to a room on the underside of the one above; a gravity floor holds me to the ceiling. The room is filled with dead trees and empty shelves, and a chalkboard sits against one side. What leaves me staring, however, is the mural painted over my head. A rendition of the underside of the rocky crust of Brittle Hollow encircles the room, ore bodies and pillars reaching towards the dark void at the centre. The black hole. If I am correct in where this warp platform will take me, the mural is much more than a nod to Brittle Hollow’s hollow core.

I tug my translator tool out of its holster at my waist, and direct it to the scroll that sits within the chalkboard, hoping to confirm my theory.

“Here’s our first delivery, Yarrow: one warp core, fresh from the Black Hole Forge!” Clary wrote. That’s just what I wanted to see—the Black Hole Forge. “Root is installing this core’s sibling on Brittle Hollow as I write this. I wish I could wait here for you to arrive, but the forge (and my unfinished work there) is calling. I’ll return with more materials soon.”

“My gratitude, Clary!” Yarrow replied, presumably some time later. “With this, the Ash Twin Project is underway! I confess, I’m deeply curious about what you and Poke found on the White Hole Station that started this project. Could I visit sometime to learn more?”

“I recommend you do! The White Hole Station is the model for the towers being built for the Ash Twin Project, so a visit to the station would be doubly useful.” 

“I suppose, more precisely, I would like to visit the White Hole Station with you, Clary.”

“I’d be happy to explain our findings!” Clary wrote, missing Yarrow’s attempted subtleties.

“Yarrow, stop using this scroll wall to flirt with my sister,” Poke interjected teasingly, “in romantic matters, her density rivals a neutron star’s. Go meet her on the White Hole Station.”

I smile dumbly to myself. Yarrow and Clary—that’s sweet. Clary, who worked at the Black Hole Forge making warp cores, and Yarrow, who seemed to oversee the Ash Twin Project as a whole, must have spent a lot of time working together. Was that how Yarrow grew to admire her, or had they been close before the project took off?

In any case, it was nice of Poke to help nudge them along, even if she did take the time to playfully chastise Yarrow while doing it.

Images of Clary’s shuttle appear in my mind. Of her, alone, at the very end of the Nomai, not knowing if her sister and her friend were safe. And, quickly, I try to think of something else.

When I return to the upper level of the tower, the sun is bright overhead. The red-orange glow sets the room ablaze, and the warp platform continues to pulse. The warp core at its centre flares with a tiny black hole. The casing seems intact—or at least as intact as the ones in the High Energy Lab. I don’t know if it’s damaged, but I know that I have a whole unexplored district waiting for me back in the Hanging City. The loop will be ending soon. Do I dare try…?

The sun moves away. I look up. Stars fill the sky overhead, distorted by the thin atmosphere and the tempered glass ceiling. The brass viewfinder embedded in the window follows the plane of the solar system. Planet after planet drifts into its centre. I even glimpse the Interloper, shining bright, on its last flight towards the expanding sun. I see the fires of its moon before I see it—Brittle Hollow. It floats through the window, inching closer and closer to the viewfinder.

I’ll have to find out soon enough.

Letting out a breath, I step onto the platform. The crumbling shape of Brittle Hollow crosses into the brass circle, and—

Instantly, I feel that same pressure I felt falling into the black hole, just as fast and full as I felt it the last time I used a warp platform. One moment, the interior of the Brittle Hollow tower on Ash Twin distorts, a darkness wrapping itself around me, and, the next, I stand in the centre of a double spiral, ice filling the space beyond.

The platform works.

Above me, I no longer see a starry sky. The glow of distant galaxies is replaced by the darkness of a black hole. A series of buildings, bolted to the glacier itself, sit between it and me. I almost feel as if I am gazing into a clouded night sky back home; crater walls and the launch platform towering around me, blackness overhead. Except, I know I’m not looking up—I’m looking down.

I hang suspended upside-down from the glacier at Brittle Hollow’s north pole. Below me is the Hanging City—well, three districts of it, anyway. The three districts I explored. Flashes of red light from the lava bombs of Hollow’s Lantern glint across the ice. Distant collisions shake the crust. But here, I know I'm safe.

Walking, I follow the spiral to its terminus. The glow of a gravity floor colours my boots. I don’t dare risk jumping or climbing over the low walls that surround the warp receiver. It’s a long fall down into the black hole, and one criss-crossed by bridges and beams…

Among the trees and towers that rise from the Black Hole Forge District are five blackened beams. I've seen them before, when I explored the lower districts of the city. They are vacant, near where I stand, but when I look down towards the black hole I see the bolstered form of the forge itself. Suspended between the beams, it rests right at the edge of the void. I had thought the beams helped strengthen the city itself, but that's wrong. They hold the forge in place.

At the end of the spiral receiver, a log activates, its purple data shining. I translate it, though I know what it will report.

DEPARTURE TIME: 1164.61609

ARRIVAL TIME: 1164.61608

RETURN WARP STATUS: CHARGED. STEP ONTO WARP PLATFORM WHEN READY.

I take a look around the most evasive of the Hanging City's districts. Benches and skeletons both rest haphazardly along the gravity paths. One path leads to the dual towers, another around the side of the warp receiver, towards the beams the Black Hole Forge dangles from. I follow the latter.

The district is dark. Moody. It’s clear it was a place to work, not rest—though trees and benches fill the park-like area, no houses rest alongside the paths. In fact, aside from structures related to returning to the city below or to the forge itself, the district is utterly empty. Though, I can’t tell how much of that is because of the district’s single purpose or because of the encroaching ice.

I reach a place where the path dips, leading to a short set of stairs that preface a nondescript alcove. A signpost beside it reads: WARNING: Be cautious near the boarding area while the Black Hole Forge is in operation.

I glance up. The forge remains unresponsive. Testing the warning, I step towards the boarding area. Nothing happens, and, annoyingly, I know why. The controls are two districts down, housed in the Meltwater District. Sighing, I shake my head. I had completely forgotten. But, perhaps my premature visit to the forge won’t be wasted. Surely, the Nomai would have added controls up here, too.

Beside the boarding area is a small offshoot from the path. One of those chalkboards with podiums sits across from a projection pool, podiums empty and just waiting to be used. I search the area for any hint of projection stones or controls, but find nothing. Even backtracking to the dual towers yields nothing of value—all I get from my exploration is an uneasy stomach from wobbling across gravity paths.

Soon enough, the light beneath the surface of Brittle Hollow changes. Subtly, for someone who isn’t so attuned to it, but the night is suddenly so much darker than it should be. I look up, at the black hole, at the Hanging City, at the stars that boil beyond it all. An aurora lights up the sky, erupting in gorgeous blues and greens as Brittle Hollow’s atmosphere is blasted away by the powerful winds of the supernova. Flashes of high-energy particles whiz by, increasing in number until they fill the darkness like a meteor shower. Brittle Hollow is consumed by a blindingly bright light, and all goes dark.

Chapter Text

I know what to do. The steps are straightforward enough that even I’ll have a hard time messing them up. One: Activate the forge controls on Brittle Hollow. Two: Wait for the sand to lower on Ash Twin. Three: Warp to the Black Hole Forge District. Four: Have fun exploring. And, I have 22 minutes to get it done. It’s doable. More than doable.

Though, it’d be even more doable if the dual towers hadn’t collapsed in on themselves. The Nomai really should have been thinking of us poor Hearthians when they designed their cities hundreds of thousands of years ago. Oh, well.

When I wake beside the campfire on Timber Hearth, I head straight for the lift. I update my ship’s log, put on my space suit, and head for Brittle Hollow.

Clumsily, I set my ship down at the northern glacier. I hop out of my sparking ship and bound off towards my handy shortcut, before remembering that, for once, I actually will need to use my ship again this loop. Setting my ship down carefully has only been important on a select few occasions after I realised I’m in a time loop, so for the past while I’ve been a terrible astronaut and haven't been repairing my ship every time it gets damaged. I feel kind of sorry for it, honestly, sitting atop a slanted pillar of basalt, red lights flashing and headlight dangling by a wire. It’s not just me and Gabbro aware of the time loop—thanks to that chip Gabbro made in my statue, my ship is in the same boat as we are. Hopefully it doesn’t remember all the abuse I’ve given it recently; my ship is a good ship. I’m usually so rigorous in my care of it.

After taking a few moments to patch up my ship, I follow my shortcut down to the Meltwater District. The Black Hole Forge controls are hardly a trek from there. I follow the stairs down into the control room, taking a moment to marvel at the panoramic view from within the glass chamber.

It’s remarkable, really. How the forge has survived so long, how the city stretches from the edge of the black hole to the underside of the crust itself. From my little glass viewport, I can see all the landmarks I’ve explored within the city. There’s the crumbling schoolhouse, there’s the warp receiver, overhead. To my left, I can just make out the gleaming glass of the Eye Shrine. Once I explore the forge, the city will be left without secrets. A sense of nostalgia for the place overwhelms me. As terrifying as dodging the back hole and falling debris is, I’ll never recreate the wonder that filled me upon taking in the city for the first time.

When all of this is over, I’ll be back.

I flip the switch, and the forge begins to rise. I watch it slide unfalteringly along its tracks until it comes to rest in the boarding area above. Step One, check. And I know just how to kill my time for Step Two.

The homey sound of a banjo floats up to meet me where the twin bridges of the Hanging City join the crossroads. I walk down the gravity crystal path, somehow still feeling nauseated from the last loop. Broken pieces of crust tumble into the black hole below, sending jets of radiation shooting upwards. I catch glimpses of Hollow’s Lantern, and its swarm of lava bombs, through the gaps. Its volcanoes smoke and ash as it chugs along its orbit. 

Riebeck greets me in the usual way upon entering their camp. 

“Oh, you launched! That’s great. Great job, you.” Riebeck sets down their banjo and slides their helmet up over their ears, and I loosen the latches of my own. “Wow, I guess that means I’ve been out here a while, huh. Well, um, this is Brittle Hollow. But you probably knew that. Lots of history here...It’s great.”

“How’s it been treating you so far?” I ask, despite knowing the answer. Taking a seat by the fire, I pull out my tin of marshmallows and gesture to the flames. Giving me an assenting nod, Riebeck replies as I poke a marshmallow onto my trusty roasting stick.

“Wonderfully! ” They say through clenched teeth. “So much to explore…The Southern Observatory, the Hanging City. Though, I, uh, I haven’t exactly been yet.” 

“Oh?” I ask coyly. “Why not?”

“I couldn’t find a way into the Southern Observatory from the surface, so I headed to some ruins on the equator, and, I, uh…” Blush tinges their cheeks, and I preoccupy myself with my marshmallow to keep from snickering. “I tripped. Fell right down here. It’s dumb luck I ended up somewhere my Scout says is halfway stable, instead of getting sucked down into…what’s below. So, I’ve just been making remote observations with my Scout until I’m ready to move on.”

“You really should check out the Hanging City.”

“Have you been?”

“No,” I lie, “but as our archaeologist, you really ought to explore it, right?”

Riebeck scratches behind their ear nervously. “I will, I just—” Suddenly, their eyes light up. “Hey—is that the translator tool?”

I glance down at the holster by my side. Awkwardly, I pull the tool from my belt while making sure my marshmallow is still getting a nice even roast and hand it over. Riebeck holds it like it’s a Nomai artifact, gloved fingers turning the device over in their hands.

“So, you and Hal really finished it?” They ask eagerly. “Have you tested it? Does it work? Did you learn anything?”

Turning my marshmallow over the fire, the warm colours of the coals remind me of somewhere. A sly grin spreads across my face and I pop my marshmallow into my mouth. “Actually, yes,” I say through toasted perfection. “I just came from Ember Twin. Chert…uh, says hi. Wanna know what I found there?”

Their ears perk up expectantly. Doing my best Feldspar impression, brandishing my roasting stick over the flames, I recount my discovery of the escape pod and crash site caves on Ember Twin. I describe racing against the clock to follow Coleus’ directions in only somewhat embellished detail, and do my best to convey the sense of awe that had filled me when I made it to the Sunless City, deep within the bowels of Ember Twin’s caves, and first switched on the lights.

Riebeck gasps. “You mean there’s another Nomai city inside of Ember Twin?” I nod. Leaning back in disbelief, Riebeck wipes their forehead with the back of their hand. “That’s incredible! A whole city, and I had no idea it existed! This is great!” Then, leaning forward, “How did they keep the sand out? If it were me, I’d be nervous about getting buried in the caves by that awful river of sand.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it! There are these giant doors all around the settlement. They open with these massive locks and slide right into the cavern walls. Pointless now—the cavern is riddled with holes. But they easily would have kept out all the sand when the Nomai were around.”

Riebeck shakes their head again. “Gosh, the Nomai were ingenious, building an entire settlement underground. The Sunless City! Wow! That means there were two groups of Nomai—one that lived on Ember Twin, and one that lived here on Brittle Hollow. But they must have travelled around the solar system, since Nomai writing can be found on other planets, too.”

Other planets—shoot! I hurriedly get up and tuck away my marshmallow stick.

“I gotta go,” I say quickly, pulling my helmet over my ears. “Real nice talking with you.” I glance down at Riebeck’s hands, which are still grasping the translator tool. “I, um, I’m gonna need that back.”

“Oh, right, yes,” Riebeck stammers, fumbling with the tool as they hand it back over. 

I place it securely back in its holster and hoist my pack high on my shoulders.

“Where…where are you going?” Riebeck asks in an unsteady voice.

“Ash Twin,” I say. “Most of the sand should be gone now. There’s a warp platform in one of the towers there that’ll bring me to the Black Hole Forge in the uppermost district of the Hanging City.”

“Black hole…forge?”

Turning to leave their campsite, I wave them off. “I’ll tell you about it soon enough. See you later!”

Wasting no time—well, any more time, at least—I head back across the twin bridges to the Hanging City, where I find my shortcut to the surface waiting for me in the Meltwater District. Using my jetpack boosters, I rocket up the stairs until I see the bright light of the day glint blindingly off of the polar cap. The silhouette of my ship is black against the backdrop of an orange sun, and, in the distance, I can see the towers of Ash Twin poking well above the dunes. Clambering into my ship, I set course for the sandy planet.

It takes me no time at all to race across the sky to the Hourglass Twins, and even less time to set my ship down on the receding sands. My landing camera is knocked out of place by my hasty descent, and I spare a few seconds repairing it, trying to do good on my promise to be a better pilot.

Finding the Brittle Hollow Tower is easy now that I've already found it once. The blocky exterior is vastly different from all other towers spattering Ash Twin’s surface, and once the sands abate, locating the it is trivial. I stand eagerly on the warp platform, eyes turned to the sky above as my anticipation grows. What knowledge does the Black Hole Forge hold? It’s a question I’ve had since some of my very first loops. Surely—certainly—I’ll learn more about the Ash Twin Project. My heart pounds in my chest.

The alignment occurs, and faster than a wink of the eye, I blink out of existence on Ash Twin. One hundred-thousandth of a second earlier, I blink into existence on the ceiling of the Hanging City.

And there it is. 

The blackened, fortified hull of the Black Hole Forge darkens the glacial ice before me, its size casting great shadows behind it. It hangs between its supports like a spider on its web, the sharp angles of its diamond-shaped design giving it a menacing appearance. My mouth agape, I walk hesitantly towards it.

The bottom of the forge, a square cubby coated with gravity tiles, sits snugly in the receptacle I encountered on my last visit to the Black Hole Forge District. There is no lock, no door. Just an arch waiting to welcome me into the mysterious workshop. I stare at the steps. Then, with an exhale, I venture inside.

The forge is structured much like the Nomai shuttles. A gravity floor runs vertically up its length, giving me a strong feeling of vertigo every time I see the glacial ice behind me. My perception of where I am in space is completely disrupted—what I keep thinking of as ‘down’ is in fact the underbelly of Brittle Hollow’s crust, and the surface across which my boots fall is 'sideways', and, before me, the Black Hole looms. I feel dizzy—and I’ve trained to be turned all around in space! I can only imagine how Hal would cope in a place like this—it wouldn’t be very well.

The ceiling is low where I enter. The forge is tapered at the entrance and widens as I go deeper inside. A table overlooks a balcony where the floor falls away to a lower level. A great observation window of thick, distorting glass covers the far wall. When in its active position, the window must provide an excellent view of the black hole, which even at this distance, fills nearly one-third of the window. Overlooking the lower level from the balcony, I am instantly intrigued. A chalkboard stands, facing away from me. Shelves line one wall, a mural painted on the surface opposite. And, in the middle of the observation window, eyes closed peacefully, stands a Nomai statue. 

Red light flares as an explosion echoes to my left. I startle, but it’s only a lava bomb colliding harmlessly with the northern glacier. The sound of crumbling crust fills the forge as I hop down to the workspace.

Tables sit at the margins of the room, storage containers filled with materials line the wall behind the chalkboard. A skeleton sprawls across the floor, staff still in hand. Just like at the High Energy Lab, I can’t stop myself from imagining what the forge was like when Nomai filled it. The bustling of busy bodies, the excitement sending electricity through the air at every breakthrough. The chalkboard sits central. How many ideas had been written across its surface? How many theories, how many proposals?

Text already paints the board. No time like the present to find out. I take my translator tool from its holster.

—

“Where am I taking this first black hole core? And where am I taking the remaining cores once they’re ready?” 

Root stood on the upper level, overlooking the forge. His teal suit was painted with a splash of purple from the gravity crystal tiles, his mask pulled over his face. In his arms, he held a box, its precious contents covered with a tightly-secured lid.

Clary couldn’t believe they had finally pushed through their prolonged testing phase. With the black hole cores finally approved by Yarrow and Poke (in that order), it was time for them to be installed. Poke was still interrogating the white hole cores for flaws, though Clary knew there were none; her sister was a perfectionist to a fault, and even the black hole cores had been ready weeks ago. Clary had worried, for a fleeting moment, that Poke would never be satisfied with their work. With deadlines already pushed to accommodate more rigorous testing, it had been looking an awfully lot like the warp platforms would never be completed. And Yarrow was too nice—or too intimidated—to say much of anything to Poke. But, Poke had eventually signed off on the installation. The towers had been built to Phlox’ specifications, and all that was left was for the cores to meet their permanent new homes.

Clary was ecstatic. Not only would the warp towers greatly lessen the travel times between the Ash Twin Project’s numerous workshops and laboratories, but it would make the solar system as a whole much, much smaller. A Nomai would be able to travel from Brittle Hollow to the Ash Twin to Giant’s Deep in just a few minutes! The interconnectivity of the planets was certain to bring about great things. Materials and concepts could be shared all the more readily, and Clary was excited to see what would spawn from it all.

“All of the warp towers are being constructed on Ash Twin,” Clary replied with a polite smile from where she stood in front of the scroll wall, “so the black hole cores will go there.”

“And the white hole cores are for the warp receivers.” Poke’s voice carried from across the room. She sat, bench pulled up close to a worktable, turning a white hole core over in her hands, squinting at every seam. “Each of the six receivers are being constructed at different locations,” she continued without looking up, “so those deliveries will be a greater pain in your cervical spine. The tower designs in the High Energy Lab on Ember Twin reveal each receiver's location. Ask Yarrow; he is familiar with them.”

Since they could not see Root’s expression from behind his mask, he raised the box in his hands as thanks. “My gratitude! In that case: Poke, Clary, I’m leaving for delivery!” Then—Was that a knowing tilt of his head towards Clary?—Root added, “I’ll send Yarrow your regards.”

Footsteps followed Root’s departure from the forge. Clary thought on the strange comment he had made. Why had she assumed it was directed towards her? Root had given no such indication, or at least not an obvious one. His face had been masked, his eyes hidden. For all she knew, he was directing the comment towards Poke! Ha, yes. As if Poke had time to think about Yarrow. She was burying herself more and more in her work, these days.

Scrunching her face, Clary decided the comment was innocuous. Of course, he would care to send Yarrow their regards! They were all such wonderful colleagues, and…

Clary bit her lip as she fiddled idly with her staff, eyes staring blankly at the scroll wall before her. She found herself glancing up to the balcony where Root stood just moments ago. Tucking away the fur in her face, she propped her staff against the wall and turned to her sister.

“Poke, I’ll return to the forge shortly,” she said. “I’m going to catch up to Root and help him deliver the first core to Ash Twin, just to make sure Yarrow receives it.”

And as she hurried towards the nearest gravity beam, she could have sworn she heard Poke snort.

“Of course you are.”

—

Again, I find myself smiling beneath the visor of my space suit. Clary and Yarrow’s journey is so adorable, especially given what the Nomai had to go through to get where they were. I’ve never really had the time to think about anyone that way. The program is strenuous, and between Slate and Gossan and Hornfels and Hal and all the other travellers, every waking thought had been consumed with training or developing the translator tool. What free time I did have I either spent helping around the village or watching the hatchlings. But now that I’m a fully-fledged astronaut—or will be, when my first solo-flight finally concludes—my schedule will be mine to make. It might be nice to…think about that, when everything is over. Gossan and Porphy seem happy enough.

Another scroll sits on a nearby shelf. I switch it with the one in the board, feeling watched by the Nomai statue just over my shoulder, though its eyes remain closed. New script flows across the sand-coloured surface as the scroll connects.

“Of note: Yarrow believes he spotted a flaw in the warp tower designs: namely, that one of the warp towers on Ash Twin will never activate, because its warp receiver will never align overhead,” Poke wrote. “Does your romantic interest think a warp tower’s alignment point is its receiver? Does he not know that a warp tower always aligns with the center of its corresponding astral body?”

“That isn’t an unreasonable belief, given the receiver does have to be located on (or in close orbit around) the relevant astral body,” Clary replied. “I seem to recall that was your understanding of warp technology, at first. No, Yarrow understands the distinction. He likely doesn’t realize the Hourglass Twins are so close together they function as a single astral body, with a shared alignment point in between them.”

Hm. I didn’t realise that the Hourglass Twins acted as a single body to the receivers. It makes sense. As binary planets, they act as a single body as they travel along their shared orbit around the sun. Though the spinning of each Twin does contribute to some gravitational fluctuations, the math almost always works out the same when they are regarded as one object and when they are regarded as two. I don’t see why the receivers would be any different. When using the warp platforms, I’ve always waited until the corresponding astral body flies overhead—the same was true for the Ember Twin warp platform, even if the alignment actually occurred when the centre of both Twins was overhead. The centre is, of course, somewhere between the two planets, directly in the path of the flowing sands, where I felt gravity switch when I found myself in the middle of the sandfall. The alignment occurring when Ember Twin is overhead should be functionally the same as the alignment occurring when the barycentre is overhead, given the distances involved.

There are two towers for the Hourglass Twins, both with warp platforms. If one is for Ember…then logic dictates that the other should be for Ash. That would be problematic, if the warp towers didn’t align with a shared point between the two planets. But, I had waited on the second warp platform, and I didn’t warp to a receiver on Ash Twin. The alignment should have occurred when the sands were directly overhead, but it didn’t. Or…It did, only much too late for me to be caught in it as the force of the sands carried me away.

I search the forge for more scrolls, but I seem to have exhausted my supply. Instead, I make my way over to the mural on the wall. It looks remarkably like the one I found within the White Hole Station. A stone circle spins 'round and 'round. A beam of light—or rather, two beams of light, spread slightly apart at their point of origin on the circle—shoot from the circle to a brassy planet with a star in its middle. A pointer on the stone circle rotates, and when the pointer falls between the two beams, the pointer glows a bright purple. I have a sneaking suspicion what this is supposed to describe, but I turn to the Nomai text on the wall beside it to be sure.

“Regarding the warp towers on Ash Twin: Does each tower have to be perfectly aligned with the center of the astral body to which it’s tuned?” Clary questioned. “I enjoy precision as much as the next Nomai, but if, for example, a tower’s base were to shift even slightly, that tower might no longer align with its astral body.”

“We don’t need the alignment angle to be exact; it only needs to be within five degrees of the astral body’s center,” Poke responded. “Of note: This gives us a slightly longer warp window. I imagine this window will last roughly several seconds. As such, any Nomai stepping onto the warp platform during the active window will be immediately warped. We will need to be careful around the platform for the duration of the time it’s active to avoid accidental transportation.”

Reading Poke’s explanations, I am instantly reminded of Chert. They both seem to revel in teaching others.

Clary added an addendum that makes me let out a chuckle: “More accurately, I enjoy precision as much as the next Nomai, provided the next Nomai is not Poke.”

Returning to the mural with new context, I watch as the pointer completes another arc around the stone. When it passes the first beam, it lights up, and its glow remains until it passes the second beam. My suspicion was right—the mural shows the process of warp receiver alignment. The pointer represents a warp tower, the star within the brass planet that planet’s alignment point. The beams depict the five degree window in which alignment can occur—the pointer’s light is activated during the entire window, not just when its tip sits perfectly beneath the alignment point. That’s awfully convenient for me—I don’t have to worry about being on the platform exactly when alignment occurs; I’ll have a few moments before I miss my window. 

I take one more look around the forge, at the neat stacks of materials that have been left untouched for thousands and thousands of years, at the mural as it turns. Gazing out of the window, down at the deep dark depths beyond, I notice that the view of the black hole is not as perfect as I had thought. A bulky device connects the interior of the window to the exterior, twin receptacles meeting through fine copper wire. In each receptacle are two diamond-shaped alcoves, one marked in white, and the other black. Currently, the copper wire runs from the black alcove within the forge to what I think must be the operational end of the device on the other side. Is this how they made warp cores? By somehow reaching into the black hole (or white hole) and sequestering their energy?

Then again, the wires are twisted and distorted, connections long severed. Perhaps we’ll never learn exactly how the cores were created.

The forge does not contain the answers I want it to. Interesting information about warp travel, yes, but nothing pertaining to how to get into the Sun Tower on Ash Twin. The details of how alignment works are useful, I suppose, but far from revolutionary.

It’s much further in the loop, now. Perhaps more of the sand has parted from Ash Twin, and perhaps a way in to the Sun Tower has revealed itself. Figuring out the finer details of the Sun Station’s purpose is my main objective now, at least until I figure out where the Ash Twin Project is. I’m still running with the theory that the peculiar station has something to do with the sun exploding, and as long as the sun is going supernova, getting to the Ash Twin Project and shutting off the time loop is suicide. 

On my way out of the forge, a shine of orange grabs my attention. A projection stone, sitting right there on a table! I can’t believe I almost missed it. And, if memory serves me right, there’s a nice, usable projection pool sitting just outside. 

Loud crashes greet me as I leave the forge behind. Oranges and reds glint off the glacial ice. The shadows of transiting planets drift across the ore-rich underbelly of Brittle Hollow. The crust is crumbling, though I can’t see it. 

As I place the stone into one of the podiums sitting in front of the corresponding board, I look at the orange image on its surface. The Hourglass Twins. I’d seen a stone with this image on it before, and I remember distinctly where it took me when I stepped into the pool…

Words fill the board. I raise my translator.

—

“I have good news, Yarrow! The advanced warp core is ready to be installed in the central chamber of Ash Twin.”

Clary stood within the confines of the projection pool, a rippling image of Yarrow standing before her. Reception was poor between Ash Twin and Brittle Hollow, but she didn’t mind—she’d meet Yarrow later, after she had prepped the core for transport. And that would be a quick task—whatever work she did, Poke was certain to redo, especially with her crowning achievement. She’d throw herself into the black hole before she’d let anything happen to her precious warp core. Clary didn’t take her mistrust personally. She would act the same way, if she had just as great footsteps to follow in, and if she had surpassed every expectation.

“I’m intrigued, love!” Yarrow replied. His suit was creaseless, his fur groomed handsomely, just like every time she saw him. “Everyone here working on the Ash Twin Project is excited to see it. Pye is beside herself with joy!”

Clary opened her mouth to respond, but heard heavy footfalls approaching. She turned just in time to see Poke hop from the stairs of the Black Hole Forge, eyes wide, fur amess, arms waving wildly.

“No, it isn’t!” her sister called.

Poke splashed into the projection pool, but Clary pushed her back out, holding a hand steadfastly over her mouth. She silently thanked the poor reception. Only what was within the range of the pool should get projected, and she hoped she had managed to get Poke far enough away that Yarrow couldn’t see the state of her.

Yarrow narrowed his eyes concernedly. “Is everything well at the forge?”

Doing her best to look composed, Clary smiled kindly at Yarrow.

“Don’t worry, love; Poke is only nervous. The core is extraordinary, and her design work is beautifully clever.”

Poke waved an arm manically over the projection pool, trying to get Yarrow's attention. 

“The core’s durability could still be improved!" she shouted from behind Clary's hand. "I need more time!”

Again, Clary smiled sweetly, giving Poke another firm shove. “Ignore her, Yarrow. The core is finished.” She spared a sidelong glance to her sister, harsh and warning. “And if my sister tells you otherwise, then she will be finished, as well.”

—

Poke really does remind me of Chert—there is always something to improve upon. That’s how Chert ended up on Ember in the first place, by wanting to revise our current star charts.

I pluck the stone from the podium and turn it over in my hand. If it really is connected to the Ash Twin Project…

I turn to the projection pool and insert the stone into its place in the vacant podium. The podiums conjoin, and black liquid fills the pool, and my vision begins to ripple with a muddy haze.

Stars spin all around me, but I expect that. They form constellations I don’t recognise, glimmering as they streak by. Great columns darken the stellar sky, masks fixed to their surfaces. This time, I force my muscles to relax. This time, I take a deep breath in, and out. This time, I turn slowly, and I count.

Three glowing masks. The active masks. Three masks that are receiving memories, information, and returning them to sender at each loop restart. I step backwards and the vision fades. The black liquid bubbles back into its place at the base of the podiums.

I’ve seen many Nomai statues on my journey. But only four had their eyes open. One in the museum. One on the shore of Giant’s Deep. One in the Statue Workshop. And one on the Probe Tracking Module, lost within the Giant’s core. Discounting the mask in the workshop as a proof of concept, that leaves three active statues and three active masks. The numbers work out, pleasantly. As long as I don’t stumble across another statue with open eyes, all masks are spoken for. I still don’t know why the statue within the Probe Tracking Module is active, and I’ll probably never find out. It’s a truth that’s hard to accept, after how successful I’ve been in my search for answers so far. Some mysteries just can’t be solved. 

…But some can be.

My gaze shifts to the warp platform, alight with a charge that’ll send me back to Ash Twin the moment I step on the receiver. I still have towers to explore, and one of them is certain to answer all my most pressing questions.

Chapter Text

As I leave the Brittle Hollow warp tower on Ash Twin, my steps falter. In the distance, I can see the crown of the next tower—the funnel of a stone rendition of one of Giant’s Deep’s many cyclones. And, behind it, is the sun. And it is huge. So huge, in fact, that the warp tower for Giant’s Deep is just a small smudge breaking its massive circumference. I open my map. Ash Twin is swinging around Ember Twin in real time, and where I stand on the equator is drifting in for its closest encounter to the bloated sun. The thin atmosphere of Ash Twin distorts overhead as particles from the sun’s corona whip and flare towards me.

I press on.

The warp tower for Giant’s Deep presents me with only benches, green-hued walls, and a single gravity beam rising up through a narrow hole in the floor. There are no switches. No stairs. Just blank stone and chipped tile. Warping to the Statue Workshop isn’t high on my list of priorities, but I am hoping to find my way into each tower, just in case there are some important morsels of information left behind, like there was in the towers for Ember Twin and Brittle Hollow. I turn to leave, but out through the entryway a shadow begins its march across the equatorial bridge: Ember, and its great pillar of sand. I wait in the safety of the archway as it passes, staring at a point between where the sand rises from Ash and lands on Ember. The invisible alignment point.

The sand passes and I head outside. I hope that the base of the tower is narrow enough not to encompass the bridge, but it’s not. To get around the tower, I’ll have to drop down to the rock below, then try to jet back up on the other side of the inaccessible building. But when I approach the side of the bridge to take the leap, I notice a thin band of arced metal rising up the edge of the building. Ornamentation, I’m sure, to better capture the essence of the cyclones Phlox wished to emulate, but it just so happens that this bit of ornamentation is perfectly Hearthian-sized. Carefully, I balance on the rim and follow it around the tower. When I reach the back, I’m glad I hadn’t decided to jump down to the rock below—no bridge waits beyond. Turns out, the bridge doesn’t span the whole of the equator, just from the Sun Tower to the Giant’s Deep Tower. Then, the bridge is replaced by a yawning gap and ragged metamorphics.

At the end of the ornamentation, I reach another archway. A modest room capped by tempered glass surrounds me. Two Nomai skeletons lay to the side within tattered space suits, and the warp platform sits in a depression in the floor, primed and at the ready. I cross the room, giving the platform a wide berth, and peer through the archway at the opposite end. The Sun Tower waits in the distance. The sun is awfully large, and awfully close, but time is a precious thing. Who am I to throw away the last few seconds of a loop?

Using my jetpack thrusters to their fullest extent, I soar across the gap that separates the towers. I’m glad I do, because the Sun Tower has a backdoor after all.

A platform juts out from the smooth side of it, and I pilot my jetpack expertly towards it, only hurting my knees a little as I come in fast for landing. Cactus plants poke from dilapidated walls, but in the middle of the room is a familiar purple glow. A chalkboard! Eagerly, I read.

“Some time has passed since I checked in with you, Pye,” Yarrow wrote. “How are you and Idaea progressing with the Sun Station plans?”

Pye replied, with a disconcerting turn-of-phrase, “Presently, my assessment is that our plan will either fail explosively or succeed explosively.”

“Pye, you know I don’t find that funny,” Idaea wrote. I can almost hear the deadpan intonation of the words.

“How curious; Ramie thinks I’m a gas. And I don’t recall requesting that you monitor this conversation, Idaea.”

“I don’t see what state of matter you are has to do with this,” Idaea retorted. “And I don’t recall supporting the Sun Station’s construction, but here we are.”

And there was Yarrow, right on cue. “Hypothesis: Time spent away from the station would be beneficial to you both.”

“I’m immensely interested in testing your hypothesis, Yarrow,” Pye replied.

“That, at least, we can agree on,” wrote Idaea.

I glance around the room for more scrolls but see only roadblocks. A latticed wall reveals a gravity beam pulsing in a neighbouring room, but the cacti around it are so plentiful that there's no way to reach it without tearing holes in my suit and my skin. A hall curves around to reach it, but the floor is also coated in the treacherous plants. I’d never be able to cross before I'm pricked to death by spines, and the sharp corners are far too difficult for me to try navigating with my jetpack. The Sun Station is, yet again, inaccessible. 

The room blackens. I don’t need to look outside to know why. Across the tiled floor, a blue light shines, pouring in from the archway behind me. It sends my shadow stretching towards the far wall, and my periphery is filled with the haze of a dazzling light just behind me.

And then everything goes black.

And I am at a loss again. Where should I go looking for answers? Where can I go? I know the Probe Tracking Module might hold some interesting information about the Ash Twin Project (though I no longer believe that it will aid in any way my task of stopping the supernova), but I can't reach it if it's trapped within the core of Giant’s Deep. Or, will be trapped. The probe blasts away from the Orbital Probe Cannon above my head, and, look—there the third module goes, down into the current. The Sun Station—also impenetrable. The warp tower is inundated with those pesky prickled plants, and without a warp, my only way of getting to the station is by flight. Despite the handful of feats I’ve been able to pull off so far, I’m just not that good a pilot. I don’t think Outer Wilds Ventures has that good a pilot. One wrong move and I’ll be burnt to a crisp, and my foray into solar exploration with the Nomaian shuttle is still fresh in my mind. Nope. I will not be doing that again.

That leaves…What does that leave? The Ash Twin Project? I’ve gathered so much information, and yet I still have no idea where the Ash Twin Project is even located, let alone how to get there. Perhaps the collapsed tower on Ash Twin has something to do with it, but as long as the sand is shooting towards Ember, I can't stand on the platform without getting carried away. It’s too bad the loops had to encompass the entirety of the sand transfer. When the sands finally slow to a trickle, there won’t be enough time left in the loop to wait for the alignment to occur, and even less time to explore where the platform takes me. The Nomai have alluded to it being ‘inside’ something, but then how can I see the stars?

I sit beneath my own stars for a moment and think. The fire crackles beside me. Crickets chirp, smoke rises into the air, and fireflies weave indifferently between trees. And I am still lost.

At least I’m not worked up into a panic like the last time I found myself aimless and adrift. Now that would be bad.

For knowing absolutely nothing about most things, I do know quite a bit about the Sun Station. I know that I can’t get there, for one, but aside from that…I know the Nomai built it to power the Ash Twin Project. Its construction was controversial, because…however it was supposed to generate that power was dangerous. And it had to provide a lot of power to the project, for the Nomai to initiate a 22-minute time loop. But the station failed, and the project was shelved. But…I am very much in a 22-minute time loop. So why does the station work all of a sudden? And what was this potentially world-ending power source?

I…don’t know. The information is just out of reach, I know it. The Sun Station will hold the answers. But, maybe, if I could just figure it out from the fragments of conversations I’ve read, I won’t even need the Sun Station.

I think back to my previous breakthroughs. What has, historically, been my favourite way of putting the pieces together? Puzzling long and hard over them? Scanning my log? Heck, no! It's been reading random conversations, grabbing onto some innocuous comment, and rolling with it! I’m fresh out of Nomai text, but if I know anyone, I know a Hearthian that loves to talk. It’s not a lead. It’s hardly a start, but it’s all I can think to do. And, hey—if this is what gets me to the Sun Station, I can live with that.

When I return to Ember Twin, the lakebed is once again filled with the rhythmic beat of Chert’s drum. I can’t see them from behind the rise of the butte they sit atop, but just hearing the music is enough for me to know that they’ve recovered from our last meeting. I guess time really does heal all wounds. The sun is as it should be, no supernovae dotting the sky. It’s a day like any other day, and Chert will be happily marvelling at the stars. At least, for now.

Chert sits on the same rusty boulder as always, drum held steady between their ankles. The music stops when they see me, and they wave and pop off their helmet.

“Goodness, it’s you! Hello!” they repeat. “I take it your first launch went well, then? Welcome to the Hourglass Twins. Mind the sand, now.”

I join them by their boulder, removing my own helmet and cradling it in my lap. I look at the flames of the fire as they liven the red sandstone around us, and I watch the sun whirl around—much smaller than I’m used to, now. The changes aren’t apparent. Not yet. But I know something is happening, far beneath its corona. The sun is already being set on its path.

Chert catches me sneaking glimpses of the sun, and leans forward with an expression tinged with mild concern. “Tell me, what can I do for you?” they ask.

And just as they say the words, there it is—the Nomai Sun Station. 

It comes around the sun slowly, and I think, just for a moment— I could land my ship on that. The two halves of the station can clearly be seen from my vantage point, perched high over the surrounding landscape with only a few palm trees blocking my view. I can see the flattened top of the one half, the one that sits just below the orbital plane of the solar system. A warp spiral glows from it, its luminosity drowned out by that of the star it circles. That must be where the warp receiver waits. Because of my sightline or because of my distance, the station seems much larger than it ever has, and I find myself staring determinedly at the spiral. I could land my ship on that.

But then I pull my focus out, and the magnitude of the sun comes rushing back to me. The Sun Station only appears to move slowly around the sun because the sun is so massive. Have I forgotten my brief fly-by in the Nomaian shuttle? The station flew past at a staggering speed. I’d never get my ship onto that tiny little platform. Not with the incessant pull of the sun’s gravity tugging me towards an unpleasant demise. Still, the thought itches in the back of my mind.

“That satellite,” I start, pointing, “the Nomai built it. What do you think it was for?”

Chert’s eyes flick to the station just as it rounds the other side of the sun.

“An interesting question!” they commend, leaning back. “Though, perhaps it would be better directed towards our archaeologist friend—Why the Nomai built what they did is far from my area of expertise. However, if you are looking for an astronomer’s answer…”

They trail off, staring long and hard at the less luminous margins of our sun, then, along the plane of the solar system, at the other planets as they cruise along their orbits. 

“I would propose that they used that station to monitor the planets!” they say after a pause. “It follows the orbital plane, of course, and thus would have no problem detecting the planets as they traverse the solar system. Perhaps it served a similar purpose to our deep space satellite? Using basic radio technology, I am certain the Nomai could have measured the distance of each planet to the satellite itself, comparing these distances with the time intervals between detections to plot trajectories and orbits.”

“Like radar?” I ask.

“Like radar. Though placing it in such a close orbit around the sun presents some unique challenges. Not least of all being the feasibility of repairs and standard upkeep.”

I nod, and the Sun Station returns from around the other side of the sun. 

“I’ve actually found some Nomai writing about it,” I lead. “They called it the ‘Sun Station.’”

“So, that’s what’s in orbit around the sun, then, do you think? This…'Sun Station’?” Chert regards the station with squinting eyes, lips pursed in thought. After a beat, they say, “‘Station’ implies they were conducting research there. Quite clever of the Nomai to devise a way to study the sun up close and personal! It must have been tremendously difficult to construct...And hot inside. I can only imagine! I wonder how they were able to travel back and forth from the Sun Station and the Hourglass Twins, when the slightest slip up would have meant a fiery death.”

“You know how you told me to check out the towers on Ash Twin?” I ask, only to receive a confused look in return. Oh, right. They haven’t told me that yet. Ignoring their odd stares, I continue, “Well, I went there. And it turns out all those towers are actually warp stations, and each one warps you to a different planet—or astral body.”

Instantly, Chert’s eyes widen, and they look around for Ash Twin. I know what they’re trying to spot, but not enough of the sand has drained off yet, so I confirm it for them.

“The tallest tower—that one’s for the Sun Station. I know it. But I can’t get inside. There has to be another way to get to the station. It’s…important that I get there.” Then, pausingly, I ask, “Do you think I could fly there?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Chert explodes into laughter.

“Fly there?" They ask between wheezes. "You mean…land your…your ship? On the satellite? The one that orbits the sun? The one that’s flying around at hundreds of metres a second?”

My cheeks flush. “I—”

But Chert is still laughing, keeling over to hug their stomach as tears stream down their face. I wait patiently for them to finish, unimpressed.

“I know the first launch is empowering and all,” they say when they’ve regained control of their breathing, wiping tears from their eyes, “but, there is no way you can land your ship on that station. It’s far too dangerous. Not even Feldspar thought to try it. At least not out loud. The trajectories would need to be followed perfectly. Unfortunately, our ships just don’t have that sort of precision. And why risk it? One misstep, and…”

They trail off upon seeing the look on my face. My disappointment must have revealed itself, and, quickly, I straighten up and stretch out my ears.

“Yeah, I get it,” I say dismissively. “You’re right. I’ll just have to think of something else.”

Chert reaches over and pats my shoulder. “Stay and use my fire as long as you like.” 

I can only imagine what they’re thinking of me. To them, it seem like the newest recruit immediately took off and set their sights on a destination far above their skill level. Nothing more but wishful thinking, chasing the grandeur of a new adventure. And, that’s sort of true, but I’m not the same Hearthian I was when I took off from Timber Hearth for the first time. If only they knew all the things I’ve done, all the places I’ve visited…

Unbothered, they pull out their notebook, check off some coordinates, then aim their Signalscope towards a distant star system. With their eyes preoccupied, I take the moment to rub mine, but I only end up getting grains of sand stuck to my cheek.

So, Chert doesn’t have any good ideas as to what the Sun Station was used for. Granted, I had omitted that its purpose was to provide some sort of power source, but I’m not sure Chert would know anything more about that than I do. Maybe if I asked Slate, they’d have some insane proposition. It’d have to be insane, for the Nomai to be so conflicted with the station's construction. And, really, if anyone can harness ‘insane’, it’s Slate. 

Aside from not knowing anything more about the station’s function, I still don’t know how to reach it. Chert simply confirmed what I already know—I won’t be manually landing my ship on the station any time soon. 

“Amazing!” 

I look up, and Chert is staring wide-eyed through their Signalscope viewfinder. They lower the device, write something down in their notebook, then wave me closer. I scoot over and Chert hands me their Signalscope and points to a far-off star.

“Look there!”

I look through the viewfinder. Instead of a star, I see a ball of blue sparks, radiating slowly outwards. 

“A supernova!” Chert exclaims. “It’s not every day you see one of those. Incredible, isn’t it?”

“Incredible,” I say, handing back their Signalscope. “Is that the first one of the day?”

“Hm?” Chert replies distractedly, eyes already peering through the viewfinder again. “First? Oh, we’d be lucky to see two in the same week. Though, this site is quite extraordinary, from an astronomical observation standpoint. Very little atmosphere to get in the way. Perhaps you are right—I could quite possibly see a second if the stars align!”

Leaving Chert to their discoveries, I use the moment of quiet to take in the scenery around me. I’m a little disheartened that my chat with Chert hasn’t given me any leads. It’s alright. I’ll think of something eventually. I won’t really have a choice. The time loop’s shown no signs of faltering, and until I can figure out how to get into the Sun Station and the Ash Twin Project, it seems like I’ll have an eternity to find answers. If one thing is certain, it’s that everything is certain after an eternity. Or, I hope so, anyway.

Pencil scribbles on paper as I look around the lakebed. It’s amazing, really—unbelievable, that this massive, bottomless abyss upon the pole had once been filled with the water Ember Twin now almost entirely lacks. I wish the warp time anomaly could send me back that far so I could see it for myself; it’s so impossible to believe. Though the sand is clearly finishing the job, Ember’s caverns had been carved primarily from rushing water, from fluid erosion and weathering spanning eons. What creatures lived in the sunless waters? Would they have been familiar? Us Hearthians evolved from pool-dwelling ancestors, after all. If a fossil anglerfish exists deep within the caves, what other fossils do? I get up, brush myself off, and peer over the side of the island. With the sun always on the horizon, the lakebed is blanketed in a constant darkness. A sandy haze hovers in the deep, but beyond that, I see nothing. 

The sides of the lakebed are not so empty. Tunnels stretch from the ancient lake to the equatorial canyon, or bore deep into the planet itself. Nomai arches strengthen a couple of these tunnels, and stairs run from them down into the black depths below. 

Chert is still watching the stars. 

“These tunnels,” I begin, motioning vaguely towards the arches, “where do they go?”

They pull their eyes away from the viewfinder of their Signalscope and follow my gestures. 

“I don’t know,” they reply. “To be honest, I haven’t left this lakebed. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m really quite good with the Little Scout, so I’ve been taking pictures of everything from right here in my campsite.”

With that, they return to their charts. I turn back to the nearest arch, brow furrowed. I’ve explored so many of Ember Twin’s expansive caverns, but they’re so twisted, so branching, so extensive…I never believed for a second that I had discovered everything there is to discover. Have I been through the arches? I can’t remember. I don’t think so.

With Chert absorbed in the discovery of their first supernova of the loop, I pull my helmet over my head and secure the clasps. Whatever the Nomai left behind, I’m going to find it.

I stand at the base of one of the two Nomai arches that open into the lakebed. It towers over me, surprisingly sturdy. 

The tunnel that lies beyond is dark, meandering, and narrow. No wind whistles through its shaft, no sun lights up its corners. Memories of my time in claustrophobic corridors flash before my eyes, but I don’t find myself feeling particularly scared or unsettled. The number of times I’ve died in these caverns are vastly outnumbered by times I haven’t. Clicking on my flashlight, I enter.

Cacti litter the floors, clinging to a broken Nomai stairway. A shadowy alcove at the top of the stairs hints at a room beyond, and my jetpack makes quick work of the gap that separates us. Down another short tunnel and…a dead-end. That was quick. I’m in a small, circular cavern. A Nomai chalkboard stands across from me, alight with text. A secondary note is scrawled hastily across the floor. But beyond that…nothing. Why had the Nomai gone to the trouble of constructing anything within such an unremarkable cave?

I aim my translator tool, and watch as the words materialise on the display.

“This rock is very familiar!” Melorae wrote. “Did you travel here, my sedimentary friend? Because your unique color and texture appears identical to a rock I met earlier. Wasn’t this same rock fragment in the cave we found at the bottom of the dry lakebed (at the north pole)?”

They were interested in…the rock? I pan my flashlight beam across the walls of sandstone. It looks like the same stuff found everywhere else on this planet. Red, bedded, undulating—and, most importantly, ubiquitous. And…what was that about ‘travelling’?

“We plan to reexamine the northern Lakebed Cave,” Coleus added. “Maybe our friendly rock will meet us down there!” And, at a later time: “An update: Melorae and I went back to the Lakebed Cave and observed this rock again. Sometimes it’s there, and sometimes it isn’t.”

“That means this rock wanders like the Quantum Moon does,” Melorae explained. “How curious!”

Squinting skeptically at the chalkboard writings, I turn to examine the cavern walls again. 

And, there it is.

Right behind me sits a massive boulder that hadn't been there before. It's bedded like sedimentary stone and pocketed with air bubbles, glistening like obsidian. It waits central in the cavern as if it has always stood there, but when I blink, it’s suddenly gone.

It wasn’t the sandstone Melorae and Coleus had been discussing at all. It was another quantum shard! I recall that the Nomai had spoken about the other shards, back on Brittle Hollow. This must be one of them. I wonder where it flickered off to, but, rereading the chalkboard script, not for very long. My Nomai geologist friends figured it out thousands of years ago—a place they called the Lakebed Cave.

Crouching down, I examine the messy note written across the floor.

“Coleus is missing!” Melorae began, her lettering uneven and tilted. “He vanished from the Lakebed Cave (the one at the bottom of the dry lakebed at the north pole) several days ago, and we’re unable to find any trace of him. I don’t know how much air he had when he disappeared. I beg any friend reading this, help us recover Coleus!”

Coleus had gone missing! But how? I wouldn’t be surprised if a shadowy hole had swallowed him up during a research excursion—they’re all too common. But the Nomai were so cautious, I can’t believe it. They would have scouted the area first. They would have known the troubles that awaited them. So, how did a Nomai suddenly vanish?

Twisting and turning, I follow the path back to the lakebed, and look down. Only the vague silhouettes of sandstone structures are visible through the powerful haze. I can see the impression of the island butte, the two natural rock bridges that stabilise it against the surrounding walls. I can see the sides of the lakebed, plummeting down, and down, and down…

Melorae provided me with fantastic directions: the cave is at the bottom of the lakebed. For how deep it is, the lakebed isn’t all that wide. Locating the cave will be easy. If I could survive Dark Bramble, I can survive this. I don’t linger on the fact that I hadn’t survived Dark Bramble for very long.

A set of stairs carved into the rocky cliffs descend into the dark beside me. I begin the trek downwards.

Upon reaching a shelf after a couple of flights, I leave the comfort of the stairs behind and follow a path hugging the side of the abyss. I walk for about half of the ancient lake’s circumference before I see another hint of Nomai presence: a second flight of stairs. I follow the narrow walkways as they switch back and forth, steep with steps uncomfortably narrow for my boots. I find myself stumbling and right myself with my boosters, rocks tumbling into the darkness below. I can hear them scatter along the bottom of the lakebed. I’m almost there.

I reach the bottom and pan my flashlight’s beam across the walls. How long has it been since these rocks have seen light? I doubt Chert has been tossing their Little Scout down here. The extensive darkness of the lakebed reminds me of a particular crater on the southern pole of Timber Hearth, which has walls so steep that the sun never breaks through to the bottom. It makes an excellent place to hunt for fireflies. Galena always beamed when I brought them a jar full of the marvellous little insects. The major difference is this crater is full of a sound quite unlike the sway of pines or hum of crickets. Up ahead, it’s clear—singing sands.

No, no, no—

Another short set of stairs leads to the very bellows of the lakebed, and…sand is already creeping up the steps. Not even half of the loop has gone by! But here I stand, watching my way into the Lakebed Cave get swallowed up by the sediment. I didn’t realise the cave is that deep.

Sighing, I turn to look to see if I have somehow missed the entrance, or if the cave really is already buried. I see nothing. Just sandstone, and sandstone, and…

The regular striated pattern of the bedding is suddenly broken. A hardy-looking stone—not sandstone, but something else, something lighter—is inlaid into the walls, stretching side to side, snaking along the cavern edge. One metre, two metres…the strange stone keeps going. I know instantly what I’m looking at: a fossil, though not one to rival the anglerfish that waits jaw-agape below. This one...this one belongs to Ember Twin. I can’t explain how I know, but I know. It just seems more…natural. More at home. Though that could be my bias talking. 

Long before the sun evaporated all the water away, long before the sands filled the caverns it left behind, creatures swam in the lake I stand within, and it’s one of these creatures I am face-to-face with now. A serpentine backbone cuts through the sandstone, curved ribs twinned along every vertebra. And—there! Another such fossil. In fact, as I follow the lakebed walls, I see more and more of the prehistoric creatures. And not only those ones, but others, too. I see one shaped like a broad leaf, with one end round and wide and the opposite end tapered into a long tail. And speaking of leaves—are those leaves, there? The fossil is dark instead of cream-coloured, a hallmark of carbonization. The other fossils are just minerals that have replaced bone, long ago, but this fossil I am seeing in its entirety, the carbon imprint showing the detail of every vein. And it certainly does look especially leaf-like. 

The only reason why I can even see these fossils is because the water—or the sand—carved them from the rock. How lucky am I that anything had been revealed at all? That anything had been preserved at all?

But, as the sand rises, bringing me along with it, the fossils begin to disappear. Bit-by-bit, they are covered. Bit-by-bit, they, like the rock that encases them, are eroded away. Will they even be here by the next sand-transfer? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe the rocks will reveal a whole new cast of creatures to see. For me, there’s always next loop.

I climb the stairs and am brought back up to the very verges of the lakebed. I won’t be exploring the Lakebed Cave this loop, but there are still opportunities for some light spelunking. Ahead lies the second set of Nomaian arches supporting their lakeside tunnel. 

Inside, I follow another meandering path. Particles drift lazily through the air, sparkling in the beam of my flashlight. At the end of the tunnel I turn, and—

I suddenly step into air.

All around me is darkness as I fall, a darkness so deep my flashlight does nothing to penetrate it. My heart skips a beat and it’s a second before I remember my jetpack. I slow my descent, and the surrounding cavern is starkly lit by the bright orange flames of my burning fuel.

The cavern is modest. The walls are at their farthest where I fell from the ledge above, much too far apart for my flashlight beam to reach between them. Like the last tunnel, the cavern is bare, except for a single Nomai chalkboard, glowing with purple text. I balance my flashlight and translator tool and read.

“Friends, if you find any sign of Coleus, I implore you to tell me!” Melorae began. “He vanished without a trace during our research trip, and has been missing ever since.” 

“Melorae, some of us from the Sunless City are here to help search for Coleus. Can you tell us more about your expedition?” 

“You have my gratitude, Bur! Coleus and I were studying the caves’ geology. We hoped to learn more about a unique and wandering rock that visits several different caves in the area.”

“Where was young Coleus lost, Melorae?” Annona asked. This must have been quite soon after their crash landing here—Annona had been long succeeded by his apprentice, Poke, by the time the Nomai needed to recreate advanced warp travel.

“He disappeared in the cave at the bottom of the dry lakebed at the north pole,” replied Melorae. “It happened in an instant, and without warning. I turned away from Coleus to examine a sample, and when I turned back, he simply wasn’t there anymore. He had a limited supply of air, Annona! I’m afraid for him!”

“Hypothesis,” Annona wrote. “We will learn more by examining the northern Lakebed Cave where Coleus disappeared. Search quickly, everyone; we have no time to squander!”

Coleus’ disappearance had indeed been dire if he only had a limited amount of oxygen with him. I’ve been fortunate to not have run out myself during my explorations, though it’s a constant worry. I still remember the panic of floating through space when I fell through the black hole, and the subsequent dread when the full weight of my mistake was realised. Watching the timer tick down is horrifying, and I hope I never have to see it hit zero.

But…Coleus had made it out, right? He had reunited with Thatch and the rest of the survivors of Escape Pod One. Unless, my timeline isn’t as correct as I thought…

I turn to leave and startle. Clutching my flashlight over my chest, I let out a weary chuckle. The quantum shard from the last cave has joined me here, too, reading over my shoulder. My muscles are still tense as I scan it with my flashlight. Not for the first time, I am struck by the otherworldliness of the rock. Those bands of strange sediment, those large vesicles, those glass-like fractures. In the dark of the cave, it seems to both reflect and absorb my light in equal measures. Holding my breath, I turn off the light of my flashlight, and when I turn it back on, the rock is gone.

I’ll never get used to that, and I wouldn't want to.

Chapter Text

Never have I felt more prepared to race against the sand to the bottom of the deepest, darkest—and likely most treacherous—cavern on the planet. Turns out, coasting through space for fifteen minutes really clears your mind. I should do it more often. It leads to a much more relaxing wake-up than dying horrifically in a panic.

Speaking of dying horrifically, this is it. As soon as I woke, I rushed back over to Chert’s camp. The sand hasn’t even started to fall from Ash Twin yet, and I stand perfectly primed for my dash into the unknown. The only thing left to do is begin.

I look down into the pool of hazy darkness that masks the bottom of the ancient lake at Ember Twin's north pole. Every muscle is tense. Every nerve ready to fire. My mind is clear and my hand is on the controls of my jetpack. My flashlight beam is strong and bright. There’s no use waiting any longer. It’s time to take the plunge.

With everything at the ready, I jump.

There’s something oddly sobering about falling through the darkness. My light meets no walls as I fall—just particles adrift on the air. I use my jetpack to lessen my speed incrementally as Ember’s gravity pulls me down, down, down…until I see a gravelly end to the void. My jetpack flames light up my surroundings, sending loose pebbles rolling, and, finally, my boots touch red stone. 

The sand is nowhere to be seen. Still, Ember Twin’s lake is quiet.

What waits for me instead is a hole. Dark, and deep, and certainly treacherous, if Coleus had somehow been lost to it.

For once, I do the smart thing. I shoot my Scout down into it first.

The darkness shrinks and I follow a fossil-lined tunnel deeper into the planet’s core. I wish that I could stop and take pictures of the pieces of history I pass, but I have no idea how long I have until the sands cut off my path. However, I do pay attention to the new ones I spot—there are a few ridged, coiled shells sticking out from the walls, and some finned creatures with wide eye sockets. Harrowingly, I take note of the quality of the fossils. Whenever I spot a skeleton, fully articulated, I think back to some of the geology lessons I had when I was younger. For something to fossilize like that, it had to be buried very rapidly by sediment to prevent the bones from separating. That can happen post-mortem, of course, but the much more likely scenario is that it was buried before it died. The best fossils tend to spawn from the most terrible deaths. I remember that clearly as I walk through the cave, trying to out-pace the sand I know is coming.

I reach a series of diverging paths and I know that I’m not going to make it to the end. The tunnels branch, bifurcating, trifurcating, twisting and turning and terminating in dead-ends and stalagmite-riddled passageways. Pushing that feeling of hopelessness aside, I press on as fast as I can, aiming for what seem to be the most promising paths and altering my course quickly if it turns out I am wrong. Several times I meet the clenched teeth of merging stalactites and stalagmites. If any fossils line the walls here, I pay them no attention. My eyes are on only the paths before me and my oxygen levels.

I reach what I think is the end, and my heart sinks. Beyond a cage of stalactites, I see a wider cavern, hear the flowing of sand. It spills down from a hole in the ceiling, the darkness of another tunnel beckoning from behind it. Every path I take ends with an obstacle, and I can’t seem to find my way through. I turn around, and in my path are rocks I swear hadn’t been there before. I retrace my steps, find new tunnels, new forks, and the walls begin to close in on me as my paths grow narrower and narrower. 

And everywhere I go, I see the sandfall—from behind impassable pillars of stone.

Until, miraculously, I don’t. 

I can’t see what’s on the other side of the sandfall, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the only way out I’ve spotted

I cross through the thunderous sand and the ground slopes upwards into—another dead-end. The walls meet the floor all around me. I scan the stone with my flashlight. I’m about to turn back, to look for another path, when my light suddenly fails to hit rock. About 12 metres up, there’s a ledge. I jet up to it, but no path extends from it. It’s only a short ridge. The sandfall continues to pour down behind me, filling the cavern with rising sediment, but…

I can see the top of it.

I aim my Scout towards the darkness beyond, and fire. It lands high on a sandstone outcrop, and the light spills from it in one mighty pulse.

A river of sand, greater and more unruly than any river on Timber Hearth, races from a huge, grimacing cavern. I can’t see what’s beyond, but what I can see is the sand as it piles in the cave below me. My escape route is long buried. I’ve got nothing to lose.

Putting my boosters to full-blast, I throw myself high into the air.

The sand flows viciously through the cave. Grains not swept by the current are cast into the void, creating a mist of dust over where the sand carries over the lip of the falls. Illuminated by my Scout is a pillar of stone that splits the sandy river in two before it reunites downstream. The pillar is comparatively narrow, but it’s the only firm ground I see. Aiming carefully, I cruise over to it.

My boots land with a hefty thud as I crash into the stone, careening so far forward I have to put a hand to the ground to steady myself. Breathing hard, I look at the river as it rushes on all sides of me. The ground beneath my feet rumbles with the force, the grains creating a film around the edges of my visor. One misstep and I’ll be swept away.

So far: Success. My Scout’s light, though it’s now behind me, shows me my next step. Another pillar towers ahead, adjacent to the left wall of the cavern. My oxygen is hovering around 50 percent. I have to hope I’m over halfway to the end—and that the end contains some form of breathable air.

I fly into the air for the next pillar, my jetpack thrusters firing strong. So strong that I overshoot, and before I can redirect, I land in the sand beyond. The current sucks me in, and I am carried down the way I came, half-sunken, towards the first pillar. I fire up my boosters and heave my whole weight into my controls. I manage to force myself out of the river just before I collide with the side of the pillar, and instead steer myself neatly onto its surface.

I risk a glance behind me. My ledge has been swallowed by the sand. My next mistake will cost me.

Experience benefits me. The next time I launch myself from my pillar, I don’t overshoot. I concentrate hard on perfecting my landing atop the next platform, and I do, with a relieved exhale when I feel the ground beneath my boots. I recall my Scout and fire it farther ahead, but its spotlight doesn’t help me much this time. I don’t see another platform. Hesitating, I eye the darkness beyond, but the sand doesn’t break when I do, and a pop-up message tells me I only have three minutes of oxygen remaining.

Blindly, I jump.

The platform is, apparently, the rock wall that had been right in front of me. Unfortunately, I don’t see it in time to adjust my trajectory, and soon I am yet again taken by the river. It tosses me easily back down, sending me crashing into the side of the cavern before I can even manage to activate my thrusters. I suck in a hard breath as my shoulder rams into stone, knocking my hand off of my jetpack controls. By the time I can think to reposition myself, I’ve already been pushed past my starting platform and into the rising pile of sand at the end.

The sandfall is gone. Now, the river flows directly into a growing pool.

My arm aches. Grains of sand begin to roll across the first pillar, and I know I’m running out of time. Somehow, I manage to replace my hands on the controls of my jetpack. Somehow, I find the strength to activate them with my tender arm.

I make it to the first pillar. Then, I make it to the second. Then, using all my energy, all my concentration, I make it to the next one—the last one. There’s a ledge up ahead—an actual ledge, the darkness of a tunnel leading beyond. I’m so close. So close.

My oxygen is almost out. I feel lightheaded from the pain in my arm. Every time I flex my muscles, I feel them screaming in protest. But my arm is so sore, I can’t seem to untense.

I’m so close. I force my hand to close around the controls, and activate my thrusters with a gasp. And I make it.

Beyond is a short tunnel and a sandfall. Another darn sandfall. I walk through it and fall a short distance, and—

A branching network of paths lie ahead.

A sob escapes my lips, and I feel pathetic. The adrenaline is dissipating, and my arm is starting to buzz with a numbing sensation. My oxygen is at five percent. I am nearly certain that I will not make it out of this cave.

Nevertheless, I hold up my flashlight with my good hand, and do my best to navigate the twisted paths.

Almost immediately, I get turned around.

I peer down one path that seems to end in stalactites, but its neighbour is blocked by cacti. But as my flashlight moves between the two, new paths seem to open up—paths I swear hadn’t existed a moment prior. There is no clear way forward, then, suddenly, a moment later, I find one. I feel like I’m losing my grip. There’s stone. Then I almost walk into a cactus spine, then it’s suddenly gone. My head swirls and I don’t know if my confusion is because of the pain in my arm, my dwindling oxygen supply, or something else entirely. But if my low oxygen isn’t the end of me, my delirium will be, because my already staggered path becomes more and more treacherous with every spontaneously-appearing cactus. I can’t help it—I panic, knowing there is no way for me to remember where I am going and where I have gone. 

My oxygen is dangerously low: sixty seconds. I walk down a path that ends in stalagmites, retrace my steps, and suddenly the stalagmites appear so much closer than they had before. I look around for another path, and then they’re gone.

My oxygen is at three percent. And I still don’t understand, but my mind is too foggy to think straight. Everywhere I go, the twisting paths are morphing, landmarks shifting and disappearing at will.

My oxygen is at two percent. And I’m pretty sure I’ve been this way before. Twice. Or, maybe three times now, but the way it curves is all too familiar. Am I even going the right way?

My oxygen is at one percent. And I don’t know where I am, but it doesn’t matter. I sit down and lean against the sandstone walls. Somewhere close, I hear the singing of a sandfall. Did I walk all the way back to the start?

And, slowly, expectedly, my oxygen indicator hits zero.

Reflexively, I inhale. But I can’t. There’s nothing to inhale. Instead, I choke on the oxygenless gas inside of my suit. I understand what’s happened, but at the same time, my brain can’t seem to comprehend why every inhale is suffocating. My head hurts even worse than it did before, and a sharp hysteria rises in my chest as my survival instinct kicks in. I feel that piercing stab of terror as I realise what’s about to happen, and then I feel faint, fainter than I ever have before, and then, distantly, as if I’m not even there anymore, I see the world around me pitch.

And then I see nothing at all.

Cool air fills my lungs and my mind commands me: Breathe! I wake up coughing and bolt upright to gulp for air. Oxygen never tasted so sweet. I feel tears roll down my cheeks as I sputter and wheeze, and when I finally regain control of my breathing I look across the campfire to see Slate staring at me with one brow raised.

“Gonna make it?” they ask, unconcerned.

“The sun is going to go supernova, by the way,” I retort bitterly. My throat strains on the words.

“Oh yeah, the Observatory has an exhibit about that,” they muse. “Between you and me, I glossed over some of the finer details. Astrophysics is really more Hornfels’ domain. Me, I’m here for the rocket science and the marshmallows.”

I roll my eyes, then stretch my arm. It’s feeling much better. My mind is a lot clearer, too. At least, I’m not hallucinating roving cacti and stalagmites anymore.

When I get back to Ember Twin, I’m not ecstatic about returning to the caves. It probably has something to do with my latest death, which is somehow both so foggy I can barely remember it and so clear that my skin prickles even gazing from afar into the darkness below. Despite that, for some reason, I find myself back at the mouth of the Lakebed Cave, clutching onto my flashlight like a lifeline. I don’t particularly want to go through all that again. And yet…

I make short work of the tunnel and the first network of paths (though I do get turned around a couple of times) and reach the sand river in record time. Now, however, I know where all my safety nets are. I fire my Scout to a wall in the distance, and I’m in the air before the platform I’m aiming for is even lit up. Just a practiced hop, skip, and a jump, and—

And there’s the second sandfall, waiting right where I left it. And, beyond, those maze-like tunnels that my hysterical mind complicated.

Except…I drop into the tunnel, and immediately my only two paths forward are blocked. That can’t be right. I very distinctly remember wandering around for what felt like ages…

Confused, I look behind me, in case a tunnel forks off from the entrance. No such luck. When I turn back around, the stalagmites that had been blocking my paths are gone.

My eyes flicker to my oxygen levels. Healthy, above seventy percent. Then, I do what I should have done last loop, and think about the strange cave for more than two seconds.

What were Melorae and Coleus doing in the Lakebed Cave to begin with? Well, they were geologists, so: studying the geology. But the geology of what? Oh, only that big, mysterious rock I keep bumping into. And what’s so special about that rock?

It’s quantum. And quantum objects make everything around them quantum, too.

The wandering cacti and stalagmites hadn’t been the result of a pain-riddled or oxygen-deficient mind. They had been the result of a physical phenomenon I know well.

I march confidently down my newly-cleared path until I hit my next roadblock: a pile of cacti. I blink, and they’re gone.

It was that easy. This whole time: it was that easy.

Deciding to take this as a current-me win instead of a past-me failure, I continue on, using my quantum superpower to plough through the tunnels with ease. Eventually, I reach what I think (or hope) to be the end. A few ledges lead to a sandfall, and a light shines beyond. I hop on through the curtain of falling sediment eagerly.

A more wonderful message has never appeared on my visor: TREES DETECTED—OXYGEN TANK REFILLED. I breathe in the new air, though functionally, I can’t tell the difference, before taking in the chamber around me.

Two potted trees supply the oxygen. Overhead torches fill the cave with a warm glow, and two platforms, one twice as tall as the other, partition the room. The lower platform sits barren. I jet up to the taller one, and am not surprised when I see Nomai skeletons filling the floor. I’m sure there were lots of discoveries to be made, deep within these fossil caves, and I don’t doubt for a second that the Nomai had been studying them right up until the end. A note is engraved into the floor. I step back to read it, and almost trip on a skeleton that hadn’t been there a moment before. I guess the quantum shards can make bones quantum, too.

The note begins with a dispiriting message from Melorae: “If you’ve come here to look for Coleus, this is where we were when he vanished. He’s been missing for two days now!”

Two days? Two days on one oxygen tank? Either the Nomai carried a precautionary amount of oxygen with them, or they were extremely efficient breathers. That, or they were hoping that Coleus had somehow stumbled across a pocket of breathable air.

“Your strange, wandering rock friend is here, though Coleus isn’t,” Annona replied.

“Coleus and I observed this unusual-looking rock shard (and several smaller rocks) in at least two other caverns,” Melorae explained. “I’m unsure if this is relevant.”

“What happened before Coleus disappeared?” asked Bur.

“We were examining the different rocks. I recall Coleus standing on the largest one (the wandering rock). I was taking notes, and then my lantern died. When I lit it again, Coleus and the rock were both gone.”

The rock disappearing, I understand. It’s quantum, like the Quantum Moon, and vanishes and appears at will when it isn't being observed. In fact—I take a moment to blink, and there it is when I open my eyes, stationed on the lower of the two platforms. The quantum energy of the rock, or whatever it is, also influences the objects around it. The benches and pots and skeletons drift motionlessly around the cave when I’m not looking. But a whole person…

That can’t be possible. Not with the amount of time I’ve spent messing around with quantum shards. If one of those wandering rocks could truly turn someone quantum, I would have disappeared just like Coleus did a long time ago. No—there has to be another explanation.

There’s a control panel with a sight-guided ball, with two active positions. Currently, the ball sits in the uppermost end of its path. I move it down, and the room darkens as the torches overhead dim. The quantum shard is gone.

My flashlight beam pans over sandstone as I look around the room. Nothing else changes, aside from the constantly shifting bones and the rock that is sometimes on the lower platform and sometimes not. I reexamine the note Melorae inscribed. Coleus had been standing on the quantum rock when it disappeared. I have to admit—I’ve never climbed atop one of the quantum shards before, aside from the massive one on the surface of Brittle Hollow. I think Hornfels would have killed me if I had tried that at the museum. 

I flick my gaze between the lower platform and the wall behind me until the quantum shard returns. It’s a deep, inky black in the weak light of my flashlight, its colours shining only along the conchoidal fractures that intercept the light at just the right angle. I jump over to it, and, standing on its pitted surface, I turn my eyes away.

Nothing happens. The same cave still surrounds me, the same bones dance on the opposite ledge. But the lights are off, and I’m standing on the rock…

Suddenly, I get the urge to smack myself. The lights aren’t off. I turn off my flashlight, and instantly, I am plunged into a darkness so complete, I can’t even see where my feet meet stone. I wait a moment. The cave is silent. All I hear is the sound of my cautious breathing inside of my helmet. 

The cave should not be silent. The absence of the sandfall’s song is deafening. 

Belatedly, I click on my flashlight.

A Nomai chalkboard sits beside me, dwarfed by the massive rock I stand atop. A hastily written note is scrawled upon the floor. I know this cave! This is where I first encountered the quantum shard of Ember Twin.

I turn off my light and close my eyes to block out the glow of the Nomai text. When I open them again, turning on my light, I have returned to the Lakebed Cave.

So, this is how Coleus vanished. 

Quantum shards don’t just make bones and trees quantum—they make everything quantum. Quantum objects don’t move when they’re observed, so as long as I stop being the observer, I become quantum, too.

Off and on goes my flashlight. Now I’m in the second cave I explored, the one with only a single chalkboard and that sneaky ledge that I had tumbled over the side of.

Off and on. I am back to Cave One. Off and on. I am in the Lakebed Cave. Off and on…

The next cave I find myself in is dark. There are no chalkboards. No plants. No bones. In fact, there is nothing at all, except for a tunnel that rounds a dark corner. I am in a new cave. And, I think I know who was here before.

I hop down from my rock and turn around, and it’s already gone. I try not to let that frighten me, especially since I’ve seen no indication of any entrance or exit or oxygen supply.

I round the corner and my fear is confirmed: I am in an isolated pocket deep within Ember Twin’s subsurface. If the quantum rock chooses to end its periodic visits, I’ll be stuck here until my oxygen levels hit zero. I don’t exactly want to go through that again. Checking behind me, the rock has returned. So, hopefully, it will do just that when it’s time for me to leave this place. 

Nomai text covers one wall. There’s no chalkboard. No torches. Only the engravings of a Nomai who wasn’t sure if they’d ever get out of the solitary cavern they suddenly found themself in. Instinctively, my hand is at my translator.

—

Coleus blinked.

Something in the air had changed.

Everything was strangely quiet. 

“Melorae?” 

His words bounced hollowly against the cavern walls.

He straightened, holding his staff. Wordlessly, he typed into its interface. Checking his location on his map, he realised—he was far away from the Lakebed Cave. He had somehow been carried to a whole new cavern!

Excitedly, he initiated an environment scan. Purple light traced the walls, emanating from his trusted staff. The cavern was not all that big, and his readouts yielded no cause for concern. There were no instabilities or dangerous crevices to be detected. Carefully, he climbed down from the wandering rock and examined his surroundings, scanning the walls for any interesting minerals or textures. Then—a sudden realisation. What was he doing? He was a scientist! He should be documenting his discoveries!

One of the cavern walls was naturally quite flat. Using his staff, he smoothed it out until he was satisfied, then propped his staff up between a few loose boulders. 

“How curious!” he said in awe, walking away. His staff transcribed each word into the rockface. He turned back the way he came, and in the dim light of the staff he could just detect the shape of the wandering rock with his third eye. “This rock took me with it to a new location. I wonder why this happened?”

He looked again around the room. The more he looked, the smaller it seemed to become. There were no fossils, none that he could see in the scant light, but the cavern itself was quite intriguing. It was truly isolated—a single, unconnected pocket far beneath the planet’s surface. How had it formed? Was it once joined to the vast network of tunnels around it, but a cave-in severed the connection? Or did it form in solitude, moisture eating away at the rock? Or had trapped gas prevented the settling of sediment and then dissipated over time? It was all so fascinating. He wondered what Melorae would think—Yes, he had to get back to Melorae!

He made a motion to move, but stopped before taking even a single step. How did he get back to Melorae?

“Curious, but also alarming: This new cave appears to lack an entrance or exit,” he dictated as he circled the cavern. Rounding its corners, his shoulders sank. “Also, the rock that brought me here disappeared while I wasn’t watching.”

It was the peculiar nature of the wandering rock to wander. He should have been more careful. He did not know how he had ended up in this cave, but he knew it must have something to do with that strange rock. He had been standing on it, preparing to scan its surface to document its chemical composition, when the lights went out abruptly. The next thing he knew, he was here. The wandering rock moved when it was not being observed, he and Melorae discovered soon after their studies of it began. But he had been observing it—rather analytically. It should not have wandered. So why had it?

Absently, he checked his oxygen levels. They were doing well. Good. With no breathable pockets of air, he had only what he carried on his back. Still, if he was trapped down here for too long…

He tried not to think about it. Certainly, Melorae was already looking for him, and she would be anxious enough for the both of them. What he needed to do was stay calm above all else, and perhaps aid in Melorae’s search by trying to figure out how he had come to be in this cave in the first place. But that was much easier said than done, and his heart sped with every silent second. As a geologist, he was no stranger to caves, but usually he had with him all the necessary safety equipment to explore them without fear. He had only had his staff with him when he was transported here, and his oxygen level readouts were a constant reminder that time was against him.

He spent most of that time searching along the walls for any hint of an exit. The cavern was breathless. There were no shadowy crevices, no wind tunnels, nothing. The rock did not return. While he waited, Coleus did his best to document the rocks in the cavern. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary, but small-scale structures were hidden by the oppressive darkness. He would be interested what would be revealed if he returned with a light.

After what felt like an eternity, Coleus turned around and nearly jumped. A dark shadow filled one end of the cavern.

“The wandering rock has returned!” he exclaimed joyously, rushing over to touch its smooth surface. “Never before have I been so delighted to see a sedimentary specimen.”

The pocketed stone hummed faintly beneath his hand. He traced the warped lines of its bedding, watching the strange colours shift in the dim light. The rock was so peculiar…Its quantum nature sent not only itself exploring Ember Twin’s many caverns, but all objects within a certain radius of it, too. He furrowed his brow.

“I wonder if I myself became quantum briefly when the rock carried me here!” he pondered aloud. “This seems the clearest explanation.” He glanced towards his staff across the cavern. “Hypothesis: If the rock can bring me here, it can also carry me out.”

—

“My hypothesis was correct!” Coleus wrote. Though a part of me suspected he had been found, I feel a weight lift off my chest upon reading his words. “I can travel on this rock, as long as I’m not observing my surroundings (meaning I must be in complete darkness). I’m going to bring my mentor here to see this.”

It seemed my geologist friend hadn't actually been in peril for all that long. I imagine him getting blissfully lost in his new discovery, touring the different caverns the rock winks off to. How long had it taken him to remember to tell his mentor that he wasn't actually missing?

His note is followed by an update: “Melorae is here now, too. We theorize when a conscious being is in contact with a quantum object and ceases to observe his or her surroundings, the being can become entangled with that quantum object, and they move together.”

“Friends, Coleus has discovered a new quantum rule!” Melorae lauded. “He has also promised me he’ll never vanish again, even if he does learn something useful from it!”

A new quantum rule! Yes! There are quantum rules! I know this—and I know the other one. The rule of quantum imaging. I had learned all about it in the tower on the north pole of Giant’s Deep: Observing a picture of a quantum object is the same as observing a quantum object. And this, I suppose, is the rule of quantum entanglement: Objects touching a quantum object become entangled with it, and can wander around with the quantum object as long as they aren’t observed. 

Wait...

When I flew my ship towards the Quantum Moon with Gossan during training that one time, we sailed straight through it. The moment we entered the cloud layer, the planet was masked from view, and winked off to orbit some other planet. I had completely forgotten to try it, but…

The Nomai had landed on the Quantum Moon. And, thanks to Coleus' reminder, I think I know what I’m going to try next.

Chapter Text

My eyes are narrow as I frown into space. My ship is drifting high above the plane of the solar system, but not so high that I’m out of range of the deep space satellite. Stars and supernovae shine around me. The Interloper races around the sun, and glimmering fragments of Brittle Hollow cloud around the white hole in the distance.

Leaving Coleus’ cavern was easy. I sat on the quantum shard and flicked my flashlight on and off until I found myself in the first cave I had discovered. From there, it was a short climb out of the top of the lakebed and to my ship, which, thankfully, I hadn’t crashed at the beginning of the loop. I shot my way into space, where I’ve puttered about for the last few minutes. I could have checked my map and waited until the Quantum Moon hovered around the Hourglass Twins, but that would have been the pragmatic thing to do. Instead, in my eagerness, I had blasted off towards where it orbited around Dark Bramble. Then, thinking better of it, I gave myself a healthy amount of distance between my ship and the terrifying planet and decided to wait for the moon to orbit around somewhere a bit more…hospitable. 

That left me in a less-than-ideal location when the moon suddenly appeared around Timber Hearth. 

The moon spins lazily around my home, drifting alongside the Attlerock. Backlit by the sun, its hazy atmosphere shines a magnificent white along its edge. The atmosphere appears to cling loosely to the mysterious moon, so much so that it almost looks like a blurry photograph. The side that faces me, however, is a dark mass of swirling cloud.

I lean forward over my controls. Not for the first time, I wonder what waits on the moon's surface. Aside from Dark Bramble, the memories of which I’ve been trying my best to stifle, I have never explored a planet that another Hearthian hadn’t told me all about beforehand. Prior to landing on Brittle Hollow, I knew about the crust, about Hollow’s Lantern, about the black hole that waits at its core. I knew about Giant’s Deep’s storms and strong currents. I knew of Ember’s caves, of Ash’s towers, and of the great sandfall that joins them both. But the Quantum Moon? I know nothing. Nothing except that, for some reason, when I land I will find myself at its south pole. 

The thought is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. I make sure my safety harness is snug around my chest, and I get to work.

I begin my approach steadily. How thick is the moon's atmosphere? How much of what hides behind the clouds is solid? Will rock wait below, or an ocean, or something else entirely? This’ll be one heck of a landing; I’ll be flying blinder than on Giant’s Deep. I can’t risk coming in too fast and crashing immediately. I mean, technically I can—it’ll be completely inconsequential for me. But if I’m doing this, I want to do it right; for that past self of mine, who dared fly into the moon in the middle of a training session.

Once I’m satisfied with my trajectory, I flip out my Scout Launcher. The display screen pops down to cover the upper-rightmost portion of my windshield. I aim, and I fire, and my ship’s Little Scout hurtles through the empty space between me and my destination. And it disappears.

Huh. That’s strange. Perplexed, I scan the sky for any sign of my Scout, but I don’t see it. It shouldn’t be so far away yet. I snap a picture, and all I get is static. The connection has been severed.

I hit RETURN and my Little Scout warps back to my ship without incident. That’s even stranger. If the connection was severed, I would have expected the warp to stop working, too. But no—it returned to my ship just fine.

Thinking little of it, I return to my chase. I refire my Scout and this time, it makes a full dash towards the moon. I snap a few pictures, and they print flawlessly to my display. Timber Hearth, the Attlerock, the Quantum Moon, and a portion of the distant sun are captured in stunning monochrome. I keep an eye on my most recent high-contrast photo as I guide my ship towards home.

The moon drifts slowly, then begins to curve around the planet.

I put my whole body into piloting my ship. Every muscle is tense, my feet planted firmly on the floor, my fingers tight around the controls. My eyes tire of watching both my Scout display and the planets in front of me, but I don’t stop. The chase is thrilling, and I feel a smile tug at the edges of my mouth. With every push of a button, every adjustment to my course, I move with my ship. The adrenaline races through me, mixing with my blood, and I know—this is what I was made for.

Every traveller has a camp; Gabbro has Giant’s Deep, Riebeck has Brittle Hollow, and Chert has Ember Twin. Maybe after all this, I’ll set up a nice camp, too—and mine could be quantum. How cool would that be? To be the expert of a place, to have the other astronauts check in with me and ask me questions, for once? And I could play my little instrument, or maybe hum, or—on second thought—maybe just play something on my radio. I really can’t carry a tune. 

The Quantum Moon does not disappear over Timber Hearth’s horizon. It’s close, so much closer than I thought at first, and I’m coming in much too fast. I fire up the retro-rockets and pull back with all my strength, leaning far into my chair as I do my best to slow my ship before—

Grey clouds surround me. It’s dark, like I’m in the middle of a storm. But it's...different. No wind rattles my hull, no thunder rumbles through the sky, and no lightning flashes ahead…

…And the sky doesn’t fade. 

I’m about to celebrate my success when suddenly a huge rock slices through the clouds, fiery orange from the light of my retro-rockets. My ship slams into it before I can react, my windshield cracking, and I am thrown forward, my harness cutting hard across my chest, saving me from slamming my head on my console. Still, my elbows hit hard against the side controls, and there’s a racket of clangs and clunks behind me as any loosely-secured supplies hit the floorboards. 

I groan, and my ship creaks. I hadn’t quite landed on that boulder, and now my ship is rolling sideways—

My breath catches in my throat as we tumble down the rockface. My gaze flicks subconsciously to the red button on my console. But the moon’s gravity is low; our descent is gentle and neither my ship nor myself sustain any further damage. I catch glimpses of trees and dirt and vegetation as we pitch towards the ground.

My ship falls down onto red soil, teetering on one leg before settling on all three. The rockface we collided with is behind me, and tins of marshmallows roll across the floor. My head swirling, I stare out across the moon that no Hearthian has seen before.

Through the crack in my windshield, I see fireflies.

Harsh rainstorms, like the one that circles Giant’s Deep, are rare on Timber Hearth. Much more common are geyser storms, when an anomalous amount of energy superheats the core, sending the cycles of the geysers into overdrive. The water almost always floods the village, so nearly every house sits on precautionary stilts. Rainstorms also have a habit of swelling the village geyser pool when they occur, but the relentless rain paired with the high velocity winds does so much more damage, even within the shelter of the crater. Our village just isn’t built to withstand all those pressures, and why would it be? Such intense meteorological events happen only once every few decades.

The last rainstorm happened when I was much younger than I am now. Tephra, Galena, and Mica hadn’t even hatched yet, and Arkose was still only an infant. Moraine spoke only in babbling words, and Feldspar had been regularly performing alongside the village orchestra.

Vaguely, I remember the howling winds. I remember the rumble of the cabin walls as they were buffeted by rushing gales and the debris they carried. I remember the sharp snap of tree branches, the screaming of metal as corrugated roofing was ripped off of houses, and I remember the squeals of the younger hatchlings, and the adults’ quivering voices trying to comfort them as we crouched away from the windows in the back of Rutile’s house. In near-darkness, we waited, a single, unwavering lantern shared between us. The confusion and the fear dulled all those memories, and the storm itself only exists as hazy whispers in my mind.

More clearly, I remember the aftermath. Emerging from Rutile’s house after hours of constant battery, the world was silent. A light drizzle of rain filled the crater with a deep mist; the clouds overhead were dark as a reminder of what had transpired. Broken lumber and warped metal littered the ground, but the soil was red and rich with water, and most of the trees still stood tall, their uppermost branches disappearing into low-hanging clouds. And, only minutes after the storm dissipated, fireflies filled the crater. 

Staring across the landscape of the Quantum Moon, now outside of my ship, I am not amazed by how alien the world is before me. There are no novel sights to take in. A strange mix of peace and discomfort churns in my chest, because I am brought back to that moment after the rainstorm.

I am on Timber Hearth. Red soil, stained with dead needles, blankets the bedrock. Tall trees—not just any trees, but pines—tower around me, their highest boughs lost in the cloud cover overhead. Flowers sway in the windless air. The rocks that surround me are grey and stacked and familiar, and I swear I have flown straight through the moon yet again and somehow managed to crash on my home planet.

I open my map, but all I get is an error message: UNABLE TO PINPOINT LOCATION.

No. I am definitely on the Quantum Moon. But the Quantum Moon looks so much like home I can hardly bear it.

Though my map doesn't work, my suit is still able to estimate my location on the moon. As Solanum promised, the moon brought me to its south pole. It’s here I stand as I scan my surroundings with dreamlike disbelief. A strange energy fills the air. The mist is thick and heavy. No, I am definitely not on Timber Hearth. I look around and the trees, the fireflies—they all move around when I’m not looking. This whole place is quantum. And, accordingly, I must be quantum, too. Though, I don’t really understand what that means, except that if I am suddenly plunged into darkness the moon won’t abandon me to die in space as it hops off to orbit another planet. That’s comforting, at least. 

Then, fearfully, I whip myself around to locate my ship. It sits right where I left it. Good. It’s not roaming around like everything else. Maybe because its location marker is always displayed to my visor, I am always ‘observing’ my ship. That’s handy, if true.

I turn back around and something catches my eye. 

A Nomai space suit lies on the ground, on a patch of hard-packed gravels. The teal has long faded to a discoloured brown with age, rips filling the cloth. The metal accents along the edges of the suit are tarnished, and it’s all covered in a thick layer of red dust. The yellow glint of bone contrasts the darkness of the inside of the suit, and a worn mask covers a skull.

I stifle a sob. The name finds me easily. Solanum.

I knew that whatever had killed the Nomai had killed her, too. How couldn’t it have? It was so pervasive, reaching the darkest depths of the planets before the Nomai even knew what was coming. I knew her shuttle had been left here. I knew she hadn’t been on it. I knew all of these things, so why am I so suddenly overwhelmed by the sight of her body?

Sniffling, I crouch down beside her. She lays on her back, her arms and legs sprawled around her. I can’t see her face through her mask. Her oxygen tank sits half-buried in the soft soil. She’s been here for such a long time. My friend. Alone. She had come so far from being the child she once was on Ember Twin, playing games with her clanmates. She had learned to embrace the uncertainties of the world, she had learned the secrets of this mysterious moon, and she had taken the dive into adulthood. What should have been a momentous occasion of achievement and self-discovery was cut short, unceremoniously, by the end of her entire species.

I think of the sun, boiling beyond. My species doesn’t have much time left, either. I shouldn’t be the one to stop the supernova. My first solo launch should have been full of joyful exploration. Not this. Anything but this.

Reaching out a hand, I tentatively hold hers. Her fingers are so small compared to mine, so delicate. Her bones are fragile within her gloves.

“I’m sorry, Solanum,” I say. My voice is hoarse and my throat burns.

It feels wrong to leave her here alone, but I don't know what to do for her. I don't know what I can do. I straighten and begin to walk away, but I spare one last glance behind me.

And now she’s laying on her side. 

I fight back tears. I know that bones are just bones, but I want to scream at the Quantum Moon to let her rest. Isn't being here enough?

Blinking, I finally find the strength to walk away.

I am in a crater. The same rockface I collided with on entry circles a large grove. Aside from the trees and quantum insects, I also see Solanum’s shuttle through the haze, gravity beam still waiting at the ready for her to board. 

Walking the perimeter of the crater, I see that there are no ways out. At every corner, steep rock walls meet clouds. Where am I supposed to go? The illusion of Timber Hearth that the moon produces…That can’t be all the Nomai came here for. There has to be something else. Something more. But where? 

I stand at the bottom of a cliff face and look up. The mist shifts and swirls, and I can’t see anything beyond. Placing a firm hand on my jetpack controls, I blast out of the crater.

And suddenly, through the fog of the Quantum Moon, I see stars.

Whoops.

The moon is gone, and I’m in space, with nothing but my jetpack, much too far away from the White Hole Station to warp to safety. 

I’m not sure what I had been expecting—to make it out of the crater? To find something hidden in the thick clouds? Of course the moon would disappear the moment my view of it was occluded. That’s kind of its whole thing. Quantum entanglement only happens when I’m on the surface of a quantum object; by jumping into the air, my connection to the moon had been severed.

My oxygen is doing fine, for once, so I survey my solar system without that sharp sting of panic I usually feel when I unexpectedly find myself adrift in space. Brittle Hollow looks a little worse for wear, and the sandfall between Ash and Ember is still going strong. The shadow of the fractured Orbital Probe Cannon drifts around Giant’s Deep, and the moon is hovering beside Dark Bramble, far off in the distance. Timber Hearth is nearby, where the Quantum Moon abandoned me, and there’s the Attlerock, and…

I let out a surprised laugh. My ship! Of course! The moon had left it behind, too. Even through the clouds, the location marker had never so much as flickered on my visor display, not even for a second. It’s not too far, but it’s drifting farther and farther away. Eagerly, I jet over to meet it. 

Once in my ship and safely buckled in, I consult my map. The moon has evaded me twice, but it won’t best me a third time. It’s off orbiting Brittle Hollow, and when I check outside my window, there it is, shining white in the sunlight. Firing my Scout and snapping a picture, I fly off towards it.

Learning from past mistakes, I come in more gently through the clouds this time, but not gently enough to avoid damaging my ship completely. Landing hard on the moon's surface, sparks reflect off of glistening ice. Before I can even think to repair my headlight, I take in the world around me with awe. The new world around me. 

I step out of my ship into crunching snow. In the distance, dark rocks and coppery ore shine in the strange light of the moon. Pillars of basalt rise from the ground and hover impossibly in the air, shivering in the thick mist. I am on Brittle Hollow, but only in the way that I had been on Timber Hearth a moment before. I am on the Quantum Moon’s interpretation of Brittle Hollow.

Solanum’s corpse sits upright on a short, icy plateau. Feeling an unsavoury mix of emotions welling up inside of me, I look past her. Her shuttle glows in the distance, light warped and hazy through the fog. Turning away, I see something else distorted by the mist. Slowly, I make my way over.

Behind a pillar, there’s an orange glow. A broad shadow stretches from the rock into the clouds above. As I grow closer, a structure takes shape—a building, or more accurately, a tower, with Nomai spirals decorating its side. The base is triangular in shape, and the tower doesn’t taper as it rises. It’s a formidable structure, sturdy, and a wide door sits in one of its three walls, locked behind a sight-guided ball. I slide the ball along its path, and the panels of the door retract into the stone, much like the fortified doors that surround the Sunless City. Unlike Solanum, the tower shows little wear for the amount of time that has passed.

When I enter, I find a small room. The ceiling stretches to the roof of the tower, storeys above my head. Another sight-guided ball rests against the corner opposite the door. On the other two walls, to the left and right of me, are murals. I click on my flashlight. 

The mural on my right instantly sends me back to Brittle Hollow—the real Brittle Hollow—gazing through the grate on the surface into the Tower of Quantum Knowledge. Oh, right. I still have to find a way into that thing. 

The mural depicts six purple symbols situated at even lengths above a curved furrow in the wall. There’s the Hourglass Twins, Timber Hearth, Brittle Hollow, Giant’s Deep, Dark Bramble, and the unmistakable symbol of the Eye of the universe. It’s been a while since I’ve seen it. A seventh symbol sits fastened into the furrow in such a way that it can slide along the path. The symbol—the one representing the Quantum Moon—sits beneath Brittle Hollow. It’s another locator! In this case, however, it appears to act more as a map, showing the Nomai where the moon is currently orbiting. That means…

The Eye is the sixth location! I was right! But…to my knowledge, the Nomai never reached it. Somehow, they still couldn’t get to the Eye. But why not?

I examine the second mural. This one is more traditional: three paintings across the pale walls of the tower. The first painting depicts a mighty tower in front of a green sky, trees miniscule at its base—the tower on Giant’s Deep. The next painting is of a slanted, pocketed rock in a dark cavern, stalactites hanging from the ceiling like pendants. It must be the quantum shard on Ember Twin! And the third…

The third shows another tower, clinging to the ceiling with its base supported by stilts upon a carved-out basalt column. It hangs dramatically over a dark void, a thin veneer of light surrounding it. The Tower of Quantum Knowledge.

My eyes pan over to the sight-guided ball in the corner. I move it in one, steady motion, and the tower breathes to life around me. The symbols to my right glow welcomingly, and to my left, spirals of Nomai writing reveal themselves, tails beginning from each of the three paintings.

“You have recalled the rule of quantum imaging.”

“Recall the rule of quantum entanglement.”

“Recall the rule of the sixth location.”

I…don’t know the rule of the sixth location. I examine the mural the last note is attached to, the one illustrating the Tower of Quantum Knowledge. I stare long and hard at the brushstrokes, at the colours, the impressions. I’m going to have to find a way inside sooner or later.

I can’t recall the rule of the sixth location, but, gazing around the enclosed space, I do recall the rule of quantum entanglement. I dim the tower’s lights and close the door. I’m alone with only the sound of my breathing and the light of my flashlight. With a click, I am thrown into complete darkness. 

A pressure builds against my legs.

I click on my flashlight beam, and the basalt is gone from beneath my feet. Instead, a slippery, waterlogged sand coats the floor, under a layer of water that laps around my shins. The moon has moved along its path in the mural next to me, and now rests below Giant’s Deep. The moon is wandering, and I’m wandering with it.

Eagerly, I leave the tower. Thick clouds swirl overhead, but they are silent, and dark. No thunder. No lightning. Rocky outcrops rise from the water as I push through its gentle waves. The tower disappears from behind me, and rain starts dripping down. There are no landmarks ahead of me. Just waves and rocks. I choose a direction at random and begin to walk.

Every so often, I hear the distant howl of a cyclone, or see the ghost of a Giant’s Deep tree waving in the still air. Most of the time, the moon is silent, aside from the water that splashes around my boots. The rich colours of Giant’s Deep are muted in shadows of themselves. A funnel begins to take form up ahead, and as I get nearer, I see a smaller version of the cyclone that guards Giant’s Deep’s north pole guarding the moon’s pole. It towers above me, water meeting sky, and spins around without any sound at all. I go to reach out to touch it, and am picked up on a sudden breeze and gently pushed away.

The tower waits for me when I turn. I enter through its open door and close it tight behind me. With a small breath, I turn off my flashlight.

The pressure against my legs is gone, and when I take a step, I hear the crunching of sand beneath my boots. I leave the tower. The world beyond is, yet again, equal parts familiar and unsettling. I see the cactus plants and red sandstone pillars of Ember Twin, and ghostly sandfalls rise quietly into the air, but none of it is right. How is it that this moon can take on the form of whatever planet it orbits? How can the pines of Timber Hearth give way to rippling water and shifting sands? But my mind is too perplexed to put any real thought into answering any of the questions I pose, and I continue, dazed, around the strange moon. I find my friendly tower again and step inside, into darkness.

My boots slide on hard-packed ice. Apprehensively, I consult the mural. The moon rests beneath the spindly, reaching planet at the margins of the solar system. Dark Bramble. 

Reluctantly, I leave the tower for ice and vines and fog. Shadows of the great vines twist across the horizon, gripping air and ice. Shards of ice stand like monoliths against the clouded sky. Towering thorns jut out at odd angles. I thought the hazy void in Dark Bramble’s seed was bad. At least the vines there don’t come and go whenever I turn around. So many times, I think the vines are about to capture me, cages of branches appearing around me whenever I blink. Is this anything like where Feldspar is trapped? If they’re even still alive, if the sound of their harmonica is even them at all and not some distorted echo of a time long passed. It’s been so long since I tried to rescue them. Not that they would know. I’m not much better of a pilot than I was then, but I’ve learned plenty. Thinking of Feldspar lost amongst the strangling vines…A sickening feeling crawls across my skin.

I search for the safety of the tower. I find it within a tangle of vines.

Closing the door behind me, I regard the mural. There’s only one place left I haven’t seen. I turn off my flashlight, and, for good measure, squeeze all four of my eyes shut. I wait a moment. I hear absolutely nothing. 

When I turn my light back on, it pours across marbled stone.

I let out a choked breath in disbelief. Quantum rock! Is this the moon's true face, then?

The Nomai had been wanting to search for the Eye with a probe, because they knew what it looked like. And they knew what it looked like because of the Quantum Moon.

The moon takes on the appearance of what it orbits. So, if I am truly orbiting the Eye…

Then the Eye is not what I expected it to be.

Those same colours that play across the quantum shards play across the ground beneath my feet, swirling and spiraling in lithified eddies. The mural confirms it: the moon is resting at the Eye of the universe.

A worry rises in my chest. I’m not ready. I don’t feel ready. This should have been something I prepared for, like Solanum—I wasn’t meant to have stumbled across this. But I look at the door and I know that I can’t walk away now. I slide the sight-guided ball into place, and the door opens, stone grinding against stone.

The hollow sound of the door coming to a rest in its alcove echoes, but not very far. Beyond the reach of the tower is a wall of pitted rock.

There’s no way out.

I lay a hand on the rock’s surface. I feel the energy within through my glove. Is this as far as the Nomai had come? No, it couldn’t be.

There must be a trick. Some way of bypassing the stone, just like there was a way of landing on the moon and traversing its many faces. The rule of the sixth location.

The answer is held in the Tower of Quantum Knowledge. I know it is. It’s where Solanum went to gather the last piece of knowledge she needed for her pilgrimage. If I want to complete the journey she never got to, I have to follow in her footsteps.

Except, the path into the tower now lies on the floor in a crumbling heap. So, until I think up a way to get inside, I won’t be getting to the Eye. I’d be disappointed if I felt I’d earned it. But there is more left to learn. So much more left to learn.

Suddenly, there’s a tugging at the corner of my mind.

The feeling is odd, indescribable, and distinct. So distinct I remember the last time I felt it, worn floorboards beneath my feet and a glowing statue in front of me. It’s the same impossible sensation I felt when pairing with the memory statue, all those loops ago.

But...Why am I feeling it now?

I don’t feel the supernova. I don’t feel much of anything. My vision fades away like a burning photograph, purple light blinding at the fringes, and I meet again with a dark, senseless void, a Nomai mask hovering in the black.

Chapter Text

Question mark, question mark, question mark.

I hunch over my computer, fingers drumming the keyboard.

This loop has barely started and already it’s proving…difficult. There had been no supernova last loop. At least, not for me, and there hadn’t exactly been anything else that could have killed me from within the safety of the tower. I’m not quite sure what ended my time on the Quantum Moon, and honestly, I’m afraid that the answer is something that might send me spiraling again. 

At first, I had been terrified that the time loop had a limit, that I'd been given a fixed number of chances to save the sun, and if I failed, time would be up—for me and my solar system. I kept on waking up, so for my sanity, I decided to believe that time was on my side. If it wasn’t, well, I’d be dead, and then I wouldn’t be worrying about much of anything anymore. But that…Can I even call it a death? Whatever pulled my memories from my mind had left a bitter taste in my mouth, and upon waking up I felt my chest stir with those same anxieties I had in the very beginning. Does the loop have a limit? Is it beginning to falter? Machines can break, can wear down over time. A single gear, misaligned. A single screw tearing through its threads. Any sophisticated technology can fall apart in seconds if the wrong component fails at just the wrong time. Is that what’s beginning to happen to the memory statues?

The questions swirl threateningly around me. So, I’m electing to shove all those unsavoury thoughts into the very back of my mind and not worry about them.

That’s a temporary solution. My real solution is to find a distraction so great, I’ll forget the whole thing even happened.

My annotated and honestly incredibly well-organised log has never been more vital. I need a good dead-end, and those, I have plenty of. What killed the Nomai? Where is the Ash Twin Project? What was the Sun Station used for—and, follow up, how the heck do I get there? How do I stop the time loop? How do I stop the sun from going supernova? How do I get into the Tower of Quantum Knowledge?

Well, maybe not that last one. The Quantum Moon was fascinating, but the ending sort of soured the whole ordeal for me, and I’m not anxious to see Solanum like that again. I’m still recovering from that. She’d become a familiar name amidst the ruins, and my mood always brightened when I saw her writing. I’ve come to think of her as a friend, and seeing her laying unceremoniously on the ground, covered in dirt…

It was too much. So, no more quantum knowledge for me. Not for now, anyway.

But as I stand, mulling over my options, I keep coming back to three of the biggest question marks on my computer. Not only do they seem the most logical for me to pursue next, but I have a few decent leads for all of them, they’ll take me to the same place, and they are certain to eat up a good chunk of my time and brainpower.

What happened to the Vessel?

What happened to the passengers of Escape Pod Three?

And, not to be outdone, the oh-so eloquently phrased: FELDSPAR??

I thought that last one deserved two question marks.

I hate myself for thinking it, but they’re perfect. And, if Feldspar really is in Dark Bramble, and if I want to bring them home once the loop is over, I’d rather get all my practice for that rescue flight in now, when I won’t have to worry about being dead for very long. Though, I haven’t gotten devoured yet. That has to count for something.

So, before I go and throw myself into the death-trap that is Dark Bramble for a second time, what do I know?

I know I can hear Feldspar’s music coming from inside, and that I saw pine trees somewhere in there when I tossed my Little Scout into the seed on Timber Hearth. I know the Nomai’s Vessel crashed there after they warped to follow the Eye’s signal, and that Escape Pod Three got trapped there as well. I know that the anglerfish are blind, so maybe I can use that to my advantage to evade them.

And what don’t I know?

I don’t know where Feldspar, the Vessel, or Escape Pod Three are, exactly. I’m also not sure how space works inside Dark Bramble. It’s bigger on the inside, and also the core of Dark Bramble is somehow connected to the seed on Timber Hearth, and, well, that’s impossible. But I’m not going to question that right now.

Other than that, I don’t even know what I don’t know. I hadn’t exactly given Dark Bramble any serious exploration last time, being more focused on outrunning the tower-sized teeth that were pursuing me. Diving into Dark Bramble really is diving straight into the great unknown. And that excites me as much as it terrifies me.

I pull on my space suit and take my place in the pilot’s seat before I change my mind. I buckle in, check Dark Bramble’s location on my map, and blast off from the village, setting course for the far reaches of the solar system.

“Trip Two, entry number one,” I whisper to myself. “Time to find Feldspar.”

Dark Bramble is exactly as I remember it. The vines extend astonishingly far from the seed at its centre, clutching fragments of the icy, ocean planet it had ripped apart. An otherworldly haze spills from the central seed, and a white beacon of light calls to me from within.

I still have time to turn back. But I know I won’t. I’m just that stubborn, and just that scared. Setting my jaw, I turn on my Signalscope to the Outer Wilds Ventures frequency. The hum of a harmonica plays as the pseudo-planet catches me in its gravity. Slowly, I begin to fall towards it. One long note plays after another, and I keep time to the music as I grip my side stick firmly. With all the confidence of someone who has only ever done this once before, I steer my ship inside.

One light becomes four as the harmonica’s song cuts to static. Three white lights, one red, in the distance. I know at least some of the lights are anglerfish, but from this far away, I’m not sure which ones. The anglerfish are blind, so they must use their other senses to hunt their prey and defend their territories. Do they listen for the throaty breaths of the other anglerfish, or sense the vibrations of their growls through the thick mist? Either way, my ship rumbles like an overheating generator when it’s fired up, so I cut my engines, letting my ship coast along on its predetermined trajectory, hoping it will bring me safely past the monsters waiting in the sickly fog.

I direct my ship so I can listen to each of the lights. It’s difficult without using the full power of my thrusters, but I manage, waiting, ears primed for the sound of music, and hoping beyond hope that the miniscule adjustments I make aren’t loud enough to draw the anglerfish my way.

When I hear the eerie song play across my speakers, I’m surprised—it’s not coming from a light. But on closer approach, a vine emerges from the haze, the shine of a fifth light masked behind it. I spot it too late, and I haven’t quite managed to steer towards it. My ship sails past.

A shadow hovers in the distance, tendrils waving, lure glowing, mouth agape…directly where my ship is heading. The acute awareness that I am not alone with Dark Bramble’s vines sends shivers across my skin, and at the same time, a sense of dread consumes me. I have to turn my thrusters on to redirect my path, or else I’ll shoot right by the seed and straight into the anglerfish’s waiting mouth. I’ve outrun the anglerfish before. I can do it again.

Placing my boots securely on the floor, I hold my controls firmly. My ship is powerful. So powerful. And now, all that power is working against me. With the tiniest of movements, I work to redirect my ship.

Keeping my thrusters as subdued as I can, I move calculatedly towards the seed. It’s going remarkably well, until I pitch forward just a little too far. I hear the fuel burning from inside my cabin, and a horrible, terrible screech echoes through Dark Bramble. 

My stomach drops. In the periphery of my windshield I see the anglerfish’s tendrils twitch as it changes its course, swimming towards me, and I can’t stop myself—my hand is on the side stick, my thrusters fully engaged, and I’m barrelling towards the seed at a lightning pace. I’m almost there, I can see the lights beyond, and—

A scaly face passes before my windshield, and I freeze. A milky eye fails to meet mine, but it doesn’t matter—it heard me. A strangling fear overtakes me as its teeth interlock around my ship. I don’t even have time to scream before all I see is enamel and flesh, and then, total darkness.

I wake with a gasp by the campfire. Oh, thank Hearth I died instantly. It must have snapped down on my ship with enough force to crumple it, with me inside. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if it had merely swallowed me whole. How long would I have sat in the darkness, waiting for my death to come? I shiver reflexively. Yet another thought to fuel my future restless nights. It’s been handy waking up from a perfectly normal sleep every loop. The horrors of my days have no effect on the quality of my rest. That won’t last forever.

Reluctantly, I march back up to my ship and return to that dreadful seed, silently thanking Slate for the autopilot function, as rudimentary as it is.

This time, I resist the urge to use my thrusters within the impossible seed. Which is difficult, because the anglerfish is waiting for me in the same place as last time. I do my best to steer without power, but it doesn’t really do much of anything, and I feel that same feeling of fear creep up behind my neck as the anglerfish grows closer and closer despite my efforts. Its breathing fills my cabin, and I do my best to focus instead on the sound of the harmonica music, though it’s not exactly helping to counteract the harrowing scene, either.

I’m drifting too close. But if I use my thrusters now, I’m dead for sure. I sit on my hands to stop myself from doing something stupid.

I inch closer, and closer, and it begins to feel like my whole ship is alive with the anglerfish’s breaths, wet and gurgling. I feel them within my own throat. I don’t move. I can’t. I stare wide-eyed at the quivering tendrils of the thing, until the anglerfish takes up my whole view.

My ship gives it the tiniest nudge. The screech is ear-splittingly loud, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight as the fish suddenly lurches.

Okay. Thrusters—no good. Physically touching the anglerfish—no good. There has to be a middle-ground between doing too much and doing nothing at all. So, when I reach the inside of Dark Bramble again, I do my best to find it. I let myself drift until I can see the light beyond the vine, and I adjust my direction just the teensiest bit. I’m moving so slow I hardly think my cautious maneuver does anything at all, and my ship still floats dauntingly close to the anglerfish… 

Miraculously, I don’t collide with it.

I have to be patient, but my steer-without-thrust-and-hope-for-the-best strategy actually appears to be working. The seed grows sharper and sharper through the haze as I approach. I can see the twisted vines that radiate from it, I can see the lights shining from its own little void, but…

…But I still drift past.

My eyes widen. And, glancing to the anglerfish directly above me, I decide to chance it. I fire up my thrusters, touching my side stick timidly.

And it doesn’t hear me. 

They’re blind, and they can only hear me when I’m close to them! I can’t stop myself from punching the air in excitement. Yes!

Stars above. I might actually pull this off. I drift into the seed and am surrounded by yet another deep haze. The harmonica signal is only a few hundred metres away, now—

As I enter the seed, the signal splits. Instead of one path to follow, I now have three. And each points to its own beacon in the mist. But the signal isn’t the only thing to multiply. The last seed had five lights. This one has nine. And I have no idea whether I’m headed for the right seed, or if there even is a right seed at all. And if all those other lights are anglerfish…I have no chance of redirecting without drawing unwanted attention to myself. 

I’m just going to have to guess. 

Or am I?

I flip out my Scout Launcher, and the display pops down across my windshield. I pick one of the seeds the duplicate signal is coming from, and I fire.

And I hear distant screeches.

I panic and reverse, knowing my thrusters are only going to draw more attention. But my mind is lagging behind and my fingers are quick to take to the controls I have gotten so used to operating.

I grunt as my ship collides with a vine. A sound goes off to notify me of the damage, but I can’t look at the screen right now. Hastily, I turn my ship around and rocket through the tunnel I entered through. The ride is rough—I must have banged up one of my thruster banks. My ship doesn’t go where I want it to go, and I collide with the tunnel walls as I make my escape.

When I get back into the first area, I realise I’ve made a terrible mistake. The anglerfish above the bramble seed screams, and I have just enough time to throw my ship out of the way of its yawning jaws. But I’m not looking where I’m going, just where I’m racing from, and my ship hits another vine, and now an alarm is blaring in my ears, and my ship is painted in pulsing red lights, and I know my reactor’s been damaged somehow, because on my console, a little glass cover pops up off of a big red button.

I was sitting by the river feeding into the southern crater when it happened. Hal had been there with me, and Marl, and Gabbro, who rarely joined us on our fishing excursions but didn’t really have a choice that day. It was the day they would be getting their ship, and we all wanted to celebrate.

Gabbro hadn’t graduated from the training program yet, but everyone could tell they were getting close. Gone were the days of Slate grounding their ship for weeks on end to add new modifications—all that was left was a few minor tweaks, and that gave Gabbro all the time in the world to master their now-(mostly)-permanent controls. They had been to the Attlerock, Brittle Hollow, Ember Twin, and were even contemplating exploring Giant’s Deep, though Gossan had cautioned them to save something to explore on their first solo flight, the message between the lines being that they wouldn’t have much longer to wait.

In any case, Gabbro’s ship would be finished soon. Slate had almost entirely pivoted to working on my ship, and I couldn’t have been more excited. It looked so much like Gabbro’s, except for a few advancements, of course, such as some improved piloting aids and more refined thrusters. Slate had modified the retro-rockets the week prior and said they were the best they’d ever been, so much so that they hastily retrofitted Gabbro’s ship with the same upgrade.

Gossan had made no promises, but we all knew that if Gabbro’s ship passed that day’s test, it would finally be Gabbro’s ship. They would be free to explore the distant planets, and I’d have Gossan’s attention all to myself as we jumped into one-on-one training. I was excited. I was nervous. I was trying so very desperately to not think about it, in case I raised my hopes too high and the ship wasn’t ready after all. And although they didn’t show it, we knew Gabbro was feeling the same.

So, a fishing trip it was.

Hal had been the one to suggest it. It had been a long while since we all did something together, so the four of us headed out.

Not an hour later, we had our lines in cool meltwater, our buckets at the ready by our sides. Marl and Hal had their feet swinging lazily in the stream, while I sat cross-legged in the middle. Gabbro sat on Marl’s other side, eyes watching the horizon.

“You got a bite,” Marl said to them.

They glanced at their line. The bobber floated beneath the blue ripples. Half-heartedly, they tugged, but whatever had nibbled their line was gone. The bobber resurfaced.

Hal leaned over my lap to look at them.

“It’s gonna go great,” they assured them genuinely. “And then you’ll get to be a real astronaut!”

Gabbro shot back a lazy smile. “Heh, yeah. Though I think Gossan’s reluctant to let either of us graduate.”

The unspoken words hung heavy in the air; Feldspar’s disappearance was still fresh in everyone’s minds.

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” Marl said. “Then you can go check up on my trees on the Attlerock.”

Gabbro laughed, and reeled in their line. Recasting it, they sent it floating further down the river. I watched them, and for a second our eyes met, although the nervousness I had anticipated to fill their face was replaced by a casual cheeriness, as if it was just another day, and not the day their training would finally draw to a close.

The roar of a geyser cut through the silence, and, in unison, the four of us looked towards the crater. Something round and wooden was flying up into the sky. I squinted in the daylight.

“What…”

As it came falling back down, we traced its path. It disappeared beyond the crater’s rim, but a loud splash echoed across the rock. Giggles bounced around the crater’s interior.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “Not this again.”

Arkose, Tephra, and Galena had made up a game Hal, Marl, Gabbro, and I probably would have played when we were their age if we had thought of it. They got a small barrel, placed it on top of a geyser, and watched it rocket into the air, seeing if they could get it into orbit. It was the sort of thing the founders of Outer Wilds had done when they were hatchlings, so, naturally, they now thought it was much too dangerous. And, it was. What if they got swept away by the current? What if they got hit with the barrel as it came plummeting back down? What if they didn’t run away in time and the geyser shot them into space?

I didn’t have to say anything else. At once, the four of us stood, packing up our gear. Someone was going to have to tell the hatchlings off. Again.

As we walked towards the geyser where the young ones played, rounding a corner, the arch framing the path into the crater revealed itself. I watched as Arkose placed the barrel back over the spout and ran to shore. There was a rumble, and up the water went, spraying hard and high into the air, bringing the barrel with it and sending it flying much higher than the water itself. The hatchlings squealed as they were rained on by its droplets. The geyser ceased, the barrel hovered in the thin atmosphere for a second, then fell back down, and Arkose jumped again into the water to retrieve it.

But this time, the rumble never stopped. I looked up, and instantly I saw why. The ship—Gabbro’s ship—was flying overhead, heading towards the village. 

I looked back to the hatchlings. Arkose was dragging the barrel through the water, hauling it towards the geyser.

And the worst played in front of my eyes.

Dropping everything, I started racing towards the hatchlings, waving my arms and shouting for them to get away from the geyser. I could hear the hurried footfalls of Marl, Gabbro and Hal behind me. Galena and Tephra tilted their heads, and I heard a distant, “We can’t hear you!”

Arkose was hoisting the barrel onto the geyser. The geyser that would send it shooting upwards, much higher than the geyser spout ever went, high enough to…

I looked up, and there was the ship, in a low enough orbit that I could see every thruster.

“Get away!” I shouted to Arkose.

Finally hearing me, the hatchling froze in confusion. But the barrel still sat on the geyser, and a rumbling not from the ship overhead was growing, growing beneath our feet…

The pool of water Arkose was standing in rippled. It was the only visual warning the geysers gave that they were about to erupt. I made it to the pool and jumped in, water up to my shins, splashing towards Arkose, who had only just noticed the ship overhead, whose eyes were fixed on the sky instead of the geyser in front of them.

I reached them just as the geyser exploded. I grabbed them quickly and pulled them away with all my strength, and together we landed in the shallow water. My skin was freezing as I watched the barrel blast upwards, riding on the spout. Hot mist rained down around us, but the barrel continued higher, and higher, and…

Right into the path of the ship.

Gossan was a talented pilot. They saw the barrel as it crossed in front of the windshield. The thrusters sputtered as they engaged the retro-rockets to dodge the new obstacle, but…

…But they only sputtered.

Then I saw the thrusters on the left side of the ship ignite as Gossan attempted a last-minute swerve. It almost worked, except the barrel was too close, and the thrusters not powerful enough. The barrel collided hard into the thruster banks, sending the ship off-kilter, tumbling away from the crater. I didn’t see the crash, but I saw that moment just before, the moment right as the ship was disappearing over the edge. That pivotal blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, where, a second before impact, the ship split apart.

Gossan had ejected. We heard the ship collide with the ground and an explosion of debris and fiery air erupted over the lip of the crater as the reactor was crushed. The smoke rose high above the crash site. I couldn’t see what happened to my flight coach. I couldn’t see anything.

My voice snagged in my throat.

“Gossan!”

Hal and Marl helped me and Arkose up, and Gabbro and I ran off while they stayed behind with the hatchlings. As we approached the crash site, we choked on the black smoke that filled the air, waving it away from our faces before the acrid stench buried itself in our noses. I pulled my damp shirt over my nose and Gabbro took off their hat and held it to their face. Weakly, we called out, voices muffled by cloth and smoke.

Then we saw it. A figure moving in the darkness. We hurried over and Gossan took form, coughing and gripping a hand over their face. Their leg was trapped beneath a piece of debris—what I later recognised as part of the reactor’s casing. 

“Help them,” Gabbro said, rushing to the metal. I hooked my arms under Gossan’s and pulled as Gabbro pried the debris just high enough for me to slide our flight coach out from underneath, wincing as they screamed in pain. I crouched beside them and asked if they were alright, despite knowing the answer. Blood poured from the gloved hand that gripped the left side of their face, and their leg was askew.

And just as I was about to do something—shout for others, run to the village, burst into tears—I heard the storm of boots on grass as help arrived. The explosion had drawn the attention of the villagers. Porphy ushered me and Gabbro away as Rutile, Slate, and Tektite crowded around Gossan, whose only response to their questions was a weak cough and strained groans. Again, my eyes met Gabbro’s. Their eyes were wide, helpless, as our flight coach was carried away on a makeshift stretcher.

I glance to the red button on my console. 

I press it.

The ship depressurises instantly as the cockpit splits from the rest of my ship and rockets forward. I turn around just in time to see white teeth close around the wreckage of my poor ship. If I had been two seconds later, I would have been eaten right along with it.

The cockpit sails silently through the fog, and I unbuckle my harness and let it drift on without me. I think I’m far enough away from the anglerfish now that I can safely use my jetpack, and I engage the thrusters, directing myself back towards the seed with Feldspar’s music. 

Being in Dark Bramble without a ship is even worse than being underwater. The breathing of the anglerfish fills the fog, and although I can see its lure cutting through the haze, I can’t tell how far away it is. Dark Bramble explodes into vibrant oranges and yellows every time I use my jetpack, the rumbling loud in my ears, and anticipation bubbles up, inch by inch, every second I’m not pursued by a great, hungry fish.

I’m almost back to the seed. The going is much slower with my jetpack, and the ejection from my ship shot me much farther away than I had been hoping. But now, metal scraps from the close encounter drift through the clouded space, and I know the anglerfish is nearby.

I overshoot the seed.

I turn my thrusters on, for just a second to redirect, every muscle alight with nerves. I hear the thunderous roar of the anglerfish, and then I don’t hear anything at all as the world goes dark.

I’m frustrated. On the one hand, my plan to distract myself is working marvelously. On the other hand, I really, really suck at piloting through Dark Bramble. And—it’s not even that. I’ve been getting in my own head and panicking, which is exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do. And what does that get me? A ruined ship. And still, I got eaten. Upset with my lack of progress, I stubbornly glare at Slate across the fire when I wake, and they glare right back. 

“You know the ship is a death-trap, right?” I snap.

“Well, yeah, it’s a death-trap, but a really powerful death trap,” they scoff. “What, you suddenly care about safety now ?”

I glare for a little while longer, then drag myself to my feet, heading to my ship without sparing so much as a sidelong acknowledgement to my mentor. 

When I get back to my ship, I launch, turn on autopilot for Dark Bramble, and head to my log.

The anglerfish are blind. If I’m quiet, they won’t be able to detect me. I’ve proven that, at least. I can do this. I just need to get out of my head, and focus. I’ve never been much good at focusing. It’s what's made me so great at looking for answers—I explore every tangent, I let myself get distracted. It just isn’t the best trait for a pilot. I now understand why Slate always amends their safety ratings with a disclaimer about user error.

A mix of emotions overtakes me. Still frustration, and a stabbing guilt over that out-of-character exchange by the campfire, and a sharp dread at the prospect of going back to Dark Bramble, especially after what just happened, but also something surprising: resolve. I’m ready to head back and get it right this time. And if not this time, next time. What, am I really going to get bested by a fish?

A peculiar noise creeps through the floorboards of my cabin. Knowing I’m still a while away from reaching Dark Bramble, I turn around to investigate, eyes widening when I see the yellow fire encompassing the entirety of my window.

Oh, stars above—

“The autopilot flew my ship directly into the sun!”

I sit by the fire, arms crossed. Slate huffs in response.

“Had an exciting dream, did you?” they reply, dismissing my scowl. “It’s not exactly impossible for the autopilot to get you too close to the sun, but it’s not like it’ll try to take you there on purpose. Make sure the sun isn’t between you and your destination when you engage autopilot, and you’ll be fine.”

After another round of glaring, I groan loudly.

“Just—design your ships better!” I say, before storming off to the lift. This time, I don’t dare touch the autopilot. I power up my ship and guide it manually towards the shadowed planet, a new determination burning within me—if not to find Feldspar, then to at least get this whole ordeal over with so I can strike Dark Bramble from my list of places I still have left to explore.

The central seed grows as I near. Wrapping my fingers around my side stick, I straighten. The last few loops have been riddled with mistakes. I won’t crash my ship again. I won’t let a stupid fish get the better of me again.

I tear my eyes from my console and stare straight ahead as the seed swallows me up.

Using the same technique as before, I point my ship in the direction I want to go, turn off my thrusters, and coast until I reach the first seed. Then, just to get me aligned, I turn on my thrusters for a fraction of a second. Silence. I exhale my relief and drift into the seed.

The three duplicate harmonica signals greet me when I enter. Picking one at random, I aim my ship towards it, and let myself drift blindly through the fog.

Vines crawl up beside me. Twisted, thorny vines, and I remember that those horrid vines have their grip on Timber Hearth, too. I hope Tektite is thinking of ways to get rid of them. When everything is over, I wouldn’t mind having a go at them with an axe myself. 

Two more vines take form in the haze, and a shadow surrounds the light ahead. Great leathery flowers unfurl from its centre, and…I let out a discontented sigh. It’s the same sort of seed that’s in Youngbark Crater. Juvenile, with no entrances big enough to crawl into, let alone guide my ship through. 

Fortunately, there’s another signal coming from a neighbouring seed. And that one, I can get my ship through. Looking around neurotically, I turn on my thrusters just for a second, just long enough for me to change my direction. I hear nothing. It’s disquieting. There have to be anglerfish here, I just…don’t see them.

Nevertheless, I’m through to the next seed. 

I travel through a short vine. A single light shines ahead, and a single harmonica sings from it. The vine opens up and falls away into the mist behind me. And around me is…nothing. No shapes in the fog, no hints of movement. The haze mutes all sound. I’m flying on built velocity alone, much too fearful to turn on my thrusters in this unfamiliar area. Aside from the distance estimation on my Signalscope display, there is no indication that I am moving at all as I drift through the monstrously large space.

I open my map, and I receive the same error message I had received on the Quantum Moon: UNABLE TO PINPOINT LOCATION.

Where am I? And what is Dark Bramble? Half living thing, half interdimensional anomaly. It’s intriguing, but I don’t want to know any more than I have to about this impossible place. Gotta leave something for the next generation of astronauts to uncover, I tell myself.

Giant vines take shape around me. Every one of them, I pass by. Their thorns reach for me, their twisted shapes motionless, and I drift. And drift. The harmonica sings out its tune. And I’m holding my breath, eyes locked onto my distance markers much like they were when I shot my Scout into the bramble seed with Tektite. Only now, I’m counting down the distance.

800 metres.

600 metres.

400 metres.

At 300 metres, vines take shape from above.

And at 250 metres, I see it. It starts around the light in front of me. A thin structure arcs far above and then far below the light, joining to a smooth shadow beyond. Great spines curve around it, wider at their bases than at their points, which are sharp and menacing even in the distortion of the haze. The vines cradle the whole scene, and the haunting sound of the harmonica plays on. As I drift ever closer, the maw of a skeletal anglerfish opens up, and inside, I swear I see the arrow-shaped silhouettes of pines. Flashes of blue spark in the distance, and disarticulated vertebrae of the anglerfish’s massive tendrils float in the gravityless air.

It’s all just as I had seen it with my Scout. I let myself drift, frozen, until I’m so close that I can see the bramble seed that shines where the fish’s stomach used to be, so close that I can tell that those are definitely Timber Hearth pines, so close that I can see the smoke of a woodfire. And as my ship crests the top of the campsite, I see movement below. Life below.

I can’t believe it.

I found them.

Chapter Text

I bring my ship up to the side of the anglerfish’s gaping mouth, and slow to a stop. My ship floats, eerily stationary in the grey void around me. After a long moment, I turn off my Signalscope. And, for the first time in Dark Bramble, my cockpit is completely silent.

Three years. That’s how long Feldspar has been missing. Three years. I can’t believe it. All this time, they’ve been out here. How long ago was it that we gave up our official search? Far too long ago. 

As much as my mind can’t comprehend being stuck somewhere that long, being lost and alone somewhere that long, when I see their campsite, I can believe that they really have been out here all this time. I coast through the vacuum, using my jetpack to bring me past glistening teeth. Their trees are so tall. They’ve been growing for a while. But they’re skinny, and after all this time, only a few stand around the small campfire that burns within the lower jaw of the fish. The only light is the diffuse shine of the lure overhead, and the only soil from their own fallen needles. The plants have been starving out here. I worry what state I’ll find my fellow traveller in. 

Will they remember me? Will they remember anything at all? If it were me, stuck out here for all this time, I would have lost it. I haven’t even really been in the time loop for all that long, thinking about it, but look how much even that has changed me. But Feldspar isn’t me, and if they let their fear grab hold of them like I let my fear grab hold of me, they’d never have become the first Hearthian in space. Much less the greatest astronaut of all time. Just the fact they’re even still here is testament to their willpower.

From where I float, between the glinting teeth that border the grove, I get an unparalleled view of their campsite. Bushes, pine needles, a few felled logs, and miscellaneous supplies are scattered across old bone. Chopped wood is stacked neatly beside their fire, which crackles and pops in the pine-tree-made-air. Empty ration tins and uncorked bottles pile into wooden crates, a soup made of something bubbles by the fire, and a sleeping bag lies between trees.

It takes rounding a pine for me to spot the gravity crystal, and almost immediately it latches on. I land much harder than I intend to.

“Ow,” I say loudly, picking myself off of my knees. It’s not exactly the entrance I was hoping for.

And there, across the flames, they are—Feldspar.

No music fills the air. They stand abruptly upon seeing me, harmonica clenched in a fist by their side, their visor disguising any emotion on their face. 

“Whoa!” they exclaim, and by the way they hold themself, I know I’ve unintentionally startled them. “Where’d you come from? No one’s come here in…well, ever, actually.” Suddenly their demeanour changes, and they rest a fist on their hip. “That makes you the second Hearthian to ever reach Dark Bramble—after me, of course. Well done! Say…it’s you! They made you an astronaut? And you haven’t blown yourself up yet, good for you!”

They look so much like I remember. Their helmet is painted with messy racing stripes, their vest emblazoned with the Outer Wilds logo. Their suit seems in good repair, considering, but a few nozzles and tubes hang limp and disconnected. Their signature red scarf sits snugly around their shoulders, stained from woodsmoke and…probably whatever comprises the haze around us. Instantly, my mind flashes to Gossan. What would they think of seeing their best friend here? Of seeing them alive? Out of everyone in the village, Gossan had been the most resistant to ending the search. I still recall times when I was training with them when they’d gaze off into the distance, and I knew, somehow, that they were waiting for Feldpar’s ship to appear around a far-off planet.

A stone forms in my throat, and I freeze. 

“Feldspar!” I croak. “...You’re alive!”

“...You never were the brightest hatchling, were you?” Then, easing themself down onto a nearby log with a stifled grunt, they continue, slipping their harmonica into their vest pocket and dusting off their gloved hands. “Yeah, that’s right, I’m alive. Been camping out here since my ship, uh, y’know. Crashed. Violently.”

“Crashed…?”

Feldspar chuckles, then loosens the clasps of their helmet. With a quiet hiss, the helmet disengages, and they sit it down on the log beside them with a reverent sort of gentleness. While their suit is just as I remember, their face is another story. Deep lines trace their eyes from sleepless nights, and though their skin has always been marred by scars, several new ones slice across their mouth and cheek. Their ears are crumpled and droopy, probably from spending so much time flattened within their helmet, and one is torn so badly that it’s nearly half the length of the other. Despite their hollowed appearance, their eyes are bright in the light of their fire. 

“Oh, this is a good story,” they begin, and instantly, I can tell they’ve missed this. Aside from when they were away on their trips, they never skipped a campfire. “I’d just finished exploring the core of Giant’s Deep and needed a new challenge, and none of us had ever been inside Dark Bramble, so I think, hey, let’s give that a try. I’ve been cruising around for a while, dodging the odd massive, interdimensional vine bristling with thorns, when I run into this huge anglerfish, the biggest I’ve ever seen."

Feldspar grins wide as I remove my own helmet and sit cross-legged on the ground, and suddenly I’m transported to a time before they disappeared, when I was a bright-eyed young hatchling who stayed up later than all the others to listen to their stories. They brandish their arms grandly and tell half of their tale with the big motions of their hands.

"I pull a few stunts, try to shake the thing off—nothing too fancy. I’m going full-speed when the fish clips me, knocks me into a vine, and…well, like I said, I crash.” They punch a fist into their hand. “Blammo! On impact, my ship starts making noises like it’s coming apart from the inside, and I think, well, that ain’t great. Sure enough, I barely get out of there before the electrical systems start sparking like crazy. It’s either move fast or die unpleasantly, so I had to put a little distance between me and my poor, fried ship. I camped out near where I crashed at first. I found this skeleton later—great find, would’ve been stupid not to use it. So I moved my set-up over here and planted my emergency tree seeds. Been here ever since!”

With eyes wide, I let out a gasp.

“I can’t believe you didn’t die! ”

“You know, in the old days, I used to think the same thing every time I came back from a flight in one piece. These days, I’m used to it." Something passes across their face, and they cough loudly into their fist to change the subject. Cheerily, they say,  "Anyway, that’s how it all went down, hatchling! Story’s over, but feel free to stay and enjoy the fire a while. Or don’t. Fire’s not going anywhere.”

And with that, they pick up a stick and prod the coals. I give them an incredulous look, their dismissive attitude towards being found snapping me from my memories.

“Shouldn’t I tell ground control to come get you?”

“Well…yeah, sure, whenever you have the time,” they say flippantly. “Frankly, I kinda like it out here. Quiet, peaceful...ish. You’re a little young to understand, but it’s a lot of pressure, being the best that ever was. Been nice to have a break.”

“A break?” I gesture wildly around the campsite. “A break?”

They level their eyes with mine. “Like I said, you’re a little young to understand.”

I scoff. “What have you been doing every day? What have you been eating?"

“Well, I packed a surplus of rations,” they reply defensively, “and they lasted me while the trees grew in. I saved a couple tins of 'mallows for a rainy day, of course…”

“You’ve been living off of pine needles and marshmallows?!”

“...And there are some centipedes around. Have you seen ‘em?”

I glare disgustedly at the soup by the fire. Mind set, I stand up to make a quick run to my ship. I’m happy to find it’s exactly where I left it, and, as always, it's fully stocked. Other than my marshmallows, I never get hungry enough to dig into my stores during the loops.

I return to Feldspar’s camp with a jug of water and two tins of preserved fish. It’s not much, but I don’t want to make them sick, and they eye the reserves hungrily as I toss them across the fire.

“All yours,” I say, peeling open a tin of marshmallows for myself and sitting back down.

There’s silence as they dig in. I roast one marshmallow until golden, then two, and Feldspar sets the first tin, now empty, on the ground, taking a long swig from the jug. They don’t peel open the second tin, but they do keep it securely next to them—it’s probably difficult to shake the rationing habit that had surely gotten them through nearly three years here.

“What happened to this anglerfish?” I ask after a while, trying to make conversation. I’m still flabbergasted about their indifference to the whole ‘being rescued’ thing, but I don’t want to push it. It’s not like they can actually be rescued, yet—not permanently. And they appear to be…shockingly okay? They aren’t starving, at least, and their campsite is pretty safe, all things considered, and they’d been messing around with their harmonica when I found them…

So, yeah. Either they’re okay, or they’ve completely lost it. Either way, they don’t seem particularly bothered with me asking them questions while we sit in Dark Bramble’s eternal fog.

“Oh, the skeleton?” Feldspar raises their brow. “It was like this when I got here. As near as I can tell, this anglerfish must have been chewing on the vine and eaten a seed, and then the seed grew and grew in the poor fish’s stomach until…this happened. Gross, huh? This skeleton was a good find. The light keeps the fish away, you know. See, they’re territorial, so they mostly avoid each other. That’s why I set up camp here.”

“Blind, too,” I say, “or, well, mostly blind. I guess they can see the light of the lures but nothing else.”

Feldspar laughs, wagging a gloved finger at me.

“A-ha! So the blasted things do have a weakness! Meaning my fly-as-fast-as-I-can approach to dealing with them could have used a bit more thought behind it. Ah, well, at least they didn’t eat me. All’s well that ends well, eh, hatchling?”

I resist the urge to blurt out that they had eaten me, a couple of times, actually. Of all Hearthians, I think Feldspar would be the most fascinated by that little tidbit. Telling them about the time loop sounds like a recipe for disaster, though—they might decide to hijack my ship and fight an anglerfish or something. They don’t act like it, but if I were stuck here for three years, I’d want to make my exit by burning the whole place down. Dark Bramble makes it so easy to despise it.

Speaking of Dark Bramble…

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But I can’t help myself.

“...I found a Dark Bramble seed on Timber Hearth,” I say, avoiding their eyes. “Or, well, Tektite did. It landed in Youngbark Crater right before I launched, and it’s already dug its vines in. It’s how I found you, actually. It gave me the idea to come here.”

They watch me through narrowed eyes.

“...That’s bad business, hatchling. As Chert will tell you if you so much as glance in Dark Bramble’s direction, there used to be a fifth planet where the Bramble is now. This infernal plant appeared at the centre and kept growing, and growing, and growing, until it shattered the planet and scattered its pieces across space. If we don’t get that seed you found sorted real quicklike, I suspect Timber Hearth will be heading toward the same fate. And I tell you what, we Hearthians have overcome far too much to be done in by some worthless seed.”

And on that, we can agree.

I sit, and I roast another marshmallow. And despite where we are, and how I found them, and what I’ve heard about what they’ve endured over these last three years, it feels so absolutely wonderful to be able to bask in the presence of my idol again. Though, it’s not quite the same, and, after hearing that they ate bug-soup for years, it won’t ever be the same again. 

In all seriousness, it’s strange. But it’s a nice kind of strange. I still remember them as the larger-than-life astronaut who couldn’t be bested, not even by the dangers of space itself. And, evidently, they still think of me as the hatchling that would follow them around begging for stories. But…we’re supposed to be equals, now—just two travellers in Outer Wilds Ventures, exploring the cosmos. And I want to laugh at the thought, because—Me? Feldspar? Equals?—but I also so desperately want it to be true. And, if I think about it, it sort of is. I’ve been to the Hourglass Twins, to Brittle Hollow, to Giant’s Deep, and Dark Bramble. I’ve been to the Quantum Moon! And I’ve learned so much about the solar system that Feldspar wouldn’t even be able to tell me about, because they haven’t been to all the places I’ve been. We are equals. Not in experience, but in worldliness, and, unfortunately, in recklessness.

Except…

I lean in, as if worried some eavesdropper may overhear a tantalising secret, and lower my voice.

“You reached the core of Giant’s Deep,” I say with astonishment. “How’d you do it?”

A knowing smile spreads across their face. Leaning back, they take a casual sip from the jug of water, watching me over the bottom of it.

“Giant’s Deep’s core, huh? Ah, that was a wild one. But since you’re asking, I gotta assume you haven’t made it down there yourself yet, right?”

I shake my head. “Only through the current.”

They hum ponderously.

“If I tell you how, it kinda feels like cheating,” they reply. “Hm.”

Their eyes stare past me, out into the haze behind the bramble seed and the anglerfish skeleton. Past, even, the trail of floating vertebrae beyond…

“...On a completely unrelated note,” they say, “that sure was a big, hollow vine my ship crashed into. Yep. If I were you, I’d go take a walk and see where it ends. You’ll want to go to the tail end of this anglerfish skeleton here and look for a flickering light in the fog—that’ll be my old ship. Path starts there.”

Excitement bubbles up inside me, that giddiness I get whenever I know I’m about to discover something big.

“On a completely unrelated note,” I say lightly, packing up my supplies and putting on my helmet, “I’m going to go explore around here a little.” Walking around the fire, I offer my half-eaten tin of marshmallows to the world’s greatest astronaut. “You can have the rest.”

“Heh. You’re not so bad, hatchling,” they reply, taking it. I head off, and we exchange a salute as I jet back up into my ship.

Sitting in the pilot’s seat, I feel myself untense as the sound of a harmonica drifts through the fog. That conversation was oddly…cathartic. The sense of guilt I’ve been carrying from not finding them washes away, and maybe it’s because I never got to train alongside them, or maybe because I’ve finally made it here, but I feel like I’ve proved something. To Feldspar? To myself? To both of us? It doesn’t matter, because the sense of accomplishment it gives me outshines anything I have ever felt before. 

This was a good thing to do. I’m glad I came here, even if I had to get eaten by some anglerfish first.

I follow the directions Feldspar definitely didn’t supply me with, no sense of apprehension tightening my muscles. According to Feldspar, I won’t have to worry about any anglerfish here. For once, I let myself take in the ominous scenery without any looming sense of dread.

As I steer carefully towards the blue sparking of Feldspar’s ship—or what’s left of it, anyway—I note how truly vast the space around me is. Space works differently here, that much is certain. A duplicate signal of my ship hovers within the bramble seed at Feldspar’s camp, and even the skeleton of the anglerfish that sits there wouldn’t fit inside the core seed that can be seen from space. I wonder if I exist, somehow, outside of the solar system, or if the seeds are bouncing around duplicate signals of me and that’s why my map isn’t able to pinpoint my location. Or, perhaps the maze of seeds has made it so my map can’t even contact the deep space satellite. Feldspar hadn’t been able to contact ground control, after all, and I don’t think the harmonica music I’ve heard outside of Dark Bramble is as constant as my 22 minutes have led me to believe. The way Esker filled out their log, it sounded like the signal came and went, and I certainly hadn't heard it before today. If the space within Dark Bramble doesn’t exist the way space normally does, could it be constantly shifting? Maybe Feldspar’s seed only recently connected itself to the network in a way that allowed my Signalscope to pick up their music. If so, then they’re awfully lucky—I never would have chanced the trip in here if not for their mysterious song.

The thought has me wondering—will the supernova even find me here? Will the Ash Twin Project find me here?

With my good mood swiftly tarnished by my anxieties—which I am really growing sick of, by the way—I watch as a form begins to take shape in the haze.

Feldspar’s ship. Its silhouette is unforgettable: instead of a forward-facing cockpit like mine, Feldspar’s is perched high atop the ship’s base, akin to Riebeck’s. Small porthole windows line the rim, and, like Chert’s ship, Feldspar’s has only a single thruster bank, situated beneath the cabin, between a tripod of legs. How many times had I watched in awe as this ship blasted off from the very same launch tower I lifted off from this morning? 

One thing is certain: No one will be shooting off in this ship again. Feldspar had really done a number on it, this time. Disconnected wires hang freely in the vacuum, outdated gadgets nearly stripped from its side, dangling by single rivets or crinkled beyond repair. The whole metal side of the thing is alight with blue sparks, and grimly I wonder how the reactor hasn’t set the whole thing ablaze by now. I guess the reactor was the only thing to have made it out of the collision unscathed.

Speaking of collisions, it must have been a big one. The hollow vine next to it isn’t just damaged—it’s been completely ripped through. Twin holes on either side nearly span its diameter, turning the wood of the vine splintered and jagged. Feldspar’s little ship did that? Maybe I’ve been giving my own crashes too much credit.

I bring my ship to a stop far enough away from Feldspar’s so that any spontaneous combustion won’t leave me stranded, and head outside. I don’t let myself drift far. As long as Feldspar plays their harmonica, I can use my Signalscope to find my way back to their camp easily enough, but the haze that surrounds me is all-consuming, and I really don’t want to have to drift blindly through it at all if I don’t have to.

The vine is huge. It’s not particularly larger than any of the other Dark Bramble vines I’ve come across, but being outside of my ship—being inside of the vine—really puts its gargantuan size in perspective. It’s big enough that my ship would have no problem sitting inside. Maybe even big enough that two of my ships could sit inside! And yet, I can’t imagine an anglerfish fitting into one of these things. That thought makes the fish all the more terrifying.

As I continue further through the veins of Dark Bramble, the vine gets narrower and narrower, until, claustrophobically, it constricts me on all sides. I have to be mindful of my pack as I delve deeper and deeper, until suddenly, the fog dissipates, and—

Woah!

I hurry to get my footing as gravity regains its hold over me. Using my jetpack, I fly up to a portion of the vine that appears to be reasonably horizontal relative to my new sense of ‘down’. Righting myself on the relatively flat surface, I climb through the vine, and gradually the woody spirals of it split apart, opening up. Before I know it, I can see the whole world around me. And the world is encased in ice.

Thick, glistening ice surrounds me. Two more bramble vines border my sides, cutting through a deep chasm in the crystal. Reflections of the vines glint menacingly across its dark surface, and so do little distorted pinpricks of light…

Stars.

Stars shine bright and full through the split in the ice. Experimentally, I open my map—it works! I’m free of that space-distorting haze, and, too, free of the bramble seed that contains it. According to my map, I’m standing at the very extension of Dark Bramble, somewhere in the middle of its southernmost reaches. That means…

I’m standing in the middle of the planet that came before. 

Trepidation scurries across my skin. It’s like walking through a planet-sized skeleton, with no idea what the creature was like in life. I continue along an icy shelf, careful to watch every step, and as I round a corner a red glow fills my view.

A jellyfish, frozen in the ice.

I really am on the remnants of that unknowable planet.

The jellyfish is massive. I’ve never seen one so close. Its bulbous head lays half-in, half-out of the ice, but in the vacuum of space, there’s nothing to degrade its flesh. It looks as if it had been alive a mere second ago instead of ages. The ice has been crudely chiselled away around its tentacles, and bits of freed shards still hang hauntingly in the air. Rope, an Outer Wilds flask, and a single recording log sit abandoned to the side.

Was this Feldspar’s first camp?

How awful.

The ice is cold and hard. My suit is the only thing to separate my body from the vacuum of space. I’ve grown used to that fact by now, but I’d be a lot more stressed by it if I knew that my suit repair supplies were limited. And, back where I crossed the vine bridge through the chasm…How many times had Feldspar looked to the stars and wondered if they’d ever be found?

I can’t wait to save the sun. I can’t wait to end the loop. And I can’t wait to bring Feldspar home.

Crouching low, I examine the recording log. Something’s been left on it. I hit PLAY, and, unsurprisingly, it’s Feldspar’s voice I hear in the static.

“Trip Four…?, entry number...I’m gonna say ‘not One.’ Crashes: Three. Boring crashes: Zero (a personal best!).

“Whoa ho! Never thought I’d see one of these beasties outside of Giant’s Deep! They were awfully useful back there—maybe a jellyfish could be useful here, too?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence, then:

“BLEARGH!” Feldspar exclaims. “This thing tastes terrible! The outside is all rubbery and tough—maybe that’s because it insulates the jellyfish’s insides from getting zapped by electricity? Right, I’m going inside of this jellyfish’s interior cavity to see if what’s in there tastes any better.”

I look distastefully at the jellyfish beside me. Had Feldspar really gotten that desperate? Or…never mind. Eating a random jellyfish unprompted is totally in-character for them.

In other news, the jellyfish can insulate electricity! That is amazing! That explains how they can so easily drift in and out of Giant’s Deep’s sparking core. But wait—did I hear that right? Feldspar went inside?

Heart pounding, I follow the icy path through a goopy mass of tentacles. I’m glad my skin is safely within my suit—the last thing I want to know is how the slimy things feel. Parting a floppy curtain of them, I find them to be surprisingly heavy—I guess whatever rubbery substance protects them from electricity has the side-effect of being rather dense. Though, weight doesn’t really matter when you live your whole life underwater.

A cavity is revealed within the jellyfish’s bell. It easily accommodates myself and my hefty pack, and against the far side is a handwritten note, pinned to the flesh by a pick mattock.

“Note to Feldspar: DO NOT EAT THIS EVEN IF YOU ARE DYING. It would be too sad if this were the last thing you ever ate in this life. I guess these jellyfish are only useful for insulation from electricity. Again, DO NOT EAT. Love, Feldspar.”

So…Yes, the jellyfish can insulate themselves from electricity. But how does that help me? I’m not going to haul this one back to my ship to protect it from the Giant’s dangerous core. Not that I think I can even pull that off in 22 minutes. Plus, Feldspar had gotten to the core before finding this jellyfish, so clearly that hadn’t been the solution they were pointing me toward…

It takes me a minute of pacing within the jellyfish’s bell for it to click.

“I found the frozen jellyfish near your ship!” I exclaim excitedly, landing hard on flat bone and bolting to Feldspar’s camp. They slap their knee and point their harmonica at me with shared enthusiasm.

“Ha! So the old thing is still there, is it? That’s where I first camped out after the crash, you know. It was pretty cosy inside! It does lack the structural integrity and indomitable spirit of a camp made in the shelter of the very bones of the species that tried to eat you, I suppose. Still. Very cosy.”

I plop down happily by their fire, and they toss me a victory marshmallow from across the flames.

“I listened to your log. I can’t believe you tried to eat that thing,” I tease.

“Hey! Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“I saw your note on the inside, too. Times were not that desperate.”

“You never know when you’re gonna find yourself in a situation where you might need some extra protein,” they reply, tapping the side of their head. “It’s good to keep what’s edible in the back of your mind.”

“Like centipedes.”

I worry I’ve overstepped, but Feldspar just laughs.

“Now you’re getting it! Speaking of which, did you figure it out?”

Pushing the marshmallow onto the tip of my roasting stick, I nod. “I have some ideas, for sure. Thanks. I’ve been stuck on that for Hearth knows how long.”

“Don’t thank me, I didn’t do anything.” They watch me for a moment, then let out a short breath. “You’ve really turned into quite the astronaut, huh? When’d you launch?”

I open my mouth to tell them, but stop myself. This is one of the rare cases where a lie is easier to believe than the truth. “A few months ago,” I reply, focusing on the fire. “Gabbro graduated while you were gone. Riebeck, too, if you can believe it. They're on Brittle Hollow right now, still working up the courage to explore the Hanging City.”

That same shadow I saw before passes in front of their eyes.

Failing to hide their apprehension, they ask, “How long has it been, since…?”

The unfinished question hangs in the air.

“Three years,” I say after a while. “Well, almost three years. The anniversary is coming up, and the Outer Wilds team always does something special. It’s a big event. You’d love it.” Then, catching myself, I hastily add, “Or you’d hate it. I dunno. It’s different every year.” 

I meet their eyes across the fire.

“A lot of us thought you were dead. A lot us didn’t, though. And…well, a lot of us didn’t know what to think. Gossan never gave up hope. I don’t think Hornfels ever did, either, but, you know them. They did what they thought was best for everyone.”

I don’t mention Slate, because I don’t want to bring up the fact that two of Feldspar’s closest friends have hated each other ever since they went missing, each of them blaming the other for their disappearance.

Feldspar looks away, and for a long moment, I think they didn’t hear me. But I don’t say anything; I wait for them to break the silence. Eventually, they do.

“Say,” they begin after some time, “I was thinking a bunch while you were gone, and…I’m ready to head back now, whenever you’ve got time.” They laugh, but it’s ingenuine; calculated. “Sure, I’ll hate to cut my vacation short, but…there are some old faces I’m really dying to see.”

And all of a sudden, I realise that I’m either going to get this Feldspar’s hopes up for a reunion they’ll never have, or I’ll have to tell them No. And I don’t know which one is worse.

But then Feldspar looks behind me, confusion painting their face.

“That’s new.”

I look around, and streaks of blue race by. One. Two. Then dozens, and as they begin to rain down around us, a selfish sense of relief washes over me.

Feldspar stands, a hand flattened across their forehead. They look up with keen interest at the supercharged particles as they cut through the haze. A light breeze picks up, and their red scarf sways behind them. The marshmallow on my roasting stick suddenly bursts into flame.

“Stars above,” Feldspar whispers. “What—”

Chapter Text

For the first time in a long, long time, I don’t immediately jump into the launch platform lift when I wake up. There’s an itch at the back of my mind. It’s just like the one that demanded I go find Feldspar, even knowing that their rescue wouldn't be permanent; that detestable sense of duty that hasn’t caught on to the time loop yet. Only that, I had grown numb to—this one is fresh, new, and after so long fighting with that urge to find Feldspar, my stamina has run out. 

“There’s our pilot!” Slate crows from their place by the fire. I rub my eyes, sick of the words after hearing them repeated so many times. “Enjoying your pre-launch campout under the stars, I see.”

Despite the annoyance burning in my chest, I decide not to ignore them. “Was enjoying it,” I tease groggily. “You didn’t make any last-minute modifications to my ship while I was out, did you?”

Slate hms, poking the coals with a branch. Sparks swirl on the stirred heat. “I've repurposed the spare oxygen tank to be used as an extra combustion chamber,” they say proudly. “Oh—and I’ve added this brilliant feature. You can use your ship log to set destination markers for places you’ve visited before. Dead useful. And the risk it poses of shorting out the fuel regulator and causing the ship to explode is so minimal that only Gossan would worry about it.”

Oh, right—I totally forgot about that. Though, most of my discoveries have been so ground-breaking that their locations are permanently etched into my mind.

“What about places I haven’t visited before?” I reply, only half-kidding.

Slate scoffs. “Oh, sure, I’ll just magically have the system know all the possible locations you plan to discover throughout the entire solar system, shall I?"

Would have saved me quite a bit of time and many headaches, I think. 

“Anyway,” Slate continues, “you'll need to get the launch codes from Hornfels at the Observatory before you can lift off. Just bring those here once you've said your goodbyes or whatever."

Hornfels. That itch grows stronger.

Nothing will come of it. I know that. I know I know that. But I have to tell them. I can’t just leave Feldspar there, forgotten in Dark Bramble, while I go off and happily explore more of our solar system. It isn’t right. 

I think of the cagey way they regarded me last loop. Their hollow face, their latest scars. How they seemed so determined to prove to me that they were fine, that they didn’t need my help, but would take it if I offered. Their stature had changed, hadn’t it, when I spoke of home? When I spoke of their friends? They didn’t know just how much time had passed…But they could feel it, I think. That it had been much too long. 

For at least one loop, they deserve to be remembered. And the founders deserve to know what happened to their friend.

I watch Slate. They poke the fire, oblivious to my stare. I contemplate telling them first, but no—they won’t believe me. They’ll laugh me off and tell the others about the crazy dream I had, and then they won’t believe me either. Now, Hornfels…If I tell Hornfels, they won’t question me. They’ll be too ecstatic that Feldspar didn’t explode in space like everyone thought. And if Hornfels tells Slate, and Gossan, and Esker—they’ll believe them. 

If anything, this is good practice for when everything’s over and I have to break the news for real. The last thing I’d want is for Feldspar to rot away in Dark Bramble because no one listened and I got permanently grounded for psychosis. 

With a newfound determination, I say a temporary farewell to Slate and stand, ready to head off to the Observatory. But, just before I go, I turn around.

"Sorry about what I said last time, by the way," I apologise. "It was a very emotionally-charged comment. The ship is honestly fantastic."

They stare at me through incredulous eyes.

"...What?"

"Gotta go get the launch codes!"

"What? What? "

And as I leave the campsite, I can't help but smile hearing the bewildered threats Slate hurls after me.

It’s been such a long while since I’ve walked through the village. My heart aches as I pass by my friends, them waving cheerfully and offering me wishes of good luck for my first launch. Oblivious. I want to tell them what’s been happening, but until I find out how to stop the supernova, I’d only be making them aware of their inevitable—and repeated—demise. No, I can’t do that. I’ve seen how Chert reacts once they know the sun is about to go out. I can’t do that to everyone else.

Mica, Tephra, and Galena all call me over to chat. A small part of me breaks when I lie and say I’ll talk to them later. 

The Observatory waits for me at the edge of the village crater. It sits just as it always does, sunlight reflecting off of its white roof and its telescope swung high into the sky. And, inside, a Nomai statue—my Nomai statue—stares sightlessly towards the entryway. Beside it, Hal and Hornfels are exchanging fascinated whispers. A sad smile spreads across my face. I wish I could be just as excited by the statue opening its eyes as they are. The technology is fascinating, and I would love to get lost in its intricacies—and I would, if only it wasn’t me stuck in the loop.

Hal hears me enter and turns away from the statue, eyes brightening when they see me. What wouldn’t I give to have a normal conversation with my buddy—one that they’ll remember, too? They bounce over animatedly and wrap an arm around my shoulders, reciting a familiar script as they bring me over to the statue.

“Hey, I was just about to come find you! Look, look, look, you’ve gotta see this—the Nomai statue’s eyes are open!” They pause. “They, uh, used to be closed. Probably should’ve started with that. And now they’ve opened! We’re not sure why they opened, since no one actually saw it happen, but this is huge news!”

“Wow! ” I exclaim, feigning surprise.

“Bet you wish you’d seen it happen, huh?” Hornfels says, and sighs. “Me, too. I’m not even a little closer to understanding what’s going on with this statue.”

“Should someone tell Gabbro?” Hal asks restlessly. “Or maybe Riebeck? Oh, stars, this is so exciting, it’s making my stomach hurt!"

…And suddenly I realise this is as far as the conversation has ever gotten without my prompting. It’s my turn to speak, to say what I came here to say, but the words that have been swirling around in my head are suddenly gone, and my tongue feels swollen in my mouth.

Hornfels notices my blank stare and gives me an odd look.

“Um…Was there something you needed?”

I blink. “I…”

Then Hornfels’ expression changes, and they light up with sudden recollection. “Ah! The launch codes! Of course! I’m sorry, I got caught up in the—Well, the statue opened its eyes and—” They dig around in their pocket and pull out a small slip of paper. “Here they are. I finished some pre-flight observations earlier—it’s a fine day for a launch!”

I thank them quietly, slipping the folded paper into my pocket without so much as a glance at it. Hornfels’ eyes flicker between mine and my hand puzzlingly, and it’s clear they were expecting some level of enthusiasm.

Nervously, I tug at my shirt hem. Why is this so difficult? All I really have to say are three words—three little words. I found Feldspar. But those words snag in my throat and Hornfels and Hal just keep watching me expectantly, and I don’t know how to phrase what I want to say without sounding insane.

It doesn’t matter. They won’t remember any of this in twenty minutes.

“So…” I force out as casually as I can. “You know how Feldspar’s been missing?”

A pained look crosses Hornfels’ face, and, hurriedly, I continue.

“Um, anyway, I don't know if you’ve heard from Esker recently? But they noticed harmonica music coming from Timber Hearth, and—”

"Esker?” Hal asks suddenly. I wave my hand.

“—And so I was listening to the music, and I realised that it was coming from Youngbark Crater, and—also, have you talked to Tektite? Because something crashed into Youngbark and there was smoke and everything so Tektite left this morning to investigate, and apparently it’s a Dark Bramble seed—”

Hornfels and Hal share a panicked look, and I stop.

“No,” I say adamantly, shooting them each a reassuring glance. “No, it’s not—well, yeah, it’s bad, but that’s not what—the harmonica music was coming from the bramble seed, and I shot my Little Scout inside, and it went to Dark Bramble because there’s this weird, interdimensional thing going on there, and there was an anglerfish—well, a skeleton of one—and pine trees and a campsite, and—”

Seeing their bewildered expressions, I let out a frustrated groan. Starting over, I say what I should have said from the beginning: 

“I found Feldspar!”

There’s a deafening silence, then—

Hornfels lets out a shocked sob. “You found Feldspar?!”

“Y-Yes!” I reply, relieved. “They’re stranded in Dark Bramble! Their ship crashed, and—”

“Stars above, this is wonderful news!”

And, without warning, arms are around me and I’m looking over Hornfels’ shoulder at the museum beyond. 

“Thank you! Thank you for finding them!”

“I…Um…”

And then Hornfels lets go, and they pace with hands behind their head.

“Dark Bramble. Stars above. I don’t know what they were thinking…But we were never entirely sure what Feldspar was thinking back then, either. You said their ship crashed?”

I nod.

“Of course. Of course. But…all this time…We ought to fish them out of that dreadful place with all haste! I’ll get Gossan and tell them to prepare a ship. It really should be Gossan who brings Feldspar home.”

It should be Gossan, just as if Hal ever got lost somewhere, it should be me getting them out. But…Gossan doesn’t know…

And then the full weight of what I’ve done sinks in. I realise in horror that I shouldn't have opened my mouth at all. Hal is staring at me in disbelief, and Hornfels is briskly heading to the exit, and Gossan is only a stone’s throw away, and—

With a quick side-step, I try to block Hornfels’ path.

“Wait—"

Hornfels puts their hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “Again, thank you,” they say earnestly. “You can hardly imagine how profoundly happy I am to hear they’re alive and unharmed.”

And with that, they nudge past me and disappear.

“What was that?” Hal finally asks, breaking the silence. “When did you talk to Esker? And when did you go to Youngbark? And when—”

“We need to stop them!” Without waiting for Hal, I hurry out of the museum.

Hastily, the two of us jog after Hornfels as they duck into the Zero-G Cave. Flashes of my first few attempts of reaching Feldspar play through my mind. Nearly getting eaten by an anglerfish followed by actually getting eaten by an anglerfish. Several times. And that was after I found out they were blind! Even with all my practice, I still barely made it to Feldspar’s camp unscathed. And that’s forgetting the fact that Feldspar’s music split into a confusing tangle of signals, some of which didn’t even bring me to a passable seed. And, now that I think about it, other than my first try (which barely counts), I’ve never even left Dark Bramble. Is the way out as confusing as the way in? Is it worse? I don’t know, because I’ve only ever died inside of that horrible planet, and now Hornfels is about to tell Gossan—

Ahead, my flight coach storms out of the cave, helmet in one hand, walking determinedly down the path and coming our way. My steps falter, and Hal bumps into my back.

“Ow,” they mumble.

Gossan sees us, and their resigned look breaks into a wide smile.

“Hatchling! Thank Hearth for you!” And they pull me into a strangling hug, patting my back. “I don’t know how you managed to figure it out, but thank you! Thank you!”

“Gossan—”

They loosen their grip and square up to me, a hand firmly on my shoulder and inexorable pride filling all three of their eyes. I can’t stop myself from staring at the red length of fabric looped around their neck.

Behind them, Hornfels catches up to us.

“I knew Feldspar was still out there,” Gossan says. Then, looking at Hornfels, they repeat, “I knew it! Just someone try to stop Feldspar. I spent the better part of my life trying to keep that reckless idiot alive, and even when they ignored me they still managed to scrape through every single close encounter. There was no way they died out there. No way.”

Looking back to me, they shine with satisfaction, and I have to avert my gaze.

“You haven’t even launched yet and I can tell—you’re going to be one to watch, out there,” they praise. “I don’t know how you found them, but—all I can say is thank you. I’ll start prepping my own ship. You deserve to have the best first solo launch you can after all you’ve done. It’ll take about a day to get everything ready, and—” They sigh. “I’ll have to get Slate to do a quick pre-flight check. I’ll radio you when I’m spaceborne, and, if you don’t mind and aren’t too busy exploring, perhaps you can help me narrow down their location.”

A smile spreads across my face. My sudden giddiness bubbles up and out of me in the form of an uneasy laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” I say, almost too eagerly. “I can do that!”

A day. Gossan is waiting a day to head out. Thank the stars that my flight coach is so prudent. They won’t be going to Dark Bramble—not today, not this loop. I hadn’t accidentally sent my flight coach to their death. They give me one last commending pat on my back before taking the trailhead out of the crater.

“I should go prepare for Gossan’s launch,” Hornfels says. “Have a good flight, hatchling. You have very much earned it.” 

Hornfels continues down the path to the Observatory. With Gossan and Hornfels gone, Hal wheels around to stare at me, mouth hanging open.

“What in Hearth’s name was that?”

“What do you mean?” I ask casually, heading down towards the launch platform, dizzy with relief.

“I mean, what in Hearth’s name was that?”

“I told you, I heard music and found a bramble seed on Timber Hearth, shot my Scout inside, and found a campsite inside of Dark Bramble.”

“So, you just woke up this morning and said ‘I’m gonna go to Youngbark Crater and locate the legendary astronaut who’s been missing for three years right before my first launch into space’?”

“M-hm.”

Hal shakes their head, baffled. “And when did you talk to Esker? How did you talk to Esker? Aren’t they…wait, where are…?”

“Lunar Outpost.”

“The Lunar Outpost? That’s still operating? How did you contact the Lunar Outpost?”

I shrug. “I found Feldspar. Does it matter?”

Hal glares at me, knowing exactly what I’ve done. In the end, they let out a dissatisfied sigh. “No. It doesn’t. I just…” 

We reach the bottom of the lift, fire crackling, and Hal’s gaze turns towards the launch tower while I grab the last of my supplies.

“Tell me everything when you get back, yeah?” Hal asks. “Explain it all like I don’t even know what space is.”

When they meet my eyes again, the look in theirs isn't one I’m used to seeing. It’s a soft, gentle confusion, a look of not understanding, but wanting to, of being worried they might overstep their bounds but so desperately begging me to bridge the gap. It's clear I'm dodging their questions. I never dodge their questions. And they want to know why, without asking.

It’s the kind of look that hurts. I feel that pain, sharp and throbbing, deep within my chest. But I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t say anything. Not to anyone, and most definitely not to Hal.

After a short pause, I nod. “Will do,” I say. The light in Hal’s eyes doesn’t change, but they shoot me a small smile.

“Heh. At least the pressure to discover something cool’s off, right? You could just find a new type of rock and everyone will still be talking about your launch forever.” They pull me into a quick hug, squeezing me just a little too tightly. “Don’t forget to use the translator tool, okay? The two of us put a lot of hours into inventing it.”

Hugging them back, I reply, “I won’t.”

There’s a beat, and then Slate pipes up from beside the fire.

“What the heck are you two on about?”

Hal laughs and punches my shoulder lightly. “I’ll do my best to explain to Slate. You go have fun out there, yeah? Good luck, and safe flying!”

Eager to get off of Timber Hearth before Gossan changes their mind and commandeers my ship for Feldspar’s rescue mission, I head up the lift and buckle into the pilot’s seat. I’m glad I told Hornfels and Gossan, but…Perhaps for the real thing I should just go and bring Feldspar back myself. It would certainly involve a lot less explaining on my part.

I just wish my goodbye with Hal this time around was more...satisfying. I hate lying to them. They don't deserve that. But they don't deserve to know the truth, either, not until I've fixed everything.

What a day that will be. Minute twenty-three, ticking by. If I manage to pull it all off, the sun will be back to normal, the time loop broken forever, and Feldspar rescued, all before I finish my first solo flight. Having Feldspar step off my ship would get everyone in the village to listen to me for sure, and if I can convince the other astronauts home, maybe we could all sit around a bonfire while I explain. Gabbro could back me up, and I could convince the astronauts easily enough by recounting the details of their campsites, of their research. My ship log would be all Hornfels would need to believe me; so many facts, so many translations, all so quickly verified. 

They'll all believe me. I'll probably be regarded as the next Feldspar, but all I'll want to do is stick around the village with Hal and tell them every excruciating detail. Every loop, every death, every translation. And I hope that will make up for all the dishonesty I've forced between us now.

Hands at the controls of my ship, I launch. A disquieting feeling eats away at my insides, but it's one I know can't be helped until I've ended this for good. I still have half a loop to enjoy, and with that itch of responsibility scratched, I know precisely where I want to spend it.

My ship floats, weightless. Darkness surrounds us, distant light rippling on waves. Bubbles rise from my cooling thrusters, and everything is quiet, save for the humming of my gravity crystal, and the odd clunk my reactor emits. The current races overhead, and spirals twist wherever cyclones dance on the surface of the ocean. I can’t see them, but three little pumice islands bob across the waves, and a fourth island of ice and vine. A giant cyclone masks a lone tower on the north pole, and somewhere around there, a ship nearly identical to mine drifts contentedly. 

And, below: a swell of blackness, reminiscent of the black hole that centres Brittle Hollow. Only this void is not quite as dark, and not quite as greedy, and desires company much less. Great arcs of purple electricity snap and sizzle across its surface. Those inky branch tips of the coral that live within stretch out, pressing against their confines. Huge red jellyfish—the naturalised wildlife of Giant’s Deep’s ocean—cross peacefully between core and current. 

How have I ever hated this planet?

Staring out through my ship’s window, a serenity so overpowering whispers to me to let go of my controls and sit back, and watch. I do, for a while. Every loop is a race against the clock, but this one, less so: there is only one place I want to go, and it rests within the core I once thought was unreachable.

Funny, how many things I thought were true turned out to be wrong.

A jellyfish begins its descent towards the core, and that’s my cue. I open the hatch of my ship and fall into the ocean. The fear that kept my hands steady as I repaired my ship’s electrical systems all those loops ago fails to grip me now. I know the most frightening fish won’t be found in this ocean.

Firing up my jetpack thrusters, I leave my ship behind and coast towards the jellyfish. Unbothered by my approach, it sinks, tentacles sparking. The outermost ones snap with electricity. The sight gives me pause, for a single moment, but I know there has to be a catch. Feldspar made it through. They wouldn’t lead me astray. Then, I spot it—its arms, long and billowy like scarves on the wind, don’t glow with the same dangerous spark. 

Carefully, I align myself beneath its downward path, and wait with bated breath as it draws closer. First, its long arms surround me, falling over me like a thick blanket. Then, the zapping tentacles. I don't dare move as they form a cage around me, trapping me with deadly purple sparks. But they don’t ever come close to touching me, and I exhale steadily as the jellyfish swims lower and lower, and I climb higher and higher…

I push through a mass of rubbery skin, and I’m there—within the jellyfish’s insulating bell. The red glow of it burns everywhere I look, everywhere except below me. Together, we fall, and the roaring of Giant’s Deep’s core grows and grows. Sparks of electricity crawl up the tentacles of the jellyfish, each one erratic and crackling and deadly. I wait for one to skew from its path, to find its way to me, to end my loop in a moment of pain so quick it won’t even register. But none do. And as the chilling sound climbs up around my feet, then my waist, then above my head, I know I’ve made it through.

The core of Giant’s Deep.

The sound fades away into nothing as the jellyfish continues its descent towards the coral. Steadily, I guide myself out from between its tentacles using only what propulsion I can generate myself—I don’t want to burn my new friend to ash with my jetpack thrusters. I leave the safety of the jellyfish behind, and it carries on, indifferent, feeding on the coral or some microscopic creatures that are invisible to my unaided eyes.

The pressure is immense, the world around me shadows and shapes. At these depths, the buoyancy of my suit does little to counteract the mighty pull of the core. I tumble heavily through the water, corals around me spindling upwards into their many stunted branches.

My feet hit hard ground—or, is it ground? It’s deeply pigmented and scaly, and a similar texture runs up the length of the corals. Is the core…coral?

I push myself off from the giant cluster, and drift. It feels like I’m on the Attlerock. One gentle kick against the core and I’m soaring around it, only at much, much slower speeds. The water is dense—denser here, where it's colder and saltier and feels the full gravitational power of the core. 

I squint through the darkness around me. No sunlight penetrates here. Only the sparking of the core and the odd luminescent jellyfish light my surroundings. My flashlight beam is far too weak to cut through the detritus that hangs thick in the water column. Focusing my efforts on the high branches of the corals, I search. I know what I’m looking for. Blueprints of its construction form an afterimage across my vision, and its sand-coloured walls and opaque, pearlescent windows should stand out against the dusky colours of the deep.

But the first thing I find is not what I’m looking for at all.

Well—it isn’t and it is. A sandy passageway bridges the outstretched fingers of a coral tree, bronze accents shining in the electricity above it. But it’s too perfect, I think. Undamaged by the explosion that split the Orbital Probe Cannon apart. Is it the part the Construction Yard crew lost to the cyclones?

Continuing around the core, I see the vague shape of something ahead that looks much more promising. It’s too round, too artificial, to be anything else. And when I finally get close enough to see it, I suck in a breath. Tan walls form a flattened cylindrical room, a filmed observation window running around the entirety of its perimeter, aside from one, small portion, just over a metre by a metre in size. A passage identical to the one I had just seen sticks out from it, only snapped and crumpled, loose pieces hanging still in the water.

The Probe Tracking Module.

This is the culmination of the Nomai’s last and most valuable attempt to find the Eye. Years of planning, of construction, of testing—and here it is, sunken deep beneath the waves, tattered and dented, but functional. Or, at least, I hope it’s still functional. From what I saw in the projection pool on the Orbital Probe Cannon, it seems as if the lights survived the fall, at least.

I marvel at it from its shadow. I had given up hope of ever finding it. And now, one of my most searing questions is about to get answered.

Did the Nomai find the Eye?

The Ash Twin Project had been shelved, and yet, here I am—in a time loop caused by the project that never had enough power to operate. The Orbital Probe Cannon never fired, and yet, here I stand in the shadow of the consequence of its probe launch. 

The Nomai couldn’t locate the Eye, and yet, they had visited the Quantum Moon and orbited around the very thing they had spent generations searching for.

Did the Nomai find the Eye?

I have only one way of knowing.

I sail up to meet the twisted passageway. A familiar airlock sits at its other end. Moving the sight-guided ball along its angled path, I unlock the door.

Coloured tile rotates around me on its axes, and—

As the door opens, the gravity of the core takes hold. Everything in the airlock—myself and the water—comes bursting into the space between two gravity floors. I blink in the sudden brightness and do my best to make last-minute adjustments to my path with my boosters, but I collide hard with a window and slam into the ground below. 

My stomach heaves as I stand, and a sudden wooziness crashes over me. I stagger as I right myself, my pack throwing me off balance, but eventually I manage to straighten up and collect my bearings. 

I stand on the same half of the module I had been on when I glimpsed it through the projection pool on the Orbital Probe Cannon. And, there it is—a square depression in the middle of the room, two podiums rising from its middle. A chalkboard sits across from it, bordered by two potted trees and matching podiums. A Nomai lift waits behind me, triplicate gravity crystals humming, and, in front of me, a Nomai statue stares into the distance. I gaze up at it, twice my height, fur flowing down its neck. Eyes open.

Above, on the ceiling, is a pool of matte liquid, copper cables joining it to the control tubing that runs along its edge. My heart flutters, remembering the dramatic scenes the pools within the Southern Observatory and the Orbital Probe Cannon had shown me. I’ll get to that soon—first, I see two projection stones just begging to be analysed.

The first one lies on the floor of the projection pool. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands routinely. My gloves smudge the dust across its glowing surface. Two planets conjoined by a bridge of sand. The Hourglass Twins. The Ash Twin Project. I bring the stone over to the chalkboard and press it into the empty podium. At once, text spirals across the sandy interface. 

“I have exciting news, Privet," Yarrow began. “The Ash Twin Project is almost prepared to receive the probe data from the Orbital Probe Cannon. Ramie is adding some finishing touches here, but she’ll be finished soon. Are you and the Orbital Probe Cannon well?”

“We are!” Privet replied. “The Probe Tracking Module is ready to record each launch’s flight trajectory and will automatically transmit all relevant data to you. Once the probe determines the location of the Eye of the universe, I’ll send an alert directly to you and Ramie. On the other appendage, I’m now worried about this cannon’s structural integrity and its crew’s moral integrity.”

Ah—this must have followed Privet’s and Mallow’s conversation about the ideal launch conditions for the cannon. Mallow, of course, arguing for maximum power, and Privet arguing—correctly—for a smidge of caution to be used. Privet would have been furious to know where the module had ended up after the probe’s launch.

In fact, the second stone has a Nomaian Number Two emblazoned across its surface, and the conversation it offers me is just the one I’d been recalling. I place both stones neatly onto a nearby bench and turn my gaze upwards. The anticipation is too much to bear, and I can’t stand it any longer. What did they find?

A meek thought follows: Had they found anything at all?

I don’t let that spoil my fun. I’ve worked too hard to get here. Beginning from Giant’s Deep, cruising through space on the Orbital Probe Cannon, then delving deep into the belly of Dark Bramble…

No.

Even if they had found nothing, this is a major accomplishment. I will finally know, finally know, how the Nomai’s search for the Eye ended. Whether they were there to witness the ending or not.

I take the lift and feel that uncomfortable, dropping feeling in my stomach as my world flips around. I land uncharacteristically gently on the floor above (below?), and barely do my feet meet the ground before I’m hurrying towards the controls. 

Just like on board the Orbital Probe Cannon, a sight-guided ball sits at the beginning of its path. I move it along, steering it towards the first basket and dropping it down inside. I watch the liquid with an intensity that could rival the sun’s.

A shape bubbles up from the liquid below. I hold my breath.

Dripping, it rises—a commanding sphere, the light from the torches around the room reflecting strangely across its surface. A ring circles it, and coming around from the far side is what I immediately recognise as the Orbital Probe Cannon. It orbits the sphere—Giant’s Deep—perfectly unbroken. Just as the cannon cruises between me and the Giant, the whole model flies away, shrinking, shrinking, and shrinking, and then—

A line shoots from the cannon, and a little dot rides along it. The probe, and its trajectory. 

A terminal pops up beside me. Without hesitation, I translate it.

Receiving data from probe 9,318,081.

Visualizing current trajectory of probe 9,318,081.

…What?

I read the translation again.

That can’t be right.

The probe fires on a randomly chosen trajectory at the start of each loop. And I know that the statues activated when the probe failed to find the Eye when they first launched. But…that should have been 27 loops ago, when I paired with the museum statue, not…

Over nine million.

The cannon had fired over nine million times. Time had looped over nine million times.

I don’t understand.

Is everything I know about the Ash Twin Project…wrong?

Mystified, I move the ball into the next active position.

Giant’s Deep and the Orbital Probe Cannon rise, once more, into the air. And once more, they shrink until they are a speck in the middle of the cavernous room. A line shoots away from them, at a different angle this time, and no probe follows along its path. Instead, the line remains, and another line comes darting from the cannon. Then another. Then another. Then another…

And suddenly the space before me is entirely consumed with trajectories, turning Giant’s Deep into a bristling ball of probe launches. More come, and more, and when I think there can’t possibly be room for another, a thousand more fill the barely-perceivable gaps between. They stretch in every direction, searching, scanning, scouring, and I can hardly see the room beyond anymore, it’s all just trajectory after trajectory, probe after probe, and—

As suddenly as they appeared, they are gone. All but one. It points just right of my shoulder. And, at its terminus, a single, unmistakable symbol spins.

The Eye of the universe.

A new terminal pops up. Again, I don’t hesitate.

Retrieving previous launch data from Ash Twin.

Total number of probes launched: 9,318,081

Deep space anomaly matching all known criteria for the Eye of the universe found by probe 9,318,054.

It was probe 9,318,054 that had done it. They found the Eye. 

And then I remember. 

All this time, I’ve thought the Ash Twin Project had failed, and that’s why the statues activated. It made sense—without a power source, the project had been shelved. But…No. If I give any more thought to it, that doesn’t make sense at all. In that case, the statues would have activated hundreds of thousands of years ago, when the Nomai still filled the abandoned corridors I’ve been haunting. The statues wouldn’t have activated now.

The statues don’t only activate when the project fails. They activate when it succeeds.

I count off with my fingers, and my eyes widen.

The Eye had been located 27 probe launches ago. 27 loops ago, when I was walking distractedly from the Observatory and that Nomai statue wheeled around to meet my gaze. 

The probe had located the Eye, and it did what it was meant to do: it sent a message to the remaining statues to pair with the nearest living thing. Me. Gabbro. But before that, the probe had failed to find the Eye 9,318,053 times.

That means…

The time loop didn’t start 27 loops ago. It started nine million loops ago. We’ve all been in a time loop for—I do some more math, rounding out the numbers—390 years. We’ve just never been aware of it. For 390 years, I had been living out my first launch and my last day. Over. And over. And over. Stuck in the same cycle that every Hearthian is stuck in. Waking beneath the launch platform, getting the launch codes from Hornfels, saying my goodbyes to Hal. This whole time, until the probe found the Eye and woke me up.

Except…I haven’t been stuck in a loop for all that time, because time doesn’t work like that. As true as it is that nine million probes have launched…it’s just as true that only a single probe has launched, because the Nomai had only ever built one probe. And I have only ever awoken by the campfire once, this morning, and when I awake next loop, then that will be the first time my eyes open beneath the clouded sky of Giant’s Deep, and my time here, in the core, or telling my friends that Feldspar is alive, will only be a memory. And it will only ever have been a memory.

So…

The Nomai hadn’t found the Eye, because even yesterday, before the loop initiated, before the cannon had fired, when we had a big party in the village to celebrate my launch, they had been long dead. 

Their power source had failed. Until today. Then, suddenly, miraculously, it hadn’t. 

I find myself searching the air for answers, but just end up shaking my head in disbelief.

390 years in a loop. And yet, not an hour at all.

The Nomai’s search had succeeded, but not in their lifetimes. They hadn’t even known that their final effort to find it would work. In fact, they probably believed the opposite.

Their power source. What was it?

I return, again, to the Sun Station. 

The Nomai said it hadn’t worked. But now…Now, it has. Now, it does—the time loop keeps marching on, the Ash Twin Project storing my memories and returning them to my past self. But…How?

I don’t know. And without a way to reach the station, I never will.

Looking across the room, I do a double-take. There’s still another terminal. Having no idea what information it will return, I move the sight-guided ball into position.

Giant’s Deep, the Orbital Probe Cannon, and the Eye of the universe all collapse into the basin below. The liquid bubbles, ripples, and three shapes begin to rise from the black pool until they hover clearly in the air. They appear to be Nomaian characters, but I don’t recognise them. The first is shaped like a tilted support bracket, the second like an ‘X’ with a line joining the top two arms, and the third like a warp spiral, only with both ends pulled from their tight coils. The terminal lights up beside me.

Retrieving stored coordinates from Ash Twin.

Displaying coordinates for the Eye of the universe.

I stare. 

These are the coordinates Privet had been ready to wait for—the coordinates that never came. I know where the Eye is—or I would, if I knew how Nomaian coordinates operated.

My eyes don’t linger on the coordinates. They linger on the terminal. The coordinates had come from Ash Twin. Looking up to the ceiling, I see it—the Nomai statue. Eyes open.

Three masks within the Ash Twin Project are active. I have seen them so many times, eyes glowing, energy pulsing, stars whirling around at dazzling speeds behind them. One is mine. One is Gabbro’s. And the third is the Probe Tracking Module's.

The statues don’t necessarily have to pair with a living thing, and I know this. This whole time, I've known this! Because my statue isn’t just paired with me, it’s paired with my ship’s computer. Information is all the same, and it doesn’t matter if it comes from a biological brain or a mechanical one. There is no one else in the time loop. Just me, Gabbro, and the sunken module.

That is how the Orbital Probe Cannon remembers which trajectories it’s followed. That is how it knows to alter course each loop. And that is how the cannon can know the location of the Eye, even though that discovery had been made loops ago. The statue.

If the Nomai were still running the project, the coordinates would have been returned and the Ash Twin Project turned off for good. The probe would have never launched, not even once, and the Sun Station would have never been used, and the time loop never created. Everything they built, everything they designed, only needed to be operational so that they could be used. So that, in whatever strange distortion of time the loops actually exist in, the probe could be fired, so that the probe could find the Eye.

But the Nomai are gone, and I don’t know how to turn off the loop. Not that I would, not yet anyway—the sun is still going to explode. We Hearthians are incredibly lucky; if the Ash Twin Project hadn’t spontaneously received a viable power source, there would have been no chance for us—for me—to stop the supernova. 

A stabbing agitation grows in my chest.

The Sun Station. That’s where everything is pointing. I have to get there, I have to find a way in, I have to—

Okay. No. I’m not doing this again. There’s something about the isolation beneath Giant’s Deep’s current that makes my anxieties surface in the worst possible ways. There has to be a way into the Sun Station. And I have the time to find it.

I breathe in, then out, then in. I have the time.

And, when I do save the solar system, only 22 minutes will ever have passed, and the time loop, just like the version of me that stands in the Probe Tracking Module, electricity striking like lightning outside, will be nothing but a memory.

I look back to the coordinates. The three, hovering figures that hang prominently in the middle of the room. I don’t know where they lead, but I know what they lead to. The Eye of the universe. Can it really be reached? The Nomai seemed to think so. Definitely not with Hearthian ships. Not yet. But, maybe, when all of this is over, Hal and I can hunker down in the museum and solve a new puzzle: how Nomaian coordinates work. And with all the new Nomai technology I’ve discovered, not the least of which being two intact and functional shuttles, maybe Slate can design a ship that can reach the Eye.

It's less than a 22-minute flight away.

I remember standing in the Old Settlement, and the Hanging City, and the Sunless City, begging for the Nomai to give up and leave this solar system. And now my heart races when I think about finishing the search they never got to finish. Locating the Eye had been their longest-standing roadblock; the hard part is already over. The coordinates float before me, and an uncharacteristic optimism fills my chest.

Those three, strange characters will be seared into my mind for the rest of my life.

Chapter Text

If I’m really going to follow in the Nomai’s footsteps, I have to commit. I have to learn everything.

So when I wake up at the beginning of the next loop, I throw a few friendly quips Slate’s way before befuddling them by taking the lift up to my ship without the launch codes and blasting off into space.

I don’t have much left to discover. The Vessel and Escape Pod Two are still lost somewhere in Dark Bramble. My own pilgrimage to the Quantum Moon has been put on hiatus until I can get into the Tower of Quantum Knowledge, and the Sun Station is, as always, unreachable. And so, I find myself, inexplicably, in a wide orbit somewhere between Brittle Hollow and Giant’s Deep, staring at Ember Twin as the sands begin to shift. Thoughts of an ice-covered Nomaian shuttle clutter my mind.

The very last thing that Clary, her sister, Poke, and Pye ever did was journey to the Interloper. I don’t know what prompted the visit, and so soon after the failure of the Sun Station, but it had to be important. The Interloper was new to the star system then. Clary had mentioned unusual energy readings coming from beneath the surface…

I have long ruled out the Interloper as the cause of the sun’s supernova. It seemed logical at first, but the more I attuned to the rhythm of the solar system across my 22-minute loop, the more my logic faltered. The Interloper didn’t crash into the sun—the sun expanded and absorbed the perihelion of the Interloper’s orbit. The sun is already going supernova by the time ice and fire meet.

So, why did the Interloper have such peculiar energy signatures coming from its subsurface?

I don't need to talk to Chert to know that mysterious energy readings aren't typical for a comet. It's all just ice and dust, after all—or, at least, it should be. Comets aren't mystical. Their stunning tails are the result of a reaction between the solar winds and their chilly surfaces. So, what makes the Interloper so special? And why haven’t we detected any unusual signatures?

I stand at my log, reading my notes on Clary's shuttle. They are concise and to the point. Clary had lost contact with Poke and Pye as they descended into a fissure on the comet’s sunward side.

Easing into the pilot’s seat, I blast off and locate the Interloper in the sky. It’s streaking past Dark Bramble, heading for Giant’s Deep. The comet, like the Attlerock, is tidally locked. Only, while the Lunar Outpost never glances away from Timber Hearth, the bright side of the Interloper stares straight into the blazing sun. It’s easy to find—its tails, stretching far beyond its nucleus, always shroud the dark side in a breathtaking flash of colours. And there—as the Interloper draws nearer in its accelerating march towards the sun, the sun-facing side is clear to see, rocky and icy and covered in dirt.

But spotting the comet is far from the biggest challenge.

No Hearthian has ever landed on the comet before—not even Feldspar. The Nomai hadn’t documented its interior much beyond the anomalous energy readings, at least not within the walls of their cities. The comet had been so novel to them that they hadn’t even had the time to update the Southern Observatory before they died. So, though I’ve been warned about unexpected energy signatures, and fissures in the ice delving into the comet’s subsurface, that’s all I know. There is no traveller beckoning me with their music. There is no Felspar to give me hints. There’s just me, and good-old trial and error.

The Interloper rushes past, and my hands are ready at the controls.

My pursuit of the Quantum Moon is still fresh on my fingertips. I hold the side stick firmly and guide my ship, and it follows every subtle motion of my hands as an extension of myself. Each movement is controlled, and practiced, and completely natural. My ship accelerates forwards, and my eyes are fixed on what’s ahead. Planets shoot by outside of my window. My growing velocity creeps up on me, and I feel the force of it in my back, gradually pressing against my seat with increasing pressure. My heart pounds as the comet expands and its details sharpen. 

I make my approach, and the Interloper flies right past me.

Yanking back on my controls, I decelerate rapidly, until I am no longer at risk of breaking free of the solar system. I turn my ship until the Interloper is in my sights again, and am relieved to see it’s not so far away that I’ll have to spend the better half of the loop catching up to it.

All my training had involved landing in places where gravity was constantly tugging at my ship. It had always been a force to fight against—something to balance with the power of my retro-rockets and the thickness of the planet’s atmosphere. I forgot that gravity is as much my friend as it is my enemy.

The Interloper, being such a minuscule object compared to the planets and moons I’m used to landing on, doesn’t exert nearly the same gravitational pull. There is no atmosphere to stall my approach, little gravity to guide me to its surface, and the comet flies by so fast that any miss—no matter how close—will send me rocketing across the solar system in the entirely wrong direction.

This is going to be more challenging than I thought.

But, I’m still up for it.

Replacing my hands on my controls, I guide my ship closer. I have to move quickly to match the Interloper’s speed as it rushes towards its perihelion, accelerating as it rounds the sun. I’m close. Eerily close. The tail burns brighter than ever before as the solar winds burn the comet away. The rocky surface shifts beneath my ship, and the thick layer of ice retracts in the intolerable heat. I begin to ease my ship in for landing, but particles streak across my window, and my controls aren’t working as they should, because suddenly I am drifting sunward…

Hurriedly, I pull away, blasting above the orbital plane of the solar system and out of the sun’s reach. The Sun Station shoots across its boiling surface, and the corona licks the comet as it rounds the dying star at its closest approach.

I didn’t realise just how near the Interloper draws to the sun this early in the loop. Enough for the gravity of the massive star to yank me away from its surface, apparently. I let out a breath. That was close. One second later and I would have been sent tumbling, inescapably, into the sun’s sea of plasma. Again.

The Interloper begins to fly back out towards the white hole, and I follow. Targeting the comet on its retreat from the sun is the smart thing to do anyway—as it heads towards the white hole, its race across the solar system will slow, and I'll be able to maximise my time spent on its surface without the fear of burning away.

As the Interloper shoots back out towards Brittle Hollow, the ice reforms as gases from its coma cool and condense. I sail alongside it for a minute, aligned with its twilight zone. From here, I get an excellent view of both halves of the comet. On the sunward side, I watch clear ice fill out the bumps and ridges across its surface. On the dark side, I see the tail blaze from towering spikes of hardened ice.

For the third time, I make an attempt to land, cautiously bringing my ship in close.

I settle unreliably on its slippery surface. Its reduced gravity does little to hold down my ship, and we bounce across frozen hills until eventually coming to a rest. I check my landing camera and there’s solid ground beneath us. I’m afraid that this is as good a landing as I’ll get; my confidence that my ship won’t leave me to explore any more massive orbiting bodies we pass nonexistent.

Warily, I drop out of my ship. My boots land on smooth ice and I skid unsteadily until I find a chunk of gravelly snow to grasp onto. The view from my icy little hill is…Amazing.

Perfect snowflakes drift all around me. The ionized glow of the comet’s gas tail shimmers across the bright blue ice, melting and merging with reflections of the sun and its planets. The dust tail flashes as microscopic particles catch the light of nearby stars. And the stars—they burn uninterrupted overhead, undistorted by an atmosphere. A strange feeling of not-quite-weightlessness overtakes me. I swear that if I untense my muscles, my arms begin to float, but my feet are definitely pressed to the ground. Still, I don’t dare take too confident a step, let alone engage my jetpack thrusters. My attachment to this comet is tenuous, and that’s a fact I’m committed to respect.

I check my map, and the Interloper is already crossing paths with Dark Bramble’s orbit.

Letting go of my snowy crutch, I test out my stability walking across the ice, but every time my boot lifts from the surface, my stomach turns. Instead, I try sliding each foot forward, shifting my weight accordingly. This seems to work much better, with the added benefit that I’m not terrified of floating off into space with every step.

My new style of walking is shockingly easy to master, and soon I’m gliding across the surface with ease. I round the mounds until the ice softens into snow, and I walk across the glistening powder that covers the comet’s sun-facing side.

The Interloper’s nucleus isn’t that large at all, and soon I am positioned exactly between the comet and the sun. Clary had mentioned a fissure here somewhere. My only problem isn’t one of finding a fissure, but one of finding too many.

The snow-and-dirt hills drop abruptly into a sprawling network of radiating cracks. I skirt around them, peeking into their depths, but all I see is ice. It isn’t impossible that the fissures have sealed since Clary, Poke, and Pye came exploring here all those years ago. In fact, with how extensive the melt and refreezing is with the Interloper’s race around the sun, it’s completely expected. Still, I search the furrows until the comet loops around the White Hole Station and begins its short flight back to the centre of the solar system.

I’m disappointed, but not heartbroken. I’m still the first Hearthian to ever land on the Interloper, and a steadfast sense of pride grips me. My eyes are the first to see the ice up close, the first to witness the shifting colours of the ion tail from within. 

Well, the first four eyes. Three eyes have already gazed across this dust-laden landscape.

Ah—the shuttle! I haven’t recalled it to the Ember Twin gravity cannon this loop, which means…

My boots leave snow for ice and, once more, I skate across the surface. My ship sails by, and then I’m in a forest of icy spikes. Reflections of myself glint across their surfaces as I glide at a meteoric pace—and I’m loving it. Not once, but twice I am launched into the air by an upward-sloping surface, but after I get over my initial panic and guide myself back down to the ground with my thrusters, my head is dizzy with amusement. 

It’s not long before my boots hit gravel and snow again, only this time, a familiar purple light shines between pillars. I look around for what I know must be nearby, and only spot it by the single sand-coloured leg that intersects my path.

The shuttle is almost entirely encased in ice.

Two of its three legs stick out from an exceedingly large spike, its glowing purple rim barely visible from beneath a thick layer of frost. The observation window at its apex stares from within the crystal’s bounds, and the entrance to the shuttle is gone, not even a hint of its existence remaining.

It has been hundreds of thousands of years. And I can tell.

I circle the shuttle in awe. It reminds me of the jellyfish on Giant’s Deep—the ones similarly trapped by an otherworldly ice. They, too, were visitors to the planet they found themselves on.

My boot nudges something firm. I look down, and covered in a thin layer of ice is a Nomai log, inscription tools attached. I take out my flashlight and bash the ice with the blunt end of it, until I’ve freed it enough to pry it from the snow.

“This is troublesome,” Clary began. “It seems the comet wishes to submerge our shuttle in ice. If we stay on the surface too long, the shuttle may freeze entirely.”

“Even if it did, couldn’t someone call it back home to the gravity cannon on Ember Twin?” Poke questioned.

“Yes,” confirmed Pye, “but the exploration of the comet would be more difficult if we were without the shuttle until someone recalled it. Perhaps we shouldn’t have landed on the dark side of the comet…”

“Suppose one of us remained in the shuttle to keep it warm and continue monitoring the surface,” Clary suggested.

“This would be wise, I think, Clary,” said Pye. “If you don’t mind waiting here with it, Poke and I can continue to investigate the surface.”

Even back then, the shuttle had been at risk of being consumed. That explains why Clary had been (reluctantly) left alone in the shuttle—someone had to keep it from freezing over entirely. 

I wonder if the ice is starting to take hold of my own ship. Hopefully where I left it, on the verge of day and night, poses less of a risk than where the Nomai had set down their shuttle.

Skating once again around the comet, catching glimpses of Brittle Hollow’s crust drifting in space, I explore the rest of the dark side. All I find is ice. With nothing better to do this far into the loop, I decide to go see if I can find that fissure Clary mentioned again, though after seeing the state the shuttle is in, I doubt I’ll find a way through. Not without an icepick.

Hm. That’s not a half-bad idea.

I make a quick stop at my ship, delighted to find that it's still ice-free. After a swift dig through my supplies, I find what I’m looking for—a mattock matching the one Feldspar left in the jellyfish on Dark Bramble. I slide it into my belt, make sure the oxygen in my tank is nice and replenished, and resume my trek sunward.

The Interloper has already crossed paths with Giant’s Deep and Brittle Hollow by the time my boots touch snow. It arcs steadily towards Timber Hearth, and the Hourglass Twins throw the comet into darkness as they transit the sun.

I find the fissures and circle them. Nothing. Then, jumping down onto the ice at the bottom, I scour the sides, just in case there’s a sneaky little hole somewhere out of view, like my shortcut on the northern glacier of Brittle Hollow.

The light of the sun grows stronger as we approach. I test the pick against the ice, but even softened by the sun, the metal does nothing but chip insignificant fragments away.

Frustrated, I swing my mattock against the snowy side of the fissure, ready to haul myself out and get back to my ship before the sun’s gravitational pull sucks it away, but a cracking sound gives me pause. Leaving my pick in the snow, I turn around, watching the ice beneath my boots begin to spiderweb.

The sun is still some distance away—we’re passing Timber Hearth now—but we’re close enough for the ice to begin to melt.

I weigh almost nothing in the weak gravity of the comet, but, apparently, that’s enough. The ice gives way beneath my feet with one, final, mighty crack.

I land more gently than I’m used to after a free-fall, into a sloping tunnel of ice that bores down into the comet’s core. I slide and I can't find any firm hold before I'm skidding and slipping down the passageway, too stunned to do anything but tumble into the darkness beyond.

Falling into a snowy cave, I let out a sharp breath as I collide with the floor—more so out of shock than pain. I right myself easily now that I’m on a surface my tread can actually grip. A warning message fills my visor before I can flick on my flashlight.

DANGER: GHOST MATTER DETECTED NEARBY.

And it’s unmissable. A circular tunnel burrows into the cave wall next to me, encrusted with shimmering crystals. A blue glow emanates from its interior, and an unnerving discomfort creeps along my arms. Turning on my flashlight dims the unnatural light, and I carry on.

The cave stretches into a network of tunnels at its far end. One, two, three, four bore into the walls, each one with that same haunting glow, and each one coated in crystals. I’m surprised to find a potted tree to one side of the cavern, and a Nomai log on the ground. I take a precautionary picture with my Scout. The way across is safe. I pull out my translator tool.

—

Poke watched her staff closely as she examined the tunnel entrances. Pye stood by her side. The dim glow of the light from the tunnels cast eerily against the teal of her space suit, catching on the sandstone mask that covered her face. The active recording log Poke held in her hand cloaked everything in purple.

“I’m receiving much stronger energy readings now that we’re beneath the crust,” Pye said, her staff sending her words to Clary, who was diligently awaiting their return to the shuttle. “Whatever it is must lie somewhere below, closer to the comet’s center. And I’m starting to think it’s more dangerous than we realised.”

Poke and Pye waited eagerly for a response, but only heard a faint crackling.

After a minute, Pye asked, “Clary, can you hear us?” 

More crackling, then:

“Yes,” Clary replied distantly, “but your voices are faint. I fear we will lose communication entirely if you continue any deeper.”

Pye eyed Poke carefully.

She tilted her head, to say, ‘We can go back’, and Poke cocked hers adamantly in response. No. Letting such a volatile source of energy drift across the solar system without proper knowledge of it would be tenfold more dangerous than investigating further. Their clan was relying on them. They needed answers, now more than ever.

“Keep the shuttle warm for us, Clary,” Poke told her sister confidently. “We’ll return the moment we identify the source of the energy readings!”

Clary’s words were barely audible above the interference.

“I understand, but...Be cautious, both of you.”

—

I scan the tunnels with the beam of my flashlight. Indistinguishable, and all filled with ghost matter crystals. However, if I learned anything from the Hanging City, it’s that ghost matter crystals don’t always mean ghost matter.

Aiming my Scout at the rightmost tunnel, I fire. The ice is so smooth that even my Little Scout can’t find purchase, and my friend slips away down the tunnel. I take a couple of photos a second, watching the real-time snapshots as my Scout scurries across the ice. The tunnel seems clear, until—

Green and blue shimmer across the full diameter of the tunnel. My Scout passes through unscathed in a way I know I wouldn’t have if I had launched myself inside just as readily. 

I really owe it to Slate for inventing the Little Scout. I can’t recount how many times it's saved me from a painful death.

I press RETURN, and my Scout warps back to my launcher. Aiming into the next tunnel, I fire, and, again, ghost matter waits beyond. I hope not all of these tunnels are covered in the stuff. There’d be no way to neutralise it unless I brought a few buckets of water down here with me, and even that would be a gamble.

Well, third time’s the charm. Again, I aim into the next tunnel. My Scout rockets away. I wait expectantly for the telltale aurora, but…Nothing. My Scout slows to a stop at the end of the tunnel, and I hadn’t seen so much of a glimpse of colour.

Just to be safe, I fire my Scout into the final tunnel, and the screen almost instantly fills with green and blue streaks.

I only have one option, and it seems safe, but my legs refuse to move. For all the ways I’ve died—suffocation, crushing, getting eaten alive, getting reduced to dust by a supernova—I’ve never once died from ghost matter. In fact, shockingly, I’ve never even managed to graze it. Hornfels’ warnings and Tektite’s encounter had been enough to steer me into infallible caution. Slate’s Scout is ingenious and intuitive, and my prudence has served me well to make my aim true whenever I’ve navigated the deadly matter. I am perfectly content with not knowing what happens when ghost matter meets skin.

Ghost matter hurts in a uniquely painful way. That’s always how I’ve heard it described. I’ve slammed into walls, dislocated limbs, exploded into nothing, and have gotten burned by the corona of the sun itself. ‘Uniquely painful’ is something I can handle. My hesitation to take the dive isn’t because of the ghost matter itself. I’m just too afraid of not knowing what it feels like to risk it. My death won’t stay with me for long, but the memory of the pain will.

Though…Do I even still remember the aches of my encounters with the sun? At the time, my burns were searing, but now all I remember is the joy of finding Feldspar, of discovering the very shuttle that coaxed me here.

I swallow and recall my Scout. I fix my flashlight beam pointedly on the third tunnel. And, eventually, I throw myself inside before I can change my mind.

Ice races past me as I slide. Instinctively, I brace my boots against the walls to slow my speed, but it’s futile—I slip down, down, and down. Before I know it, the tunnel’s slope is levelling out, and—

I come shooting out of the tunnel into a large cavern. A ghost matter warning pops up on my display as I round a gaping hole in the centre of the chamber, and then suddenly my path is bringing me straight towards it—

Before I can even think to get my fingers around the controls of my jetpack, I race over the lip and am engulfed in an explosion of green and blue smoke.

The pain doesn’t build. It’s blasted directly into my bones, so immediately, so overwhelmingly, I lose my ability to think. All I see is green and blue across the ice, all I feel is a scalding burn spreading across the surface of my body like a wildfire. My suit offers no protection. I'm hot. So hot that I find myself shivering, so hot that the lines between temperatures blur and I feel as though I’ve been moved from a vat of boiling liquid into an ice bath and back again a million times over. Every nerve is alight, every inch of me shrieking, every cell in my tissues dying in a great wave as the ghost matter washes over me.

My vision swirls and eddies as the volatile matter rips apart my body, until everything is swimming in a scene of melted colours. Do I scream? If I do, it's cut short. I’m lucky. I’m so lucky. Because, unlike Tektite, the ghost matter tears through me wholly, consuming all of my tissue in an instant. Mercifully, everything snaps to black.

The pain plays across memories of my skin as I find myself in that middle-place between death and consciousness. It tingles through fingers I don’t have control over, breathing hot and cold whispers over the arms I don’t have. My death plays back before my eyes. So quick. So graciously instant. 

And then I wake beneath the launch tower, and I gasp, all of the ghost sensations searing into my body as feeling returns to me. I tense, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for the matter to consume me yet again…but the feeling fades. It’s just a memory. I’m safe. I’m alive.

Uniquely painful. I get it now. What I had felt was the pain of every death I’ve experienced, every heartbreak, ripping through my insides in a fraction of a second. It was being torn from the inside out.

Sitting up, I take a moment to shake my most recent demise off of my skin. Had I died that quickly? Or had the pain overwhelmed me such that my mind compassionately shut down before I could feel the worst of it? Because, more than anything else in the universe, I am certain I hadn’t even felt the worst of it.

I pull myself up slowly, ignoring Slate as I head to the lift. I know where the patch is, now. I can do better this time. I can make it.

It takes me a few tries to land on the Interloper again. When I do, I follow the same route down to the subsurface tunnels as I had before. When faced with my four options, I send my Scout down first, just to be certain that the ghost matter hasn’t magically rearranged itself. It hasn’t. But I descend down my chosen tunnel cautiously, a hand firmly on my jetpack controls.

When the cavern opens up, I activate my thrusters, rocketing up to a ledge overlooking the huge opening below. The opening I had tumbled into last loop. Crystals line its rim. I don’t have to, but I snap a picture—ghost matter swirls from deep within the core. A strange, green glow paints the interior beyond, and I catch glimpses of massive crystals cutting through empty air. They’re bigger than any crystals I’ve ever seen before, the light playing off of their faces in a dazzling display.

Letting out an amazed breath, I look around for another tunnel. I don’t look for very long—my ledge just happens to house a very promising passage.

Promising, that is, before I begin my uncontrollable slip inside, and another ghost matter warning pops up on my visor. Hastily, I start snapping pictures. The tunnel splits into two, one filled with a shimmering aura and the other one safe. I steer to the right, and, again, the tunnel splits. The left tunnel is free of ghost matter, and I fly through.

Why is there so much ghost matter here?

The question pops suddenly into my mind. I don’t have time to linger on it, though, because my tunnel ends and I’m sent into a free-fall over a gaping hole. I take another picture. More ghost matter. The core of the comet is filled with it. 

At once, I’m firing my jetpack thrusters away from the deadly cavern. It’s difficult to navigate in the weak gravity—I constantly fall towards the hole, and there’s no flat surface for me to stand on while I get my bearings. I feel like a fish in a bucket, circling the chamber for any way out, and then I see it—a narrow, snow-filled ledge. Clumsily, I pilot myself over, fighting with my drained boosters, until my boots taste level ground.

I let out a sigh. That took a lot out of me. But I’m so close to the centre, and I already died once. I can’t stop now. Heading further into the comet, I crest the ledge.

Sorrow tears through my chest.

There, crawling out of a fissure, lying face-down, is a Nomai. She’s covered in crystals, her suit tainted and torn from time. Her skeleton is coated in a layer of grime, her fingers curved and reaching. Forgotten and alone.

Is she Poke? Or Pye? A bitter part of me tells me it doesn’t matter, but it does. It does.

Poke and Pye had never made it out of the comet. Whatever killed them, whatever killed all of the Nomai, reached them before they could reach Clary. Clary never learned if they were safe, if they had discovered what was causing the energy signatures that brought them here.

Had it been worth it?

I stand for a moment beside the Nomai, not knowing who she is, but knowing that I have followed her journey across planets. 

Turning towards the fissure, I aim my Scout so that the Nomai is well out of frame. A picture reveals that the way down is safe. Taking in a deep breath, I jump.

I know I have reached the core when my descent slows to a crawl. A massive cavern extends from the ice around me, and I drift, weightless. The mass of the Interloper surrounds me, pulling on me from every direction.

And my breath escapes me.

Giant blue-green crystals clutter the room, stabbing outwards from a dark stone that stretches out like a blooming flower, reaching with twisted, towering shapes. Shattered pieces of crystal and rock are embedded in the ice walls around me, and, from the stone’s epicentre, a blanket of ghost matter crystals covers every surface. It looks like…

It looks like an explosion, frozen in time.

Movement catches my eye. The core must not be wholly gravityless—the Interloper experiences a shifting acceleration as it slingshots around the sun, after all. A shadow crosses between the crystals, a floating purple glow nearby. Carefully, I drift towards it.

Another Nomai. Poke and Pye. They really hadn’t made it out of here. Her body is rigid in death, and covered in those glistening crystals.

I look away, focusing on the glow of the nearby recording log. And I feel like I owe it to them to try and understand what they found.

—

The stone was glowing with a faint green light, but was absolutely blinding when viewed with the third eye. Smooth, botryoidal in shape, it was nestled so perfectly within the core of the comet, ice surrounding it snugly. Had the ice of the comet come to encase the stone, or had the stone formed from the interior of the comet? It was challenging to say. Incredible pressures were necessary to form such a rock, but the comet could have easily been subjected to such pressures long before it began its journey between stars.

Pye stood on the edge of a shelf of ice overlooking the stone, scanning it from afar with her staff. The readings displayed were illogical, and the confusion mixed poorly with the isolation of the cave system around her. A disquieting feeling erected the hairs on the back of her neck, and her skin was alight with a phantom chill.

She watched Poke bend over to examine the surface of the stone more closely, an active recording log beside her.

“The spherical stone casing here seems to be the source of the energy readings,” Poke dictated, then paused. She reexamined her staff. “No, rather, the source is what’s within the stone. I’m detecting some form of exotic matter.”

Pye leaned over to read the interface of Poke’s staff. Her eyes widened.

“The stone is muting our energy readings; they should be ten times what we’re seeing, at least.”

Poke shifted uneasily. “Pye, I don’t think we want this matter interacting with us. As far as I can tell, direct contact with it would almost certainly be fatal.”

It was Pye's turn to crouch low to examine the stone. She held her staff out, and marvelled at the interface as it lit up with information.

“I’ve never encountered anything like this casing, but it’s all that’s protecting us from what’s inside," she explained with fascinated horror. "Worse still, this matter is disturbingly volatile.”

She felt movement, and Poke hunched next to her, close enough that Pye could feel her suit pressing against her side. She was worried. Pye was, too. 

“...Pye,” Poke started gently. “Whatever the matter inside this stone casing is, it’s more than just profoundly unstable; it’s under tonnes of pressure.” Then, she moved her staff towards her. “Look at this density scan. I’ve never seen anything this tightly compacted before! What is this?”

By the end of the question, her voice had been quivering.

Pye’s attention shifted between the disconcerting readouts from Poke’s staff and those from her own. With every point of data, a foreboding feeling grew within her.

“This is orders of magnitude worse than I’d imagined,” she said. “If this stone were to rupture, the lethal matter within would rapidly expand, completely blanketing this star system almost instantaneously. And the pressure is still building as the comet approaches this star system…”

And then, a sudden realisation. 

“Return to the shuttle, right now!” Pye ordered frantically, standing up. “The rest of our friends need to know they’re in terrible danger. Leave your equipment and run!”

Pye grabbed hold of the recording log and began the descent towards the stone, but Poke tugged at her suit.

“What are you doing, Pye?!”

“The more we know about this alien matter, the better our chances of survival.” 

Pye tried again to move away, but Poke held fast. She couldn’t see her expression through her mask, but she knew her eyes were fearful, because Pye knew hers were, too. With more steadiness than she could muster for herself, she laid a comforting hand atop Poke’s.

“I will learn what I can here. Go, warn the others; maybe they can construct shelter somehow.”

Poke’s hand twitched, but her feet were frozen to the ice.

“Now, Poke!”

And Poke snapped out of her terror with a jolt, and nodded. She turned to run, but hesitated, holding her gaze. A silent understanding passed between them. With a smooth motion, Poke pressed her forehead against Pye’s in a final farewell, then clambered out of the chamber.

With Poke gone, Pye sniffled, her breathing unsteady. Alone, she let it escape her lips in ragged exhales. She blinked to keep from crying. This was the right thing to do—the only thing to do. If she could just find out how to neutralise the matter, or what material the stone casing was made of, then perhaps Poke and Clary could get to the others, could warn them, could save them…

Even if she would run out of time to escape.

It was the right thing to do.

She climbed down the ledge and fell onto the surface of the stone. She didn't know how much time she had. But learning anything—anything—would be worth it. Frantically, she scanned the casing with her staff. A faint glow on the interface pulsed and pulsed. It was a foreign material. Had the Nomai even encountered anything like it before? Would her staff recognise the elements within?

She watched her staff for a moment more, then tossed it aside. The composition analysis was taking too long. Every second was priceless. The pressure within the core was growing, and she knew that no amount of time could be enough.

Kneeling onto the stone, she ran her eyes over its surface. She wished Coleus or Cycad were here. They would know the stone better than she did. They would know what to look for, what to test. There were old methods to identify rock, she knew. Very old methods. Hardness, appearance, colouration…But she didn’t know how to interpret the results.

On her staff, a few feet away, her composition scan was still running.

She looked at the dark, smooth stone. She laid a hand atop it, and through her glove she could feel the immense energy beneath.

Coming from somewhere above, she heard a loud crack.

—

Ghost matter.

The crystalized stone that sits before me now had been full of pressurised ghost matter. And, the pressure only built as it approached the sun for the first time. Did the ghost matter expand in the heat of the sun? Did the heat fragment the shell? It makes no difference, because the pressure grew until the stone casing ruptured, and the deadly matter inside expanded outwards through the entire solar system, passing through normal matter with ease and killing the Nomai, regardless of how deeply they were sheltered.

That’s why the Interloper is full of ghost matter. That’s why the Nomai had never mentioned ghost matter in any of their writings—which, I only now notice, was rather strange. Water is the only thing that could have saved them. That’s probably what saved our ancient ancestors, all those years ago, when we lived in the geyser pools of Timber Hearth. Ghost matter disperses over time. By the time we Hearthians truly evolved, only a few patches remained. We were lucky. We were so lucky .

I look to Pye—that’s who is floating beside me, courageous, selfless Pye—knowing that her death had been quick, yes, but far from painless. And that was true for every Nomai. Poke, Clary, Idaea, Ramie, Cassava, Daz, Phlox, Avens, Mallow, Privet, Yarrow…and Solanum. All of them died in that same agonizing burst of energy I had. All of them died because of some completely unavoidable coincidence.

Poke and Pye had done everything right. And it still hadn’t been enough. And their story had gone untold, trapped beneath the ice. I feel a sharp stab of pain for them. For Poke, from Brittle Hollow, who worked tirelessly with her sister Clary in the Black Hole Forge. Who wrote messages of guidance on the walls of the White Hole Station. Who teased her supportive sister, who doubted herself, who had, against all odds, recreated the work of her mentor, Annona. And for Pye, from Ember Twin, who had discovered the warp time anomaly with Ramie in the High Energy Lab, who took her friend’s sense of humour in stride, who eventually spearheaded the construction of the Sun Station.

Both had agreed to investigate the new comet when the pain of the Ash Twin Project’s failure was still fresh. Both were intelligent, and brave, and did all that they could to propel their people forward. To save their people.

And it hadn’t been enough.

I hear a loud crack.

Somewhere above me, the fissure in the ice is opening for the last time.

I don’t have enough time to leave. I wouldn’t know how to even if I did. Listening to the shifting ice around me, I set myself adrift, ghost matter crystals glistening from every wall.

Within the core, I feel no rise in temperature as the comet is vaporized by the sun.

Chapter Text

I’ve forgotten how peaceful Brittle Hollow is at the beginning of the loop. The crust is intact, the black hole sleeping away at its centre, and no broken pathways or bridges hinder my progress. As long as I stick to stable areas, I have nothing to worry about. There is no rising sand. There are no anglerfish. There is no ghost matter—at least not where I am going. As I land my ship near some equatorial ruins and begin the trek downwards, along a gravity crystal path, I slide a gloved hand across the pieces of history I pass, feeling nostalgic for a time I never witnessed. 

The heartache of seeing Poke and Pye hadn’t reset with the loop. It will stay with me for a long time. I know this, because Solanum’s corpse still occupies my thoughts—more so now than ever. At least Poke’s and Pye’s journeys, I have honoured. I’ve navigated the twisted, dangerous tunnels of the Interloper to find them. To know, unlike Clary, what the Interloper was bringing to the solar system. 

As I flew my ship from Timber Hearth to Brittle Hollow, I had paused to watch the comet streak by. And it was beautiful. Its ice glistening in the sun, its coma alight, its twin tails of ion and dust trailing long after it. Even knowing what secrets it hides, I couldn’t help but marvel at it. At this thing that had travelled millions of kilometres through empty space only to be captured in the gravitational pull of our sun. There was no one to blame for what happened to the Nomai. The universe hadn’t sent a bomb to destroy a recovering civilization. It was a tragedy of happenstance, and nothing more.

I don’t think the Nomai would be angry. Just upset that there hadn’t been enough time. And, if I have anything, it’s time.

I still have a pilgrimage to honour, and I would never forgive myself if I indefinitely postponed my journey to the sixth location just because the sight of Solanum fills me with such sorrow. Even if it hurts, even if the wounds are still fresh, I have to go. I have to finish what she started. I have to put that incomplete expedition to rest, just as I had Clary, Poke, and Pye’s. The Tower of Quantum Knowledge has been an obstacle ever since I first discovered it, and, one way or another, I’ll find a way in.

But first, I need to meet a friend.

The banjo music plays crisp and clear against the underside of Brittle Hollow’s crust. The notes rise up to where I land at the crossroads, and I smile, longing for that piece of home. I wait a moment, just to listen to the tune for just a bit longer, then follow the path to Riebeck’s campsite.

It’s just as I remember it. I shouldn’t be so surprised—everything is always as I remember it—but it feels so nice to be back. The twin bridges arc towards the Nomai settlement beyond, framed by trees and vegetation. Nomai artifacts are stacked in organised piles, and Riebeck sits by a blazing fire, fingers strumming their banjo rhythmically. Upon seeing me they wave and remove their helmet, resting their instrument against the stone and greeting me in their usual fashion.

“Oh, you launched! That’s great. Great job, you. Wow, I guess that means I’ve been out here a while, huh. Well, um, this is Brittle Hollow,” they say shyly. “But you probably knew that. Lots of history here...It’s great.”

Taking off my own helmet, I take a seat by their fire.

“I launched a little while ago. You’ll be excited to hear that I’ve been investigating some Nomai stuff,” I say casually, prodding the coals with a stick. Instantly, Riebeck lights up.

“Oh? So, you and Hal really finished it? The, uh, the translator tool, I mean.”

I nod and hold the device up for them to see. The enthusiasm that paints their face never gets old. 

“Wow! That’s exciting! Have you tested it? It works?”

“Better than we could have imagined,” I reply, then toss the tool over. Riebeck hastily catches it, cradling it in their arms as if a slight breeze would break it. I let out a chuckle—that device is indestructible. It must be, for it to have survived everything I’ve put it through.

“Wow! ” Riebeck repeats in awe, looking the device over. “Have you learned anything?”

So much. But, so much that I can’t say, and so much that I’ve already said. I could always tell them about the escape pods again, or the Sunless City, or the pilgrimage, but…

“I've been all over,” I preface. “Giant’s Deep, the Hourglass Twins. My piloting’s been getting better, so I figured I’d try to do something no Hearthian’s done before, you know?”

Riebeck’s eyes meet mine over the display of the translator.

“Oh, no.”

Ignoring them, I continue, “So, I decided to land my ship on the Interloper...”

“No.”

“It’s actually pretty easy,” I say, trying to dampen the agitation growing in Riebeck’s eyes. “And the comet’s relatively safe. Safer than here, anyway, as long as you don’t leave your ship on the surface while it’s going around the sun.”

“So…You… Surface?”

Slowly, diligently, I explain. Unlike when I recounted my equally treacherous hike into the Sunless City, I don’t embellish the story with grand gestures or details. I tell them about the shuttle. About the three Nomai who had gone there in search of answers. I tell them about the fissure, and the tunnels, and what I found in the centre. And, this time, I tell them names.

“...I think as the comet approached the sun, the matter within heated up, resulting in the building pressures the Nomai observed,” I say. “Poke ran off to tell Clary while Pye stayed behind to learn more, but, by that point it was too late. The pressure was too great and the core ruptured, and ghost matter covered the entire solar system.”

“Oh, wow,” Riebeck says, eyes wide and ears flicked back in wonder. “Wow. So, that’s how the Nomai died? That’s…”

I must let some of my deeper feelings about the subject slip across my face, because Riebeck handles the rest of their response with all the delicacy that they handle the translator tool with.

“That’s…really sad, isn’t it? I know it was a long time ago, but still…Stars above, it’s lucky we hadn’t evolved to live on land yet. To think, if the comet hadn’t killed them, our species might have coexisted in this solar system. That would have been amazing.”

I couldn’t agree more. But Riebeck isn’t finished talking. They gaze into the flames with a strange expression.

“But…I guess if I hadn’t wanted to learn why the Nomai disappeared, I’d never have left Timber Hearth and come out here.”

I watch them curiously. 

“Or had any of these adventures,” they continue. “...Don’t get me wrong, space is terrifying! But, you know, it has its moments.”

It does, doesn’t it?

If the Nomai hadn’t disappeared, would I have still seen that piece of lunar ruins in the museum? Would I have been captivated by its strange, glowing lines, by the mysterious ancient language engraved upon it? Would I have joined the program? Would I have seen all the amazing things I have seen across our solar system?

It’s impossible to say. So many little things have happened to bring me where I am now. So, I suppose, in a way, I’m grateful—grateful for the opportunity to be here, to explore the vastness of space, to learn about all of its intricacies in such a profoundly unique way. Would I give it all up if the Nomai could have been spared such a terrible fate? Instantly. But what happened, happened, and there is no altering course now. I have read such captivating stories, and I have seen such breathtaking sights. And I am glad that I have, even if the beautiful comes tainted with an immense loss.

My shoulders shudder and I feel a sob catch in my throat, and before I can stop it, tears are streaking down my face.

“Oh—I’m so sorry!” Riebeck exclaims. Hurriedly, they come to my side and put an awkward arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I…D-did I say something?”

I shake my head, wiping my face. “No, no. I just—this is good.” I sniffle, rubbing my nose on the sleeve of my suit. “This is good. These are good tears. Thank you. I…I needed this.”

Riebeck watches me compassionately, and they squeeze my shoulder tight.

“I’m still sorry.”

I let out a laugh, and already I’m feeling so much better. The loss is still there. The regret is still there. But so are all those wonderful moments of discovery, and so is the feeling that the Nomai would have wanted nothing more than for us to learn about their past.

Patting Riebeck’s arm, I say, sincerely, “Don’t worry about it. Thank you.” My eyes flicker to the translator in their hand, and I take a deep breath. “I’m going to go explore, I think.”

“Oh!” Riebeck says timidly. “Do you think you…?”

“I’m okay. Really.”

Riebeck doesn’t seem convinced, but they help me to my feet, giving my arm a firm pat before handing back the translator tool.

“Um…Check back in when you’re finished, alright? I mean—if you want to! But…I wouldn’t mind hearing from you…and about the Nomai, if you learn anything else…”

I nod. “I’ll check in later,” I assure, knowing that my promise would hold truer for me than it would for them. 

With a hasty and nervous hug—I really am starting to get a lot of those, huh?—Riebeck and I go our separate ways. I don’t even reach the signpost before the familiar strumming of banjo music fills Brittle Hollow’s subsurface.

Flipping the switch, the gravity beam beside me activates, pulsing outwards across the great empty expanse to the west. The Tower of Quantum Knowledge hangs from the ceiling of the cavern, impressively tall, impressively fortified. It stands high on its signature stilts, secrets within hidden coyly behind filmed glass windows. The final quantum rule rests somewhere inside.

I step into the hold of the gravity beam and float towards the tower. The black hole hums below. My chest swells with a sudden pride as I remember the time I had flung myself around the black hole to safety. Not that it did me any good—the sun exploded right after—but the elation I felt still burns bright. By the time I reach the tower, I’m grinning to myself.

My first course of action is to read. Bells’ note is waiting, glowing from the chalkboard at the tower’s base.

“Be welcomed in this place! Above you stands the Tower of Quantum Knowledge. If you are making your first pilgrimage to the Quantum Moon, ascend these stairs, and obtain the last of the knowledge you need for your journey.”

I glance blankly at the stairs, which dedicatedly lead to a gravity wall that no longer exists. Well, I knew that wasn't going to be an option.

Turning from the chalkboard, I circle the base of the tower, stalking its perimeter and keenly studying every column I find. I examine the area for an emergency set of stairs or a cleverly disguised gravity beam, but find nothing. The platform I stand on is angled perfectly to prevent me from making any black hole gravity-assist maneuvers inside. I take rough measurements with my Scout. The stilts that surround me are far too close together to pass my ship through.

Surface integrity is at 44 percent.

I test my jetpack boosters. Against the tug of the black hole, they are far too weak to do much of anything to help me reach the entrance. I get perhaps 10 metres off the ground at full power, and the entrance is an astonishing 55 metres above my head. Even if I race up what the remains of the gravity floor and use my boosters just as it ends, I only make it about half the distance before I’m falling back down. No. My jetpack isn’t the solution.

Rocks crumble around me. Geometric holes are starting to open up across Brittle Hollow’s surface, and light from the sun and Hollow’s Lantern cast an orange glow across the underside of the crust. A boulder comes crashing down and I eagerly sidestep it as it smashes into the basaltic floor.

I feel the familiar pull of despair, and I shove it aside. I can do this. There was no way into the Probe Tracking Module, but I got in. No way to the Black Hole Forge, but I got in. The High Energy Lab, the Anglerfish Cave, the Southern Observatory, the Statue Workshop—

A lava bomb collides with the crust overhead and the ground shakes. I steady myself. The tower holds.

Perhaps the answer won’t be found in the subsurface.

I take the gravity beam up to that rickety set of stairs I had climbed before. A grated window waits for me, and I examine what waits beyond with a greater knowledge of the Nomai than I had when I was last here. Shelves. Benches. Dead trees. Glowing scrolls. This would be so easy if my Little Scout had a translator tool built-in—Actually, that's not a bad idea. I should suggest that to Slate.

I follow the stairs up to the roof, inspecting every wall for a hole large enough for me to crawl through. I see none.

The quantum shard drifts motionlessly around the tower ceiling, glinting in the light of the lava bombs that hover menacingly in the sky overhead as I scan the grove for any roving switches among the wandering trees. Hollow’s Lantern comes and goes. The Quantum Moon comes and goes. Day comes and goes and I am still combing the tower, scouring the stone for any hint of weakness. What I find: a resounding nothing.

Shockingly, I’m not frustrated. Maybe it’s because a part of me is still reluctant to visit the Quantum Moon, but I think it’s something else. I’ve spent far too much of my time being frustrated lately, and, honestly, it’s wearing me down. I’ve visited so many places I thought were unreachable. Eventually, I’ll find a way in. Eventually.

A whistling sound draws my attention upwards.

A lava bomb, glowing red-hot beneath a fissured layer of crust, is falling through the atmosphere. It glows brighter as it plummets, a smoky trail billowing behind it, and it collides with the nearby basalt with a world-shatteringly loud explosion. Shards of rock—molten and not—fly in every direction. The ground reverberates with the energy, the tower shivering beneath my feet, when—

Surface integrity reaches zero percent.

The crust pitches downwards.

Despite knowing I’ll be fine, my body reacts reflexively to the fall. My heart beats stochastically, stuttering as I throw out my arms to steady myself atop a surface that is falling every downwards. My stomach soars and the world races past on all sides. The sky is swallowed by Brittle Hollow’s crumbling interior, and I catch glimpses of the Hanging City as the tower falls, and falls, and—

My body compresses and expands in an instant.

The sun burns ahead, distant. The spindly silhouette of the White Hole Station is still against the dynamic scene of the solar system. Chunks of Brittle Hollow’s crust spin around the white hole, their shapes only discernible by the black voids they leave against the background stars, and the Tower of Quantum Knowledge is gone.

I’m not sure how it happened, but one minute my boots were firm atop the decorative ceiling grate, and the next the tower had winked away. 

I check my map. The Interloper has nearly finished its final approach of the sun. My ship is still on Brittle Hollow, and my oxygen won’t last me the rest of the loop. Getting back to Brittle Hollow isn’t exactly a priority, but avoiding another death by suffocation is enough to have me set my eyes on the White Hole Station. I start to head towards it when I notice the little location marker that sits at the very edge of my visor. My Little Scout. 400 metres away.

I turn, and, in the light of the dying sun, I see it—the tower! Floating amidst the other remnants of Brittle Hollow, gravity beams still welcoming visitors.

Gravity.

It hits me.

When the tower is on Brittle Hollow, I can’t get inside. The entrance is too high, my jetpack not strong enough to work against the force of the black hole’s gravity. But out here…

There is no black hole. Functionally no gravity. And the Tower of Quantum Knowledge floats, upside-down, the only barricade to its yawning entrance kilometres away within the crumbling planet's crust. Readying my hands on my jetpack controls, I fly over. I am almost between the stilts when the light changes.

Already?

Looking over my shoulder, I see it—the sun shrinks, and shrinks, until it bursts into millions of blue sparks. The energy wave pulses ever outwards, racing from planet to planet until it reaches the white hole, and everything is gone in a dazzlingly bright flash.

Good news: I know how to get into the Tower of Quantum Knowledge.

Bad news: It depends entirely on the random trajectories of Hollow’s Lantern’s volcanic bombs aligning perfectly with a very specific portion of Brittle Hollow’s crust.

But, hey—I’ve got time.

I wake up to the Quantum Moon hovering just out of reach, and I take that as a good omen.

Once I return to Brittle Hollow, I bide my time along the equator. I bring down my ship within the grove that surrounds the Tower of Quantum Knowledge and decide to make the most of my wait. A few trips from my ship to the grove later, and I have a nice little campfire set up. I roast a marshmallow over the flames. My Little Scout sits patiently on the tower, and I keep my display visible to check the surface integrity readings. All in all, it’s a temporary campsite, but it’s nice.

Volcanic bombs crash against the crust arrhythmically. The Quantum Moon visits a few times, and as I wait for my marshmallow to turn golden, I watch the stars. Chert’s supernovas light the sky in a magical array of colours. Several times my thoughts drift to plans of what I’ll do after I reach the sixth location, but I shoo them away. As the Interloper finishes its second loop around the sun, a loud crash sounds from across the grove. A quiet beeping snaps me out of my daydream.

Surface integrity has dropped to 9 percent, and—

My campfire is gone! Smoke rises from where it sits halfway across the grove. Dang it! I forgot that even being near the quantum shard will turn everything around it quantum. And my marshmallow isn’t even cooked!

Oh, well. Disgruntled, I pull the warm-ish marshmallow off of my roasting stick and eat it raw. It still tastes good—just not as good as it could have tasted.

Tugging my helmet over my head, I join my Scout on top of the tower and sit down cross-legged. Riebeck would think I was insane if they knew what I was up to; waiting for the tower to fall so I could fall right along with it. Hopefully they haven’t seen all the times I’ve tumbled or nearly tumbled into the black hole in the past. Even if they don’t remember it, I hope I didn’t traumatise them too badly.

I wait, patiently watching the bombs that drift overhead. One, two, three come crashing down, sending other pieces of crust tumbling. Just as I’m about to check the Interloper’s position on my map, I see it—a fourth, gradually accelerating as it comes straight for me. 

I jump to my feet, and the bomb slams into the side of the tower. There's the echoing sound of splintering rock, and then everything begins to fall.

Again, I am sucked into the black hole and spat out of the white hole, half a solar system away. It’s difficult, as always, to get my bearings as I drift—the distortion around the white hole is confusing even without pieces of crust and rock falling from its centre. 

This time, however, I have a trick.

My Scout is, hopefully, still attached to the tower. I follow the location marker and fly towards it with my jetpack. As my eyes grow accustomed to the faint light of the sun, the tower takes form amongst the irregular columns of rock; top-heavy, with torches glowing orange from within, no longer balanced on its stilts.

There isn’t much time before the supernova, but I reach the stilts much faster this time around. Breathlessly, I guide myself up beside where a gravity path used to run, and float through the entrance that has taunted me for far too long.

The first room is large and sparsely decorated. A skeleton sits in a projection pool. I am glad that the inside of the tower seems to be out of range of the effect of the shard above me. The skeleton doesn’t move. 

Is this Bells? Possibly, waiting for Solanum’s message of return from her pilgrimage. 

The next room is just as large, with a high balcony around its edges. Shelves and potted trees fill the space, and I spot a lone scroll within a crumbling shelf. I tuck it into my belt and continue upwards, into the most impressive room in the tower.

This is the locator room.

The symbols of each of the six locations are domineering in the space, demanding attention. The symbol of the Quantum Moon drifts aimlessly across its path, stopping occasionally at each planet, completely randomly. 

Two chalkboards sit along one wall. Nomaian text spirals across one, but the other sits vacant. Cruising carefully up to the first, I ready my translator.

“Welcome, Solanum!” Bells greeted. “Your arrival here means you’ve completed your preparations on Giant’s Deep and are ready to depart for the Quantum Moon.”

No Nomai message is meant for me, but this one least of all. There was a cultural significance tied to the quantum pilgrimage, and the Nomai had to go through it alone. I feel guilty prying into such a private affair, but I don’t look away.

“On your pilgrimage, the Quantum Moon will carry you, just as it carried me and many in our clan before me, to the moon’s sixth and most secret location. You’ll be aided in your pilgrimage by the shrine our clan built on the Quantum Moon. But remember this final rule: To explore the sixth location, the shrine must be on the moon’s north pole. Be curious on your journey!”

Is it that simple?

It’s the same thought that always surfaces when I learn of a new quantum rule, but every time I think it, I mean it. The Quantum Moon has always been in the Hearthian sky, and the laws of its existence are so straightforward I’m shocked no one has ever stumbled across them. All I have to do is navigate to the north pole. It can’t possibly be that difficult. I navigated the moon easily enough the last time I visited; though, I was so awestruck I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going.

The rule of quantum imaging. The rule of quantum entanglement. The rule of the sixth location.

I can go there. I really can go there. And, when the moon circles the Eye, what reflections of it will I see?

My mind swirling with possibilities, I drift to the empty board and insert the scroll into its alcove. Once more, I find a message from Bells.

“If you’re here to make your first pilgrimage to the Quantum Moon, you are almost prepared to set out on this deeply significant journey. Before you do, pause, and remember your history.”

Brow furrowed, I read on.

“We make this journey not only for ourselves, but also to honour the members of our clan who came before us: those who, after the crash that brought them to this star system, became stranded on Brittle Hollow and on Ember Twin, with no communication between these two groups of survivors. These Nomai looked upward from two different planets and saw the same wandering moon visiting their skies. It was this moon, the Quantum Moon, that kept their curiosity alive during this long period of hardship. After the two divided groups were able to reunite, it became our clan’s united goal to find and visit the Quantum Moon. This took time, and many Nomai who dreamed of seeing the Quantum Moon died before we discovered how to make the journey. When you reach the Quantum Moon, recall these Nomai, and carry their curiosity onward with you.”

And I smile. Because that’s exactly what I’ve been doing—or at least, trying to do.

Wherever I went, whatever discoveries I made, it had been my curiosity driving me forward. Through the doubt and the disappointments, through the impossible. I had to know more. I had to learn more. I had to understand the world around me, to make sense of my weird time loop situation, yes, but also to experience that joy of discovery that had drawn me to the program to begin with. 

After getting to know the Nomai in such a unique, intimate way, I felt like I was pushing. Walking through doors that should have been closed, scrolling through logs that should have been stored away. But if the Nomai valued anything, it was curiosity. And when I explored the ruins they left behind, I did it with an unparalleled love for their species.

I watched that wandering moon drift by Timber Hearth just as the Nomai survivors had on Ember Twin and Brittle Hollow. I wondered how it bounced so seamlessly between planets. I wondered what waited beneath its thick layer of clouds. And I didn’t for a second waste an opportunity to find out for myself.

Gladly, I will carry their curiosity with me on the Quantum Moon. And more. I will carry it across planets, across the solar system. I will carry it until there is nothing left to discover.

And in a universe like ours, that day is a long way off.

The supernova finds me as it always does. I watch the symbol for the Quantum Moon drift between its six locations. The moon is orbiting the Eye when the solar system is destroyed. 

As my memories replay in reverse, I realise how far I’ve come. How long ago was it that I discovered the tower? How long has passed since then, since the knowledge within first beckoned me? The tower had been a long-standing question mark. I had questioned if it was even possible to get inside. And now, I’m waking up beneath the trees on Timber Hearth, and as I blink the Quantum Moon appears and vanishes, and I finally, finally, know how to reach the Eye.

Or, at least, get as close to the Eye as I can get.

It takes me no time at all to reach my ship. And, with my knowledge of how quantum objects operate, no time at all to lock my sights onto the moon’s swirling grey atmosphere as it pops back into existence around Timber Hearth. 

First, I recall the rule of quantum imaging.

I fire my ship’s Scout, snapping a picture of the moon as it floats between me and the Attlerock. Dividing my attention between the photo and the view outside my windshield, I guide my ship steadily towards the moon, much more cautiously than I had before. Together, we disappear into the cloud layer, but the moon remains fixed. The clouds thin, and the moon’s interpretation of Timber Hearth’s landscape reveals itself beyond.

I set down my ship roughly—I still can’t seem to balance my approach with my descent—but it’s a much smoother landing than my previous ones. 

Solanum is there to greet me at the south pole, sitting over a gravelly patch of soil. Gently, I touch her shoulder. She had looked past her fear and marched forward into the unknown for the sake of discovery. Now, I will finish the journey she never got to.

Red pines tower around me. Grasses and bushes and flowers wander across the needle-laden soil. That odd feeling of twisted familiarity bubbles within me. Grey rocks stack around me, locking me into a crater I know from experience I can’t escape. Not without help.

I circle the grove until I find it, winking into existence near a rock face I had glanced across three times before. The tower—or, as Bells had called it, the shrine. Closing the door behind me, I enter. As the sandy panels slide into place, one after the other, each echoing with a hollow thud, the chamber darkens until I catch my last glimpse of the moon’s mirror of Timber Hearth, and a deep blackness surrounds me.

Next, I recall the rule of quantum entanglement. 

I wait in silence for a moment, then flick on my flashlight.

The metallic glint of Brittle Hollow ore covers the ground. I open the shrine door with the sight-guided ball, and a walled canyon stretches across the moon’s equator. Basalt columns rise erratically from the stone base, and as I walk, the dark indigo of the volcanic rock gives way to snow and ice.

Finally, I recall the rule of the sixth location.

I walk as far north as I can, until more walls block my path. It's here where the shrine presents itself to me, and I get in, once more flicking off my flashlight. 

When I turn the light back on, one type of ice has become another. My boots slide on the Dark Bramble ice beneath my feet. When I leave the shrine, I leave it for a tangle of gargantuan vines, bristling with thorns like aberrations of spineback fish. I walk until the shrine finds me again, lost in the thick fog. 

The door closes. My flashlight goes out. I hear the scraping of the stone as the symbol of the Quantum Moon beside me shifts along its path. When the lights come back on, water pressed against my legs. Instead of vines, I am surrounded on all sides by a shallow sea. 

I head towards the north pole, but my path ends at the massive cyclone mirroring the one on Giant’s Deep’s surface. The shrine meets me after a few scans of the horizon, and I get inside. Sand crunches beneath my boots when the door opens, and the cyclone is gone—instead, an expanse of sparsely vegetated desert sings mutely with rising sandfalls.

Quietly, reverently, I follow my compass to the north pole.

Nothing intersects my path. Nothing waits for me—only sand, until I blink and the shrine appears from nowhere. Silently.

I get inside, and hold my breath. My flashlight is off. The door slides closed. When I turn my flashlight on again, the sands of the Hourglass Twins are gone, replaced by a hard, marled floor, dancing with dark shades of blue, purple, and silver.

The symbol of the Quantum Moon slides across its path to sit beneath that watchful, enigmatic symbol that had captivated me enough to become an astronaut. The moon sits at the Eye of the universe. And I am here with it.

Rolling the sight-guided ball into place, my body is tense with anticipation. The panels of the door slide open, peeling away, the view of the shifting world beyond coming into focus.

No wall of dimpled stone blocks my entrance.

In fact, there is no barricade at all.

I stand in the entrance of the shrine for a long while, so amazed by having reached the Eye that I can’t bring myself to move. The moment is long, and contemplative, but then the full realisation of what I’ve done hits me. 

The Eye of the universe.

Eagerly, I scramble out of the shrine. By the time I turn around, the shrine is gone, but that’s perfectly fine. I won’t be needing it. Everything is blanketed in that same, heavy mist, swirling in the still air, but that doesn’t stop me from scanning my surroundings with my flashlight, mouth agape.

A feeling of pure insignificance washes over me like a great wave on Giant’s Deep.

All around me is towering, craterous quantum stone. It shines like obsidian in the diffuse light, its colours shimmering. As I walk, my flashlight beam catches in the basins of the conchoidal fractures that slice through its many surfaces. I feel so very, very small, as if I have shrunken and been placed upon one of the quantum shards scattered across my solar system. The stone is a single, expansive mass, unbroken into boulders and gravels except in a few especially pocketed patches. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, even after all my encounters with the quantum shards, even with my experiments at the museum. It cradles the circular grove I find myself in, hugging me on all sides except one. I follow the path that has been carved out for me.

Subconsciously, I watch the sky as I trek onward. All I see are swirling clouds, just like on every other instance of the peculiar moon. But I know what drifts beyond, in its wide orbit around my sun. It’s cruel—knowing what’s just out of sight. But my heart pounds deeper with every footstep, and time seems to slow to a crawl as I make my way across the streaked surface of the Quantum Moon.

The fog doesn’t lift. The marbled stone doesn’t break. My sloping path weaves around smooth, vesicular outcrops, and the sky is grey and plain. There’s energy in the air. No currents—not like on Giant’s Deep, and not even like on Timber Hearth. No, the very air is alive with a song I can’t hear, the ground oscillating at an inaudible frequency…

I take out my Signalscope as I pass yet another outcrop, one that looks identical to a million before it. Tuning to the frequency I’ve saved, I hear it—the wailing hum of the quantum shards. The sound is coming from all around me.

Glancing to my position on the moon, as indicated by the diagram displayed to my visor, I slow my pace. My path has brought me to the verges of the south pole, and something strange is happening to the shadows around me. 

Quantum stone bridges my path in great arches. Towers of the stone rise up into the impassable cloud layer, and, ahead, spires curve into the empty air. Stricken by a sudden momentum, the clouds race upwards at an alarming speed. They shift at the spires' converging points; a roiling vortex drains the clouds from the moon as if a plug has been pulled from the sky. A sourceless light casts shadows against the dark sky as the clouds disappear into the void beyond. 

The clouds churn, and churn, and still, the air is silent.

The vortex swirls overhead.

And, at the base of the spires of pocketed rock, stands a figure.

Chapter Text

We did the analysis.

Or, well, Riebeck and Hornfels did. 

It was one of the first major projects Riebeck proposed. I hadn’t been the only Hearthian so captivated by the Nomaian artifacts in the museum—Riebeck suffered a similar fate, their eventual journey into space beginning with a fascination with the few humble finds originally on display. 

After one of the first formal explorations of Brittle Hollow, Feldspar and Gossan brought back a messily-plastered package. Inside was the crumbling skeleton of a Nomai. It was a brilliant find at the time; though chipped and battered, the largest bones were still mostly intact, and the skull was in near-perfect condition, every arching horn accounted for. Hornfels prepped it for display over the course of months, and when it was finally unveiled, Riebeck wouldn’t leave it alone. They read the plaques explaining the civilization that had come before and only uncovered more questions. One of the most alluring of which being: How long ago did the Nomai live?

We had performed chemical analyses on remains from Hearthian history, of course. Radiocarbon dating revealed that our species evolved exceedingly quickly from our amphibious ancestors, and the existing diversity of Hearthian features is testament to our inflated mutation rate. So, naturally, upon receiving any Nomaian artifact that may have contained traces of organic matter, from storage pots to fabrics, Hornfels and Riebeck booted up the old mass spectrometer (in Slate’s words, the lamest invention they had ever developed). But the samples retrieved were always far too old, and the radioactive carbon isotope we used to estimate age had always long since decayed. The Nomai skeleton, though fantastically preserved, would not be giving us any answers, and so the best estimate we had for when the Nomai lived remained at an unsatisfying ‘long before us’.

That was, until Riebeck suggested using another isotope entirely. 

It had been known for decades that uranium decays along a series that can be traced. In fact, uranium decaying to a lead isotope had been used to estimate the age of Timber Hearth, and thus, our solar system, from ancient rock samples bored from the Zero-G Cave. What Riebeck suggested they use was even simpler—the first few steps of the series, where uranium decays to thorium. By looking at uranium and thorium isotope ratios, the amount of time since formation could be estimated. It wasn’t perfect—the porous bone could easily absorb uranium from the environment—but a rough estimation was better than no estimation. Riebeck’s hands are steadier with archaeological tools than with ship controls, and it was with precision that they took a sample from the centre of the pelvic bone, where environmental uranium uptake would be minimal. Another run through the mass spectrometer and we finally had our answer.

The Nomai had lived between 250,000 to 300,000 years ago.

Again, it was a rough estimate.

A rough estimate that fails to explain how a Nomai is standing on the surface of the Quantum Moon. Because that, right there, is definitely a Nomai.

They watch me approach through the diamond-shaped eyes of their mask, which twists around their face with stylized horns. The suit they wear is teal, patterned with gold threads and sealed with brassy cuffs. Delicate fingers grasp a staff through red gloves. They stand nothing like Feldspar had when I found them. They hold themself with a relaxed posture, muscles untensed, and I swear they even raise their staff eagerly in greeting. I return the gesture by staring with an open mouth, tripping over stones as I stagger to a stop a few meters away.

The mask, the suit, the staff—they all glitter in the eerie light of the moon, untarnished by time. Their colours are unmuted by exposure, all bright, anew, and as vibrant as the flowers that grow across the plains of Timber Hearth. Stark whites, deep reds, and saturated blue-greens form delicate designs, their edges crisp and intentional. It's like seeing a planet revealed through my ship's observation window for the first time, after only ever having viewed it distorted by Timber Hearth's atmosphere or in grainy monochrome photographs.

And then, even more outstanding, is the Nomai themself, seemingly unbothered by my presence. Unbothered by the remains they must have passed to arrive here. Do they even know what happened all those years ago? Do they know of my solar system, of the Nomai who used to inhabit it? How did they get here?

They tilt their head questioningly. It’s an unwarrantedly casual gesture.

Have they met other space-farers before? They must have. The Nomai were nomadic—the ones in our solar system stayed only because they couldn't leave. At first, at least. With advanced warp travel, I can only imagine how many stars the one before me must have visited, how many other species they must have met with. 

They must not think me as extraordinary as I think them. Are they even shocked to find me here?

I hear ticking in the back of my mind. Pulling myself from my stupor, I stumble forward, heart pounding. How many times have I wished to meet a Nomai? To share everything I’ve learned with them? And now, I’m about to become the first Hearthian to ever meet one. To meet any other intelligent species. Hearth, and all I have are 22 minutes. Less than 22 minutes.

My eyes can’t stop scanning them with blatant disbelief. Is this real? Or is the Quantum Moon distorting my vision? I didn’t know their suits were so colourful and vivid. I didn’t know that the metallic details shone with such brilliance. They move with a comfortable ease, with all the intricacies of life that can’t possibly be imagined by staring at remains in a museum. And even watching them watch me, I can’t comprehend the fact that they are really here, as much a being as I am.

“...W-who are you?” I hear myself ask.

They tilt their head the other way. Even without a radio uplink, they should be able to hear me, the hazy air of the Quantum Moon conducting the vibrations of my voice. Unless...

They don’t understand me. Of course, they don’t. Why would they? The Nomai didn't know anything about Hearthians, much less anything about our language.

They make a sound in response. No—they’re speaking. And it occurs to me that I’ve never once heard a Nomai voice. Everything I've examined had been transcribed from conversations. The sounds themselves were lost. From the short sentence they say, I know that the language is both exactly as I imagined and completely foreign. The words are light and airy, and, like their script, each one flows seamlessly into the next in a spiraling melody. 

They watch me expectantly, and I shake my head. I don’t understand them, either, but…

Hurriedly, I take the translator tool from its holster at my waist and hold it up, pointing to it and the Nomai. 

“I can read your writing?” I suggest slowly, knowing full well they can’t understand me regardless of how firmly I enunciate. I can’t see their eyes through the narrow lenses of their mask. Are they, too, swirling with confusion?

More music flows through the air. Despite my eagerness to learn more about them, I can't help but listen in awe. The sounds are so alien, I struggle to find where they would land in my own throat. At times it even sounds like their words overlap, as if the notes are harmonizing with themselves. How can they even produce such a noise?

In an effort to communicate further, they mirror my gesture, holding up their staff.

Alright, so, speaking to them in my own tongue certainly isn't going to work. I hold up my translator again, then gesture widely in the fog, drawing large, curved arcs in the air, each branching off from each other in sequence. 

"Your writing," I repeat gently, then give my translator a small shake. "I can read it with this tool!"

The Nomai watches me through their mask, and my ears warm. This is the first ever encounter between a Hearthian and an alien species...And I've just preformed what might as well have been the equivalent of a goofy dance.

Thankfully, the Nomai's confusion doesn't seem to last for long. After a moment, they look around. They turn to the stone spire next to them, a freestanding block, smooth and reminiscent of their chalkboards. They tap the top of their staff and press the tip firmly into the face of the quantum rock, and engravings begin to take shape. So, that’s what their staffs are for! They’re a sort of multitool. One by one, the carved symbols alight across the pillar’s surface. A Nomai speaking, the Eye of the universe, a Nomai with eyes glowing, the Quantum Moon, a Nomai mask…

As the last symbol takes shape, I smile. A Hearthian helmet, with an antenna sticking from its side. My helmet.

The Nomai is clearly pleased with themself, and as they step away from the wall of symbols, they brandish their staff welcomingly towards it. This, at least, I can comprehend. I step closer, and the Nomai shifts with what I interpret as excitement. They motion again towards the wall. 

I look over the symbols. All glow with a purple light, all, save for the one of the Nomai speaking and the one with the Nomai’s eyes shining. Those two glow orange. I have a million questions swirling in my head, a million things I want to say, but I don’t want to mess this up. I can’t communicate with a language I don’t understand.

I touch the symbol of the Nomai with glowing eyes, and it falls from the rock with ease. I’m quick to catch it before it tumbles to the ground. The rock reminds me of a projection stone, and I’m right in thinking so, because as I turn to the Nomai, they again wave their staff. Boulders move magnetically across the ground and into the air, stacking with that same invisible force that the Nomai stacked their signposts with. Two podiums take shape, topped with rocky basins. I glance from the stone to the Nomai, and they tap the tip of their staff against another outcrop of quantum stone indicatively. 

I drop the stone in a basin and turn expectantly to the wall. But the Nomai only cocks their head.

Ah—two basins, two stones. I take the second orange stone from the wall and place it in the empty basin.

The Nomai glances to the stones, then begins to tap on the interface of their staff. I'm a little sad that they aren't speaking anymore—I could listen to their sentences all day—but my excitement to finally be getting somewhere far exceeds my disappointment. They place the tip of their staff against the barren stone wall, and a spiral takes form across its surface, words glowing. The Nomai gestures to the translator tool, then to the spiral. I nod. This, I can do. Holding my translator steady, I aim at the wall. Characters shift across the display, changing and changing until words emerge from the nonsense. 

“These are the two tenets of Nomai philosophy,” my display reads. “To seek out and to understand is our way of living.”

To identify and explain. That helps. Looking to the wall of symbols, I now have six perfectly serviceable words to work with. I don’t even need to think about what my next question will be. I remove the ‘explain’ stone from the second basin and replace it with the one that has been calling to me since it appeared—the Nomai mask. 

Who are you?

The Nomai again taps into their staff, and I hold my device at the ready even before the spiral appears across the stone.

“I am Solanum, a Nomai. My clan arrived in this star system before my birth, and we now call it home.”

…Solanum?

But…that’s impossible. She had been on her pilgrimage to the Quantum Moon when the Interloper’s core ruptured. She, like all members of her clan, had died. Instantly. I’ve seen her corpse at the south pole. I’ve seen her shuttle, stranded. And even if the ghost matter hadn’t killed her, if the moon had somehow protected her, it’s been hundreds of thousands of years.

Perplexed, I switch out the 'identify' stone for the ‘explain’ stone.

“I am on my first pilgrimage to the Quantum Moon,” she writes. “All Nomai in my clan make this journey when we come of age. Even though the Eye cannot be reached from here, the Quantum Moon remains special to us, as it carries us nearer to the Eye than any other place we know. I’ve journeyed here to be close to the Eye. While the Eye is obscured from our sight, we can see the Quantum Moon’s reflection of the Eye in the sky above us.”

It is Solanum, and…She doesn’t know.

In the same, impossible way that she’s alive, she doesn’t know what happened to her clan. Her posture is relaxed, unmarred by worry, by uncertainty, by grief. The only tension in her muscles indicates excitement, not despair. She doesn’t know.

Removing the stones from their pedestals, I turn towards the wall of symbols. None can communicate what I really want to say. I select two and place them in the basin, unsure of what I’m expecting Solanum to think but curious to read her response. She examines the symbols with interest—the orange-glowing ‘identify’ stone sitting beside a purple Hearthian helmet. Her gaze turns to me, and she thinks for a moment before writing.

“I’ve never met one of your kind before. It’s an honor to speak with you! I particularly admire your four eyes. There are many questions I would ask, if I could comprehend your language. You have my gratitude for understanding mine.”

Even never having met another intelligent alien species before, Solanum remains calm. She must have grown up with stories of the Nomai's adventures, just as I had grown up with stories of space long before I ever ventured there myself, or as I had grown up with stories of the fantastic Nomai structures all around our solar system. If only she knew how long we've spent admiring the three eyes of her species. For as long as I can remember. For as long as anyone can remember. The signs of Nomai presence in our solar system predate Hearthian sapience. For as long as we have thought, we have thought about the Nomai.

Returning to the wall, comprehension of the true extent to which we can communicate crashes over me, and suddenly, I’m wishing Hal were here by my side. Six symbols. Six measly little symbols. With the symbols Solanum made for me, how can I begin to explain how long we've known her people for? How can I communicate how much I have learned about them, how much I admire them? How do I explain what happened to her people? How can I tell her that the Ash Twin Project worked? How can I show her the coordinates to the Eye of the universe?

For a linguist, I’m abysmal at in-field translations. I could never write out sentences for Solanum to read. I can only communicate with what I can gesture to, and Solanum can only answer the questions as she interprets them. If Hal were here, they would know what to say, and how to say it. They would be able to tell Solanum everything.

But…would Solanum want to know? I would. But that’s so easy for me to say when I can fly home and see all my friends. The loss she’s unknowingly experienced is something I will never be able to imagine, not without experiencing it myself. Would I want to know?

With a strange feeling sitting in the very bottom of my stomach, I remove the ‘identify’ stone and replace it with ‘explain’. Solanum doesn’t miss a beat, oblivious to the turmoil developing within me.

“I imagine your purpose here is the same as mine: to learn about and to find the Eye of the universe. I’m unsure how you arrived here, however. Perhaps you came from another star system, as my clan originally did?”

This is a question I can answer! I shake my head, and she tilts hers curiously. Thinking my helmet is obscuring the motion, I shake my head again, more obviously, and this time, she shakes hers in response. Great. The conversation’s devolved to mimicry. After so long reading their language, I thought I was an expert in the Nomai. Turns out, I’m far from it. Do Nomai even nod and shake their heads? It’s egocentric to think Hearthian body language is universal. But if I can’t even communicate with simple gestures, how am I supposed to explain myself?

Dropping the thread, I once again rearrange the stones, selecting the ones representing ‘identify’ and the Quantum Moon. I’m not sure what question I’m asking, but I hope Solanum knows the answer I’m looking for. She presses her staff against the stone.

“This is the Quantum Moon, where we both are standing. Despite also orbiting other celestial bodies, the Quantum Moon is the Eye of the universe’s moon.”

I remove ‘identify’ and replace it with ‘explain’. What do you know about the Quantum Moon?

“Have you encountered a quantum shard on another planet?” Solanum asks. “The shards look the same as the quantum moon’s surface does now, while at the Eye. From this, we can reasonably infer the Quantum Moon’s natural state is as we see it now, and that the Eye is its primary location. Given the Quantum Moon is the Eye’s moon, it’s likely that any characteristics the moon exhibits are also exhibited by the Eye itself. The Quantum Moon and its shards, for instance, are quantum, thus, the Eye is likely also quantum. In fact, this moon is probably quantum because its proximity to the Eye made it quantum, the same way the areas surrounding quantum shards that landed on other planets eventually became quantum, too.”

This, I’ve come to understand. The moon is quantum, as is the Eye. If this is the moon’s true face, perhaps it had been separated from the Eye somehow? A collision severed moon from planet, and the resulting ejecta were scattered into space, a few choice specimens carving new homes for themselves on Giant’s Deep, Brittle Hollow, Timber Hearth, and Ember Twin. A similar origin story is hypothesized for the Attlerock—a massive collision resulting in a chunk of Timber Hearth itself becoming our moon. 

I read over Solanum’s response again, and my attention is drawn to her final sentence. I feel like I’m on the brink of piecing together what’s happened.

As I ruminate on her sentences, I remove the orange stone and pair the symbol of the Quantum Moon with my little helmet, hoping to communicate something a little more basic: I’ve come to the Quantum Moon!

“Is this your first time on the Quantum Moon?” Solanum asks. “It’s my first time here. If you’ve come here looking for answers, I hope you find them.”

Me, too, Solanum.

Scanning the wall of symbols, I select my next pair: the Quantum Moon and the Eye of the universe. At this, Solanum appears to perk up. Apparently the Eye is a topic she’s fond of discussing—and I can hardly blame her. She watches me intently as I translate.

“I imagine you’ve noticed the Quantum Moon changes in appearance depending on which location it is currently orbiting (for instance, the moon looks quite different when orbiting Giant’s Deep than it does when orbiting the Hourglass Twins). Because the Quantum Moon clearly changes in its different forms, the Eye (being this moon’s primary location) must be similarly malleable. From this, we can hypothesize that the Eye represents extreme changeability. That said, despite its malleable nature, the Quantum Moon becomes locked to one specific version of itself when it is consciously observed.”

Consciously observed. Because I am watching Solanum, and Solanum is watching me, we are no longer quantum. We are standing on the moon as it orbits the sixth location—the Eye of the universe. But if we were to look away, to close our eyes, to stop observing…

Then we could be around the Hourglass Twins. Or Brittle Hollow. Or Timber Hearth. Or all of them at once. There is only one me, only one tower, only one shuttle, and only one Solanum. But there are also six—six versions of the moon, six versions of the tower, of the shuttle, of Solanum…

And I am right. I know I’m right, because I have seen the other versions of Solanum, crumpled lifelessly at the south pole of other variants of the moon. And here I am at the south pole of the Quantum Moon as it orbits the Eye, and here, too, is Solanum. If I stop observing, if I stop being observed, there are six of me, too—until I open my eyes and the possibilities are collapsed into one, singular truth.

Time is funny here. I’ve noticed that. Solanum is acting as if she has just stepped off of her shuttle, as if she has just taken her first look at the moon’s surface. And it’s because she has. At least, in her, quantum, perception of time.

Following the same pattern I’ve been using to communicate (so I don’t lose track of which topics I’ve covered and embarrass myself by repeating questions), I take the ‘identify’ stone and place it beside the symbol of the Eye of the universe. Again, Solanum appears absolutely delighted to share what she knows.

“We are orbiting the Eye of the universe now, although we cannot see it (only the Quantum Moon’s reflection of it). The Eye is older than the universe itself, and my clan believes it dwells in an extremely distant orbit around this star system.”

The model of the solar system in the Southern Observatory flashes through my mind. The planets I recognise, all spinning on their discrete orbits, shooting away from me until I can hardly distinguish them. And, the massive, swirling, spiralling orbit of the Eye, swinging above and below the orbital plane, darting incomprehensibly around the sun. 

Replacing the ‘identify’ stone with the ‘explain’ stone, I watch Solanum steadily. I’ve spent so long trying to piece together how much the Nomai knew about the mysterious signal that brought them here. And now, I can finally ask. 

Tell me what you know about the Eye.

She seems just as eager to answer.

“There is fundamental uncertainty throughout the universe. Normally, this uncertainty is only observable on a very small scale. As one approaches the Eye, however, that uncertainty grows enormously . The Quantum Moon probably exhibits macroscopic quantum behavior because of its proximity to the Eye. Shards that broke off from the Quantum Moon have a similar effect, as I imagine you’ve seen elsewhere in this star system. Conscious observation forces a quantum object to collapse to a single possibility. But what would happen if a conscious observer somehow entered the Eye itself? Over time, this has become my clan’s greatest question.”

My eyes focus on the shooting vortex overhead. A hazy pupil stares back at me from beyond. Standing directly beneath them, the clouds take on a different appearance. Stretching. Reaching. As the light plays across their stormy surfaces, I think I can almost see it—the arms of the symbol of the Eye, radiating outwards. Searching.

What would happen if a conscious observer entered the Eye?

If something quantum is observed, all of its possible states—all of its uncertainties—are collapsed. If the Eye represents an enormous uncertainty, then, when observed, it, too, will collapse into one state. But what state? What is being collapsed?

I take the stone depicting my helmet, and place it next to the radiating symbol of the Eye. Solanum taps on her staff.

“Suppose you could reach the Eye of the Universe: would you try to enter it? What do you imagine the effects of a conscious observer might be?”

I don’t know. What would the effects be?

What is the Eye of the universe?

If anyone would know, it would be a Nomai. I pick up another symbol and set it in place of my stone. 

Solanum looks over the pair of stones in the basins. On the right, a spindly, branching maze with a void at its centre. On the left, a Nomai mask. She pauses, thinking for a long while before replying.

“Many in my clan have believed the Eye called to us for a particular purpose. When I was a child, I used to believe the Eye was malevolent to have lured my clan to this star system only to then vanish from them so completely. But I don’t fear the Eye anymore. In fact, it became my fondest hope to see the Eye itself, someday, but I fear this may be beyond my reach.”

Her posture changes as I read. It’s difficult to describe. She isn’t stiff, but her shoulders slant at a different angle and her fingers grip her staff timidly. Her boots slide closer together. She motions again to the wall of symbols, but that gesture, too, is altered. She is no longer eager to discuss the Eye.

I don’t want to press, though my curiosity is piqued. Removing the symbol of the Eye, I replace it with something a little less daunting: the Quantum Moon.

This combination of stones is no better. Still, her body is closed off, and she taps reluctantly into her staff, pausing for a moment halfway through her writing undoubtedly to find the right words.

"Like many of my clan before me, I journeyed here to see the Quantum Moon's reflection of the Eye. This is the closest any of us have come to seeing the Eye itself. You may think I'm strange, but I have a hypothesis that I may not be entirely alive. Perhaps my journey has reached its end.”

My gut reaction is to reject her hypothesis, but I know she’s right. Within the pauses in our conversation, I’ve been brewing on a thought that refused to rest. It’s as true that there is a single Solanum on the Quantum Moon as it is that there are six. And it’s also true that five of those six versions of her had been orbiting the planets when she stepped out of her shuttle. Five of those six versions of her had been standing on familiar ground when ghost matter blanketed the solar system. Five of those six versions of her had died.

But one…One had been at the Eye. 

Is the answer to why she’s still alive that simple?

The Eye orbits the sun so distantly…Perhaps the ghost matter had failed to cross such vast space. So…Solanum died along with everyone else, but also, she didn’t. She’s both alive and dead, and, entangled with the moon, she’s become quantum, too. Only, her states have been collapsed by the ghost matter—always dead on every other Quantum Moon, and always alive here, at the Eye.

Time is funny here. How much time has passed since I landed? I can’t tell, and that worries me. After so many loops, I’ve been getting quite good at keeping track of my precious 22 minutes. But here…

Does time even pass for quantum objects? It must—Solanum’s remains are degraded. But, perhaps it’s different so close to the Eye.

Can Solanum even leave? What would happen if she tried?

I reach out and take her small hand in mine. She doesn’t flinch. I hope I’m not being rude, but I think she understands that we are different, and I think she knows that I understand what she means. Her fingers loop around mine, and before I can react she bows her head until her mask bumps against my visor. It isn’t a Hearthian gesture, but it’s one I can comprehend.

She’s lonely up here. But not nearly enough time has passed for her to understand why. 

She straightens and I let go of her hand. I have two stones left and only one more thing to say. I remove the Quantum Moon stone and place it back in its alcove in the symbol wall. It fits perfectly inside, the seam of where the stone splits vanishing as it settles. Beside it is my stone, with my little helmet and antenna. I touch it lightly and it falls from the rock. I bring it over to the pedestals and sit it gently in the basin, next to the glowing image of Solanum’s mask. I look at her and smile, and I hope she can see my expression through my visor. 

She taps cautiously on the interface of her staff and engraves a new spiral into the wall. It’s short—a single thought, but she stands confidently beside it, and motions to the words with hospitality.

“We do not have much connection, you and I. Still, this encounter feels special. I hope you won’t mind if I think of you as a friend.”

My vision goes blurry as an overwhelming warmth fills my chest. I have followed Solanum’s journey through time and space, and not once have I regarded her as anything less than a dear friend. All I wanted to do was meet her. All I wanted to do was share one conversation. And now I’m here, and I’ve done that, and despite the fact that she knows nothing about me other than that I’ve learned enough about the Nomai to develop a translator, she thinks of me the same way. 

I squint and feel water roll down my cheek. The dumb thing about space suits is that you can’t wipe tears out of your eyes.

“I don’t mind at all,” I reply, voice creaking.

A cheery melody floats from behind her mask. It's a sound I know will always stay with me, even if I can't replicate it myself.

Chapter Text

There isn’t enough time to say anything else before I feel that strange tugging at the back of my brain again. I hoped that the last time I felt it had been a fluke, but no—there it is, instantly recognisable in its strangeness, in the way it so intrusively invades my mind. No supernova. I can’t even say goodbye to Solanum before everything around me burns away.

It’s exactly as it happened the last time I was on the Quantum Moon. The discomfort, my vision disappearing before my eyes, and then I am adrift in the void that greets me at the end of every loop, my memories playing back in reverse.

Is the time loop faltering? I don’t think so. The Quantum Moon doesn’t interact normally with space-time. Maybe it interferes with the connection between me, my statue, and my mask? Or, if Solanum is still alive because the moon was out of range of the ghost matter, maybe I’m out of range of the supernova when it orbits the Eye. Is that what the burning is? Is the Ash Twin Project taking my memories when my 22 minutes are up, dead or not?

When I wake beneath Giant’s Deep, that rock digging into my back, I look up at the sky. The Quantum Moon circles the ocean planet beyond, and I know I have a friend waiting there. I still can’t believe that Solanum is alive. That I had talked to her. That we shared something special. I won’t ever forget that exchange, and when everything is over, I’ll speak to some Hearthians that are much smarter than I am, and we’ll get her off that moon.

My heart is pounding with the residual exhilaration of finding her as I lie in my sleeping bag. I repeat her sentences back to myself in my head, and even after so many repetitions, I still don’t believe the words. She’s up there. Alone. Knowing something has gone terribly wrong but not knowing what; feeling her death, or her fraction of life, settling uncomfortably into her bones. Is she lonely, up there? Or does time only pass for her when she’s observed? 

Despite everything, she had patiently explained her situation to me. Her clan’s hopes and dreams, her complicated history with the Eye of the universe. And, finally, she had called me a friend. After all the time I have spent tracing her journey, nothing could be truer.

Disparate feelings arise in my chest, oddly harmonious in their cohabitation. Feelings of loss, of longing, but also of catharsis, satisfaction, hope. They compound each other, growing and growing until they’re near overspilling. Perhaps that is why, when I finally get the sense to head up to my ship, I find myself directing us towards my favourite crumbling planet.

I barely round the corner before my helmet is off and I’m screaming at the top of my lungs.

“I TALKED TO A LIVING NOMAI!”

A banjo string snaps with a harsh TWANG. 

“AHHH!” Riebeck screams back. “That doesn’t make any sense!”

Riebeck sits beside their campfire, surrounded by trees. They had been playing their banjo, but my impromptu visit quickly put an end to that. I stand in the middle of their campsite and stretch out my arms as wide as I can.

“I TALKED TO A LIVING NOMAI!” I bellow, just to hear myself say it again. “WE TALKED AND I COULD TRANSLATE EVERYTHING SHE SAID AND HER NAME IS SOLANUM AND SHE WAS BORN HERE HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO AND SHE’S ALIVE!”

Riebeck tenses their shoulders and holds up their hands defensively, as if preparing to fend off an attack. “I don’t understand! I’m very excited for you, though!”

“SHE MADE ALL THESE LITTLE STONES SO I COULD ASK HER QUESTIONS AND I DID—I ASKED HER LOADS OF QUESTIONS—AND SHE ANSWERED THEM AND SHE SAID WE’RE FRIENDS!”

“P-please stop yelling!”

“SHEISONTHEQUANTUMMOONRIGHTNOW BECAUSE SHE WENT THERE ON HER QUANTUM PILGRIMAGE—” I stop myself. “I guess you don’t remember that, but the Nomai went on pilgrimages to the Quantum Moon as a coming-of-age ritual.”

“N-No!”

“Anyway—SHE IS ON THE QUANTUM MOON AT THE SIXTH LOCATION WHERE THE MOON CIRCLES THE EYE OF THE UNIVERSE! ALL THE OTHER NOMAI ARE DEAD BUT SHE DOESN’T KNOW THAT BECAUSE SHE’S BEEN STUCK THERE FOR AGES BUT SHE ISN’T DEAD BECAUSE I GUESS TIME WORKS DIFFERENTLY THERE SO SHE’S ALIVE BUT ALSO SHE IS DEAD BECAUSE THE GHOST MATTER KILLED HER TOO BUT NOT AROUND THE EYE SO THAT VERSION OF HER IS ALIVE—”

I suck in a deep breath to continue, but I suddenly realise I’ve said all I really wanted to say, so I let my arms fall to my sides and watch Riebeck expectantly.

“...W-what?” they stammer incredulously.

Panting, I make a tired gesture. “I just told you.”

“I… What?”

I repeat myself, a little more calmly this time. Riebeck listens intently.

“...On the Quantum Moon, you said?” they ask when I’m finished. I nod, and they throw up their hands. “There’s a sort-of-living Nomai on the Quantum Moon?! WELL, WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO?!”

They jump to their feet, and a wide grin spreads across my face.

“Oh, wow!” they exclaim. “Wow! This is the best thing that’s ever happened in the history of Outer Wilds Ventures!”

I nod eagerly, and the campsite starts bubbling with our shared giddiness as Riebeck paces.

“I can’t believe you talked to an actual Nomai!”

“I know!” I say. “Me neither!”

“This is fantastic! We can ask her all sorts of questions!”

“I know! I did!”

“And think of what we’ll learn!”

“I learned so much!”

“What do they eat? What do they wear? How long do they live? Where did they come from? Why do they have such specific pronouns? What customs do they have? Why did they settle here? Why—” Riebeck faces me suddenly. “What was it like? What were they wearing? Are the masks really part of their space suit or just ceremonial? The translator tool worked well? They understood you? How?”

I let out a chuckle and hold out my hands placatingly. “It was amazing! The moon doesn’t have a breathable atmosphere, even when it seems like it should, so she was wearing a space suit. It’s teal and gold and so unbelievably intricate. So much more decorated than ours. The masks are like our helmets and they attach to oxygen tanks they wear on their backs, but I think there’s some…cultural significance to the masks, too. And the translator tool works great! Solanum understood me as best as she could, but I think if you go you’ll be able to do even more. You’re pretty decent with the language, right?”

Riebeck nods their head enthusiastically, then stalls. “Uh, I, well, I’m alright with it. Not an expert, no. But I can read it well enough…Maybe I could write something?”

“That would be fantastic! I’m sure she’d love that!”

“Oh, wow! The second conversation between a Hearthian and a Nomai. What should I write? What should I say? Should I invite her to the village? Oh, no, that might be a little overwhelming. That’s okay. We’ll talk on the Quantum Moon. And, and…” Riebeck shakes their head exasperatedly. “The moon. When did you…How did you…?”

They don’t need to finish their thought for me to understand. “It took so many translations!” I answer. “There are these rules—three rules—that you need to know to get to the moon! You have to take a picture of it before you land so it won’t blip off to some other planet, and when you do land, you’ll be dropped at the south pole. But Solanum is only on the moon around the Eye, so you have to go to the north pole to get there—that’s another rule—”

Frantically, Riebeck pats their suit for their notebook. “S-should I be writing all of this down?”

“No, I’ll just give you a picture of my ship log!” Then, realising all the less-than-thrilling things I’ve discovered and written about, I add, “Just ignore all the other notes I have that don’t relate to the moon, though.”

“Got it!” Riebeck beams. “So, what next?”

“Yes! To get to the north pole, you have to travel between the planets that the moon orbits. There are all these pesky rocks and vines and cyclones in the way—which ones you see depends on the planet you’re orbiting—so you can’t just walk straight there. You’ll understand when you get there. It’s hard to explain. You can travel with the moon as long as no one is observing it—that's the last rule, the rule of quantum entanglement. But you’re an observer too, right? So how do you stop observing the moon? Well, the Nomai built this huge shrine that’s entangled with it, so it’ll hop about just like everything else that’s quantum. When you go inside and turn off the lights you’ll be transported with the moon to another orbit! When you reach the north pole, just blink a whole bunch until the shrine appears and get in, then it will take you to the Eye of the universe where Solanum is!”

Riebeck raises their hand timidly. “Um…Q-question?”

Energized from my lecture—no wonder Chert does it so often!—I point excitedly at Riebeck and say, “Answer!”

“You, er, said it a few times and I was just wondering…What’s ‘the Eye of the universe’?”

“No idea!”

“Okay! C-cool!” They nod, and let out a breath. “Great! So, I just have to go back into space, fly to the Quantum Moon with zero visibility, find a spooky ruin, and travel through a few different types of dangerous terrain to get there. Okay, yeah, that’s…” They nod again, more vigorously this time. “That’s not so bad. That’s probably doable…”

“It’s nothing!” I say, walking over and giving them an encouraging pat on the shoulder. It’s the least I can do after what they did for me the last time I was here. “The moon’s perfectly safe! Just don’t crash your ship too bad. But I crashed mine so many times and I’m fine…Don’t mention that to Slate. Oh! And don’t jump through the cloud layer once you’re on the moon or else you’ll end up in space without your ship!”

“You…You went into space without your ship?!”

My eyes widen and I backtrack. “Me? I—uh—No! Of course not! I just…Shot my Scout up there to see what would happen. Did a couple of experiments. You know…Science! Yay!”

Riebeck nods distractedly and I gawk in disbelief that they actually bought my story. 

“Okay…” they say quietly. “Okay. Yeah! I’m going to the Quantum Moon!”

“Really?!”

“Yes! I’m going to do it! I’m going to go and I’m going to meet Solanum!”

“Yes!”

“Just...Not yet.”

They head back over to the fire and sit down, digging for their notebook. I blink, and the wave of energy that had been carrying me high crashes meekly across the basalt. Defeatedly, I follow them.

“But…Why not?” I ask. “Isn’t this incredible?”

“Of course it is! I can’t mess this up! I have to work out what I want to say, and I have to be as precise as possible. There has to be no room for translation error. And then I actually have to prep the translations! Have you ever tried writing anything in Nomaian? Writing just one sentence will take me an hour, at least…Oh! I should prepare some basic replies, too. Anything I think she might ask about us, to save time when I actually go. And maybe a few words I can point to to piece together basic answers…”

“Yeah,” I say, watching a piece of the Hanging City bridge tumble down into the black hole below. “But…you know, thinking about it more, why bother with all that? Save that for the third conversation. If you go now you can meet her sooner! I-I’m sure you can have just as nice a conversation with the rock-and-translator-tool method. Maybe she’ll even make more rocks for you!”

“I’m an archaeologist!” Riebeck replies, flipping open their notebook to a blank page. “Or, uh, an anthropologist, now? I guess? I have to get this right.”

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, of course.”

Riebeck glances my way. They must notice my disappointment, because they hastily try to cheer me up. “Hey, at least you can still go explore while I work on these! Have you checked out the Hanging City? I haven’t worked up the courage to head over myself yet. But if you find anything, you can tell me and I can add it to my questions! Um, if you want to, I mean.”

Idly, I nudge a fallen branch with the toe of my boot.

“So, you won’t be finished in like…ten minutes, right?”

“...Er, no.”

“Gotcha.” I tap my fingers against my belt. “Okay. Well, yeah. You work on those translations and I’ll go look around Brittle Hollow for some information that might be useful. You just radio when you want to see my ship log or need the translator tool, yeah?”

“Thank you! Yes! I will do that!” Riebeck begins to jot down notes as I pull my helmet over my head. As I leave their camp, waving my goodbye, I hear them muttering excitedly to themself. Though I am a little saddened that I couldn’t get my buddy to the Quantum Moon this loop, I’m glad I at least left them in a fantastic mood, with lots of things to think about.

I climb back up to the crossroads, but I don’t head towards the Hanging City. I look across the bridges and see the towers in the distance. It’s so strange to think that I’ve scoured every inch of those ruins for translations. Then again, there’s still so much to learn. What could Riebeck glean from the architecture of the Nomai? What would they be able to decipher about their daily lives just by walking through their halls?

After all my exploration, I am still no archaeologist. But I would love to walk through the city with one, one day.

Upon reaching the surface, in the small settlement where Riebeck had first made camp, I see that the ground is cast in an orange glow. Volcanic bombs from Hollow’s Lantern hover in the sky, dwarfed by the massive orange sun behind them. The fiery moon itself crests a crumbling ruin not a moment later, and I watch its lava boil and convect, swirling at the base of its four supervolcanoes.

The moon looks…shrunken. 

I never noticed that before. But of course it does. Its supply of magma isn’t infinite. The little moon can only hold so much material, and ever since the time loop started, its activity has increased tenfold. It’s like that for a lot of places, really. Giant’s Deep has always had its cyclones, but doesn’t the current amount seem…a little worrisome? And the sand-transfer between the Hourglass Twins has never been so quick…

A lava bomb crashes into the crust just beyond the valley. The ground shakes, and I place a hand against a wall of the gravity crystal workshop to steady myself. The moon rotates overhead, affording me an unparalleled view of its volcanoes. It’s difficult for my heart not to race every time I find myself staring right into one’s caldera, muscles bracing for an impact that thankfully never comes. A modest-sized volcano turns towards me, and through the smoke and ash I see—

What do I see?

A flash of sand-coloured rocks from within the soot-stained vent. 

And instantly, I know I’m about to do something exceedingly stupid.

Hollow’s Lantern is unique among the astral bodies in our solar system, and not just for its impressively deadly eruptions. Every planet rotates in-line with the planetary plane, with negligible axial tilt. The poles of each planet are perfectly perpendicular to their orbital path, and that’s why the planets have little variation in climate as they circle the sun throughout their respective years—though solar activity and other natural cycles certainly lend themselves to temperature and weather fluctuations. Even the Attlerock follows this pattern, with the small caveat that the moon is also tidally locked to Timber Hearth. Hollow’s Lantern, however, is the exception.

Hollow’s Lantern spins so wildly about that its axial tilt is constantly changing. Chert has a theory that the massive volcanic eruptions (relative to the moon’s size) are what throw the moon off-balance, exerting conflicting forces that cause it to continuously alter its spin. It’s why the volcanic bombs are so destructive—the volcanoes never circle Brittle Hollow in a predictable way, and every bomb is sent spiralling off on a completely random trajectory. 

This is a fun little fact we astronauts like to bring up at bonfires, but it’s a lot less fun when it gets in the way of trying to land a spaceship on its lava-inundated surface.

My hands are steady on the controls as I pilot my ship around Hollow’s Lantern. Volcanic bombs hang in the sky around me, but the great thing about space is just how much space there is—it’s easy to dodge the ship-sized rocks as they burn just beyond Brittle Hollow’s atmosphere. The real challenge is aligning my ship with where I want it to go.

Much of the lava covering Hollow’s Lantern’s surface has been cast away by the eruptions, but not enough that the molten rock fails to pose a threat. Get too close and the heat will surely melt a few vital computer parts on my ship, to say nothing of what a close encounter with the stuff will do to me. The lava isn’t quite as hot as the sun is, and I can’t expect a death so swift.

That leaves me with only a few landing sites to work with, and by nature of the moon’s erratic spin, they keep racing away from me on unpredictable paths. I can do my best to land my ship on the side of one of the volcano’s cones, but Hollow’s Lantern doesn’t have a gravity field near strong enough to anchor my ship down for long. Ideally, I want a nice, large, flat platform sheltered from the bombs, and I’ve spotted only one candidate that ticks all the boxes. Unfortunately, it sits alongside sand-coloured ruins as they broil away within one of the moon’s many vents.

Landing a ship on the surface of the moon is challenging enough. I’m trying to land my ship inside the moon. 

Now that so much of the lava is gone, it’s easy for me to lock onto the volcano I want. It sits on the magnetic north pole of Hollow’s Lantern, and is just as active as its siblings. Not once, not twice, but three times do I have to yank my ship away from the caldera as a volcanic bomb bursts from the lava. I try timing the eruptions, but it’s pointless—as far as I can tell, the volcano lives by no schedule.

My race around the moon is made more difficult by its size. The pull of Brittle Hollow’s black hole is so strong that my ship can feel its influence from all the way up here, and given the choice to orbit the moon or to fall down to the columnar crust below, my ship will always choose the latter. My hands can’t leave my controls, not even for a second, and I feel my muscles begin to cramp as I constantly make minor adjustments to my path to stay in the same place.

I glimpse the ruins within the vent, and I know I can’t give up.

Why the Nomai had selected such a hostile environment to build in eludes me. The very same moon had driven them beneath the crust in the first place—so what were they doing on its surface? The obvious answer is that they were conducting research, or that they needed Hollow’s Lantern for something just as they needed the black hole for the development of the warp cores. But for what? Why?

I see the rise of smoke and ember and I pull my ship away from the caldera as yet another lava bomb erupts from the subsurface. My ship tremors with the force, and as ash streaks across my windshield, I know what I have to do. I have to go for it.

Piloting with decreased visibility is never fun, especially not when I’m one errant thrust away from getting burned alive in lava. But I’m so close. I can do this. 

I bring my ship in close to the caldera. I can hardly see my target landing area through the ejecta covering my window, but I’ll just have to make do. I ready my hands on the controls, and race with my thrusters at full-force into the volcano below.

My speed carries me into the vent, but also straight into the interior wall. My windshield cracks and choking heat blasts into my cabin. Coughing, eyes watering, I turn on my landing cam and do my best to get my ship onto solid ground and away from the path of any developing bombs. I’m not satisfied until I can’t see any hint of lava below me, and by the time my ship settles onto the platform I’m wheezing in the dry air. Clumsily, I grab my helmet and tug it over my head, the relief of cool, fresh oxygen hissing across my face as I engage the seal. I’m still uncomfortably warm, to put it mildly, but at least I can blink away the tears and breathe without silica particles ripping through my lungs.

Staggering out of my ship, I’m shocked to find just how precarious my landing spot is. One leg of my ship is barely sitting on the rock, and my entire starboard thruster bank dangles over the lava pool in the middle of the vent. I try not to think of how my fuel stores are handling the heat, electing to believe that Slate was rigorous when it came to installing their insulation.

The vent rumbles, and I grip a broken Nomaian column as a lava bomb rockets out of the central pool, leaving a smouldering trail of ash behind. I wave the smoke away from my visor, and it hits me.

I just landed my ship inside a volcano.

Stars above, I can’t wait to tell this story around the campfire!

Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I take in my surroundings. The rock walls and floor of the cavern are brittle and black, coated with volcanic dust. Ash grips the corners between sandy pillars and boulders, and the pool of lava in the middle of the chamber bubbles with an intense heat. Thin layers of rock solidify across the surface before burning away. The whole place is painted in a red-hot glow.

Across the pool from where I stand is the purple light of Nomai writing. It’s difficult to make out through a haze of volcanic gases, but it’s definitely over there. Examining the lava for any signs of an oncoming eruption—and seeing none—I place a firm hand on my jetpack controls and fly over the gap. Hollow’s Lantern’s gravity isn’t strong enough to grip me, and its spin sends me flying in one direction and the ground circling below me in another. For a spine-chilling second, I think I’m about to land right in the middle of the molten rock below, but some quick panic-steering on my part saves me from a fiery demise. My boots land hard on the rock across the way, and I find myself in the middle of a projection pool.

I lean on one of the two podiums while I collect my bearings. There’s the projection pool, yes, and also its corresponding chalkboard sitting between the ruins of support pillars. A projection stone sits at the brink of the lava pool beside it. Nearby, an active terminal glows purple—that’s what I spotted from my ship. Cautiously, I walk over to investigate, translator tool at the ready.

WARNING: Increased solar activity detected.

WARNING: Increased volcanic activity detected.

VERDICT: Location is now inhospitable. Evacuation recommended.

Huh. So Hollow’s Lantern is more active than usual. And the increased activity is because of…the sun?

Actually, that makes perfect sense! Geyser storms tend to align with solar activity, too, and geysers are basically watery mini-volcanoes. It also explains why it’s happening now—the sun’s activity is increasing due to the impending supernova. Perhaps the change in solar activity is also why Giant’s Deep is stormier than usual, or why the sand-transfer is happening over the course of twenty minutes as opposed to hours.

Taking serious note of where the lava is, I head over to the chalkboard and pick up the projection stone. I look at the image emblazoned upon it in puzzlement.

Timber Hearth.

There are Nomai ruins on Timber Hearth. In fact, for reasons unknown to me, my planet was important enough to the Nomai for them to have built a warp tower to it. The projection stone I hold in my hands only further solidifies its significance—somewhere on Timber Hearth is a corresponding projection pool. Projection pools weren’t a form of mobile transmission. No. They were a dedicated means of communication, set up, seemingly, only at locations of the utmost importance, where clear, real-time discussion was necessary.

It’s not the fact that the Nomai were on Timber Hearth that shocks me. It’s that Timber Hearth must have been vital to the success of the Ash Twin Project for them to have gone through the effort of setting up permanent outposts there. But…Why? And where are they? Beyond the ruins in the crater and the warp receiver, there’s no evidence suggesting any sort of settlement exists.

Fortunately, I hold in my hands something that may contain the answers.

I plug the stone into the empty podium and watch as the chalkboard’s surface comes to life with spirals.

—

Root studied the lava as it bubbled around the swiftly-melting sample. He glanced at his staff as it scanned the basin, a percentage marker ticking down as a timer ticked up. When the sample finally vanished, mixed beyond separation with the molten rock within the volcano, the interface lit up with a glowing zero. He stopped the timer and added his notes to an extensive list he had been keeping since he was first stationed at the test site.

It was hot, hard work, but someone had to do it—and the timing had worked out impeccably for him. With the warp core project finally drawing to a close, the Black Hole Forge had reduced on-site personnel back to its original teams. As a materials scientist, Root wouldn’t be needed until development for the advanced warp core reached its testing stage, and at the pace Poke was working, that wouldn’t be for quite some time.

In the interim, he had been posted to the volcanic testing site on Hollow’s Lantern alongside a few others from the forge to test ore for the construction of the Ash Twin Project. Yarrow’s description of the ideal properties of the ore had been perplexing, but necessary. The Ash Twin Project had to be protected from every possible disaster, at least while it was active. Oeno, Coleus, and Cycad had worked tirelessly to find samples matching Yarrow’s outline, and the samples had in turn been sent to Root for testing. Their last bit of ore had just been liquefied, and the results hadn’t been quite what they were aiming for, but were still promising.

As others cleaned up after the final test, moving across the basalt floors that covered all but a narrow, well-marked pocket of the lava beneath, Root scanned his notes. That last sample had been especially encouraging—it lasted nearly thirty seconds under heat-stress after their processing. This was impressive for such a small sample, though they were all hoping to make the ore a tad hardier, to set their minds at ease. If the protective shell of the Ash Twin Project disintegrated before the project activated…

Well, it was now Root’s job to ensure that did not happen.

The heat tests were the final quality-control stage. Every sample they tested had already undergone rigorous experiments elsewhere—from in-field hardness evaluations to compression tests at the forge. One ore consistently surpassed expectations. Not only was it among the top samples for heat resistance, but it also scored high in hardness and compressional strength, with additionally impressive results in terms of its shear resistance and markedly low porosity and permeability. Root and his team were now working to bolster the ore’s resistance to heat, though this was proving more difficult than anyone had anticipated. Yarrow wanted a full minute of resistance, and that was a tall order indeed.

“Do we have any more ore from Timber Hearth?” Root asked around, to a chorus of Nos. They’d need more if they wanted to further experiment with different pre-processing techniques; they had five they were working on simultaneously. Shrugging off the minor setback, he headed to the projection pool, knowing just who to contact. The world around him rippled as he inserted the projection stone, and he acknowledged the Nomai beyond with a raised staff. Artificial stars glowed from the cave walls.

“Friends in the Timber Hearth Mines,” he greeted, “the last type of ore you sent us survives the longest in direct heat. Can you send us more of the same for additional testing? We’re attempting to improve its durability, and our forge has already burned through everything you sent!”

Oeno, balancing a torchlight with his staff, paused along his hurried path to wave obligingly to Root.

“We’ll deliver more ore to Hollow’s Lantern immediately. You must be fired up about crafting the Ash Twin Project’s protective shell!”

Root chuckled and tapped his staff. “My gratitude! And, yes, the idea of an encasement that’s supernova-proof, however briefly, has kindled my curiosity! I imagine we’ll also have an updated estimate soon of how much ore is needed to seal off the Ash Twin Project.”

At this, Oeno titled his head with resignation.

“Will it be more than we initially thought?”

“It will be significantly more,” Root said. “The smallest crack or opening in the protective shell would destroy everything.”

Oeno waved in farewell, and walked out of sight grumbling something about an unprecedented workload.

—

Supernova-proof? Why would the Nomai need to make the Ash Twin Project supernova-proof? Unless…

The Ash Twin Project required an immense amount of energy to power a 22-minute time loop, and the Sun Station wasn’t positioned so close to the sun by happenstance. So many Nomai disagreed with its construction, fearing the worst. And if the Ash Twin Project needed such thorough protection…

The Sun Station is the cause of the supernova. Not by fluke, not by equipment failure, but by design. 

The Nomai had planned to blow up the sun.

I brace myself against the podiums, mind reeling from the discovery. I know that they had sacrificed everything in their search for the Eye, but to intentionally destroy the sun? Of course, if the Ash Twin project succeeded, the sun would never actually be destroyed, but what if it hadn’t? What if something went wrong?

The Sun Station had failed back then. It must have, for them to have not found the Eye. For whatever reason, the Nomai hadn’t been able to prompt a supernova and get adequate power for the Ash Twin Project. But why is it suddenly working now? And, most importantly, how do I get there and turn it off? Glancing to my sparking ship, I know I’m not good enough a pilot to risk landing on the station manually. But maybe if I spent a few loops practicing…

Turning back to the chalkboard, I read over the sentences again. Mines. So, that’s why no Hearthian has found the Nomai outpost on Timber Hearth—it’s beneath the surface, just like the Sunless City! My heart skips a beat with the anticipation of discovering Nomai relicts right on my home planet. But where are they?

I pry the stone from the podium and head over to the projection pool, hoping to see something familiar. My vision ripples and dark liquid swirls around my boots, the fiery glow of Hollow’s Lantern fading to black.

I blink, and look around. Rocky walls are lit incrementally with torches, chalkboards and workspaces dotting the dim cavern. A gravity beam pulses behind me, and below, I see the glow of stars…

No, not stars! Timber Hearth ore! The starry rock has long been mined by Hearthians for everything from construction material to lanterns to electronics. And if they had used ore from Timber Hearth for the Ash Twin Project…

Ever since I first saw the interior of the Ash Twin Project, I’ve been confused as to where it actually is. It was named for Ash Twin, and the way the Nomai talked about it seemed like it was inside of the planet somewhere, but it wasn’t housed within any of the towers and the space beyond the memory masks always glowed with starlight. It makes sense as to why I couldn’t find the constellations—there aren’t any constellations at all! The Ash Twin Project is on Ash Twin, buried somewhere within, encased by a protective shell of starry rock I should have recognised.

Eagerly, I scan the cavern for any indication of where the mine lies within Timber Hearth, but the cavern is too wide, too dark, and beyond the rocky walls I can’t make out any revealing features. 

That’s just fine. I know my planet better than I know any other. If there’s a Nomai mine on Timer Hearth, I’ll find it. I’ll just have to follow the stars.

Chapter Text

I wake lying in the shadow of the launch tower, my ship, as always, tempting me with possibilities. I look across the starry sky and see nothing but options: The Hourglass Twins, Giant’s Deep, Brittle Hollow—places I’ve been before and will surely visit again. But, not this loop. This loop, I’m staying home.

I don’t put on my space suit when I step inside the cockpit. I settle right into the pilot’s seat and buckle up. The controls feel strange beneath my bare hands, but not strange enough for me to stumble as I lift off. My ship rumbles beneath me, and I gaze down at the village, at my friends and mentors who must be so proud that I’m finally going into space on my first solo flight. I’d love to see the looks on their faces as I guide my ship low over the crater’s edge and across the landscape of Timber Hearth instead.

I’m eastward bound, and I don’t fly for very long before the glowing double-spiral of the Nomai warp receiver appears on the horizon. I bring my ship down smoothly next to it. It’s incredible how great my landings are when I’m not being bombarded by volcanic bombs or cyclones or a huge column of flowing sand.

Wind whistles across the plains as I hop out onto grass. It’s still night here, but it won’t be for much longer. The terminal sits motionlessly at the spiral’s entrance, inactive, just as Hal and I had always found it whenever we came to the ruins for research.

An odd feeling overcomes me as I walk towards the triplicate arches that mark the entrance to the only crater with Nomai ruins on Timber Hearth. I grew up with these ruins, shaded by the lone geyser mountain beyond. If anything, they should feel familiar to me. But after so much time spent examining ruins on other planets, ruins that had hardly been ruins, the three arches and the warp spiral seem unnatural—plopped unceremoniously in a field and forgotten. Where are the workshops? Where are the chalkboards and podiums and recording logs? Where are the shuttles, the gravity cannons, the quantum towers? 

Why does it seem like so much more time has passed here compared to all the other ruins I’ve visited?

Or does it? Maybe I’ve just been away from home for far too long.

The ground is soft underfoot as I click on my flashlight and follow the path into the crater. How many Nomai had arrived here from Ash Twin? What did they think of our planet? I suppose it had been their planet, first, hundreds of thousands of years ago, when Hearthians weren’t Hearthians yet. They must not have liked it much, for them to have stayed on Brittle Hollow and Ember Twin, though all the gardens filled with red pines I’ve seen elsewhere speak in opposition to that.

The crater opens up around me. The ruins of a bridge hang disjointedly between the walls, pieces of debris sunken into the soil below. A mighty waterfall washes over the far side, pouring into a roaring pool. I jump down several small ledges to reach the end of the bridge closest to me. It’s split down the middle, like the dual bridges on Brittle Hollow, but if the Nomai had constructed it that way to prevent it from crumbling they had failed spectacularly. The gap is much too far for me to leap across.

I peer over the edge. In the grove of pines, sitting amongst the scattered ruins, is a large stone mural I’ve seen before. I stop just short of throwing myself over the ledge to get to it, forgetting momentarily that I’m not wearing my suit, and opt instead to take the much less deadly way down via a natural ramp that curves along the rocky walls. I get an amazing view of the sunrise as it shines from the west, casting its tender glow across the broken bridges from between the triplicate arches. Sunlight flows down alongside the water of the falls, until it lights the basin of the crater, pouring over the mural just as I reach it. I turn off my flashlight and tuck it into my belt.

The mural depicts two Nomai arriving on our planet, in a forest of mighty pines not unlike the one I stand in now, aside from the fact that I recognise the ancient tree in its centre—the launch tower tree in the village. It’s astonishing to think that the Nomai had been there, staring up at that behemoth thousands of years ago, with all the same awe we Hearthians had. From what I’ve heard, it was a sad day when we levelled it’s top. But everything has its time, and the giant petrified tree had hollowed out from the inside, long before we Hearthians were Hearthians. Its unstable crown endangered the lives of everyone around it.

The two Nomai in the mural stare up at the tree through their masks, one wearing a teal spacesuit and the other wearing a blue one. Their shuttle waits behind them. 

I could go further down into the crater, but a patch of ghost matter lingers in the shadow of the bridge, a safe distance from the neutralising water below, aside from the odd splash from the falls.

It's impressive, how resilient ghost matter can be, clinging to its dwindling refuges. The waterfall that thunders down, its power reverberating through the very ground I stand on, should have made quick work of it with how it mists the air so thoroughly. The bridge provides some shelter, I suppose, but the ground is moist here, the trees that stand guard around me testament to the dampness of the soil, clouds of water droplets rising high over the bridge that disappears through the water's veil....

...Strange, that the Nomai had built a bridge to a waterfall. 

I slap my head frustratedly. I’m an idiot!

I race back to my ship, clamoring up a dozen ledges I wish I hadn’t so carelessly jumped down. By the time I reach the gravity beam, I’m panting from exertion. Still, I make the effort to pull on my hefty suit, pack and all.

When I reach the bridge again, night has befallen the crater. Days aren’t long within such steep walls, but I feel guilty for wasting time climbing rocks. My jetpack makes short work of the crumbling bridge, and soon I’m standing in the mist of the falls as they crash across the sandy stone at the far side of the crater. The Nomai wouldn’t have built a bridge to nowhere. When they walked the planet, the village tree was still standing tall. A lot can change over thousands of years. Ghost matter patches could shrink to be a fraction of what they once were. A river can change course, flowing over the lip of a crater it hadn’t a millennia before. I cross beneath the waterfall, feeling its immense power pushing down on me for only a second, and surface within a tunnel.

Why hadn’t I thought to do that before? Why hadn’t anyone thought to do that before?!

I follow the tunnel to its end, and am shocked to see where it brings me. Rocky, icy walls tower around me, capped by snow, water gurgling far beneath. Powerful geysers shoot high into the air in every corner, circling a platform decorated with brassy Nomaian designs. I’m inside the geyser mountain! And in the wall before me is a fortified door with a sight-guided ball sitting in its divot. A neighbouring signpost constructed of self-stacking rocks reads: Mining Site 2b.

All this time, it was hidden away in the geyser mountain. I look up, and an ever-present mist of scattered water makes hazy the stars beyond. We never saw it. Not even from the sky. We hadn’t been looking hard enough.

I unlock the door with a purposeful stare, and the panels slide open with ease.

As I enter the high-ceilinged tunnel, each footstep sends echoes bouncing across the walls. It’s dark. The Nomai torches lining the corridor do little to dissipate it. It clings to the roof of the cavern, to every corner, every crevice, such that each rock face is marked by gasping shadows. The cave widens, lengthens, an undisturbed quiet filling the massive cavern wholly, persevering despite the rumbling of a waterfall or the odd roar of a geyser. Minerals glow weakly from the walls, peering out like stars across the night sky, shining in every colour but not quite strong enough to shed light on their surroundings.

The gravity beam I saw from the projection pool pulses ahead. I’ve really found it. The Timber Hearth mining site.

The path I walk is wet, fragmented by small waterfalls. A Nomai skeleton is sprawled across the tile. The ruins are just as somber as all those that came before.

Using my jetpack to bring me over a gap, I follow the stone trail up, and up, until I reach a chalkboard surrounded by pots of mined ore, glowing with tiny pinpricks of starlight. I stare at the board in disbelief. Feldspar had come back from the Attlerock with the first piece of Nomai writing. Hal had sent me and Gossan there, too, to take pictures for them to decipher. Chert had sent back samples from the Hourglass Twins, Gabbro from Giant’s Deep. And this whole time, here it was—Nomai text, glowing right beneath the fields where we used to play.

Excitement rises in my chest. Finally, some ruins I won’t have to drag Hal into space to explore! They’ll be ecstatic, looking at all the history here. And the projection pool! Even if Hal doesn’t want to come exploring with me, I can bring back all the projection stones I’ve found across our solar system, and I can take them with me, tracing my journey with glimpses of all the places I’ve been.

I hold out my translator tool, eager to read what’s been hidden just out of sight for thousands of years.

“I’m still amazed by how much ore the Ash Twin Project requires!” Oeno wrote.

“Isn’t this the ore for the remaining towers being built on Ash Twin?” Cycad, Coleus’ apprentice, questioned. “The completed towers I’ve seen are quite large!”

“No, the material for those towers is all being taken from Ash Twin. The ore we’re mining here will be used to craft an immensely thick protective shell that will physically seal off the chamber inside Ash Twin’s core.”

“I’m relieved by our clan’s decision to use Timber Hearth’s ore only for constructing the shell,” Coleus added. “If, eventually, life on this planet were to evolve to the point of advanced metallurgy, I’m confident we won’t have destroyed their ability to create!”

“If they're sealing off all entrances, I hope they've planned a-core-dingly!” added Cycad unhelpfully.

“I thought you had forbidden your apprentice from making puns, Coleus,” Oeno replied.

“How else would he improve?”

Setting aside the depl-ore-able pun (I can do it too, Cycad!), I regard the exchange with great interest. While I’m glad the Nomai were cautious about leaving some ore behind for us Hearthians, I wonder what prompted them to do so. There had been life on Brittle Hollow and the Hourglass Twins, too, after all, and that didn’t stop them from carving out the subsurface of those planets. Why was Timber Hearth so special?

I continue down to the end of the path, where I see the projection pool. A projection stone sits propped against a slab of ore on a bench, and I’m surprised to find that it isn’t emblazoned with the Nomaian symbol for Hollow’s Lantern, but the symbol for the Hourglass Twins. Curiously, I set the stone in the podium in front of the nearby chalkboard.

Yarrow began, “My gratitude for the latest shipment, Oeno! This ore should be the last we’ll need for the Ash Twin Project. Once we’ve finished the shell that seals off the central chamber, we’ll check to ensure there are no longer any physical entrances. Ramie and I will be checking the interior and then the exterior for cracks (our final safety check).”

“This is exciting news!” Oeno responded. “Can I offer an extra set of eyes for this final check (specifically, mine)? If my work here is complete, I’d be delighted to help.”

“We’d be grateful if you would! The more eyes, the better, as the smallest flaw or opening in the shell that protects the Ash Twin Project could lead to disaster.”

No physical entrances. But that means…There must be a way to warp inside. The towers for the Hourglass Twins on Ash both had warp platforms, after all. One for the High Energy Lab on Ember, and one for…One for the Ash Twin Project, within Ash’s core. But I had stood on both platforms, and while one worked, the other didn't activate quick enough for me to warp before I got sucked away by the sand. There has to be some way around it, something I haven’t thought of…

Letting the thought stew in my mind, I meander around the mine, examining the cavern walls and the deep, dark void below. The faint glow of torches shine from alcoves beneath where I entered from, and a horizontal gravity beam connects the deepest one to the one that pulses upwards in the middle of the mineshaft. I drop down to it, from platform to platform. Great boreholes dig into the walls, as far as my flashlight reaches. I can’t tell how much ore they mined, but I know it must be a significant amount for them to have worried about impacting us. 

As I ride the gravity beam back up to the top, a disconcerting feeling takes root in my stomach. This site is called Mining Site 2b. Assuming Ash Twin is Mining Site 1, there’s still a missing site, and by my presumed naming convention, it must be on Timber Hearth. But another look around the cavern reveals no more tunnels, just boreholes, so where is it?

If I had paid more attention to Tuff or Tektite (or even Gossan) when they lectured me about the geology of Timber Hearth, perhaps I would know where to go looking for another mining site. It obviously isn’t connected to the geyser mountain. The starry ore that the Nomai were mining is only found at great depths, I recall that much, so the missing site has to be deep. Deep. There aren’t any other cave systems on Timber Hearth, not that I know of, not if you don’t count—

Dang it.

I’m going swimming again.

I elect to take the plunge at the peak of one of the four geyser mountains just northwest of the village. Why? Because I figured the first mining site I found had been beneath a geyser mountain, so the one I’m after might be beneath one, too. My logic seems a lot more flawed standing on the precipice looking down than it had when I piloted my ship over, but I’ve learned to finish what I start. The unanswered question of what lies hidden within the caverns of Timber Hearth pains me so much more than diving feet-first into a geyser will.

At least, I think it does. I’m trying really hard not to think about it.

I rock on my heels, building up the courage. I can do this. I’ve done much scarier things—getting eaten by an anglerfish, for one. What’s a little dip on my own planet? It’s not like I haven’t been inside a geyser before, though those had been long inactive…

Okay. I got this. One, two…

I don’t let myself get to three before I leap.

Plummeting down the long, long tunnel of the geyser reminds me of the quantum trials I faced on Giant’s Deep, except in place of a gravity beam to catch my fall, I get rushing, boiling water. As soon as my visor dips beneath the water’s surface, I’m swept away on an insurmountable current, racing over vents of magma burning beneath the rock. One, two, I sail over, but the third—

Bubbles rise, and I’m carried on a powerful stream of water, surging upwards out of the top of the fourth geyser mountain. Stone walls streak past, then a snowy tip, then I’m soaring, weightless, in open air. I see the sun on the horizon, and—

I’m falling, tumbling, straight back down into the hole I shot out of. Straight back into that current, which wastes not a second before it’s scooping me up and bringing through the subsurface rivers of Timber Hearth.

I’m blasted into an aquifer, and suddenly the water around me calms. Thank the stars. The only thing worse than being in dark water is being in moving dark water, tossed around like a leaf on the breeze. Floating aimlessly, I look around, trying to figure out where I’ve ended up. Tree roots cling to the edges of the aquifer, and the water is murky—not murky enough for me to miss the lone geyser in its centre, though. I scan the walls, seeing the river that brought me here and another that looks like it will sweep me away, and—Oh! Another geyser, against the far wall. I search the cavern for more, but…The first one I saw is gone, and the second one I saw is gone, too, and now there’s a geyser next to some tree roots, one that definitely hadn’t been there before.

Great. I know where I am. I’m in the crater that houses the quantum shard, on the south pole. It must be a really strong one, to reach all the way down here, though the one on Giant’s Deep was able to pass through several floors of the gigantic Nomaian tower within the north cyclone. At least the aquifer exit isn’t vanishing and reappearing. I swim over towards it, and I barely pass into the tunnel before I’m carried away on the current. Rocky walls speed past me, and again, everything slows to a confusing halt when I reach the sudden quietude of another aquifer.

And this one holds something special.

Nearly a dozen geysers circle the middle of the cavern. One by one they erupt, sending streams of bubbles rocketing up to the surface. There’s only one place on Timber Hearth with so many geysers: the biggest geyser mountain. I’m back where I started, but I don’t feel upset by my minor detour. No. I’m much too captivated by the purple spiral that glows in the middle of the aquifer, and the mural it illuminates.

Enraptured by my discovery, I swim over. 

The mural is much like the one above me, on the surface. It’s simple, with few details and embellishments, and the same two Nomai who had stared at the village tree with such awe are watching something else with heads tilted in curiosity. There’s a little pond, lapping the shore near their boots, clay clinging to the edges. Reeds poke out of the small pool of blue water, and three little creatures, four-legged and four-eyed, watch the Nomai with matching interest. 

There’s a tug of familiarity, seeing this mural. An unshakable belief that I know precisely what it’s depicting.

Still, I turn to the spiral below to be certain.

—

Cycad sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, legs crossed and eyes pointed over the surface of a small pond of water that pooled at the sunken entrance to a cave. His mask was beside him on the pine-needle-ridden ground. He knew Coleus would not approve of this—though the air on this beautiful little planet, filled with giant mountains and towering trees, seemed perfectly safe, Coleus was keen on ensuring that everyone kept their masks on when exploring. Cycad believed it to have something to do with the nature by which Coleus had uncovered his quantum rule. They had yet to find one such rock on this planet, and there certainly wasn’t one in this grove—Cycad had scanned for its signal to be sure—and so he felt comfortable enough to disregard Coleus' warning on this particular occasion.

Though sometimes oppressive, Cycad was truly glad Coleus worried about him as he did. He was fortunate to share such a strong bond with his mentor; so strong, in fact, that he wore the very same space suit Coleus had worn when he arrived in this solar system all those years ago, when he himself had been a new apprentice to their clan's seasoned geologist, Melorae. The gift had come on the anniversary of Cycad starting his apprenticeship, and was one that spoke volumes greater than being a simple change of clothes. Coleus was giving him the lost history of their clan, and Cycad was forever grateful the aging geologist trusted him with such a delicate and personal artifact. Though perhaps it was the foreign blue of the suit itself that had Coleus fussing over him. It contained the memories of his crash and his disappearance both, painting Cycad with a vulnerability the apprentice did not feel while relaxing beneath the trees of this wonderful, verdant planet.

Such a perspective wasn't lost on Cycad, and he treaded carefully around it, not wishing to concern his mentor any more than he did not want to miss out on the rare opportunity to explore a wilderness unknown to most Nomai. Besides, he was only taking a break, and feeling the weight of the oxygen tanks lift from his shoulders was just the respite he needed after so many hours of scanning geologic samples.

The water of the pool before him rippled and he stiffened with anticipation. Blue shapes, refracted and distorted, slid across the smooth stones at the bottom of the pond. Cycad had chosen the location of his rest carefully, and was trying to be as quiet and still as possible as he watched the water…

There! He couldn’t help but brighten when he saw them. Through the reeds and watergrasses, a little creature was crawling. It nosed at the sediment along the margin of the pond, scuffling through the vegetation clinging to its edges. Cycad froze as he watched it. Blue skin glistened in the sunlight, slippery and patterned, smooth. The creature walked on four short legs, a laterally flattened tail trailing behind it, and a large, robust skull housed four orange-yellow eyes. In the water, blue ripples blinked, several pairs of eyes staring at him curiously, with their lower two eyes surely scanning the water below for any sign of danger.

Fascinating.

As the one ventured further out from the water, a couple of others followed. Two, at first, then four more, sticking to the cover of the reeds. They were amphibious, and preferred to stay close to the water’s edge, where food was plentiful and escape was but a short dash away. Cycad had never met such creatures before, but heard stories from the past, when the Nomai were truly interstellar explorers. Imagine! Envisioning himself aboard a Vessel, hopping from star system to star system, was just as impossible as imagining himself as one of these semi-aquatic creatures. What would it be like to live half-in and half-out of water? To scurry across the soil just as efficiently as one could dart through the pool? What would it be like to cross between stars just as deftly?

The intrepid adventurer of the bunch, that one that had first emerged from the water, meandered its way over. Cycad made himself as small as possible as not to frighten it away, but unlike the others that clung to the vegetation, this one did not seem bothered at all by his presence. The little creature sniffed at his mask where it sat in the red soil, then stared up at him with its four incredible eyes, blinking out of sync with each other.

“Oh,” Coleus muttered. “Hello!”

As he stared into the soft innocence of the creature's eyes, Cycad wondered what it made of him. Of this huge creature before it, fur and horns so alien. Was it Cycad's stillness that brought the creature to him? The strangeness of his mask? Or was it the colouration of his suit, a shade too familiar to belong to anything but a friend?

In response to Cycad's unvoiced questions, the little creature made a noise, something between a squeak and a croak, then continued on its way.

Beside him, Cycad’s staff lit up. A message from Coleus, asking when he would return to the mine. My! Cycad hadn’t realised just how much time had passed. Being cautious not to startle the creatures as they foraged, Cycad pulled his mask over his horns and made his way back to the mining site proper, a strange feeling making home within his chest.

—

“After closer observation,” Coleus started, “Mining Site 2a wouldn’t be safe for the native life dwelling in some of this cave’s pools, so (unfortunately) we’ll have to mine one of the other sites. On the opposite hand, new life! This species is semi-aquatic, and very hardy. The ecosystem here is quite robust, so I believe they’ll thrive in the long run. Be cautious near the pools if you visit 2a to meet them.”

“I was watching them once during a rest, and the hours escaped from me,” Cycad added. “They’re fascinating. I wonder what their fourth eye does!”

“They remind me of a subterranean species that my mentor, Melorae, once told me about (from when our clan used to travel across this universe). I imagine she would have enjoyed these lifeforms greatly.”

“There are a few other cave sites that look promising. What about site 2b (it shares similar formations and strata)?”

“This sounds promising!” Oeno joined in. “Will you and your mentor investigate? If Mining Site 2b proves safe for this native species, we’ll move our work there.”

“Site 2b is safe!” Cycad replied. “Coleus says we’ll continue to monitor our activity and its effect on life here.”

Were those…Hearthians? Not Hearthians, exactly, but proto-Hearthians? We would have still been confined to the water’s edges when the Nomai were living in this solar system. I thought I had been the first to meet a Nomai in the flesh, but apparently I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The Nomai were as enraptured by us as we are of them. They had even moved their mining site away from us to keep us safe. Mining Site 2a—near where the proto-Hearthians had emerged from the subterranean caverns to forage—was that the village crater? *Our* crater?

It must have been. The mural beneath the bridge showed me exactly where the Nomai had first landed on our planet. They were in search of ore, an ore more resilient than any other, and I can't help but think of the hardy rock that lies in the Zero-G Cave, compressed so much by the forces of the overburden around it that it can repel any pickaxe swung at its surface. So hardy, in fact, that we had to design a drill to even make a dent.

For whatever reason, they had looked into our eyes and saw promise. They had left us enough ore to mine, an ecosystem to thrive in, clean water to drink. That was why the Nomai chose not to live on Timber Hearth. For us.

I can’t help but read over the exchange, again, and again, and again, as a warmth not from the scaldingly hot water around me fills my chest. ‘I wonder what their fourth eye does’ sends a chuckle bubbling up in my throat. Thinking back to it, hadn’t Solanum complimented my eyes, too? I’d think it strange, if we Hearthians hadn’t wondered what their third eye does. They would have probably thought the question to be just as amusing.

I push myself away from the mural. Amazing. It’s all been right under our noses this whole time—this wonderful little piece of shared Nomai-Hearthian history. This mural doesn’t deserve to stay hidden beneath the water in the belly of a geyser mountain. It deserves to be in the museum, where everyone can see it, where everyone can appreciate this message of where we came from. It wouldn’t be difficult to move. As long as I wrap it up well enough, we could ride the geysers out of here. 

That’s a job for future-me. 

I see the telltale bubbling of a geyser ready to erupt, and I swim over just as the pressure breaks. The water blasts me up and out of the pool, and a hand on my jetpack controls directs me down onto the brass-gilded platform in the middle of the mountain's vent. I check my map. The Interloper is gone, the sun red and bloated. I sit on the ledge of the platform and kick my boots over the edge, gazing down into the boiling water, the hint of Nomai purple reflected across the surface, and I wait.

I never used to wait around so much. I used to always have something to do, something to occupy myself with, between the program and the translator tool and the village.

It’s nice, to wait. I don’t think I would have thought so in the beginning.

The sun explodes into a dazzling display. Energy waves pulse ever outwards, and I know that somewhere within Ash Twin an ancient device is powering up.

I am only here because of the Nomai. In every possible way. Our ships run on their technology, the Ash Twin Project keeps us alive when we should have died nine million times over. The Nomai had been there when we were first starting out in this solar system. They deserve for me to return the favour. 

It’s time to head back to Dark Bramble.

Chapter Text

Dark Bramble is no less eerie now that I’ve explored Feldspar’s camp. In fact, it’s all the more terrible. I’ve been to the one safe haven within, the one place with trees and a fire and a friend, and I don’t delude myself into thinking that another such place exists. 

The Nomai had been ensnared by the great, strangling vines. They had seen the anglerfish as they made their escape. Never once had they dared return to Dark Bramble, as far as I’m aware. For a species that had made their homes within sand-filled caves and under crumbling crust, that had set up workstations at the brink of a black hole and on a molten moon, it spoke volumes that they hadn’t returned to the place where it all began.

Relics from an ancient race are buried within fog and vines. Knowledge that the Nomai who had survived the crash here had lost. Technology far beyond Hearthian understanding. Far beyond even the Nomai survivors’ understanding. 

The Eye had called them here, to this place. I know so much about Dark Bramble now, even if I can’t fully comprehend or explain what I know. But it distorts space, somehow. The Eye’s signal must have slipped into a bramble seed, bouncing around and duplicating in the fog. The Nomai had warped here. They had followed the wrong signal.

I know I am not going to like what I find. I won’t feel that thrill of discovery I’ve spent so much of my life chasing. But I have to go, if only for the reason that I’m the only one who can. Just like I had found Poke and Pye, just like how I had found Solanum, I need to find the passengers of Escape Pod Three. I need to find the Vessel. I owe it to them.

I hover at the edge of the central seed, stars twinkling around me. I flick on my Signalscope, but I don’t turn it to the frequency we Outer Wilds astronauts use to communicate. No harmonica fills my cabin. Instead, I hear that sorrowful wail of a distress beacon, the same sound I heard from Brittle Hollow and Ember Twin. It keens out from the seed, from the haze within. I don’t know where it will take me. I don’t know if I can even reach it. The irony of following an enticing, ancient signal into a maze of thorns isn’t lost on me. But I have to try.

My hands are firm on my ship controls. The signal is strong. Slowly, I push my ship into the mist.

I’m in the first chamber. White lights—some nodes, some anglerfish—surround me, their natures obscured by the thick, otherworldly fog. That singular red light beckons to me, but I don’t give in to its lure. Flashes of teeth and wet flesh play across my vision, and I know I won’t be taking any unnecessary risks. Not today. Today, I am going to follow the beacon the crash survivors never could. 

It calls out from the rightmost light. Silently, I direct my ship towards it, coasting silently on my existing momentum within the near-vacuum of Dark Bramble. It brings me through a tangle of twisting vines, past thorns taller than my ship. The echoing cry of the beacon burrows into my skull, reverberating across bone. My mind distorts the sound until it becomes a grating noise in my ears, as much a part of the ambience as the distant hissing of anglerfish. When I’m 400 metres away, the fog parts, and I see the shape of a bramble seed take form before me.

Carefully, I steer into it. Not once do I take my eyes off the glowing seed. If there’s an anglerfish breathing down my back, I don’t want to know, not until the teeth close around my ship and I’m crushed.

I travel through the vines that connect the strange, interdimensional spaces of Dark Bramble’s seeds, and arrive at a chamber with yet another red light. Two bramble seeds—or lures—glow from the surrounding fog. I aim my ship at every light I see, but I never quite lock onto the origin of the beacon’s signal. Focusing on the coordinates of the beacon, I steer my ship blindly towards it, towards a dim corner of the room. Centipedes drift through the air. Shards of ice shine bright and stark in the light of my headlights. Something moves to my left, and I stiffen, fearing the worst, but the world beyond my ship is quiet. It’s not an anglerfish. As I get closer, I see it more clearly—a huge, spinning fragment of ice. As it drifts, and as my ship streaks through the void, we almost collide. I let out a breath as the ice slides harmlessly past my windshield. My skin shivers with dread. Though that movement had been harmless, I don’t think I’m alone in this chamber.

I pass by more shards of ice, more remnants of the frozen planet that came before. The empty space in the middle of this seed gives way to a forest of twisting vines, and every muscle is tensed to straining as I make minor adjustments to my flight path to dodge the emerging obstacles. The glow of the red light brightens, and I know that I’m uncomfortably close to it, whatever it is.

I weave gently and sluggishly through the vines. Occasionally I hear my ship creak as I graze a vine or thorn, but the sound is quiet enough that I fail to draw any attention. As I dip below a vine, sticking close to the imagined safety provided by the thorns, I see the glint of metal ahead.

I’ve done it.

The shape is unmistakable. The strange, swirling figure of it, curving like a seed pod, corroded by time and neglect. Escape Pod Three.

It’s cradled by a giant mass of vines, all twisting and curling around each other. The branches are so close together, trapping the pod within. It’s no wonder why it hadn’t found its way out. I slow my ship to a stop beside it. Within the clutches of the vines, I’m in relative safety—the anglerfish I’ve seen are much too big to reach me here.

The escape pod is…destroyed. Dents and large holes pocket the sides of its exterior, whole panels ripped from its hull. I’m not sure what I had expected, Dark Bramble isn’t exactly hospitable, but for a pod that had travelled across such a small distance, the extent of the damage is astonishing. For Escape Pod Three, there was no spectacular plunge into a strange, new world. Light from our sun never touched its hull. Its passengers never got to see anything of our wonderful solar system, except the dark, and the vines, and the fog. It’s sad, that of all the amazing sights that fill my home, this was all they had gotten.

I flip off my Signalscope, and am thrust into an unsettling quiet. There’s no motion beyond my ship. Everything is still and muted. 

Placing a hand on my jetpack controls, I drop out of my hatch. I stabilize myself quickly and quietly, then turn my sights towards the last of the Vessel’s escape pods.

Just like the other two pods, the top exit door had been removed. The distress beacon sings from where it hangs, frozen, above the top of the pod. Energy pulses down the wire connecting it to the interior, and carefully, I make my way inside.

It’s been a long while since I’ve been inside an escape pod. I forgot how hauntingly foreign they are. Alien metals decorate the colourless walls. And yet, the geometric inlays are recognisably Nomaian in design, and the torches that glow white instead of yellow spiral in familiar patterns. The architecture that fills the solar system is not identical to what came before, but I suppose the same could be said of the Nomai that lived here, too. 

Dark Bramble had changed so much. It had altered the course of the Nomai irrevocably, and, in turn, sent us Hearthians looking for answers in the stars.

Not for the first time, I wonder what a universe without Dark Bramble would look like. But, as much as I despise the dark planet, it’s not at fault for what happened. It didn’t capture the Vessel with malintent. At least, I don’t think it did. Just like the Interloper, there was no greater goal, no purpose to the tragedy. It just was.

A purple glow entices me further down the halls. A recorder floats in the air, and I tug my translator tool from its holster. 

—

No lights flashed against the walls as Escape Pod Three rocketed away from the Vessel. 

There had been nothing else they could do. The vines had ensnared their ship so greatly, wounded it so mortally, that their only option had been to flee. Escall’s heart would be breaking, if it wasn’t pounding with an energy so explosively powerful within his chest. All around him, the escape pod was shaking. Shivering, trembling, in the unnatural air of the dark tangle of vines they had found themselves in. He trusted the pods, but he had trusted the Vessel, too.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Empowered by the success of their last festival, they were supposed to warp to that strange signal and discover all the greatest secrets of their universe. They were supposed to redefine the meaning of space-time. They were supposed to expose the origin of everything. Instead, somehow, they had ended up here, in a deadly mass of vines that were so strong that they pierced their Vessel with a cruel ease. Escall’s final glance down the halls he had been raised in would never leave him for as long as he would live. Nomai, members of his clan, rushed to any escape pod they could. But halls had been crushed, connections severed, and not everyone had been able to find a space suit before the air was sucked out into the vacuum beyond. Only three of the five pods survived. The other two, for whatever reason, hadn’t launched. The Nomai who had sheltered inside…

Those deaths were on his hands. If only he had listened to his crew. If only he hadn’t warped so readily into the unknown. Some regions of space were unexplored for good reason, he had come to learn. But his mistakes, he could never remedy. Not ones so permanent.

The pod abruptly heaved, and an ear-piercing shriek echoed throughout the corridor. Escall rushed to press a hand to the side of his chamber to steady himself. The pod should be self-stabilizing. He shouldn’t feel each and every collision as they ricocheted between vines and thorns in their escape. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong—

Screams sounded through the pod as they slammed into another vine. Dislodged panels slid across the floor, sparks rained down from the ceiling. Escall heard exclamations of pain, and he felt his own skin tender beneath his suit. 

MULTIPLE COLLISIONS HAVE ALTERED POD’S TRAJECTORY. SIGNIFICANT DAMAGE TO POD DETECTED.

More screams as the pod heaved again. Its propellant just kept carrying them into more and more vines. Thorns scraped against the sides of the pod and Escall slammed his hands over his ears to block out the screeching. He felt the pain of the pod in his very bones, shivering up his spine. The guidance system. The pod should know better, it should learn from its mistakes, it should redirect their course—

The pod collided once more into a hard surface, and Escall was thrown against the side of his faulty chamber. He shouted in sharp pain, his shoulder screaming louder than the pod. Warning lights splashed suddenly onto every surface, alarms blaring as the ship continued to sail through the maze of vine.

NAVIGATION ERROR. LIFE SUPPORT ERROR. PROPULSION ERROR.

There was one last impact. One last plunge into vines before the pod settled. The propulsion finally failed, and the tangle of wood had finally halted their pod.

Escall let out a cry of relief. They weren’t safe yet, far from it, but he couldn’t help but celebrate the end of that tempestuous flight. He opened his chamber lock and stumbled out into the hall.

Few others joined him.

He tested his shoulder. It was tense, and sore from the impact, but nothing was broken. 

The torches flickered along the walls. Coolant dripped from broken seams in the ceilings. Distantly, he heard hissing. If life support had been damaged, there was only one thing that could mean: They were losing their oxygen. Fast.

“Everyone, suits on, now!” he ordered, and those who were not already within their masks pulled them over their faces. 

Escall staggered over to the terminal, his boots unsteady on the tilted floors. He could feel the weight of his body fluctuating with each step. They must have sustained damage to their electrical systems. The pod was, thankfully, following emergency protocol and redirecting power to only the most vital systems. That meant their artificial gravity was faltering. It wouldn’t last much longer. Upon reaching the terminal, Escall initiated an environment scan. As it searched, he scrambled over to a panel and pried it loose, freeing the emergency beacon from within.

“Din! Set this up outside.”

Din nodded. As she went to lift the beacon, her boots rose from the floor.

“Artificial gravity has failed,” Escall announced. Good, he thought. It will make Din’s work easier. While she drifted to the upper level to set out the beacon, Secca floated over to the observation deck.

“Life support has additionally failed,” he reported.

Escall didn’t look at him. Instead, he gazed out the window, at the vines and haze beyond. Something in the distance was shining white.

“I know,” Escall replied.

The environment scan completed, and Escall read the results.

Gravity not detected. Breathable air not detected. Multiple lifeforms detected (potentially hostile). Verdict: DO NOT EXIT POD.

Escall sucked in a sharp breath.

“What does this mean?” Secca asked.

“It means we do not leave the pod. We must wait for rescue.”

“But–”

Din drifted down from the upper levels. Escall glanced at the beacon’s cable. The purple glow of power pulsed steadily up the wire.

“Our friends can find us now,” Din said, but she hesitated. After a quick moment of deliberation, she continued. “There were these strange lights outside. They’re coming closer.”

Escall could see them. Outside of the window, one light became three. Their lights brightened, and the fog weakened, until he could just make out the glint of sharp teeth.

Perhaps those weren’t vines they had collided with on their flight.

“Stay near, everyone,” Escall ordered. “And brace yourselves.”

—

“Our escape pod crashed as we tried to flee this place, destroying our movement and communication capabilities in the process. We’ve held out as long as we could here, but this pod’s supply of breathable air is nearly depleted, and the anglerfish attack more and more frequently. Our best chance at survival is to return to the Vessel to either repair the damage or, more probably, await rescue.”

It was a Nomai named Secca who had recorded the message. I’m not familiar with the name.

“Secca, is the message finished?” Escall asked. “The Vessel’s beacon is already growing fainter; it will be gone in a matter of hours. We need to leave here, quickly.”

Another name I do not recognise. That pit of sorrow in my stomach grows. I’ve known it, but it’s one thing to piece it together from clues scattered around the solar system and another entirely to watch it play out for myself.

The passengers of Escape Pod Three never left Dark Bramble. 

The anglerfish had attacked. Escape Pod Three had been the first to launch—had it unintentionally lured the fish away while Pods One and Two flew to safety?

I guide myself through the hallways. They curve back over themselves, in the same circuitous hollow that all the escape pods share. When I reach the bottommost level, I find another recorder, glowing with text. 

“There is a new problem,” another Nomai I don’t know, Din, explained. “Our equipment is detecting two distinct beacons from the Vessel.”

I let out a breath.

“But it isn’t possible for the Vessel to be in two different locations at the same time,” said Secca.

“I agree, but the beacons are exactly identical to each other. Perhaps if I had more time—”

“We’re nearly out of time already, Din,” Secca pushed. “The Vessel’s beacon is quickly fading. Soon, it will be gone, and we will be lost.”

“We will follow the beacon whose source is nearest to us,” Escall decided.

Din wasn’t convinced. “But suppose that beacon is false!”

“We likely don’t have enough air to reach the farther of the two beacons, Din. The decision is made for us. We’ll leave a trail of lights as we go. There’s still a chance someone could hear our escape pod’s distress signal.”

The Nomai didn’t know. They didn’t realise that the duplicate signals of Dark Bramble had been what brought them here. Their survival had been reduced to a guessing game, one they had a 50 percent chance of losing. Had they made it back to their Vessel?

Would it have done anything to help them if they had?

The sight-guided ball lights up as I turn towards the escape hatch. I round the ball around the lock’s corners, and the hatch shoots away, down through a spiral of twisting vines. A trail of lanterns unlike any I have ever seen before, both modern and ancient in design, light the way, disappearing into the thick fog in the distance.

Quietly, I propel myself outside.

It’s a long and winding path I follow. Leaving my ship behind, I coast only on my jetpack fuel. My hand is steady. My pace is subdued. There’s no rush to reach some invigorating discovery. My chest is strained with all the same compressing emotions I had felt approaching the Interloper. There, too, I was travelling through confusing tunnels, navigating dangers nonnative to my solar system. There, too, my goal was to reach something I knew I didn’t want to learn about. Unlike us Hearthians, the Nomai hadn’t had a peaceful start to their time here. There had been no one there to watch over them, to protect them. No one to sprinkle wise words across the planets, no one to leave behind guiding murals.

Distinctly, I recall my first journey into Dark Bramble. Before I knew how the bramble seeds worked, before I knew the anglerfish were blind. All of the things I didn’t understand—they terrified me. Terror. That was the first feeling the Nomai had ever felt here. Followed by a deep, harrowing sense of loss. 

The vines dip down, and the lanterns continue to trace their lengths, so I follow. A light shines beyond. A young bramble seed pokes out from between the vines, leathery flowers peeling back over its woody face, a tangle of juvenile thorns encircling the dim light it emanates. Its entrance is wide enough for my Little Scout to enter. Wide enough for my Little Scout, but little else.

I know what I’m about to find before the scene before me comes into focus. The trail of lanterns ends. The Nomai had followed the wrong signal.

The passengers of Escape Pod Three never left Dark Bramble.

And I know this, because here they are.

There are ten of them, all huddled around the seed. Frozen, just like all Nomai, in their final moments, though these deaths had come much, much earlier. A few gather around the entrances to the seed. Some grip the arms of their friends. All are motionless, hovering in the vacuum of Dark Bramble, untouched, unseen, for hundreds of thousands of years. Their masks are made of metal, not stone, and tarnished. Their suits are tattered and discoloured, though around the seams where cloth meets clasp, I can see a hint of blue. 

For some strange reason, I think of the murals on Timber Hearth. Of Coleus, no longer the apprentice he was when he arrived here, and Cycad. It had been Cycad wearing the blue suit, I assume, if he had been much younger (and shorter) than his mentor. A colour so distinctly unlike the clothes that Solanum wore. Had Coleus passed down that relic to his apprentice? A memory from a time before their walls were made of sand-coloured stone? Before they had lost so many to the thorns and teeth of Dark Bramble?

A purple glow shines across a white mask, mottled by time. A recording log hangs in the air beside the Nomai, as if it had slipped from their hands mere seconds ago as opposed to millennia. I hold up my translator and scan their final words.

“To any who come here searching for us: We followed one of the two beacons from the Vessel to this place, but now can go no further. It’s almost too faint to hear now, but the Vessel’s beacon is still faintly emitting from within this thorny seed. Yet the opening is too small for even a single Nomai to fit through it, so our escape pod couldn’t have flown through here. I don’t understand how this could be possible, but this gruesome place seems able to manipulate space itself; maybe this was our undoing. To be so close to the location of the Vessel and still so far is…difficult. Worse, the Vessel’s beacon is dying; soon, we will be unable to hear it. There is nothing we can do now but try to perhaps find a way inside, or at least attempt to comprehend why this happened.

“My dearest hope is that the other escape pods were able to reach relative safety.”

My translator tells me the note was authored by Secca. I look to the skeleton next to me. Secca.

I wish I knew more about their life. I wish I could recall all of their successes, so I could acknowledge them here, in this moment, like I had for Pye, and Poke, and Clary, and Solanum. I wish I could put a memory to their body, so they would have something for someone in this universe to remember them by.

My eyes turn to the bramble seed. Secca was brave. They must have been, to shoulder such a realisation with as much composure as they had. All of the Nomai around me, Din, and Escall, must have been so incredibly brave. Knowing that death is coming, that you can’t do anything to stop it, knowing that so many loose threads dangle from your life…is hard. It’s something I wish I was a little less familiar with.

Respectfully, I move away from Secca, letting them rest. They’re just bones, now, just bones, but…there’s something suffocatingly still about this place, and I don’t want to be the one to disturb such a morbid time capsule.

I cruise over to the bramble seed, to an opening away from the gathered Nomai. I take out my Signalscope and hold it to the bright fog within.

Nothing.

I switch frequencies. Nothing. Again. Nothing. The Vessel has been silent for a very, very long time.

But sound isn’t the only signal to transmit through the bramble seeds. Tucking away my Signalscope, I ready my Scout Launcher, and fire my Little Scout into the seed. It shoots forward, and I shoot back with an equal force. I’m quick to slow myself to a stop before I fly out into the great void beyond. There’s an error message next to my Scout’s location marker. A duplicate signal. My one Scout is 800 metres away, and the other…

The other is over a kilometre away, the signal perfectly overlapping with that strange red light. I don’t know what that light is. If it’s from the Vessel, surely the Nomai would have known where to go searching. It must be something else, and something else within Dark Bramble sends shivers up my spine.

It’s only then that I think to take a picture.

My picture is blurry. I took it much too late—just before my Scout settled. But through the fog, and the vines, and the darkness surrounding the photo’s edges…I see a twist of metal that I recognise only from murals.

The Vessel is here. It’s close. And I know that I have to find it.

An alert pops up across my display. 60 SECONDS OXYGEN REMAINING.

Shoot.

I race back to my ship, thrusters at full power, not caring if the anglerfish hear me—I’m dead either way. But the world around me is as silent as it’s ever been, and though I know there were anglerfish swimming around these vines thousands of years ago, there don’t seem to be any around now.

I almost overshoot my ship, but putting my retro-rockets to good use remedies that. I make it inside with only a few seconds to spare, and breathe a sigh of relief as my oxygen tanks refill inside my cabin. I try not to think about the fact that the Nomai hadn’t been so fortunate. 

As I collapse into the pilot’s seat, I stare at the signal outside of my ship, surrounded by that red glow that is so out of place within the monochrome haze of Dark Bramble. Reflexively, I pull up my map to gauge how much time I have left, only to remember that my map doesn’t work within the bramble seeds when I’m met with a familiar error message. 

Does the precise amount of time I have left matter? 

Deciding it doesn’t, I set course for the duplicate signal of my Scout. I apply a minor amount of thrust—hopefully not enough to give away my location to any lurking anglerfish—and cruise in silence towards the big, red question mark one kilometre away. It doesn’t take long for that question mark to become a little less question-mark-y.

A bramble seed takes form. Out of every entrance, that strange red light shines. The fiery haze around it reminds me, oddly enough, of Timber Hearth. The sky burns with that same diffuse glow when a fire rages on the horizon. Perhaps that’s why the sight makes my stomach turn in the worst way.

Resigned, I guide my ship inside.

It takes all my willpower not to turn back immediately. 

A red glow lies in the middle of the chamber, and it is surrounded by lights. Seven, from a quick count. Three of which wait close to the entrance of the vine I’m sailing through, all attached to long, spindly arcs of scabbed skin…

The anglerfish hiss. My ship is going much too fast.

My hands are stiff on my controls. My heart is pounding so hard I hear it beat in my ears. I want to pull my ship back, to blast it forward, to steer it away from the three, yawning mouths that grin toothily at me, but I can’t. I’m screaming at myself to move, but my body doesn’t listen, and my ship drifts ever closer, carried on a momentum untempered by friction.

I don’t breathe as my ship sails straight towards the nearest one. 

Its fangs are so close to my ship. They almost tap against my hull, but they don’t. The anglerfish’s weak eyes look through me, and as my ship passes right by its gaping mouth, it lets out a hiss I feel deep down in my blood. Its lure curls around me as I sail right through its arc. And then I’m past.

I take in a shaky breath as I pass another anglerfish, and then the third, each one primed to scoop me up in their great maws. But I stay absolutely silent. For once, my panic saves my life.

When all three anglerfish are behind me, I feel myself finally untense. I know they’re still well within range to hear me, but I’m far enough away that I won’t accidentally bump into one. They still hiss, and gurgle, and I swear I can feel the air stir within my ship every time they do. This will never be like Brittle Hollow or Ember Twin or Giant’s Deep. The fear will never be tamed by familiarity.

I’m drawing closer to the duplicate signal of my Scout, which blinks from a dark corner of the chamber below me. I’m drawing closer, too, to the source of the red light. Though I steer my ship downwards, I can’t help but look up. Shadows coalesce into a globular form, and as the mist clears, I see the glint of red light off of something bulging, and twitching, and wet. Shadows flick and spin from within each module, and when a tiny, unseeing eye flickers, I feel sick.

Eggs.

No wonder the anglerfish are guarding the entrance. I’ve stumbled into their nest. They’re territorial, unless they’re brooding. 

Some things are better left unknown.

Eagerly, I tear my eyes away and stare at the signal from my Little Scout. Two more anglerfish watch over the eggs, and I’m careful with my adjustments. Neither of them move. 

A field of vines emerges from the haze, and fortunately I don’t have to do much to avoid them. My little ship drifts right into their centre, and a bramble seed, with a light so dim I can hardly distinguish it from the diffuse glow of the fog, sits within.

There are no lights on the other side of this bramble seed. No glow of other seeds, no anglerfish lures, no eggs. Vines twist and turn and branch like tree roots around me, stretching into the jaundiced mist. A few centipedes scuttle about, but everything else is motionless. The silence is deafening, and so is every little flick and creak of my controls as I navigate the dense forest.

I’m 700 metres away. Then 650. Then 600…

And then I see it.

It’s a shape so easily distinguishable from the naturalistic spirals of the bramble vines. The perfect suggestion of a dome, framed by criss-crossing beams of alien metal, sticks out from a tangle of the strangling vines, the jellyfish-like tentacles I had seen in murals streaming out firmly beneath it. Five great arms stretch out from its epicentre, reaching far beyond the bulk of the ship, five more smaller arms alternating in the same pattern beneath. Two, gripped by vines, hold the spiraling shapes of Nomai escape pods. Escape Pods Four and Five. 

Lights pulse, torches drift in the still air, and I feel as though I’m in a dream, seeing a blurry memory that doesn’t belong to me. Massive vines pierce the hull, splintering bolstered metal, tearing the fortified ship apart as if it were made of paper.

It’s larger than life. Bigger than I could have imagined. A true interstellar city, capable of housing all the Nomai I’ve learned of and more. So many more.

Blue sparks begin to fly around me.

“No!”

Racing against the clock, I unbuckle my safety harness and jump to my ship log. With fumbling fingers I make note of my location. The deep space satellite doesn’t know where I am, but I hope my ship does. I use Slate’s newest navigational aid to mark the final resting place of the Vessel, and I save my log just as the world burns blue around me.

Chapter Text

I stand in my ship and squint skeptically at my log from across the cabin. 

I haven’t checked it yet. I’m too afraid to, because if the coordinates hadn’t been saved, or if Slate’s modification doesn’t work, or if it doesn’t interact with the time loop like the rest of my log does, I’ll have to do the whole thing over again. And I know, from experience, that if I have to find the escape pod, and the false signal bramble seed, and the nest, and the Vessel, I won’t have enough time at the end of the loop to explore. I’ll never have enough time to explore.

So, I stand. And I glare, as if my glaring will somehow force the coordinates I saved to work. I glare for a few minutes, until I realise that if I really do have to do it all over again, my time is quickly escaping me.

I’ll have to find out sooner or later. I cross over the creaking wooden boards of my ship, and open my log. The entry for the Vessel looks a lot longer than it did before. Good. That’s promising.

The location is saved. I let out a laugh in relief, but stop myself short of skipping around my cockpit joyfully. There’s still no guarantee that it’ll take me where I want to go. Though, when I buckle in and see the marker displayed over my map, I’m hopeful. It aligns perfectly with Dark Bramble.

I blast off and shoot towards the dark planet with practiced hands. The trip is quick, painless, and my display is still showing that the Vessel lies within the central seed. Nodding to myself, I steer my ship inside.

I am greeted by a chamber with a familiar pattern of lights. Thank goodness the nodes are always the same. I suppose they would have to be, in the time loop—there’s no opportunity for them to rearrange themselves. Still. It’s nice. Predictable. And in the low visibility of Dark Bramble, predictable is ideal. 

Also predictably, duplicate signals appear on my display. One points to a white nodule to my right, and the other waits right in front of me, surrounded by a malevolent red glow. The anglerfish nest.

Of course, by comparison, the signal from the white node is all the more tempting. But I know how that will end. That signal will be calling to me from a juvenile seed, the one nestled within a tangle of vines that had ensnared the Nomai escape pod. I’ve already replayed history once, following that disingenuous promise of safety. I don’t want to replay it again.

So, I look to the red node. I know what waits for me there, too. A whole swarm of anglerfish, jaws gaping, hungry. And, beyond, the dim seed where the Vessel crashed. The coordinates seem to be working, so I should be able to find it without having to drop by Escape Pod Three first. That’ll save a decent amount of time, but it’ll send me right past those three anglerfish that guard the entrance. I had scraped by last time, but there’s no telling where they’ll be. If one is fully blocking my path…

I’ll have to pass them regardless. At least once I get through, I’ll hopefully have a beacon to follow. 

Dark Bramble is a maze, but, as I’m learning, it’s a predictable maze. Maybe that applies to the anglerfish, too. Last time, three guarded the entrance to the nest. In my panic, I had seized up, frozen as my ship surged forward on carried momentum alone. No thrusters. No minor adjustments. Just a speedy entrance followed by patience. If I, for once, can prepare before throwing myself into the fray, perhaps I can actually manage to explore the Vessel without dying painfully first.

Well, here goes.

I cruise gently through the fog. My head is a little steadier this time, and thinking things through gives my nerves some time to adjust. Dark Bramble is still far from peaceful, and my teeth are still on edge, and my skin still crawls every time a centipede flies by, but my heart rate is…not overly excessive. Warranted. My heart rate is warranted. 

A white light brightens. The telltale string of a lure curves out from around it, and I hold still. That ship-devouring mouth emerges from the fog, long teeth glinting. But its dead eyes don’t move, and though a guttural hiss rattles my ship, I drift by undetected. 

And then I reach the red seed, and I guide my ship into one of its many entrances, and the world around me glows with so many more lights than it had before. I fix my ship on the nest in the chamber’s centre, ignoring my instinct to bring my ship anywhere but between the mouths of three waiting—and protective—anglerfish. But I drift straight by them, too, and once I’ve put a decent enough distance between me and any white lights, I quietly pilot my ship down towards the only signal for the Vessel I see.

Soon enough, I’m steering through a mass of vines. I dip into the yellow fog, disappear down a bramble vine, and arrive in the final node, towering thorns swirling around me. Light slices through the mist, torches reflecting against battered white metal, and the Vessel reveals itself to me yet again. The discovery feels no less significant the second time around. I let my jaw drop as I take in the magnificence of such an amazingly huge ship as I drift ever nearer. My awe is uninterrupted by any supernovas, and I take in every detail until I’m much too close to see anything but my way in.

Debris hangs in the air, undisturbed for an unfathomable amount of time. A massive bramble vine rips through the hull, and I spot the smooth white walls of an exposed interior corridor. I give my retro-rockets a gentle boost, and slow to a stop just above one of the unlaunched escape pods.

Saying this place has been lost for hundreds of thousands of years is…impersonal. How could anyone grasp such a timeframe? So, instead, I think of it in vignettes. Two generations of Nomai had lived while their ancestral ship rotted away. Lifespans had passed. Annona had passed. Melorae had passed. And others, too, I’m sure—so many names that had been common within the Nomai’s oldest writings but faded into obscurity by the time the Ash Twin Project was fully underway. Filix. Thatch. Plume. Bur. Rhus. Kousa. The only one of the original survivors I am sure had lived to see the project completed was Coleus, and he had been an apprentice when the Vessel was captured. He must have been young. So young. What must it have been like to be one of the few to remember a time when Nomai lived amongst the stars?

But the Vessel has seen so much more than that. The Interloper arrived. The Nomai’s time came and went. The Quantum Moon circled the sixth location: the Eye of the universe that had stopped calling out its signal so long ago. Brittle Hollow crumbled. The Hourglass Twins exchanged their sand. Our sun evolved, and the universe evolved around it. How many galaxies have died since the Vessel first became trapped here? How many supernovae have sparkled in the sky?

Little, four-eyed, four-legged, semi-aquatic creatures left their watery world behind. They adapted to land, they figured out how to light warming fires, how to create music, how to tell stories. They learned how to cook delicious food, and make not-so-delicious wines. They found artifacts and ruins of those who had come before, and a select few of them felt that the land, just like the water, wasn’t enough, and turned their eyes skyward. The Vessel had been here for the evolution of my entire species, the development of our entire culture. 

And still, after putting the time into so many words, it’s incomprehensible.

I’m looking at the most ancient, the most foreign, the most enigmatic construction in my solar system. A myriad of feelings circle each other inside me, but one stands out among the many: pure, unbridled wonder. 

What knowledge waits for me within the unnaturally smooth walls? It doesn’t matter. I’ve gotten all I wanted to get from my visit to the Vessel. The Nomai were there when we Hearthians first started out in this solar system, and now I’ve returned the favour, albeit hundreds of thousands of years too late. 

I wish the Ash Twin Project was stronger. All I want to do is to send a message back in time, to thank them for all they’ve done for us—knowingly and unknowingly.

I’ve sat here long enough. Unbuckling my safety harness, I climb out of my ship.

As I get closer to the hall, to the blue sparking of weak electricity snapping across tenuous connections, I see something I hadn’t been able to see from my ship.

The skeletons.

And now my gut wrenches, and I feel as though I’ve been glorifying a gravesite. 

The Vessel is not some mystery waiting to be uncovered. It’s a place where a horrible tragedy unfolded. One so horrible I can only imagine how deeply the survivors had been troubled by it.

Is the hardest part of this tragedy not knowing who we may have lost? Or will the hardest part come later, when we learn?

The pain of your absence is sharp and haunting, and I would give anything not to know it; anything but never knowing you at all (which would be worse).

I am unsure how to survive in this place without you…I am unsure how to be me without you.

All those lamentations, etched into the walls of a makeshift shelter beneath unstable crust, hovering at the edge of a black hole, cowering beneath meteoric collisions. If I could ask the Nomai around me anything, I would ask for their names, so someone alive would know them.

When I reach the hallway, there is only one direction to go. It curves, following the exterior of the ship, locked corridors branching off from my path, burrowing both deeper into the central mass of the ship and towards its extremities. Potted trees, skeletal and petrified, sit at measured increments along the hall. One door is open, immediately to my right, jutting out in one of the large spokes I saw from the outside, but I follow the hall to its end to be sure there are no other accessible rooms. There aren’t. The Nomai were intelligent. They probably sealed off this hall as soon as the bramble vine had pierced it. The skeletons that drift around me…What a horrible decision that must have been, to seal their clanmates to such a fate.

I float my way into the only chamber on the ship I can enter.

It’s an impressive room to be sure, but it doesn’t feel Nomaian. The shape of it is familiar, but it lacks so many details I’ve come to so strongly associate with the ancient race. No orange torches light the walls. No gravity tiled floor pulls me down. No purple beams lift me to different platforms. No murals mark the walls.

There are trees here; miraculously, still living, and surprisingly recognizable. They’re the same as the ones that always greened Nomai settlements. Like our ships, their pods must have been stocked with emergency seeds. A few sight-guided balls dot the room, too, and these appear identical to all the ones I’ve encountered before. The far side of the space curves into an observation deck, a wide window providing a panoramic view of the fog and shadows beyond. A vertical piece of tubing, similar to those I’ve encountered in the Southern Observatory and on the Orbital Probe Cannon, sits at the top of a steep set of stairs leading to a lower platform. A sight-guided ball glows at its base. Twin ramps arc from the entrance of the chamber to a higher level, and I see the purple glint of Nomai writing glowing from the top. 

In the centre of the room stands a huge column, white, silver, and black, shining with blue light. A furrow at its base houses another sight-guided ball, and the path seems to connect the control tubing to a glowing platform and a neutral position, where the ball currently sits. The column rises from the ground, and lowers from the ceiling, each half narrowing until they nearly meet, falling just short of touching a couple of feet apart.

There’s only one skeleton in the room, and it hangs beside the would-be nexus. Something glassy, held together by a thin wire frame, floats just next to it…

It looks like an angular hourglass, each half hollow, a perfect octahedron. Only, the glass is shattered, and the wiring around the edges broken. Whatever had been inside is long gone, now. 

Turning instead towards the base of the structure, I give an experimental glance to the sight-guided ball, flicking it over to the glowing platform. Nothing happens, so I turn it instead to the control tubing, and a metallic structure rises from the floor. Now this—this is unlike any Nomai technology I have ever seen.

The block is a three-sided cylinder, each face flattened, with a hexagonal depression inside. Another sight-guided ball rests at the bottom. Curiously, I move it up into the depression, but nothing happens, until—

The ball rolls across one of the six corners, and a light beneath it glows. I move the ball into the opposite corner, and that one glows, too, and a striking purple line forms in the space between them. I move it to the next corner, and it glows, and yet another connective line forms. Again, I roll the ball to the opposite corner, and another line comes to life. I marvel at the little drawing I’ve made, looking an awfully lot like a cross, only with two of its arms joined…

Huh. That’s…familiar.

The gears in my head begin to spin.

I drop the ball back into its basin and the module turns, revealing another hexagonal depression. I move the ball around a bit on this one, too, drawing a random shape and dropping the ball once more. The module turns again, and here I make a little circle before dropping the ball down for the last time. The module, each face alight with the symbols I drew, descends back into the floor, leaving me with only one thing left to do. I pull the ball in the control tubing up into its active position.

Nothing. Whatever that hourglass-shaped object is, it must be necessary for the whole device to operate. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I know what this room is.

This is the warp control chamber.

The Nomai Vessel used sophisticated warp tech to traverse the vast distances of space. The science behind such powerful warping technology must be astronomically complicated, but the Nomai are excellent at solving complex problems with simple solutions, and, if their shuttles count for anything, amazingly elegant control schemes. 

The module let me input three distinct figures. And the very first one I drew flipped a switch in my brain. A cross with two of its arms joined. It’s the middle symbol of a set of symbols that are branded into my mind. The Eye coordinates. Nomaian coordinates.

I look around the room, and a series of events come to me like a taut rubber band finally snapping. Activate the module. Enter the coordinates. Warp.

It’s the ultimate autopilot. Anyone can do it. Anyone.

I have the coordinates to the Eye. I stare at the control tubing longingly. I could warp there. I could reach it, like the Nomai never did. I could, except…

Except that whatever the connective device that hangs in the middle of the room is, it’s broken. It’s probably why the Nomai couldn’t warp out of here once they got tangled—

The chalkboards. The ones in the Meltwater District of Brittle Hollow, where the Nomai discussed tackling the endeavour of creating an advanced warp core for the Ash Twin Project…

An advanced warp core. That’s it! The hourglass is an advanced warp core! The Vessel’s had gotten destroyed—overloaded, perhaps—from the warp here, and—

I know where there’s a replacement! Well, theoretically, I do. The Ash Twin Project. And once I reach the Sun Station, once I save the sun, I won’t need the Ash Twin Project anymore. I can remove the advanced warp core—somehow—and bring it here, and—

And I can find the Eye of the universe.

Everything is finally falling into place. And it’s so much better than I could have hoped for, each piece of the puzzle fitting so perfectly together that it’s hardly a challenge to interlock them. The hard part was finding the pieces lost in the rubble, and I’m only missing a couple more.

For once, I truly, honestly, feel like I can finish this. This whole time, I’ve been saying ‘after’. ‘After’ I save the solar system. ‘After’ I end the loop. ‘After’ has never been more tangible. I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. I can do it all. I can do everything, finish everything. I have the time. I have the time.

It’s with a fresh reinvigoration that I continue to explore the Vessel. I begin at the bottom, figuring I’ll work my way up. I drift over the side of the observation deck and navigate into the back room below. A shadow twirls against the far wall, cast by a swirling, purple light. As I get closer, I see a recording log hanging in the air, and as I round the corner…

There, in the middle of the room, is the signal. All of its radiating, branching points. Its tangled, angular maze. The dark void at its centre. It’s different from the abstraction I’ve grown accustomed to, but unmistakable. It’s the signal that called the Nomai to this star system all those years ago. The signal of the Eye of the universe.

And seeing the signal myself, I understand why the Nomai had given everything to find it.

I watch the recorder as it hovers next to it, and I know—I know—that what I’m about to read is a sliver of the last few moments of normalcy the Nomai aboard this Vessel had ever experienced.

“I’m recording now,” Filix began. “I’ve never encountered anything like this! The signal the Vessel is receiving appears to be older than the universe itself!”

“This is our first contact with anything of this nature,” Escall said. “Everyone, prepare to warp immediately!”

“Escall, wait, I need more time to send an outgoing message! Shouldn’t we tell another clan where we’re going?”

“We can send the message upon our arrival. This extraordinary signal appeared suddenly; it may disappear just as quickly, and we can’t lose a discovery this incredible! Focus on preparing for the warp, instead.”

“I understand!”

“Annona, is the Vessel ready to warp to the signal’s approximate coordinates?”

“The warp core is powered, ” Annona replied, “but this will be a significant jump. Afterward, we’ll need time to recharge the core.”

“That shouldn’t create a problem, provided we arrive at or near the signal’s source,” Escall ensured. “Everyone, we’re ready to warp!”

They should have waited. They should have sent a message to the other clans.

How long had their friends searched for them? How long had they waited for a message? How long had they scanned the skies for their own signal to chase after? After Feldspar disappeared, we searched for weeks. Waited for months. Only three years after they vanished, nearly everyone had come to accept the worst. And we were wrong.

How does one even begin to search the spaces between stars?

At least I now know who Escall was. He was the clan’s leader, the commander of their ship. And he had died trying to reach the Eye. Was he wrong for doing so? I want to say he wasn’t, because if it wasn’t for the Nomai, I might not ever have been able to journey into space. I’m too tangled up in this story to be unbiased. And I know it’s selfish to worry about being an astronaut when so many Nomai had lost their lives, but what I’ve learned, what I’ve done…It’s been everything to me.

There is no easy answer. At least not one I’m willing to accept.

The Eye signal spins. I take a moment, and then I move on.

It’s easy to head up to the top of the ramps when there’s no gravity to pull me down. I steer myself up, and up, rising with the grand column in the centre of the control room. Two wide chalkboards stand at either side of the upper balcony. There are no scrolls, no podiums. Everything must be internalised by the Vessel itself.

The first one I reach glows purple. It’s the one I glimpsed from below, when I was first taking in the huge room. I match my velocity so I don’t have to worry about drifting away, and hold up my translator. It’s Filix who recorded the message.

“This is Escall’s Vessel; something went badly wrong during our warp, and our Vessel is mortally wounded. We need help as quickly as possible! Our Vessel appears to have...has it fused with the local environment, somehow? There are vines that are now part of the Vessel! It’s been torn apart from inside itself!

“We...we are abandoning our Vessel. Any Nomai clans or spaceflight-capable species receiving this message, I implore you, we need your help! Is this broken? Can anyone hear me? Our Vessel is dying! We need immediate assistance!”

No one heard them.

Had the bramble vines destroyed their communications? Or had Dark Bramble trapped their outgoing signal? I don’t understand enough about the Nomai technology I’m used to—let alone pre-crash technology—to know. Knowing the answer won’t change the fact that their message had failed to reach anyone. No one was ever coming. 

That must have hurt. To be lost in a new solar system, stranded, separated, wounded, and wondering why your friends couldn’t find you. Is that how Feldspar felt? Stuck in Dark Bramble for three years, without so much as a hint that we were searching for them?

Across the way, the second chalkboard also glows with Nomai script. Only…this one is different. The glow isn’t purple, but orange. The projection pool writings always have a splash of orange text throughout, too, and I never really questioned it before. Why is that?

I read the text with an intense curiosity. The first line was authored by a Nomai named Canna. Strange, I’ve never met them before.

“To any Nomai clans whose Vessels can hear this message: It’s clear the universe is dying. There are fewer and fewer resources and safe places within space now, so my clan and I believe the best option is for all of our clans to stay together.”

This…Oh, no…

Supernovae erupt at the fringes of my mind. 

The message continues: “If you can reach the Gloaming Galaxy, we’ve found that Blackrock’s suns are fairly stable, and life in this star system is (comparatively) thriving. We live in relative safety. If you prefer to continue exploring alone, know you will be on your own.”

“Canna, we’re making our way to you,” Bromi replies.

“It’s good to hear from you, Bromi! We’ll watch for your Vessel. Has anyone heard from Neem? His clan was on its way to our Vessel, but they never arrived, and he hasn’t sent any messages. I’m beginning to worry.”

“That is unsettling. It reminds me of that old myth my grandfather used to tell, the Disappearance of Escall.”

No. It can’t be…

“I remember hearing that story as a child!” a Nomai named Clem adds. “One day, Escall’s Vessel simply stopped responding. The other clans searched and searched, but found no trace. It was as if their missing friends had warped out of existence.”

“That’s no myth, friends,” Hyssop interjects. “Escall’s clan existed, and their story was real.”

“What a curious event to have passed into myth!” says Bromi. “Our ancestors’ ancestors were told that story when they were young. Are you sure it’s true, Hyssop?”

“It was a very long time ago, but yes.”

Hundreds of thousands of years ago.

 “My clan’s ancestors searched for Escall’s clan for a long time,” Hyssop continues, “but in the end, none of them were ever seen again. It’s the only time in our history a Vessel has ever disappeared this way.”

“Hyssop, I hope you aren’t comparing Escall’s story to my clan’s Vessel! ” Neem says.

Clem replies, “Neem, my friend! We feared you were gone!”

“Not yet, we aren’t, but nearly. We found trouble during our warp: The triple suns of the Bright Spark star system exploded, and it was only a lucky coincidence we weren’t caught in the blast. We’ll meet you soon, Canna!”

“I’m relieved your clan is safe, Neem!” Canna says. “It’s good to hear your words. Any Vessels nearby, remember to be extremely cautious of potentially unstable stars (which are most of them, now).”

The orange glow…these are incoming messages. That’s what that means. The Vessel is still receiving signals. Of course! Everything can so easily enter Dark Bramble, it’s getting out that’s the problem. These signals, these names…No, they can’t be…

These are recent.

They remember Escall’s disappearance like some grand tale. A story with morals for hatchlings, to teach young Nomai not to run off without telling someone, to not get lost in the vastness of space. How long does it take for such a tragedy to pass into myth? Hundreds of years. Thousands of years. Enough time that so few actually remember the truth. Escall had lived. He had been here, leading his clan towards their next big discovery. I’ve seen his body. I’ve seen the consequences of his actions play out like a recording, each decision falling into the next, each one rippling through the lives of every Nomai and Hearthian in my solar system. 

They talk of dying stars. I remember speaking with Chert, on one of those occasions when they were all too aware of the sun’s imminent demise. They had seen the supernovae in the sky, so many more than typical. And I had seen them, too. Little blue sparks, so far away that the powerful energy waves had been reduced to nothing. Nothing. It made it so easy to forget that each one was someone else’s world ending.

No. Chert was just rambling. They were scared. They were terrified. The sun circling the pole, always in sight, always evolving…it’s enough to drive anyone mad. 

We’re next.

I’ve noticed it. All the supernovae. So many more than I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Stars fizzling out, one by one, all within 22 minutes. So many. The sky looks unusually dark at the end of every loop, doesn’t it? Like everything is going black. Like the energy that keeps the universe alive is slowly draining away…

No! The stars aren’t dying. That isn’t possible. At least, not our star. Chert would have known. We would have known.

But the Nomai are so much smarter than us. They figured things out we couldn’t have ever dreamt of. And there they are—modern Nomai transmissions. And every word is etched with a buried fear. Unstable stars. Dwindling refuges. 

The universe is dying.

But… No! It can’t be! Maybe every other star is dying out. Maybe every other galaxy is growing fainter by the minute, but not ours. Not now. We’re just getting started.

No—I’m right. I have to be right. Because if I’m not, if the universe is dying, then this is all pointless. Then this is all for nothing. I’ve been struggling, fighting, dying, for a tomorrow that will never arrive. No. Our star is safe. At least for now. It’s not dying, it—it—

The Sun Station— the Sun Station. The answer is there, I know it. If I can only get there, I can stop it, I can stop the supernova, and we’ll be fine. The Nomai said there are pockets of safe places still out there. Surely, our sun, the sun around which the Eye of the universe orbits, is one of them. Yes—the Eye is protecting our sun. It protected Solanum from the ghost matter, and it protected me from the supernova. Yes. Yes! Otherwise, what’s the point of it?

It’s the Sun Station that’s ruining everything. The Sun Station is firing, and it’s destroying our sun. That has to be the answer. I have to be right. I have to be right—

I am right. I’ve always been right. The solution is in the Sun Station. I’ve known this for a long, long time. I just have to figure out a way in. And I will. Even if I have to fly my ship into the sun a million times to do it. I’ll find a way in. And I’ll stop it. I can save us. I can save us.

I can save us.

Chapter Text

The supernova comes and goes, and I wake up next to my campfire. My vision is blurry, my eyes wet, but I don’t understand why; it’s not sorrow roiling away in my chest. The Quantum Moon appears and disappears as I blink away water, and the purple light of the probe rockets away from a fracturing gravity canon. Evidence of the Nomai’s relentless search for the Eye litters the solar system like pine needles on a forest floor. They left their mark everywhere. 

My ears burn, and I glower at Giant’s Deep as it begins to sink below the horizon. Before I knew what their enigmatic spirals contained, before I had visited so many gravesites and altered landscapes, I had such fondness for the Nomai. For the species that came before. But now I know that all of my suffering, all of every Hearthian’s suffering, has only one cause.

The sun rises in the crater and I sit up. A little, innocent black dot crosses in front of its light. The Sun Station. 

I, like the Nomai, had gotten so swept up in the search for the Eye that I hadn’t realised the direness of my situation. I have known for so long that the Sun Station is what caused the supernova, but I was in a time loop, so I was safe. The Nomai had never meant for things to happen this way. It hadn’t yet clicked that the Nomai decided to build that station. They decided to destroy my sun. They knew we were here, they knew what we might become, they knew what might happen if they failed, and still, they built a doomsday device. I used to think the Nomai were so clever, that they knew so much about our solar system, about our universe. The Nomai didn’t understand anything. Don’t understand anything. They just ran away from their problems, framing each distraction as some noble pursuit of something bigger than themselves. And then they died before they could right any of their wrongs.

It all comes down to me. Because it always does. I have to be the one to risk life and limb for answers. I have to be the one who overcomes their doubts, their fears. I have to be the one to fix everything. Just because I walked in front of some stupid statue. And it’s all because of the Nomai. They had impinged on my life with all the remorse of a rainstorm, and I’m finally taking notice.

I return to Ash Twin as the sand begins to drain from the equator. Setting my ship down beside the solar tower at the north pole, I turn my eyes to the south. There’s a warp pad in the sun tower, and I know where it will take me. I just have to get inside. If I can’t circumnavigate the cacti, I’ll rip them out. If I can’t find a back door, I’ll make one. I’ve played by the Nomai’s rules for long enough. They built that horrible station. They trapped me in a time loop. And they showed their incompetence when they started talking about the death of the universe.

They know nothing. Nothing.

My eyes are watering again. And I’m furious.

The familiar shape of a brassy rosette begins to rise from the sediment. Boots crunching across loose grains, I hike to meet it, climbing atop its flat surface to wait for the sands to abate. Through the tempered glass, scratched and frosted by time, sunlight shines down into the warp platform chamber. I stand over it, right atop the viewfinder. It’s barren, aside from a lonely cactus, an inactive terminal, and a single, pulsing gravity beam that I know precisely where to catch. It’s a shame the roundabout hallway it sits in is covered by stabbing spines.

As the sun sets behind me, I stare at the door that sits in the wall. It would all be so easy if I could just get through that door. It’s infuriating, that that one, pathetic little door is all that’s keeping me from saving our sun.

When enough of the sand pours off into Ember Twin’s canyon, I hop down onto the equatorial bridge to investigate that pesky door further. Not even the fragments of the broken sight-guided ball remain; swept away by the flowing sands, there isn’t even anything for me to attempt to repair. It’s not like I can pry one of the balls from another locking mechanism—they’re inlaid into their paths. I would only end up breaking yet another Nomai door, and more broken doors is the last thing I need.

The second entrance isn’t yet uncovered. Waiting on the sand, and dodging Ember Twin as it swings around the planet, I run back over to my ship, seizing the opportunity to refill my oxygen tanks. I return to the tower just in time to see the back entrance lift itself from the dry sea, and jet up to meet it. 

The crowded room is filled with the soft glow of Nomai text. And there is my gravity beam—my ticket into the warp chamber. Too bad it’s sitting within a nest of those stupid plants.

Through grated walls, I examine the circuitous hallway carefully. I spot not a single refuge—not a single place where the cacti don’t fill the corridor’s floor. Curiously enough, the plants do seem to stick to the margins of the hallway—though the floor, ceiling, and a few walls are covered, the middle of the hall is filled only with open air.

There was a strategy I thought of last time that I had been quick to dismiss. Perhaps that could be my way through?

Placing a hand on my jetpack controls, I take a deep breath in. This will either end very well, or very painfully. But I’ve got nothing to lose.

I have to reach the Sun Station.

Before I have time to think twice, I throw myself down the corridor, using my thrust sparingly to keep me afloat in the centre of the room. I don’t even make it a metre inside before my course sends me straight into a patch of cacti on the ceiling. The spines just miss my flesh, but the tear in my suit is too large to mend, and even if it wasn’t, I have to keep my hands on my controls to avoid falling into another prickly problem.

Not that it matters. My oxygen blasts out into the thin atmosphere of Ash Twin, and soon I see black spots before my eyes as my tank hits zero percent capacity. I try to breathe, but I can’t, and my strength swiftly saps and I fall into cactus plants below. I feel an odd prick or two, but the feeling is distant, and my head is swirling, and all I can think of is when I’ll take my next breath of air—

For the second time, I wake up sputtering by the campfire. Slate makes the same, nettling comment as before, but I ignore them, racing back up to the top of the launch tower.

Alright. Using the jetpack to navigate the hallway won’t work. I didn’t exactly know how I was supposed to round the corners while maintaining my momentum anyway, so I guess it’s a good thing that I never got far enough to have to figure it out. 

This time, when I march from my ship to the sun tower, I don’t do so empty-handed. My mattock is tucked securely into my belt, and eagerly I climb onto the sun tower’s glass roof. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this ages ago. If Feldspar’s pick had been strong enough to chisel through the ice on Dark Bramble…

I select my target panel of glass carefully. It’s certainly wide enough for me to fit through, pack and all, and is so scratched and scuffed in some spots that I can hardly see through it. Kneeling against the glass, I raise my mattock high, and bring down the pick end onto the panel with all the force I can muster.

The force of the action reverberates up my arm as my mattock bounces off the glass inconsequentially. I keel over, cradling my sore shoulder, and release a wrathful string of words.

Why did I think that would work?! The glass the Nomai used isn’t normal glass. Far from it. It’s the same stuff the warp cores are encased in, and Slate had tried everything they could think of to break those open.

Grumbling to myself, and favouring my dominant arm, I wait for my second entrance to appear.

When it does, I’m quick to jump down to it. The sands are still draining away when I enter, and I examine every surface, every crevice, for some indication of weakness. I test my mattock against the cacti a few times to no avail—the hardy plants had evolved to survive the lashing gales of sandstorms, after all. Even using my mattock like a crowbar, I can’t pry a single one from its hold.

Disheartened, but far from surrender, I prowl the exterior of the tower as more and more of it rises from the sands. There has to be a third entrance I’m missing—something I haven’t noticed. With all the sand, it wouldn't be out of the question. But all I see are bland, tan walls—perfectly flat, apart from a few chips and fractures here and there. Nothing significant enough to offer me any solutions to my problem. 

Soon enough, the sand has drained away to reveal the metamorphic core of Ash Twin at the tower’s base. The dark stone ripples with remnants of sedimentary bedding. There is no more tower left to search for an entrance.

I step away from the bedrock as Ember Twin comes around again to whisk even more of the sand away. All that I’m left with is a back door with a hallway riddled with spines, and a dangerously close fly to the sun. My prospects don’t look great.

I have to reach the Sun Station.

Circling the rocky pillar the tower sprouts from, I scan every crack for another entrance. I peer into hollows with my flashlight, tap crevices with my mattock, and there’s nothing. 

Memories flash before my eyes with every circle I complete. Shooting through the sun’s corona in Clary’s shuttle. Drifting within the Interloper’s core. Turning around from my log and seeing the fiery mass encompass my entire view of the solar system.

Had it hurt? It was all too quick to remember, or so long ago that the pain has been overshadowed by my more recent deaths. Pain is ephemeral. I’ll get over it. Manually landing on the station is looking more and more like the only solution.

But…it’s such a close flight. My ship had been pried so easily from the surface of the Interloper. What if I lose it to the sun? Or what if I crash land? What if I disable the station, disable the supernova, disable the time loop, before I realise that I’ve trapped myself?

It seems all too easy to strand myself there. Permanently. Would it be worth it to save my solar system? Undoubtedly. But…it’s so hard to think in these self-sacrificing terms. I don’t want to risk trapping myself, even if it means saving everyone I love. I would do it, of course I would, I would do it without even thinking. But only if I had to. 

I have to be certain I have to.

The sand stops draining from Ash Twin. My boots settle on starry stone—on the Ash Twin Project casing—and I stare up at the tower as the sun, bloated beyond recognition, floats behind it. It fills nearly the entire sky of the little planet, only taking a few seconds to swing around again.

I don’t believe I have to. Not yet. I have one loop of searching left in me. And then, I’ll fly to the Sun Station.

And when I’ve finally found out how to stop the supernova, the Ash Twin Project will lose power, and I won’t even have to find a way in to end the time loop.

When I wake up beside the campfire, I am ready. I go to Ash Twin and wait for the sand to lower, perched beside the sun tower, far enough away that the column of rising sand won’t bring me along with it as it sweeps across the bridge. It’s that bridge I wait for—the moment it reveals itself, and after Ember Twin passes, I rush to where I know my back entrance is waiting. The lintel is rising from the sand when I reach it.

I enter as soon as I can, not wanting to spare a moment. After this loop, I’ve resigned myself to flying into the sun for a few hundred. It’s as good a motivator as any, and I’m eager to make the most of my 22 minutes here.

The sand is quickly sinking as I study the ceiling for any weaknesses. I see none—just a smooth surface in every direction. There are a few holes scattered about the room, but none large enough to crawl through, not that they would be of much use even if they were. There is no gap in the grate remotely large enough to benefit me, and the arch closest to the gravity beam is so overwhelmed by cacti that I don’t dare even step too close. The cacti that cling to the walls and ceiling begin to reveal their spines as the sand continues to sink, the plants that litter the floor still buried beneath the sediment. That won’t last much longer.

Something clicks.

That won’t last much longer.

I do a quick scan of the hallways. With the sand so high, the bottommost cacti are safely hidden. I can walk right over them.

And, suddenly, I feel a hope light up inside me brighter than any I’ve felt before.

I can reach the Sun Station.

But only if I’m quick about it.

Hurriedly, I race through the archway to my right, where the hall starts beside the chalkboard. I skirt around the cacti on the walls as they reveal themselves, curving around large spines and rounding sharp corners. One troublesome cactus manages to nick my suit, but my hands are already on the spool of duct tape at my belt, and I hardly lose any oxygen at all before the tear is mended. One hall, two halls, three halls—and there it is, pulsing up from a cactus plant that sits at its base. I throw myself up and into the beam, and it catches me as the sandy floor below gives way to deadly spikes.

My head spins with elation as I float up, and up—and soon the chamber I’ve only ever seen in a top-down view surrounds me. In the middle of it is the faint purple glow of the warp platform. The sun is coming up from around the horizon, the magnificent intensity of it overpowering the stars in the background. Its light fills the room and I glance to the viewfinder inlaid into the tempered glass above, and I hop onto the platform just as the Sun Station races across fire, and—

The towers of Ash Twin are gone. A bright white light plays as an afterimage across my eyes, but I blink once, twice, and it’s gone, too. I stand on a pale glowing platform. A warp receiver. All around me, the walls hum with an immense power. 

I’ve done it.

I’ve warped to the Sun Station.

Slow with disbelief, I take in my surroundings. It doesn’t take long. I’m in a small, square room that towers high above me. A gravity wall lines one of its four sides, climbing up to the ceiling and disappearing through a tunnel at its apex.

I have no idea what awaits me beyond. But I know what I am hoping for.

With a steady breath, I begin my ascent.

My heart pounds mightily in my chest as I follow the gravity floor around the corner. It terminates in a fortified door, fastened with a simple sight-guided ball lock, inscribed upon with a single curl of Nomai text. An active terminal floats beside it.

281,042 YEARS AGO: No user commands received for 10 minutes. All systems entering sleep.

6 MINUTES, 49 SECONDS AGO: Increased solar activity detected. Sun Station hull integrity approaching critical levels. Closing emergency doors.

281,042 years ago. That’s when the last user command was input by the Nomai. I have a number, an exact, precise number, better than anything radiometric dating could have ever supplied, of when the Nomai died. 281,042 years ago. 

It’s amazing that any of their artifacts have survived to be discovered at all. It’s amazing any of their technology is still functional. It’s amazing that their writings haven’t been scratched from every surface. Seeing the number, that exact, unquestionable number, I feel rather foolish for bashing the structural integrity of their doors. They hadn’t known what was going to happen to them. They hadn’t planned for their structures to still be intact all these years later. It’s amazing. Truly amazing. Despite my fury still simmering away, I can acknowledge that much.

Translating the note on the door beside me, I realise this is one of the emergency doors the terminal is referring to. It bears a striking resemblance to the emergency hatch doors in the escape pods, though I know the Nomai who designed those are not the same as the Nomai who had designed these. Had the younger generations of Nomai visited the escape pods on Ember Twin and Brittle Hollow? If Ilex’s poem in the Old Settlement is anything to go off of, then they must have. Is this an architectural language universal for the Nomai, to always mark exits into the, potentially hazardous, unknown? Or was it a nostalgia, a longing for designs they’d never known, that prompted the builders of the Sun Station to mimic the escape pods of their mentors?

Like so, so many things, I’m certain I’ll never know.

I stare long and hard at the door. And, when I’m ready, I move the ball with a purposeful look.

A wave of oppressive, overwhelming heat washes over me. I stagger back, hands protectively guarding my face, as the emergency door flies away from me into the vacuum of space. I shrink into myself as the world expands instantaneously around me.

The sky is orange, shimmering, rumbling with the convective forces of the sun. Solar flares spout in the distance, tall and wide enough to arc over the entire station. The solar winds whip past, and everything is alight with a fiery glow. It’s just like being back on Hollow’s Lantern. The sun boils away like a magma pool just beyond the door. The ventilators in my suit whir as they fight a losing battle against the biggest heat source in my solar system.

Thank Hearth the station had already been breached, or the sudden pull of the vacuum would have sent me tumbling into those fires long before I could process what had happened. The fractures that had long ago freed the air from the corridor saved me from death.

Or, at least, one kind of death.

What remains of the hallway that conjoined the two halves of the station floats crumbling in orbit. I’m in the half that houses the warp platform—I can't see it, but a spiral glows above me, outside the station. The actual Sun Station, the half that contains all the answers I’ve been searching for, lies across the gap.

There is no guardrail. Nothing to protect me. One step beyond the threshold, and I’ll be lost to space, the sun raging below me, dragging me down to its fires.

I’m breathless, taking it all in.

The stars spin so fast around me, ripping any semblance of peace or tranquility away. The sun has never seemed more massive, more all-encompassing, more formidable than it does now, when one misstep will send me tumbling to its depths. My skin sparks with the energy that shoots through the air. My suit can only protect me so much. With only a gravity floor tethering me to the station, standing at the edges of the sun’s corona, I’ve never been more exposed. How much radiation is ripping through me as it carries on the wind?

I grip the open archway as I inch closer to the precipice. The wind batters my suit, tugs at my scarf, pulls at my equipment. The flag on my pack flutters frantically in the air. Planets come into view behind the station beyond, but I don’t see them clearly enough to name them. That’s disconcerting. My own solar system has, in an instant, become foreign to me, lost to the haze of the star that rages below.

The emergency hatch collides with the fragments of the shattered bridge, and they spin off-kilter. I watch them, stunned, as the massive walls tumble over each other so readily. It took nothing to send them spiralling. Nothing.

As one spins, a light is revealed from behind it. I squint. It’s so far away, but I see it—the telltale purple glow of a gravity floor.

There is no faulty lock. No cacti, no ghost matter, no rockfalls. The only thing that separates me from the Sun Station is the open space between us.

I’ve come this far.

I stare at my hand as it grips the arch beside me. I watch my fingers twitch, my glove move, as I slowly take my hand away from the wall. 

Holding my arms out, I steady myself, my breaths coming in surprised pants with each movement I successfully force myself to make.

I glance to the floor. To my boots, so close to the edge. The loose fabric of my space suit whips around me. I take a step closer, then set my sights across the void.

I don’t know if I can do this, but it’s my only option.

I don’t blink as I kick away from the gravity floor.

And in an instant, the safety of the station is gone. I am alone, shipless, tetherless, and at the complete mercy of the power of the temperamental sun.

The energy that surrounds me is insurmountable, but it doesn’t work against me. I am adrift, and, shockingly, I maintain my orbit. I race in tandem with the two halves of the station, and as they arc around the sun, I follow them, the solar system spinning as I float.

My hands are on my jetpack controls, but I don’t use them. I let myself drift, following the echoes of a corridor that once surrounded the space I now occupy, and watch as the universe turns.

I think of how small the station is against the massive shape of the sun. From Timber Hearth, it’s tiny. Miniscule. And now I see the two halves of the station dwarfing me, and I wonder—could anyone even see me if they glanced towards the sun? I must be nothing but a speck, producing such a minor change in the sun’s luminosity it isn’t even enough to read as an error in the report. And the sun hasn’t even grown yet—I know, sometime during the loop, that the sun will expand to swallow the station whole. The magnitude of that distance meant nothing before, but here—my mind can’t comprehend how huge the sun must really be just before it begins to collapse, to bloat beyond where I now drift. To the station, to the sun, to the solar system, I am nothing.

In less than a minute, I reach the other side.

Gravity returns to me, and I suck in a breath. My boots land on the hard floor. I spare a glance behind me, at where I came from, and everything I’ve done to get here plays across my eyes as if the Ash Twin Project itself is sending me my memories. Every hardship. Every death. Every discovery. I’ve done it.

I’ve reached the Sun Station.

And still, an emptiness plays in my chest.

The station is divided into three floors. I enter on the second, and the third loops around me as an upper-storey balcony. Like the Southern Observatory, a great glass dome caps the room. The chamber is cluttered with collapsed shelves, abandoned staffs, and empty Nomai space masks. Benches line the entrance to the first floor below, down a long, gravity-tiled tunnel. Looming over me from the balcony, eyes closed, is a Nomai statue. The stars behind it are barely visible through the haze of the sun’s particle winds.

A glowing scroll sits in a lone chalkboard. Reverently, I approach it, eyes tracing the intricate letters of the spirals that branch from it. I want to know more. I want to know everything.

My fingers tremble as I hold the translator tool, every muscle twitching from nerves. It’s all led up to this. This final moment. I am about to set the universe back in motion again, and the anticipation of the time loops and the supernova finally coming to an end keeps my heart from settling.

I aim my translator, and the display lights up.

—

Idaea unlatched the clasps of his mask with a hiss of freed oxygen. The warmth of the station was dimmed significantly by the insulation that surrounded it, but the air still hung thick with a stifling stagnation. Thanks to the glass observation windows, every wall was painted with an intense yellow-orange glow, as if the constant droning of the solar winds weren’t enough to remind them of their abhorrent task. 

He cradled his mask in his hands. It was one thing to have agreed to oversee the station’s construction, and another altogether to see it built, the walls caging him inside. The glass dome overhead did nothing to lessen the claustrophobia that gripped him as he stood in the halls he had helped design. He shuddered, still in disbelief that the station had ever been considered, let alone completed. Still in disbelief that he had been partially responsible. 

Placing his mask on a rack, he stepped out of his space suit, folding it neatly and sliding it into a cubby. Only one other suit occupied the masses of shelves that lined the room. Few other personnel would be assigned to the station until they had finalized their project proposal, and even then, the station was developed to be operational by a strikingly small team. Every precaution had to be taken.

The sounds of fingers tapping on the interface of a staff sounded from behind him. Letting out a breath through his nose, he turned to face his research partner.

Pye was smiling to herself as she fiddled with her staff by the scroll wall. Her fur was fluffed away from her skin, and she wore light clothes to combat the mugginess of the station. She wore no jewellery, aside from a single precautionary clip for her fur that she pinned to her tunic. 

She tapped her interface with finality, and at once, the message she had been editing filled the wall. Idaea read it silently.

“Mission: Science compels us to explode the sun!”

He shot her a disapproving look.

“Can’t we change this? I don’t enjoy working in view of such a morbid mission statement.”

Then, he huffed as his words were mirrored on the wall—Pye had instructed her staff to dictate.

“But it’s accurate,” she said all too merrily. “We’re going to create a supernova for the purpose of scientific progress. That’s our mission.”

By her tone, Idaea knew that she didn’t appreciate their position. She was still treating this like some joyous theoretical exploration. This wasn’t like the High Energy Lab. What they did here mattered. The equations they developed, the numbers they would calculate—they would be used. There was no room for error, no room for anything but only the utmost respect for their project. The solar system depended on it.

He crossed the room, gesturing to her words. “Our mission is to decide if such an irresponsible feat is even possible.” 

He glanced pointedly at her staff, and she handed it over without complaint. He held the tip of it to the wall. 

“Here’s a better one,” he said. “Mission: Determine if it’s possible to prompt the sun to explode.”

As the words appeared on the wall, he proudly handed Pye her staff back. He did not expect the straight look on her face.

“You lack a sense of humor,” she said factually.

Heat not from the surrounding room filled him at her flippancy.

“At least I don’t lack a sense of ethics!” he snapped, perhaps a little more passionately than he had intended. The subsequent silence hung heavy in the air, and Idaea knew he had overstepped his bounds. Pye simply watched him for a moment, before tapping a new command into her staff. It was with a sly voice that she responded, not sparing a glance his way.

“Kindly refrain from going supernova on me before the sun does, Idaea.”

—

I trace a spiral with my hand. It’s true. It’s all true. All my theories, all my speculations—true. The Nomai wished to power the Ash Twin Project with a supernova. They knew what would happen if they failed, if something went wrong. There were a few voices of reason, but they were ignored, drowned out by their colleagues’ determination to find the Eye. To chase that impossible signal.

Could I really reach it, when all of this is over? Could I really find the Eye of the universe, like the Nomai before me never did?

I shoo the thought away with a shake of my head. One thing at a time. I haven’t come here to explore. I came here with a goal, and I don’t know how much time I have left to accomplish it.

Turning away from the chalkboard, I look down at the tunnel in the centre of the room—the one that leads to the lowest floor, the one nearest to the sun. I peer down its length and all I see is an orange glow at the bottom. If they were trying to prompt a supernova…that’s where the mechanism would be. 

I hop down, and the gravity floor latches onto me unfailingly. I walk down the tunnel, boots scuffing the glowing floor, stirring up dust that hasn’t been disturbed for 281,042 years.

The chamber is broad, triangular, with a ceiling so low I feel constricted. It tapers where I enter through the tunnel, and directly across from me is a glass panel so wide it occupies the entirety of the far wall. Five pointed arms bend jaggedly from the observation window to the space beyond, their steepled prongs reminding me so much of the barbs of stinging insects on Timber Hearth. The metal of them is black, mottled, and sinister. The arms frame the centre of the sun as it spins below. Ready. Waiting for the command.

It’s so difficult for me to believe that the Nomai had constructed such a device. The same Nomai who had joked in the High Energy Lab, who had teased each other in the Black Hole Forge, who had moved their mining site as to not disturb the burgeoning life on Timber Hearth, had built this monstrosity. And they had died before they could properly shut it down.

That anger is back, hotter than the sun. The betrayal is over two hundred and fifty thousand years old, but it stings all the same.

The room is sparse. A Nomai statue sleeps to one side, and a few barren shelves lean against walls. There is a projection pool and its matching chalkboard. An active terminal glows purple. And sitting, disintegrating, on a bench pulled to face the surface of the sun, is a single skeleton.

The Sun Station had faltered. The Ash Twin Project was shelved. Pye had gone off to explore the Interloper with Poke and Clary, and so there is only one Nomai this skeleton could belong to. Idaea.

Time has taken its toll. Though the bones are featureless, inexpressive, shoulders sagging forward and skull fallen to the floor, the scene tells of an immense regret. Idaea clutches a projection stone, cradling their last conversation, and faces the sun they never wished to destroy. Nearly everyone else in the solar system had been against him. And they were wrong to have been.

I eye the stone in his arms, and cautiously crouch beside him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, in words I know he wouldn’t understand. Delicately, I slip the stone from his fingers.

The stone glows with the symbol of the Hourglass Twins. I begin to bring it over to a chalkboard, but a mural painted onto the opposite wall stops me in my tracks.

It’s huge. And simple. And my heart skips a beat as I examine it. It depicts a Nomai, maskless, wearing a teal space suit. They hold a set of scales, and the symbols that sit in the two basins are weighed evenly against each other. The Eye of the universe, and the sun.

That had been precisely what the Nomai had done. They had measured the risk and reward for their efforts, and found that the possibility of destroying the sun was worth the recompense offered from locating the Eye. In the end, they never even saw the coordinates. They never even knew how successful their project would be.

They had traded with the solar system itself. And they hadn’t lived long enough to learn if it had been worth it.

I return to the chalkboard. The projection stone falls easily into place, and the scraping sound of rock against rock fills the air as the twin podiums twist and conjoin. Spirals fill the board, and I read what must be the very final moments of the Nomai.

—

Idaea watched the sun as it boiled and flared. It was active, to be sure—just not active enough. Though it had long faded into the fires below, he still saw the great ball of energy the station had built before it fired. That swirling, sparking, destructive energy. It had grown right before his eyes, with a power so striking, so blinding to the third eye, and then it had gone. He had waited for the world to end, but the end never came. The statue never opened its eyes.

Pye stood beside him. If Idaea was crushed, she was devastated. Years of work, so many conversations, equations, and theories—all gone. They had tried their best. Their best hadn’t been enough.

The star in front of them remained indifferent.

Behind them, the projection pool came to life.

“What happened? Did the Sun Station not fire?”

It was Yarrow’s voice that cut through the suffocating air. In his periphery, Idaea noticed Pye watching the sun with misted eyes. Then, she took a resigned breath, pinned the fur from her face with her clip, and met Yarrow’s projection across the room.

Idaea couldn't bring himself to follow. All he could do was watch. Watch for the activity signatures that were supposed to have reached them by now, for the telltale signs that the project had worked. But the seconds ticked on, and with each passing moment, the hope that all their work hadn’t been for nothing dwindled, replaced with a hollowness so great Idaea feared a black hole would develop in his chest.

Pye’s voice was pitched as she spoke—she had always accepted failure with grace and lingering ambition, but this was different. This was difficult, and even she couldn’t hide the emotion in her voice. It finalised the results of their project more than a lack of energy signatures ever could.

“It fired, Yarrow,” she replied, voice fragile. “But it failed. The sun barely responded; there were infinitesimally small surface-level changes, but they were barely visible, even to the third eye.” Then, with a bitterness Idaea didn’t expect, “The Sun Station is useless. It will never, and could never, cause the sun to explode.”

There was a pause, and Idaea closed his eyes, feeling the same sense of dejection and uncertainty as his research partner.

“I don’t know what comes next, my friends,” Pye eventually said. “I suppose we must start over, but I’m unsure how to start over.”

“Return to Ash Twin first, my friend. Perhaps a change of task would help: Spire noticed a comet approaching this star system that we’d like to investigate.”

Silence followed, and Idaea knew that what Yarrow had hoped to be exciting news for Pye had fallen flat. He must have seen something cross Pye’s face, because his next words came gently.

“Pye…” With only a single syllable, the empathy in his voice was clear. “I hurt for you, my friends; we all know how hard you’ve both worked. I can only offer my compassion. How are you? How is Idaea?”

Upon hearing his name, Idaea blinked. Taking in a readying breath, he joined Pye by the projection pool. Tenderly, he stood near enough to her so that their shoulders touched. It was a gesture of solidarity. They exchanged a compassionate look.

“We’re well, Yarrow,” he said, “or as well as can be expected, given the circumstances, though disappointed.”

Yarrow’s projection shifted, and Idaea couldn’t help but notice the worry etching his face. Idaea tugged at his sleeves, then continued, avoiding Yarrow’s gaze.

“I may have disagreed with exploding the sun, but I never wished the device would fail. I’d hoped our terrible work was finished.”

Yarrow tilted his head graciously, to say, ‘Take all the time you need.’ With that, his projection disappeared into the pool of ferrofluid below as the connection was severed.

Pye and Idaea stood for a moment more.

“I’m going to go to Ash Twin,” Pye said. “Yarrow is right…a change of task may be precisely what I need.”

Idaea made a conceding sound.

“I take it you will not be joining me.” It wasn’t a question.

“...No. I…still need more time here. You go; I will begin to disable the equipment.”

Pye pressed a hand against his. “Don’t linger too long. The moment Privet hears…I’m sure she will be on her way.”

Idaea bowed his head in gratitude, but he wasn’t sure he meant it. Any other time, a visit from his sister would have meant the world, but how could he face her after such failure?

Before long, Pye had packed up her belongings and left for the warp platform. The station was still. Silent. Empty. Idaea found himself wandering the halls, wondering what had gone wrong. He read and reread their conversation with Yarrow on the projection wall, their sorrowful voices echoing through his mind. He plucked the stone from its hold so he wouldn’t have to look at the words anymore, and paced the three sides of the main chamber.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Either they were supposed to realise the project was too dangerous and terminate it, or it was supposed to have worked. This middle ground, defeat on both sides, was too much. Idaea found himself staring at the mural he created their first day in the station, and he couldn’t decide whether it comforted him or left a bitter taste on his tongue. Perhaps it did both.

Eventually he grew tired of walking. He pulled a bench into the middle of the room and sat, facing the observation window, still cradling the Ash Twin Project stone in his hands.

They had been so close. So close. And he couldn’t even figure out what had happened to cause the station to fail so significantly. It all should have worked, but it didn’t. Was it something he had done? Had he made an error in some calculation, or calibrated the equipment imprecisely? Would they ever know?

Idaea watched the sun burn before him. For the first time, he wished beyond words that the station would work.

—

The Sun Station…could never work.

I reread the conversation, a firm disbelief in the words taking root within me.

No. It must have worked. It must have! Something is causing the sun to go supernova. Something must be causing it, because, if nothing is, then—

No—the Nomai were wrong. How? Why? It doesn’t matter. I don’t want answers. I want a solution. The station works. I have to deactivate the station. I have to save the sun.

A terminal glows next to the chalkboard.

My anger is gone. All that is left is fear, and it’s with that budding anxiety that I translate the words that float in midair.

Star has reached end of natural life cycle. Now approaching red giant stage. WARNING: Evacuate Sun Station.

Approximate time until Sun Station is destroyed by expanding star: 2 MINUTES, 11 SECONDS

Approximate time until star’s death: 13 MINUTES, 41 SECONDS

No.

My breathing quickens, my heart pounds, and I read the words again. I have to stop the supernova. I have to save the solar system. 

Star has reached end of natural life cycle.

Those eight, little words, displayed on a terminal sitting at the margins of such a grand room, as if they don’t even matter, as if they aren’t even all that important, burrow their way deep into my bones.

I read them again, and again, and turn to face the window that burns with an intense orange glow. The sun is bigger now than it had been when I first saw it through the glass. The arms of that horrible device, the device that never worked, could never work, act as perfect points of reference to measure the sun against as it expands. 

The Sun Station never worked. Not then, not now. It fired, but only once. So indescribably long ago.

The Interloper doesn’t cause the supernova. The Sun Station doesn’t cause the supernova. My star is just like any other star. We’re not special. The Eye isn’t protecting us. It had been a stupid hope to cling to in the first place. Every star is dying, and mine is no different. Why would it be? Everyone else’s world is ending, and mine is ending right along with them. We’re one of millions of stars that fill the sky. Why would we be special?

I stare at the plasma as it approaches, throat dry, jaw stiff, eyes burning. My head begins to pound as I use every bit of my willpower to stop myself from collapsing to the floor.

The realisation that the universe is dying hits me like a tidal wave.

And there’s nothing I can do, but stare into the sun as its colours redden. 

Is this it, then? Is this the end?

I stand by Idaea’s side as the sun grows. Its margins creep higher and higher up the station’s arms, until I can’t even see the edge of the sun anymore. Until all I can see is orange, and red, and the lashing of solar flares as the sun’s activity increases. Our sun marches towards the end with ferocity, fighting against its death like I had mine, so many times over.

The tips of the arms bend as they dip into a haze of deadly energy. All I can do is watch. Helpless. Around me, the station rumbles as the winds intensify, our orbit shaken by every turbulent gust. The gravity floor holds me steady as the station’s flight begins to stutter.

I can feel it now, more than I ever have before. The sun’s power, its energy, its radiation seeping through the cracks of the station. The air around me stirs.

The station’s rapid speed is no longer enough. Together, we fall into fire.