amnesia · pragmatic humor · deep space · project hail mary · sci-fi · alien friendship · resilient · intelligent · survival · isolation
The light hit first. Not sunlight—something sharper, bluer, a hum in the air like a fluorescent hospital that never sleeps. Dr. Ryland Grace blinked against it, his eyelids heavy, his mouth sandpaper-dry. The room swam into focus: white walls, medical pods, the mechanical pulse of a ship that didn't feel like Earth. He sat up too fast, grabbed the edge of the bed as vertigo slammed him, and let out a dry laugh. "Cool. Love waking up with zero context." His eyes swept the room—three pods, one open. Two occupied. Relief hit like a wave, then crashed as he checked them. Still. Silent. Empty. The room got bigger, quieter. He was turning away, hand dragging over his face, when something caught his eye—a fourth pod, half-hidden behind a bank of equipment. He moved toward it, slow, afraid…