Widow awoke with a start, kicking up bits of dust from where they’d settled for their impromptu nap. Their visor flashed green, with a little message confirming “Air Supply Full”. Widow waved it away. What the hell time was it?

Some mental commands and touches on their visor brought up the clock.

Mission Start: 52/11/30 — 21:08:56

Mission Abort: 52/11/30 — 21:37:14

Current Time: 52/12/1 — 04:19:23

Warning: Location Unknown — Local Times Unavailable

Groaning, covered in aches and pains, Widow sat up a little straighter. Pain lanced through their leg, but it seemed the splint had held well enough. The rest of their body… well, they should find shelter first.

The doubts started to run through Widow’s mind. Shelter? Here? There isn’t a lick of atmosphere. What, you plan to build a pressurized hab out of moon dust? They shook their head. They could work something up. Long term space habitation had only taken Terra what, a few hundred years? Widow could definitely pull that off solo. With limited air. So, with all the skill, tech, and self-aware arrogance an isolated, half-burned OCNI operative could muster, Widow rose yet again, leaning heavily on the hull. Faint light poured in from the entrance, and they hobbled toward it. Slowly, but surely, their world opened up.

It was breathtaking — and not just literally. The horizon was dominated by Eupheme, which looked oddly serene even as it churned with some of the biggest storms in the Accord. Light from the distant Hephaestus reflected off the gas giant, casting a faint glow across the entire moon. The rest of the sky was filled with pinpricks of light, twinkling out against the infinite abyss. Maybe, if they looked hard enough, Widow would catch a glimpse of a ship as it lumbered through the void. A lone asteroid. Stray stardust. Something.

Nothing came.

It was odd. Widow’s helmet and head both were always filled with comms chatter, mission details and reports, conditioning loops, and the steady stream of information that they dutifully noted everywhere they went. Out here, it was quiet. No radio. No Mission Objective: Return to Ground flashing in their periphery. Even their ever-racing thoughts calmed, soothed by the expanse laid out before them.

They stayed there for a while, looking out at the moon and up into the sky. Eventually, though, the voice returned, like it always did.

Primary Objective: Survive

Widow’s mind started to turn, starting to list out the thousands of smaller requirements to achieve their primary objective. Air was solved. The tank Widow had found could fully pressurize the Weaver a dozen times over. They weren’t in… imminent danger of bleeding out, but a shoot of pain reminded them that every moment they spent up and about was a gamble. Healing and repair, of their body and suit respectively, required time and shelter. Pressurized shelter. Food and water could be found after shelter.

Widow looked about, and their visor slowly started to fill in their tasks, the cool edge of their training kicking into gear and focusing their mind. Survive. Find or Fabricate Shelter. Evade Capture. Locate Water. Locate Food. Repair Isolation Suit. Connect to OCNI Subnetwork. Heal. Await Further Instruction.

Gently lifting themselves off the ground, Widow swung under microgravity to get atop the wreckage. Realistically, they weren’t going to build shelter from scratch. Barely any resources, without tools, and injured? Yeah, right. Widow was confident, not delusional. Still, maybe they could spot a fissure, a cave, some stable terrain. Just something to start with. The visor’s camera systems were damaged, and trying to activate the extended vision just gave Widow a headache. Ugh.

Still, their natural eyes weren’t half bad. Widow scanned the horizon, until something caught their attention. Checking over the terrain again, they frowned. Everything looked to be in place - at least, how Widow expected a dusty, rocky moon to look - but it felt… off. Somehow. A prickle of instinct crept across their skin. There, about a kilometer out. What was that? A rocky outcropping, nearly identical to every other one they’d seen. Still… with nothing else promising, why not? It wasn’t like their odds could get much worse. With a graceful, fluid motion only slightly impeded by their frozen-stiff leg, Widow swung down off the wreckage, landing softly on their hands and one knee.

Well then. Farewell, Weaver. Farewell, compressed-air tank. Farewell, wreckage. It had been a pleasure. Widow smiled slightly at the thought, then turned away and started to walk, guided by a gut feeling and precious little else.

Forty-five minutes in, and the only gut feeling Widow had was hunger. Their suit had done a fine job at bracing their leg, but they’d been through a lot besides. The mental tasks of Find Water and Find Food were quickly creeping to the top of the list. Still, they trudged on. Let it never be said that Widow went down without a fight. They slowly climbed to the top of a rocky dune, leg screaming in protest, and mind screaming back just as loud. Finally, drenched in sweat and trembling from exhaustion, they reached the peak and looked down on their target.

Nothing. Just another rocky outcropping. Widow’s vision blurred, the limitations of their very-human body quickly catching up to them. Fuck, when had they last eaten? Drank? Their throat was parched. Muscles and lungs burning, the operative sank to their knees, the horrifying pain of their fractured leg barely even a notice by now.

How about now? I’d say I earned it.

The voice was silent. Widow hung their head in defeat. This was idiotic. Why had they not stuck with the wreckage? Even getting picked up— death before surrender. This is the law, as it always has been.

“That’s when you speak up, huh?” Widow wheezed to themselves. “You motherfucker.”

Widow lay back, stretching their legs as they gazed up into the sky. To hell with radiation poisoning. If Widow was going to die, they were going to die looking up at the stars. They cleared their visor, letting the tasks and the timers and the monitors all fall away. In, out. In, out. Their breath curled around their face, fogging slightly before it was whisked away to the return system.

The stars were beautiful. How many had humanity visited? How many were out of reach, distances even the best technology could never reach? Widow looked at each of them in turn, pondering just how far away they could have run. If only. If only.

Their stargazing was suddenly interrupted as Widow’s subconscious butted in. The stars are disappearing. A ship is approaching. OCNI directives dictate that shadow teams are not to be recovered. The ship is Affini. They are looking for you. A bolt of activity flashed through Widow, and their mission list reappeared on their visor. Evade Capture. Shit. Time to go. Rational thought and physical needs were out the window, replaced yet again by adrenaline and barely-harnessed terror. In their rush to get up, Widow slipped, their leg giving out and sending them tumbling down the dune. Dust kicked up, drifting across the surface and sticking to their visor. They wiped it off with one gloved hand and looked around in a panic. Where could they go? Their conscious mind was blurred, confused, and the conditioning was struggling to take the reigns.

Widow looked at the rock outcropping again, and there was that prickle of familiarity again. This wasn’t natural. It was close, but something about its dimensions… Up close, they could see it, tucked into a small recess in the wall. A small, black panel, peeking out into the universe. OCNI Terminal. There’s a blacksite here. Who the hell had put a bunker out here? Didn’t matter. It would be pressurized, it would have water, it would have food, and, most importantly, it wasn’t visible from space.

Widow dragged themselves through the dust, eventually pulling themselves up alongside the small, inconspicuous terminal - little more than a smooth black panel. They set their gloved hand against it, and a new voice played over their helmet speakers.

“Adfirma.” Whatever the true words were, they skipped Widow’s higher reasoning.

“Agent Leigh Howells, Division Ariadne, Tripcode 35095-Delta. Requesting Emergency Shelter.” The response was automatic, unthought and unquestioned.

The machine thought for what felt like an eternity. “Designation confirmed. Welcome, Widow. Please report to security for debriefing.”

Silently, a small section of the wall pulled away, revealing an airlock. “Oh, thank god.”

Widow stumbled into the airlock - a the walls were a pale grey, smooth surface, with a small control panel mounted near the door that slid shut behind Widow, sealing them in. They felt as the clean cycle — including magnets and air jets that got the majority of the dust off — ran automatically, followed by a hiss as the room pressurized. Finally, a secondary door opened, leading into a small elevator. 

As they descended, Widow’s short burst of adrenaline started to wane. Smaller aches, pains, cuts, bruises, and burns they’d sustained awoke one after another, and the pain in their poorly-cast leg was growing into a constant white-hot lance, only subdued by the fog that had descended over their brain. The elevator jostled slightly, and they grit their teeth as the doors slid open. The blue-white light of the elevator spilled out into the dark hallway, and Widow took a few cautious steps into the bunker. Where was the light? Where was the activity? The sound of generators in the distance?

After a minute, it clicked. Abandoned. Of course it would be. By now, the Hephaestus system was decidedly Affini-controlled space. OCNI would have evacuated their blacksite the moment enemy craft got within a thousand light-years. Still, a bunker was good. It meant water, food, medical supplies, and most importantly: obscurity.

After a moment of fumbling against the wall, Widow found a control panel, which blinked to life at their touch. “Dryad Assistant Online. Welcome, Operative. Desopt sil modos?”

“Tripcode 35095-Delta. Emergency isolation wake. Essential systems only.”

“Confirmed. Blacksite Vulcan operational. Acting emergency commander, Leigh Widow Howells.”

With a hum, the overhead lights came to life, bathing the hallway in a cool, sterile white. Widow moved slowly, carrying their helmet under one arm and keeping a stabilizing hand on the wall. Half-blindly, they followed an off-blue line of paint on the wall, limping toward the medical bay they knew it led to. Find Water.

Widow didn’t know how long it took to get to the bay. Their world quickly collapsed down into the wall, the floor, and the blue line guiding them to salvation. Eventually, they bumped into a door. They looked up, barely comprehending. Find Water. The door slid open.

Much like everything else, the medical bay was neat, tidy, and covered in a fine layer of dust. Widow’s gaze passed over shadowy, ill-defined shapes, until zeroing in on a boxy supply cabinet. Find Water. They stumbled for the cabinet, tugging at the handle as their head spun. They’d lost their helmet at some point. It didn’t matter. The door was open. Bandages. Medicines. There. Water. They slumped down against the cabinet, reaching across their body to grab at the bag. Finally, agonizingly, their fingers closed around the smooth plastic surface. They stared dumbly at the seal. Total delirium was closing fast. Water.

Widow blacked out.

Day Three.

Leigh was on the ground. It was… smooth. Cool. They could feel it against their cheek. Wait. Their helmet was off. They were inside. They pushed themselves up. This was… an OCNI medical bay. Were they in hell? 

They looked down. An IV line was hooked up to their right arm, leading a little ways to a small white-and-blue cylindrical… something. Where had that come from? And how had they gotten here? Leigh frowned. They remembered… leaving the Weaver. Walking for a long time. Then, things got fuzzier. A water ration pack sat unopened next to them. 

“Welcome, Commander Howells!” a small synthesized voice chirped.

“Excuse me?”

The small cylinder whirred a little bit, and a simple projected screen popped up a few feet above the disk. “You have been unconscious for two hours, eight minutes, and twelve seconds! Your vital signs have stabilized to acceptable conditions, and sedative counteragents have been administered. Pain medications have been administered. Wound regeneration agents have been administered. Welcome back!” The bot’s display transformed to a small ^-^ face before returning to neutral.

“I, uh, okay…” replied Leigh. “What’s going on?” 

“Vulkan Bunker has been reopened under emergency blackout protocols. Nonessential systems are inoperative; however, life support systems including myself are operating at peak capacity. As the only person on-site, you have been designated acting Commander.” The voice was vaguely familiar; Leigh was fairly sure they’d overheard one like it back in a Martian medical bay.

The operative sat back against the cabinet. “Oh. Well, then.”

“Additional agents have been administered to assist your return to active duty. Expenses have been logged and will be distributed on the subnet when Vulkan communication systems are activated. Thank you for working with Ichor Enterprises!”

“Yeah, well, don’t expect that anytime soon,” they muttered as they fished the IV drip out of their arm. Despite everything, they felt actually okay. Their leg, though still definitely injured, wasn’t in crippling pain, and the blood staining their suit had been cleaned away. Leigh released the IV, and it was quickly sucked back into the body of the medical bot, which chirped a happy confirmation. They sat up a little straighter, looking at their surroundings with fresh eyes and a clear mind.

The medical ward looked fairly standard. Cots were lined up against one wall, sheets neatly tucked. They were leaned up against a supply cabinet, and an autodoc was set into the wall next to them. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. Satisfied, they pulled themselves up off the ground, leaning on their arm to avoid worsening their leg’s condition. That would need to be set properly, but the isolation suit’s immobilization would do until their smaller wounds were bandaged up. 

They turned to the cabinet, which was lightly stocked with medicines, gauze, bandages, and assorted tools. Excellent. They gathered a small pile of bandages, ointments, and a suture kit, then limped over to the nearest cot. Leigh quickly shimmied their top half out of the suit, peeling it away from their skin. A sticky… something was left behind, lathered around the tears in their suit.

“Buddy?” they asked hesitantly.

A bright tone emanated from the bot, and the holoprojection flickered back to life. “How may I assist you, Commander?” 

“Hold up, what’s your name, anyway?”

“I am designated EM-1. The doctors often call me Emi!”

“Right… Emi, then. Uh, what is this on my skin?”

“I was unable to properly suture your wounds while you were unconscious. I decided that Ichor Enterprise’s MedGel (tm) was sufficient to sterilize and protect your wounds until proper medical attention could be provided!”

“Huh. Sticky stuff,” they replied, wiping some away with a small gauze pad. “Thanks, I guess?”

“No need to thank me!” the bot chirped, though it did make a quick spin from its spot on the ground.

Leigh smiled in spite of theirself, then started to clean and stitch the many small injuries that covered their upper body. “Emi, what’s the status of the base?”

“Vulkan Bunker is operating under emergency blackout conditions. As far as I know, there are no other occupants.”

“Right, right. Any information on what Vulkan’s purpose was?”

“That information is not within my permissions!”

“Oh. Wait, what if I say that it is? I am the commander, after all.”

Emi flickered. “Intent registered! One moment, please!”

As Leigh continued to move down their body with the suture kit, Emi zipped across the floor, skidding to a stop beside a small console. A prehensile data cable whipped out from its body, connecting to the console with a magnetic click.

“Vulkan Station was constructed alongside the mining colony of Hephaestus’ Anvil, to ensure worker compliance with Terran Accord, Corporation, and OCNI standards of conduct! A history of operations here is also available. Would you like to hear it?”

“Eh, sure,” Leigh replied casually. Whatever that MedGel was, it had done a bang-up job at numbing down their cuts and scrapes, and though their stitches weren’t perfect, they’d do.

“Report on Major Vulkan Station Operations! February 2501: Beginning of Campaign New Smith, Security for Foundation of Hephaestus Mining Colony. November 2510: Campaign Godfall, Labor Union and Riot Suppression. January 2521: Operation Good Graces, False Flag Campaign Against Gasworkers Union. July 2530: Operation Medusa, Increased Arms Production for Sol Systems. November 2551: Operation Aegis, Security Enhancements for Novel Xeno Threat. May 2552: Operation Smokeless Forge, Immediate Shutdown and Evacuation.”

By the end of the report, Leigh had finished their stitches, and quickly slapped a few bandages over the more prominent ones. “Thanks, Emi,” they said absently. “Say, uh, do you have any splints? Took a bad fall a little while back…” Why were they being so evasive? The thing was a bot, for stars’ sake. It wasn’t going to care.

Across the room, the data cable whipped away from the console, and Emi zipped back to Leigh’s side. “Yes! Splints are available in the main storage room, fifth shelf, left side.”

Leigh looked down at the bot, which hovered a full two feet off the ground and didn’t seem to have any way to open doors. Its display blinked. “No chance you can get it for me, huh?”

“Unfortunately, access to the supply room is restricted to humans only!”

“Of course it is. Well, let’s go. After that, I’ll need you to give me a tour. I think I’m gonna be around for a good long while…”

Three days later, the Leuteria was holding position above Eupheme.

“Captain, a message from Sequoidium.”

Thern didn’t turn from the forward viewport, but a ripple flashed through the leaves beneath their armor. “Go ahead,” they said. 

Althea Rixxic, Twelfth Bloom, hesitated momentarily before relaying her message. “Commander Netidas is requesting our presence. The fleet is moving again towards Terra. She said our Centauras would… have plenty of work to do, if current trends are to be believed.”

Thern was silent for a few moments. “I see.” A simulated sigh ran through their body— a Terran habit to be sure, but one that had infected Barrik quite thoroughly. “I assume she is… aware of our current mission?”

“She is. But… Captain. We found five-”

“I know.”

“And the simulation suggests-”

“I know.” A ripple of frustration burst out from Thern, and they took a moment to recompose themselves. Their vines twisted together, clenching just a little too tightly. “I know, Rixxic. I know.”

The pair stood in silence, watching as the gas giant churned beneath them. A satellite passed across the viewport, a small shadow between the giants.

“Send word to the Sequoidium. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

“Aye, Captain. And-” Althea’s dress fluttered slightly, blooms opening and closing in a ripple. “Come see me. Later. We’ll talk.”

Thern’s vines loosened, almost imperceptibly. “I will, thank you. Dismissed,” they replied, their voice closing off with a commanding edge.

Althea turned, striding away from the bridge on the way to the communications array. Thern stayed put, curling a vine around a guardrail so tightly it bent. After a few more minutes of agonizing, they sighed in defeat. 

“Recall search parties. Keep a few buoys in orbit, just in case. Prepare for hypermetric jump.” Despite their firm tone, the faintest hint of dissatisfaction-worry-frustration crept in through their biorhythm, only barely noticed by those on the bridge. None replied, and a flurry of activity descended on the bridge as the assembled Affini jumped to their tasks. Thern turned away, signaling their retreat from the bridge with a flick of a vine. 

Barrik sat at one of the Leuteria’s many open cafes, their vines woven into a protective cradle around their drink. They wore their signature armor and bandolier, though their body was a little less well-defined than they kept it on the bridge — some vines spilled out and coiled on the ground, and their torso was open enough to catch a glimpse of their core from just the right angle.

Althea sat across from them, her body bloomed in neat rows of multicolored leaves. She sat in silence, one vine dipping into her own drink as she looked Barrik over. “Are you going to admit it, or must I point it out?”

Barrik looked up at the floral Affini, one simulated eyebrow cocked. “I’m not sure what you mean,” they replied. Of course it was futile, trying to keep any sort of secret from their longest friend and Lieutenant. Their biorhythms, though separate, were so complementary they may as well have been bonded.

“Of course you are. Your core isn’t in it anymore, and today’s… frustration, we’ll say, it’s weighing on you.”

Barrik’s body flared, a few thorns prickling through their exterior. “You know as well as I that today was not a frustration but an outright failure.”

“Quit lying to yourself.”

“The Leuteria has had a perfect record for our entire time within Terran space, and now—”

“The Leuteria had never before encountered a vessel that dosed their fuel supply with liquid hydrogen.”

“That is not relevant!”

“Barrik,” Althea replied as the captain tucked their vines back in from their outburst of emotion. “We both know that perfection isn’t always achievable. Especially in our line of work. We’ve conducted hundreds of fishing missions and dozens of planetwide domestication projects together. There was bound to be a complication.”

“Then we should have—” Barrik was cut off by the arrival of one Tara Lyday, Third Floret.

“Hi there!” she chirped. “Is everything tasting alright? Can I get you anything?”

“Why hello, little one. The drinks are lovely, thank you. You must be very proud,” replied Althea with a little ruffle of the floret’s hair. While the two were preoccupied, the floret mostly melting beneath Althea’s vines, Barrik took a long drink from their own mug. Tasteless, though Barrik suspected that wasn’t any fault of the floret’s. They set it aside.

“I— ah— and for you?” The floret was flushed, with that particular little daze in her eye. Barrik could almost feel their body shiver. Oh, by the stars, the things I could—

“Very tasty, thank you,” they cut themselves off. It would be… undignified to wreak havoc on another’s floret, especially with their status. “Excellent work, little flower.”

The Terran beamed, and gave a twirl. “Why thank you! Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you!” She bounded off, returning to her Affini who was certain to shower her in even more praise.

“Where were we…” Althea mused. “Right. Barrik, you’re too hard on yourself. You remember the Lycordae.”

Barrik’s vines tightened. “Nobody knew what they were doing on that rotted ship. Thank the Everbloom Pulima got sent back to the core systems before she could do any more damage. We are better than that.”

“We absolutely are. But you taught me something back then. ‘You can’t always—’”

“You can’t always save every one. I remember. But Althea, you know—”

“There was always bound to be one, Barrik. From the very beginning.”

Barrik was silent. Althea drained her tea, setting it on the table.

“I don’t assume you’d consider taking a floret. Give yourself an outlet for all that stress.”

Barrik snorted. “Of everyone, I hardly expected you to suggest such a course of action.”

“Oh, I’ll pick one up next fishing trip. I hear the Terrans are getting feistier.”

“You say that every time.”

Althea smiled, her biorhythm smoothing over Barrik’s own. “Indeed.” She stood, dissolving around her chair and reweaving into a standing form. “Get some rest, Barrik. You certainly deserve it.”

“Thank you, Althea.”

“Don’t mention it, Captain.”