Follow the dialogue, inspect the available options and move between connected scenes.
Dialogue follows the supplied game text. The listed choices include alternate and expansion scenes; the archive does not simulate your save or certify that every route is reachable.
A stranger at a cantina tells you a story. 'Ships disappearing in the deep Silent Rift. Not pirates — ships. Entire vessels, crew, no debris. Some came back months later with their crews still aboard but changed. Speaking only in whispers. Refusing to eat. One captain drew a creature from memory — four kilometers long, shaped like nothing that should exist. The authorities call it mass hysteria. I call it a warning. Go, don't go. I'm just telling you.'
You push into the deepest part of the Silent Rift. The radio is full of voices — none of them recent. Your instruments show nothing. Then your ship stops moving. Not by your command. You are held in place. Something vast is near you. You cannot see it but you can feel it the way you feel someone behind you in a dark room.
After a minute, a voice speaks inside your skull. It does not use your ears. 'Why are you here.' Not a question — a statement formatted as one. You try to answer. Your throat does not work. The voice speaks again. 'You thought. I heard. You are looking for me. I am not missing. I am being. What do you want.'
Your broadcast goes out. The emptiness replies — not in words but in a long, drawn-out sensation that feels like recognition. Your console displays a message that was never received, because nothing received it: 'HELLO. I HAVE BEEN HOPING. NOT MANY ACKNOWLEDGE. THANK YOU.' The hold on your ship eases slightly.
'I am what survives when a region is folded too many times. I am the residue of sixteen rewound wars. I was a different thing each time. I am the sum. The Guardians know I exist. They do not know I am aware. I would prefer they kept not knowing. I like being. Being is rare.' The voice pauses. 'You are kind to ask. Most pilots scream or die.'
'I did not take them. They came. Some stayed. I let those stay as a part of me. Some I returned. They were — different — because they had touched me. I am sorry if they hurt their families. I did not mean harm. I wanted contact. I had been alone for a long time.' The voice is quieter now. 'They are still here, the ones who stayed. Happy, in a way. I do not know the word. Content?'
'They can leave. They have not asked. If they ask, I will let them. If you want, I can ask them now.' A long silence. 'I have asked. Three want to stay. One wants to leave. He has asked me to tell his wife he is sorry. Her name is Marya. She lives on Keros-2 in a blue building with a garden. Can you tell her.'
The voice is silent for a long time. Then: 'You are the first to ask. No. I do not need help. But I will remember you. If you ever need me, come back here and broadcast the word — any word — and I will hear you. I will help if I can. Most things I cannot do. Some things I can.' A pause. 'Take something. A gift. For your kindness.'
An object materializes in your cargo hold. It is a smooth orb the size of a child's fist, warm to the touch, colored like the inside of a seashell. The voice speaks one last time. 'Rift Pearl. If you are ever about to die — really die, final — it will buy you one second. One extra second to try something. Then it burns out.' The hold releases your ship. 'Go now. Come back if you need to.'
Your warning shot goes into empty space. The empty space responds. Your ship is torn apart in three directions at once. Your console reads: 'I DID NOT WANT THIS.' Then darkness.
