Chapter Text
Starship Log
Radiant Firth - Pioneer Watanabe Yō
0813 | 19.4.2463 | 9189:271:5
I wake up to a radiant blue ocean shining through the window, a restless night like any other.
Forty years ago today, my crew and I were inaugurated as Pioneers, setting out on our first grand expedition. I still remember that morning vividly; an unfairly beautiful day for such a momentous occasion. The sky was this exact same shade of blue.
We were so young then, so full of promise. It truly was the best day of our lives. And yet, here I sit, tens of thousands of light-years away from home, not a soul to celebrate such an occasion with.
Ten years ago today also marks the disappearance of my crew, abruptly ending our third grand expedition. I awoke that morning expecting another day as usual, facing a planet much like the view before me now that, ironically, reminded me of home.
There is something strange about catastrophic loss. The way it simultaneously overwhelms and distances you. Like observing a planetary storm through the safety of your viewfinder: you see its fury, yet feel removed from its true force.
Has it really been a decade since we lost each other?
Some have asked why I have yet to give in. It’s difficult to contend with such a question. Some would say I’m only delaying the inevitable. But I think of my infinitely beautiful, infinitely radiant source of hope, which even in the most hopeless of times, seems to pull me through.
Even though she isn’t with me right now, her smile still shines strong within me.
End log
“Hey Kohaku, can you append the orbital telemetry to that? I just need the section for ship status added in.”
An ash-haired woman saunters out of her quarters, stifling a yawn as she runs her fingers through her tangled hair. The soft ambient lighting catches the silver strands, casting shadows that hint at sleepless nights.
“Logged and filed,” comes the disembodied voice of another woman from the ship’s speakers. “Though I notice you omitted the date marker in your verbal sign-off, Captain.”
Kohaku’s voice carries a familiar formality—a protective layer of protocol that both of them understand is more about comfort and status quo than actual regulation.
The woman leans against the corridor wall, a wry smile forming. “Did I? Must have slipped my mind.”
“It is April 19th.”
A dense, unyielding silence fills the corridor. The quiet hum of the ship’s life-support systems suddenly feels incredibly loud.
Yō’s jaw tightens. She drops her hand from her hair, turning her gaze toward the viewport where the deep blue of an unfamiliar ocean planet dominates the blackness of space.
“I know what day it is, Kohaku,” Yō says. The words are not dramatic; they are simply true.
“I... see. My apologies, Mrs. Yō.” Kohaku does not finish her original thought, her usual confident cadence faltering into a quiet static.
“Don’t worry about it, okay? We’re still here, after all.” Yō straightens her shoulders.
Kohaku is generally reserved, sometimes straying into playful territory; but in the week surrounding this date, she becomes something else. She moves toward the viewfinder, gazing at the planet. Each anniversary that passes leaves her wondering if Kohaku has developed her own form of mourning. After all these years of shutting herself in her quarters when this date rolls around, perhaps she’s unknowingly taught her to mark the passage in the same way—with silence and isolation.
“So what’s on the agenda today, Mrs. Yō?” Kohaku asks, her tone deliberately lighter. “Finally going to the radio station down on the planet?”
Yō turns from her contemplation to face the ship’s main console. The deep blue expanse visible through the viewfinder catches the light like fragile glass. She presses her palms flat against the console's edge.
“Yeah,” the ash-haired girl says. “I have a good feeling about today.”
Kohaku’s terminal flickers briefly—her equivalent of raised eyebrows. “Oh? Any reason for the change, Mrs. Yō?”
“A lead’s a lead, Kohaku.” Yō steps towards the navigation terminal, her steps more purposeful than they’ve been in months. “We haven’t had anything this close in years.”
“I’ll bring us in for a surface landing, then.” A quiet hum in the ship’s engines signals their descent.
Returning to her quarters, she prepares herself breakfast as the vessel starts descending. The food is just fuel. She eats her sandwich without pausing to savour its taste, her mind already on the surface below.
Through her window, she can see the coastline coming into view—yet with no sign of the radio station in sight. The weather appears clear, with only slight winds rippling across the water’s surface.
An old habit strikes her. “Hey, can you land a bit off the coast and open the sails? Let’s take it easy today. The winds are perfect.”
“Sure thing, captain.” Kohaku's terminal pulses with a warm, golden hue.
The sandwich halfway to her mouth, Yō pauses. “Hey now, I didn’t ask you to get all chummy on me just because we haven’t sailed in a long time.” A smile touches her lips, small but genuine.
“But you must admit, captain,” Kohaku gently teases back, “you still like being called that after all this time.”
“Yeah. I do. I really do.”
The words carry everything she doesn’t say aloud—the weight of searching, of holding onto something that might be slipping away with each passing year. What good is a captain who can’t serve her crew?
Today might be different. Today has to be different.
Her current ship, the Radiant Firth, is an exploration-retrofitted luxury yacht. A plaything that served well for rich families and their affluent trips between systems. Fitting, as it was a gift from a certain patron family after her final campaign in the Radiant Estuary, a family quite notorious for their ridiculous displays of wealth. The polished hull catches the sunlight in a way that still seems ostentatious to Yō, even after all these years.
As the ship lands gently on the calm water, the deck opens up to reveal Yō behind the ship’s wheel, the wings in the aft retracting vertically into a mast. Her shoulder-length ash hair flows in the wind, following the direction of the sails. The familiar sensation of salt spray against her skin brings with it a flood of memories—distant days, laughter now preserved only in the far reaches of her mind.
She pauses, taking in the view. The horizon behind her stretches beyond, blue meeting blue in a seamless transition that makes her feel impossibly small and somehow significant at the same time.
“I haven’t breathed air this fresh since we were back home, Kohaku!”
She wishes she could share this with her closest. The thought perches in her chest, a familiar weight she’s carried for so long it’s become part of her architecture. Some absences never fully heal—they just become incorporated into who you are.
“We should make landfall in around four minutes on this course, captain. Wind is westerly, averaging around 10 to 15 metres per second. Forecast tells me the weather is as clear as it can get. It truly is a wonderful day, isn’t it?”
Yō allows her fingers to trace the grain of the wooden wheel, feeling each ridge and valley. Simple sensations have become her anchor over the years—the texture of wood, the pressure of wind against sail, the rhythm of waves against hull.
As children, she and Chika would ride on her father’s sailboat in the bay of Numazu on days like these, often taking rein of the wheel herself. The ash-haired girl would run to the bow and exclaim:
“Full speed ahead! Yōsoro!”
Chika would often join in laughing behind her, as they steered towards their destination. Those memories have become both sharper and more distant with each passing year. Yō can almost hear the echo of that laughter carried on the wind.
“I’d forgotten to mention, captain, this planet was next on our expedition catalog for our final campaign. Seems quite fitting, doesn’t it?”
The words hang in the air between them. Coincidence had long ago stopped feeling coincidental to Yō. The universe had patterns.
“Hey, that must mean something good, right? I’m positive we’ll be able to find something here. Any details I should know about this place?”
She adjusts their course slightly, extending their stay on the water. The minutes stretch around her, each one distinct and complete. After ten years of searching, she’d learnt to inhabit each moment fully.
“Vanguard data on this ocean planet has not been updated in twenty years. Similar to Tairngire, this land mass appears to be the only continent on the entire planet, with most of the fauna concentrated in the ocean itself. Our original mission here was to repair the relay on the radio station so that data could be sent back to the relay satellite in this system, but no one has been here since this radio station was built. It has been silently collecting telemetry over the past decade. It could be a treasure trove for all we know.”
The sunlight dapples across the water in a pattern that reminds her of code—ones and zeros written in light and shadow. Information. Always some inkling of information, but never the information she truly seeks.
“Perfect! We can repair the relay and read the data. Let’s look out for any atmospheric or radar disturbances from around the time of the Estuary.”
Approaching the coast, the radio station comes into view. Built into a cliff outcrop, the structure itself is difficult to make out from a distance, and seems difficult to access from land or sea. She studies it carefully, committing each detail to memory.
“Is that the station over there? Pretty smart that they built it disguised into the cliff, I guess.”
The ship glides closer, carried by wind and current. Yō feels the familiar rhythm of arrival—the subtle shifts in her body as it prepares for a new world.
“Correct. This star system is well beyond our territory. Wise to protect the structure by hiding it.”
The cliff face looms larger now. Ancient, patient. It had been here long before their arrival and would remain long after their departure.
“The problem is… how are we supposed to get in?”
“What do you say to a little dive, captain? There’s a small cave at the base of the cliff with an entrance hatch. My calculations say it’s a three-minute dive from this anchor point.”
Kohaku engages the moorings and anchors the ship just beyond the cliff face. The water surrounding the cliff is calm, not dissimilar to the temperate summer waters back home.
Yō stretches, feeling the pull of muscles that have spent too many hours at the helm. “Three minutes is a piece of cake! My morning dives used to last ten minutes back home, y’know. Anything I should look out for under the water?”
“Scans show medium-sized vertebrates under the surface, although it is unknown if they are hostile. Would you like to wear an external suit?”
“Nah. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the waves. Let me just grab your tablet and a quick-dryer.”
She moves back inside the ship, getting herself ready. The familiar corridors of the Firth envelop her briefly. Her fingers brush against the wall as she walks, another unconscious habit formed over years of solitary searching.
“Oh yeah, and don’t forget the spare relay. Just chuck it in the repair drone, please.”
“I don’t forget, captain,” Kohaku deadpans. “If anything, that serves more as a reminder for you.”
These familiar exchanges, these small moments of normalcy, have become precious to Yō. Routine is its own kind of comfort.
The ash-haired woman chuckles as she reappears on the deck, having changed into a diving suit. The material feels cool against her skin. “We both know who the real airhead is between us all. Fortunately, she isn’t with us at the moment.”
She grips the railing, the metal drawing heat from her palms. Her expression carries the weight of a decade—the rigid set of her jaw, the way her eyes search the blue water as though it owes her answers.
“That is precisely why we find ourselves here. Isn’t that right, captain?”
The question hangs between them, heavier than the humid air. Ten years of searching, condensed into those few words.
“Yeah.”
She takes a moment to center herself, feeling the cold deck beneath her feet, the sun on her face. Then, with the practiced movement of a professional diver, she dives.
The water embraces her, cool and encompassing, as she leaves the world of air behind.
As a child, Yō had always been fascinated with the sea and the stars. Her father being a sailor, she frequently tagged along aboard his vessel on the off chance he was in town. Growing up in a small town away from the big city, she always appreciated seeing a night sky full of stars.
With those two combined, stargazing by the sea became her favourite pastime. On the clearest of nights, she would sneak out to the docks; to take in the smell of sea salt, the chilly midnight breeze rustling through her skin as she lay down to stare at the stars. It was obvious to anyone that there were few things Yō loved more than her father, the sea, and the stars.
That was until she met her.
While she wasn’t exactly a quiet child, she had a hard time making friends in her first year of elementary school. It did not help that since her town was very small, she had to attend school in the neighbouring town where she knew no one. So, while she did talk to other kids at her school, that was it. Just at school.
Yō found herself once again at the docks in her favourite spot. Yet this time she felt like stopping by after school before going home. Just before she could finally relax though, a flash of orange hair and bright white teeth appeared in front of her.
“Hi!”
Yō enters the cave and eyes the entrance hatch. The metal hinge on the hatch looks to have rusted through, covered in a film of salt crystals that sparkle in her flashlight beam. Her fingers brush over the faded Vanguard insignia etched into the metal—still recognizable after all these years. With a practiced twist of her wrist, she manages to turn the mechanism. It gives way with a deep, reluctant groan that echoes through the cave.
Lifting herself up, she pauses halfway through the hatch. The stale air inside carries the distinct scent of dormant machinery and something else—a faint metallic tang that reminds her of the engineering on the Radiant Estuary. Her eyes strain to adjust to the dim lighting of the room she finds herself in.
“Does this place even have power, Kohaku?” Yō switches her flashlight on, revealing a circular staircase coated in a thin layer of dust. The beam illuminates rows of automated monitoring equipment, their display panels dark and silent. The station’s unmanned design is apparent in its compact efficiency—no crew quarters, no personal touches, just precisely arranged diagnostic systems.
Looking above, she sees a small skylight, allowing in a sliver of sunlight from the outside. The beam cuts through the damp darkness, illuminating floating dust particles that swirl with her every movement.
“I can only assume the auxiliary power is disconnected,” Kohaku’s voice crackles slightly in her earpiece. “These radio stations are mainly powered by a magical fusion reactor, and auxiliary power is supplied by hydroelectric energy. It’s only natural that the fusion reaction has exhausted, but it is strange that the auxiliary power is also inoperative.”
Yō approaches one of the monitoring stations, her fingers hovering just above the console.
“The diagnostic systems should still be accessible even without main power,” she thinks out loud. “These unmanned stations were built to last centuries, albeit with scheduled maintenance.”
“Maintenance being the operative word, yes,” Kohaku interjects. “Decades without repair in a coastal environment could compromise even the most robust systems.”
Yō approaches a central diagnostic terminal, running her fingers along the cold interface. The system has remained untouched since its initial deployment.
“Do you know the last time this station transmitted data?” She asks, studying the layout of the equipment.
“According to the records, it sent its final automated report approximately fifteen years, eight months ago,” Kohaku replies.
Yō taps the repair drone next to her, which whirs to life with a series of soft beeps. Its lights cast eerie blue shadows across the walls as it hovers at eye level.
“Run a full system diagnostic and see if you can restore basic power.” She pats the drone. It acknowledges with a cute chirp and starts to fly upwards in a scanning pattern, towards what she assumes would be the reactor room.
She watches it disappear into the darkness above, then turns her attention to the station’s data collection modules. Each sensor array is labeled with geographical coordinates and measurement parameters.
Yō runs her hand along one of the sensor panels, wiping away a near-perfect circle in the dust. The motion reveals a reflection so clear she can see her own eyes looking back at her; wearied eyes that have searched far too long for answers.
“This engineering is pretty impressive,” she murmurs.
As she completes her examination, Yō carefully ascends the staircase, her hand trailing along the cool metal railing. Each step feels deliberate yet soft. The skylight above grows larger as she climbs.
“Is that skylight the top entrance to this station? I’m gonna take a peek by the cliff edge.”
“Yes. Careful though captain, the sand and rocks surrounding the entrance may collapse in.”
As Yō tries to pry open the skylight, sand and pebbles fall through the crack, pattering softly against the metal steps below. The mechanism resists at first. She applies steady pressure, feeling each millimeter of progress as the hatch gradually yields.
A rush of fresh air floods the stairwell, carrying with it the scent of ocean and sun-warmed earth. With unhurried movements, she pulls herself through the opening and onto the surface, finding herself perched above the cliff overlooking the vast blue in front of her, and the hilly greens behind her.
“God, this place is beautiful.”
The woman’s ash hair billows in the wind as she breathes in the salty air, squinting from the sunlight.
“She’d love it here.”
She takes a few steps away from the hatch, her boots crunching on gravel as she moves to the edge of the cliff. The waves below crash against the rocks in a rhythm as old as time itself.
“I’d consider us lucky, captain. You know how rare a planet like this is. The only other one I know of is Tairngire, of course.”
Yō attempts to block the sunlight with her hand. The light shifts and dances across the water, creating patterns that remind her of ceremonial lamps on festival nights from her hometown.
“Captain, power has been restored to the station. I am initiating the data transfer now. Would you like to observe?” Kohaku’s voice struggles to cut through the wind blowing past her ears.
“I’m going to take in the air. Please let me know if anything comes up, though.” Yō moves away from the edge, finding a smooth rock formation that offers a natural seat. She settles herself, crossing her legs and straightening her back in a familiar meditative posture. Her eyelids close completely.
She loves to meditate by the ocean, clearing her mind by concentrating on the sound of crashing waves. The regular pattern usually helps her feel grounded, but today something feels different.
She finds herself struggling to follow her meditative flow. A shiver runs along her spine that has nothing to do with the temperature. The air feels charged, vibrating with a low, persistent static that tickles her half-lunarian senses.
“Hey Kohaku,” she speaks into her earpiece, eyes still closed. “Are there any large fauna on this continent? Something feels... loud.”
The comms line crackles. When Kohaku replies, the usual smooth cadence of her voice is fractured.
“Captain.”
Yō's eyes snap open. Kohaku hasn't used that tone since the Estuary.
“I am parsing the station's ten-year telemetry cache,” Kohaku continues, the words coming too fast. “There is a topological tension spike holding steady. Three hundred meters inland.”
Yō’s breath catches. “A storm remnant?”
“No. The phase-charge is perfectly neutral, but the topological class is locked at greater than two.” Kohaku's voice drops, stripped of all its digital pretense. “It's an active stasis ward, Mrs. Yō. A Vanguard-issue escape pod. From the Radiant Estuary.”
The coastal winds vanish. Yō doesn't register the heat of the sun on her neck or the crash of the ocean below. The entire planet dissolves.
The words hang in the air for only a fraction of a second before Yō realises she is moving. Her meditation forgotten, she runs—not with the frantic energy of panic, but with the single-minded focus of someone who has waited ten years for this moment. She runs the fastest she has ever run in her entire life. The dust behind her kicks up as Kohaku tries calling out to her, but she tunes out everything around her.
In front of her was a kid no taller than her, sporting the same uniform as her. Yō stared at her vivid orange hair, unsure of what to say.
“Hey! Did you hear me?” Taking a better look, the girl had dirt and leaves caught in her hair, and her uniform was a complete mess. Still stuck in a stupor, Yō continued to stare at the girl and her haphazard smile.
“Are you deaf? I can’t speak in sign language, sorry!” The girl looked genuinely apologetic, flailing her arms out.
“H-huh? No, I’m not deaf…” Yō finally replied.
“So you can speak! Are you okay? Why are you sitting here alone?”
“This is my favourite place to sit… but what happened to your hair?” Yō blurted out suddenly.
“There was a puppy that was stuck on a tree! I brought it down but fell over when I climbed back down.” A menace, this one.
“The puppy was so cute! I tried to run away from it but it kept chasing me as well!”
Yō couldn’t help but laugh at the girl’s antics.
“You laughed! And here I thought you were moping all alone.”
“S-sorry. Wait, is that the puppy you were talking about?” Behind the orange-haired girl sauntered a small dog, barely reaching the girl’s knee. It licked cutely at the base of her legs, wagging its tail.
“No! Mito-nee will get mad at me if I take an animal home! Hey, do you want to come over to my house? Maybe we can convince Mito-nee to keep Shiitake together!”
“You named it already?” Yō looked at her incredulously.
“Of course! Wait, sorry, that might have been weird since you don’t know me, but I’m from the next class over! My name is Takami-”
“-n’t approach it! It’s highly—”
Yō keeps ignoring Kohaku’s desperate calls through her earpiece. The voice fades into static as her focus narrows on what lies ahead.
She approaches the silver-coloured escape pod, lodged halfway into the ground. Her breathing is shallow; a barely perceptible quickening that would go unnoticed by anyone but herself.
Kneeling beside the half-buried pod, she extends her senses outward. The ambient magic hums, a strong magical life force emanating from within. Since the escape pods are cryo-preserving, it’s difficult to make out the figure inside being obscured by the frost. She leans closer, trying to peer through the clouded surface.
Large elongated stones stand arranged meticulously in a circle. A makeshift shrine. Runes carved into them emanate a slight pulsating glow of maroon and navy.
“Kohaku! Get me the repair drone and carry the pod back to the ship!”
Her voice echoes faintly between the stone pillars. It’s steady, professional—only the briefest hesitation between words betrays anything beneath the surface. She waits for a response, but nothing comes.
“Kohaku! Dammit!” The silence stretches.
She turns her attention back to the pod, attempting to dig out the earth around the door. Her movements are precise, but there’s a microscopic tension in her muscles. The soil gives way beneath her fingers.
She floats a palm above one of the stones. Her lips move in a small prayer, words barely audible even to herself.
She wipes the frost from the reinforced glass.
Midnight-blue hair. A pale face.
The recognition hits her in two distinct, violent waves.
First, her lungs unlock. The air rushes out of her in a shuddering, desperate exhale. Alive.
Second, a cold, ugly spike drives upward from the base of her spine. A phantom flash of bright orange hair flickers in her mind’s eye, instantly smothered by a suffocating wave of guilt. She presses her forehead against the freezing glass, her hands trembling so violently they rattle against the metal hull. She closes her eyes, punishing herself for that single, selfish second of wishing it was someone else.
“Kohaku! Can you hear me? I’m really sorry for ignoring you, I got way too ahead of myself there.”
Her voice sounds normal. Like someone trying to maintain the proper tension on an instrument that’s been strained too long. But her breath hitches. Not a gasp, not a wheeze—just the briefest moment where her lungs seem to cough and her heart skips a beat.
“Mrs. Yō! The topological tension in that barrier was highly unstable! If the phase-charge had collapsed...” Kohaku’s voice comes through clearly now. “Please wait a moment for the repair drone to reach you. I assume you have disarmed her spell, so we can leave it to recover the escape pod and return it to the ship.”
Yō takes a moment to process the instructions.
“Roger that. A-anything you need me to do in the meantime?”
Her hands shake. She clasps them together as if in prayer. The world begins to blur at the edges.
“I want you to relax, Mrs. Yō. You’ve been through a lot.”
The words sink in slowly, like stones falling through deep water. The final, microscopic crack appears in a wall she has spent ten years maintaining.
“I-I'll be f-fine...”
Gravity vanishes from her stomach.
Her knees strike the dirt.
The descent stretches. Her skeleton yields to a force she has fought for a decade. A choked sound claws up her throat—a ragged, wet laugh that fractures instantly into a sob.
Words abandon her entirely.
She lays down, facing the endless blue sky. Her body betrays her; quiet sobs heave from her chest. The surrender feels absolute.
Today marks the 40th anniversary of the start of her service on the Radiant Estuary. The deep blue sky she found herself in then, she finds herself in now.
“-ptain. Mrs. Yō.”
A voice from beside her rouses her awake. The wind chill strikes her squinting eyes.
She blinks away her tiredness. The surroundings have darkened, and the stars are visible above.
“...Kohaku? What time is it?” Yō replies, her voice raspy.
Her throat feels raw. She glances to her side, and sees the faint blue outline of a beige-haired tall woman crouched next to her. The holographic projection flickers slightly in the midnight breeze.
“Ah, sorry to make you come out like that, I shouldn’t have slept for so long.”
She pushes herself up slightly, muscles stiff from lying on the hard ground. A dull ache pulses behind her temples.
“You needed the rest, Mrs. Yō.” Kohaku’s voice is gentle. “The day cycle only lasts four hours on this planet, so you were only asleep for a short while.”
Yō stands up and dusts herself off. She sees her ship behind her. The escape pod is no longer where it was before.
“Yeah, I feel a bit better now.” Her body feels lighter, but something inside her remains unsettled. “How’s Yoshiko doing in there?”
“Her condition is stable. We could begin the cryo-reversal process if you’d like, but it would be wise to return to a station with proper medical services in case anything comes up.”
Yō looks out toward the blackened horizon. The wind picks up slightly.
“How long is it until the nearest Vanguard outpost then?”
“Deep Space Perseus-two is around ten-thousand light-years away. Roughly a month of travel time.”
“We’ve been out here for so long that I forgot we’re actually ridiculously far from anything, huh...”
“Yes,”
Kohaku’s simple confirmation hangs cautiously in the air.
“Which is why I would instead recommend that we return home.”
Kohaku’s holographic projection flickers. The suggestion settles uncomfortably in Yō's chest. A nagging pull in the back of her mind insists that returning home means giving up on the search.
“We’ve been in this sector for five years, Mrs. Yō.” Kohaku continues softly. “That is grounds for an entire expedition cycle. If not for Miss Yoshiko’s sake, please let us return for yours.”
“...Yeah.” The word is pushed from her lungs like a foreign object. “Yoshiko would appreciate waking up to home.”
Her gaze drops to the dirt. The hollowness in her voice echoes in the quiet space between them.
“I’ll prepare your quarters for hibernation, then.” Kohaku’s faint figure disappears back into the ship.
The sun starts to rise on the horizon, casting long shadows across the ground where the escape pod had been.
The Radiant Firth prepares to jump into slipspace.
“Since we get naming rights for the discovery of this planet, let’s lodge a claim for its name before we leave,” Yō says, drying her freshly-washed hair.
“Oh? And what would you like to name it, Mrs. Yō?” Kohaku replies from the console.
“I was going to say ‘Yohane’ since we did end up finding Yoshiko here, but that’s kind of cheesy—and Yoshiko would never stop gloating about it...” Yō gets comfy on the couch.
“I definitely don’t disagree on that front. If I may suggest, how about ‘Radiant Estuary’ as a name?”
“...Just like home, huh?” The ash-haired woman glances softly at the retreating planet on the viewfinder. “That sounds good. I’m sure everyone would have loved this place.”
“It’s decided then.”
“On the topic of the data from the radio station, I have some news to share. Since it was able to capture the nature of the gravitational anomaly which the escape pod came through, we’re able to estimate the locations of all the other escape pods that passed through the anomaly.”
“That’s good...” Yō replies tentatively. Her fingers rest lightly against the edge of the couch.
“The bad news is that there are hundreds of escape pods in hundreds of possible locations across the entire galaxy. It would take a Herculean effort to reach them all, not to mention that most of the locations are systems far beyond the reach of our civilization...”
Silence fills the navigation room. Calculations run behind Yō's eyes—distances, years, probabilities. “I-I can prepare an emergency recovery committee once we get back home... maybe.”
“Even so, it would take a significant amount of effort. We will most likely have to bear the brunt of the exploration, Mrs. Yō.” The words come out of Kohaku’s console with worrying difficulty. “I fear... my best estimate for this is another twenty to thirty years in uncharted space.”
Yō shuts her eyes. “I didn’t want to ask, but is it possible to...”
The quiet stretches between them, thick and unyielding.
“...Yes.” Kohaku reluctantly replies. “The data identifies the individuals in the escape pods. We can concentrate on finding the other seven and offload the rest to the recovery contingents.”
Before Yō can spiral further, Kohaku continues. “Let us think about this when we need to. Once we return, I don’t expect us to be anywhere but home for the next year. I cannot express this enough, Mrs. Yō. It is imperative that you rest.”
“I get that, Kohaku. I really do.” Yō’s gaze drifts to her own reflection in the darkened viewfinder. “I know this sounds stupid... but I just don’t feel like I deserve to go home w-without them...”
“I... share some of that sentiment as well, Mrs. Yō. I feel... ill-prepared to break the news to Miss Yoshiko when she inevitably awakens.”
Tears gather slowly again.
“G-gosh, Y-Yoshiko-chan...” Her voice dips lower, almost to herself. “What are we even going to tell her? I can’t imagine placing this burden on her... How can I even call myself a captain anymore?”
“A captain’s burden will always be shared with her crew. We knew what we signed up for when we followed you onto that ship, Mrs. Yō. Please do not try to shoulder this all by yourself.”
“...Thank you, Kohaku.” The words emerge softly. “I wouldn’t have the strength to be here if it weren’t for you...”
Kohaku’s faint blue figure manifests once again beside Yō, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“You were the best captain we, or anyone could have ever hoped for.”
Yō leans into Kohaku’s figure. “You’re warm, Kohaku.”
“That doesn’t sound possible.” Kohaku replies. “I don’t have a physical body.”
Yō lets out a small laugh, wiping tears with her sleeves. “It’s four months to home, huh.”
“When you’re ready, I’ve prepared your quarters for hibernation,” Kohaku says, fading back into her console. “We should also inform the Vanguard of our discovery. I have relayed the data regarding the gravitational anomaly back to command, although I’ve chosen to forgo the escape pod telemetry for now.”
“Yeah, that’s good. Let’s prepare a proposal for an emergency recovery committee and schedule it to be sent the month before we arrive. Also... I’ll write a letter to Yoshiko’s parents.”
“Leave the proposal to me. The letter is fine, but please concentrate on getting yourself rest.”
“Thanks again, Kohaku.”
The console goes silent.
Yō stares through the red-tinted darkness of slipspace on the viewfinder. The crimson glow writhes in rhythm with her heartbeat—a slow, heavy pulsing.
The blinking cursor on her tablet seems to mock her.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Tsushima. I found your daughter.
She stares at the words. Pathetic. Grotesque. How, pray tell, was she supposed to pen a heartfelt letter to the parents who entrusted their daughter’s life to her? Oh, by the way, I finally did my job ten years late.
The ash-haired girl clenches her fist. The tablet dims from disuse.
Fresh tears gather at the corners of her eyes, carrying a heavier density. Her thoughts don't just stop at Yoshiko. They stretch out into the suffocating black. Mari. Kanan. Dia. Ruby. Hanamaru. Riko.
Chika.
An uneasy tightness forms in her throat, thick as swallowed ash. Her body slumps forward, face pressing into the couch pillow.
“C-Chika-chan...” she mumbles into the fabric.
The silence of the Firth suddenly feels wrong. Too quiet. A phantom vibration begins to hum in the deck plates beneath her feet.
Warning. Structural integrity failing.
She squeezes her eyes shut, but the darkness behind her eyelids burns crimson. The smell of clean, filtered air is replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and melting wiring. The memory doesn't just rise; it reaches out and drags her under.
“Kohaku!” She screamed, her lungs burning from the smoke. “Has everyone else made it into their escape pods?!”
Even as she feels Kohaku’s ‘warmth’ gently console her stiff shoulders once more in the present, her chest thunders in her ears. Each beat echoes from ten years ago.
“Everyone that could, has. Only you, Mari, Kanan, and I are aboard at this present moment, captain.”
The deafening alarm roared through the corridors as she ran towards Engineering.
She found Kanan cradling a fading figure of the ever-grinning blonde as the walls around them collapsed.
“Kanan! Is she alright?”
“I-I… I don’t know…” Kanan replied, her confident voice fragile.
“Help me get you both to escape pods! She’ll be alright then!” Desperation made her voice foreign to her own ears.
“-ō! Mrs. Yō! Are you—” Present-day Kohaku’s voice struggles to penetrate through the deafening rush of blood in Yō’s ears.
They secured Mari into an empty escape pod. Her face was pale.
“H-heh… look at you two. Y-you should have just… left me…” Kanan suspected she had been exposed to radiation leakage.
“No! Everyone that’s left will get out of here alive. That’s a promise!” Yō screamed.
A sudden explosion launched Yō backwards. The world spun, lights and shadows merging into a dizzying blur.
“Mari! Kanan!” Her muffled scream now reaches no one but the pillow, the fabric growing damp with tears.
When she regained her bearings, her surroundings were engulfed in flames; Kanan and Mari were gone, their escape pod seemingly jettisoned.
“Kohaku!” She screamed again. “Have those two made it out?!” There was no answer.
As she closed her own escape pod door, another explosion rang out. She caught a glimpse of her burning ship as the escape pod jettisoned outward—the Radiant Estuary, her home, her responsibility, consumed by fire.
And her consciousness fades away, both then and now.