The sun hung above, its flares biting at the sky — a merciless reminder that summer had reached its peak. A green veil lay across the ground, and to the east the forest stretched endlessly, swallowing the horizon no matter where the eye wandered. No settlement could be seen for miles.
Beside that living sea of trees stood a dome of white: a remote research facility cut off from the world. From a bird's view, a faint circular mark crowned its roof, etched with a clear H — not a hospital sign, but a transport locus for VTOL craft and supply drops. It was the only lifeline for personnel, equipment, and emergency evacuation. The helipad had not been used in weeks — until the last emergency.
Simple in form, yet monumental in spirit, the structure stood like a monolith — a silent judge that made all who approached feel small. Six towering pillars anchored its circumference, giving the dome the illusion of floating above the ground. Each pillar held a single pane of glass. From within, the world could be seen. From without, nothing could be known. And behind those glass walls, secrets waited.
Something was watching.
Pristine blue eyes reflected the scenery, calm yet piercing. A man stood tall, six foot three, snow white hair tied back, razored at the sides. His baggy blue shirt and black pants hung loose, hands buried in his pockets.
He did not move; He did not need to. He embodied authority.
The door creaked open and a woman in her mid-thirties entered, adjusting her glasses. She wore a white shirt and a black blazer; her sharp features were framed by quiet determination, but her voice carried defeat.
"Professor," she said, breaking the silence. "We have once again failed to initiate Project 101. No breakthrough. I fear this year will also end without success."
She did not look up. She did not need to. The silence that followed said enough.
Ashen Vale exhaled, long and weary. He rubbed the thin pale scar along his knuckle — a small habit he never noticed until his hands moved on their own. "What was the cause this time? Is the body still rejecting the implantation, or is the matter something else? I believed the odds were with us."
He had known the project was near impossible before the discovery of a certain stone buried deep within the moon. Lunavisio. Since then, his vision from youth had accelerated like a pedal pressed to the floor. Yet even with technology at his command, the human body itself remained the greatest obstacle.
The woman set a slim tablet on his desk and folded the report twice before she handed it over, as if the extra crease might hide the numbers. Her fingers trembled only slightly.
"No, Mr Ember's body was stable. But within days of implantation his neural pathways began to destabilize. The construct overloaded; the nanoparticles destabilized neutral pathways under sustained load. We call it construct overload. His systems are failing. I fear his days on Xeno are running short."
She looked at him then, not as a messenger but as someone who had carried this tally of loss for too long. She had learned to make grief sound like data.
Vale's jaw tightened. Seeing another carry the burden was unpleasant, yet he felt no pity. Assistants were warned before they joined him. They knew the demands. They chose their path. Still, her resolve commanded respect.
He tapped the tablet with a fingertip and the monitor on the wall blinked to life. Elara's hand moved with purpose; she tapped the live feed. Ember's vitals filled the screen in a grid of numbers and a thin waveform. One box pulsed red.
"Remember," Vale said, voice steady, "you are not the sole bearer of this burden. Think of the forefront members — those whose last glimpse of life was given to this cause. I cannot fathom the trust they placed in us, knowing death was their only hope. They fulfilled their part voluntarily. Now it is ours to carry forward, equally."
Her lips trembled, but she met his gaze. "Yes, Professor. I know. This is my way of showing respect to those who died for the cause. I cannot change the inevitable, but I can mourn for lives that had no one but themselves."
He studied her, seeing the resolve and quiet compassion radiating from her eyes. Perhaps that was why she was so beloved among the patients, more than him.
He allowed himself a faint, dry smile that carried no warmth. Their eyes met, conflicting thoughts and morals sparking in silence. He straightened his cuff, the motion small and automatic, a private ritual that steadied him.
"I will go see him now," he said at last. "Either way, I was going to meet him sooner or later. I cannot allow Ember to leave this world thinking I was absent in his final hour." He let a short, humourless chuckle out to ease the tension.
"I am sorry for you, Professor Vale," she replied softly. "It is not my place to say this, but sometimes letting out the buried emotions within is best. It makes you feel lighter. Now, please excuse me."
She bowed lightly, her long ponytail flicking as she turned. A faint whiff of myrrh drifted in her wake, lingering in the air as she departed.
Ashen Vale watched her go, the door closing behind her. Alone once more, he stood in the hush, listening to the words she had left hanging.
For a long moment he remained still, the weight of her presence lingering in the air. Gratitude welled within him — sharp, undeniable — yet his lips did not move. The words stayed buried, locked behind the same restraint that had carried him through countless failures.
Thank you for everything, Elara.
The thought echoed only within him, unspoken, unheard.
Down the corridor, Elara walked with steady steps, tablet clutched to her chest, bracing herself for whatever came next; unaware of the thought that had remained imprisoned in his silence.
On the monitor, Ember's waveform hiccupped. The red box blinked faster. A thin, clinical tone began to rise in the room — a single, insistent alarm that had no patience for silence.