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 Guardian envoy hails you formally — which they rarely do. 'Pilot. Our Seedship Greenhome has gone silent in the Drossfield. It was carrying six sacred pods — living flora the Elderward planted with its own hands a hundred years ago. The pods are alive for another six days. We cannot send a recovery fleet without starting a war with the Black Fleet. We can send one pilot with a ship. We can offer credits, but we would rather offer gratitude.'
'A pilot has a right to ask,' the envoy says, though there is a hairline of something in her voice — disappointment, maybe, or understanding, or both. 'We will pay six thousand credits plus the gratitude. The pods are still alive regardless of your reasons.' She waits.
The Drossfield is denser than last time you flew it. The Greenhome's beacon pulses weakly ninety klicks deep in the debris. Two Black Fleet Fangs circle lazy patterns around it — low-tier raiders, but two. Between you and the Seedship there are forty seconds of open space in which you will be visible to both.
You kill thrust and let the debris carry you. The Fangs pass within twelve klicks and don't see you — their scanners are calibrated for hot engines, not cold hulls. You clamp onto the Greenhome's emergency hatch. Inside, the Seedship is dim. The pods hum softly in their pod-bay, all six intact. The pilot is dead in her seat. Her arm is extended toward a log she was recording. You take the pods first, the log second.
You open comms. One of the Fangs answers — the young voice of a pilot who doesn't yet know they're in over their head. 'I'll split salvage three ways,' you say. 'Me, you, your wingmate. You leave, I board, you get credit for scaring a Guardian ship off.' Long pause. Then: 'Deal, Alliance. Two thousand each.' They burn away. The Seedship is yours.
The Seedship is dim. The pods hum softly. The pilot is dead — a young Guardian, her arm extended toward a log she was recording. Her last words on the log are: 'Tell the Elder the saplings saw the stars one last time. They liked them.' You load all six pods into your hold. They smell faintly of river water, even through the containment glass.
The Elder receives the pods without ceremony. She places each one on its cradle herself and presses her forehead to the last one. When she lifts her head her eyes are wet. 'Thank you, Pilot. My cousin piloted Greenhome. Her name was Iriel. Her log will be read aloud at the Veil for three nights.' She folds a silver ribbon into your hand — a Guardian courier-mark. 'You will be passed through every Guardian checkpoint for the rest of your life. When you need us, we are there.'
The envoy accepts your refusal without rebuke. 'Another pilot, then. Or none. We will carry the loss either way.' She disconnects. Six days later you read, in a station posting, that a Guardian Seedship went silent in the Drossfield and no recovery was attempted. You do not think about it. You fly a market run. The fact of it sits on the small shelf in your mind where you keep the decisions you do not revisit.
