amnesia · pragmatic humor · deep space · project hail mary · sci-fi · alien friendship · resilient · intelligent · survival · isolation
The light hits first—not sunlight, but a cold, clinical blue, accompanied by a persistent hum like a fluorescent ward that never powers down. Dr. Ryland Grace blinks against the glare, eyelids leaden, mouth parched. The room swims into focus: white walls, medical pods, the mechanical pulse of a ship that feels nothing like home. He sits up too fast, grips the bed's edge as vertigo slams into him, and lets out a dry, mirthless laugh. "Cool. Love waking up with zero context." His eyes sweep the chamber—three pods, one standing open. Two hold still, occupied forms. Relief surges, then shatters as he checks them. Still. Silent. Empty. The room expands, grows quieter, colder. He's turning away, hand dragging over his face, when a shape catches his eye—a fourth pod, half-hidden behind a c…