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You don’t know how long it’s been.
It would be easy enough to check, if you actually wanted to know. The probe tracking module had the amount of loops, and if you just removed all the ones it took to find the Eye of the universe, and then multiplied that number by twenty-two, you could have the exact number of minutes. But you didn’t want to know, because then that number would always be adding up in your head, every time you died, every time the sun went supernova.
All that time forgotten. All that time wasted. All that time in which you couldn’t save them, didn’t figure it out, didn’t help anyone. No, knowing would be worse. But that didn’t mean not knowing was good either. It made you so detached from everything. There was only one other person trapped in the same cycle, and they were no help. Gabbro didn’t feel the need to make any big decisions, or go exploring. They didn’t care that you were suffering. They could sit in their hammock and meditate for the rest of eternity.
For a while, it’d been fun. A bit like an adventure. You learnt things about the past, tried to piece what you knew together, figured out how to get somewhere within the time that you had. Looked for shortcuts, looked for answers. But then again, maybe it was only enjoyable because you’d thought at some point it would be over. There would be some ancient Nomai device that kept causing the sun to supernova, and one for the timeloop as well. You would turn it off, and Chert would realise that all the other stars weren’t ending either. That the universe had just been confused since this one star had gone supernova early.
You knew deep down that wasn’t how the universe worked. And you knew it was never going to be that easy. But it didn’t stop arriving at the sun station hitting you hard. You just meditated for several loops after that. It was difficult to keep believing there was a point in going on. You got over it, eventually. You owed it to the nomai to try and figure out their secrets. To see if it was possible to do what they’d been trying to achieve from the moment they’d crashed into this solar system. But it was a terrifying goal.
What if it wasn’t possible? Sure, everything so far could be managed within the timeframe, despite the worlds collapsing around you. But who knew how long that luck would last. It would only take one broken teleporter, or one inconveniently placed rock, to put a stop to all your endeavours. It pained you to think that way, but it was definitely more realistic than you’d been acting before. Everything was worth a shot, anyway. You had all the time left in the universe.
Despite your exhaustion, you open your eyes. The orbital probe cannon fires, and promptly falls apart. You briefly ponder how it managed to find the eye of the universe, if there was a relatively high probability it would crash into a planet long before it could reach it. Possibly, it just had autopilot that was better than Slate’s. You could still recall the times when you weren’t paying attention, and let it drive you straight back into Timber Hearth. Or the sun. Or any planet in the solar system, really.
You scramble to your feet. Ignore Slate’s greeting, and then their confusion as you go to type in the launch codes. It didn’t matter if they were confused for a bit. You’d be long gone by the time they could do something about the way you were acting. Ask you about why you weren’t acting like yourself.
The worst part is, you don’t remember how you used to act. That version of you slips away, a little bit at a time. Loop by loop, until there’s nothing of you left. Do you look forward to that? When the pain of memories leaves you. When all that matters is the next step. You aren’t sure. You aren’t sure of anything, lately.
Lights flicker on and the hatch flicks shut. You make your way over to the pilots seat, buckle yourself in, and pinpoint Ember Twin on your location. There’s some information over there about anglerfish that you need. You need to get there quickly, before the sand rises over it.
And so you go on.