Through the Distant Universe

This is not merely a compartment. It is a tomb, steeped in the stench of blood and machine oil, where the final breath of titans has solidified in metal. In the midst of an improvised hangar—or whatever this place once was—cluttered with debris and twisted metal, directly opposite a soot-stained technical console, lay two dead giants. One was a combat exosuit, a heap of mangled steel and frozen fury. The other was something that had emerged from the depths of an alien, primal nightmare—a grotesque amalgamation of flesh, bone, and unnatural, almost organic machinery.

Even in death, the monster loomed over the battlefield, its massive form, standing over five meters tall even on bent legs, blotting out the remnants of light. Its body was a crude tangle of rope-like muscle fibers, covered in glistening chitinous growths and biomechanical implants that shimmered in the dim glow of a lantern. Two powerful legs ended in clawed talons, and four arms, each armed with razor-sharp claws, extended from its torso. Two long, segmented tails, adorned with bony spikes, trailed behind, one of them broken. One arm was missing from the shoulder, as if torn off by an explosion. Another had pierced the thick armor of the combat exosuit, embedding itself deep into the flesh of the dead pilot, holding him in a deathly embrace. A third arm was pinned to the floor, as if the creature had clung to life in its final moments. The fourth had crushed the pilot's helmet.

Yet the creature had paid a horrific price. Its ravaged torso was riddled with jagged holes, as if torn apart by swarms of bullets and seared by plasma rounds. From the neck upward, nothing remained. In place of a head was a charred crater, extending deep into the hangar wall, where a massive breach the size of a door revealed an abyss of darkness. The trajectory of the shot and the scattered fragments of armor told the story: the combat exosuit had fired one last time, in its death throes, with every ounce of strength. Too late to save the pilot, but enough to obliterate the creature's head—if it had ever had one.

And the exosuit… It was not just an exoskeleton. It was a walking artillery platform, a titan of war clad in multilayered armor. A barely legible inscription on its hull read: MK.V. Nearly three meters tall, covered in scorched and melted armor plates, it seemed born from the very womb of war. Its right arm bore a monstrous cannon, resembling a field howitzer. The left arm housed three rotating barrels of a hellish gatling gun. Its legs were massive, ending in manipulator-like structures. No ordinary human could wear such a suit. Only something far greater—genetically modified, cybernetically enhanced, or deeply integrated with the machine in a symbiotic union of flesh and steel. The enormous armored visor of the helmet was shattered by the creature's titanic claw, which had pierced through the helmet and the pilot's head. The reactor unit on the suit's back was burned out and charred. The pilot's left arm was missing, torn off along with part of the shoulder, lying nearby in an unnatural twist. The torso armor was crushed and torn where the creature's clawed limb had struck. They had killed each other. One fired in its dying agony; the other breached the defenses. Neither survived.

I study the details of this ghastly ballet of death. Deep, wide claw marks scar the wall, as if the monster had climbed it. Twisted beams and melted patches on the floor bear witness to ferocious energy weapons. Dark, almost black stains—blood? Oil? Or something organic, long decomposed? The pilot's posture—the creature's arm impaled through his chest—suggests he was reaching for something on the control panel of the right cannon. The exosuit itself was not destroyed by an explosion but by precise, targeted strikes at the joints and armor connections. As if the creature knew exactly where to hit. It was intelligent. That realization chills my blood more than the cold metal around me.

I step back, unable to tear my eyes away from this silent monument to senseless war and rage. Instinct screams at me to run, to survive at all costs, lest the creature somehow stirs back to life. But I see that death has already swept through here, leaving only heaps of twisted metal and steel soaked in pain, despair, and dying screams. I must flee this cursed place before it claims me too.

Yet, drawn by some morbid fascination, I approach the remains of the combat exosuit, captivated by its ruined might. I search for anything useful that might aid my survival. The helmet is shattered, the control units are dead and melted, and the armor is deformed in places. It seems hopeless. But as I turn to leave, my gaze catches a strange pictogram on the right cannon—a stylized lightning bolt. Below it is a narrow slot, partially covered by a warped panel, revealing the mechanism's innards. With effort, I climb onto the charred wreckage, my boots crunching against fragments of metal and bone. The air reeks of ancient soot, machine oil, ozone, and old, congealed blood, stirring nausea. I raise my knife, prying at the deformed panel, my fingers slipping on rusted metal. With a grinding crunch, it gives way, exposing a tangle of charred electronics, burned-out modules, melted wire bundles, and torn hydraulic hoses. Amid the wreckage, I spot several rectangular blocks neatly slotted into a compartment. Batteries!

I pull one out. It's heavy, as if forged from a single block of metal. A powerful battery, by the look of it. The connector is intact, and it matches the plasma cutter I found earlier. My heart leaps with hope: if I'm lucky, the cutter will work, giving me a fighting chance.

I extract a second block, a faint spark of hope igniting within me. The others are burned out, crumbling into metallic dust.

I climb down on the other side, avoiding the creature's mangled remains, trying not to look at its torn flesh. The exosuit's left cannon lies detached, blown off by an explosion. I inspect it: there's a similar compartment for power cells, but it's damaged. The cover is warped and jammed. Neither a pipe fragment nor my knife can pry it open. I waste precious time, but it's futile. Frustrated, I spit at the failed attempt and step back, exhaustion and disappointment weighing me down. Still, I've found more than I expected—a small stroke of luck.

But I don't leave yet. Something compels me to examine the machine more closely. I move around the creature's wreckage, my eyes scanning for familiar symbols. And I find it. On the back of the torso, I spot a small panel recessed in the armor, engraved with a different symbol—not a lightning bolt, but a red cross within a circle.

The manual release is stuck. Damn it. I strike it with my knife's handle to no avail. In desperation, I wedge the blade's tip into the seam and lean in with all my weight. The metal groans, the blade bends dangerously, but I persist. A loud click echoes, and the panel hisses open, releasing a puff of compressed air.

Inside, nestled in soft, cushioned slots, lies a red box. I retrieve its contents: an odd multitool with various attachments, a mechanical cylinder, two sealed tubes marked with a red symbol and an image of foam, an unidentified stimulant, and three vacuum-sealed items. Hoping they'll prove useful, I stow them away.

I climb onto the exosuit, inspecting the chest and head remains. The chest is utterly wrecked, as is the head—the creature's arm pierced the helmet, visor, and the pilot's skull, exiting the other side. Survival was impossible.

But my attention shifts to the neck—a section of armor painted red. Using my knife, I carefully pry off the crumbling cover and find what appears to be an intact chip, connected to both the pilot and the machine. It likely facilitated their interface. Though I have no idea how it works or if it still functions, technical curiosity—and an inexplicable sense of its importance—prompts me to carefully disconnect and pocket it. There's nothing else here. Time to leave.

Before departing, I retrieve one of the intact batteries and pull the plasma cutter from my pack. My hands tremble with tension and anticipation, as if I'm holding not just a tool but my very fate. My heart pounds like a drum. I insert the battery into the cutter's slot and hold my breath. For a few agonizing seconds, nothing happens. Just silence.

Then… a faint electric pulse ripples through the cutter, causing it to vibrate slightly. A soft mechanical click sounds, and a dim LED flickers to life, pulsing like a faint spark of hope. Thank God I thought to search the exosuit—an idea that felt almost external, yet so natural I didn't question it. I take a deep breath to steady my trembling body: power is flowing. I cautiously press the main trigger, my fingers gliding over the cold metal. A low hum grows as the startup mechanism engages, like a beast stirring awake. A sharp crack, like a bolt of lightning, follows, and a thin, quivering beam of bluish-white light extends from the cutter's front, humming with tangible energy and heat. I jerk my hand back, feeling a slight tingle on my skin—warm, but not lethal. I test the beam on a nearby metal fragment, which melts instantly, leaving a glowing seam. I press the secondary trigger, stabilizing the beam. This is no mere self-defense weapon. It's a tool. A true plasma cutter—powerful, dangerous, capable of slicing through metal like butter. I barely suppress a triumphant laugh as a wave of elation and relief washes over me: it works. I'm alive. I have a chance.

To conserve power, I deactivate the cutter, the beam fading with a faint ozone scent. One charged battery is a lifeline in this grim place. Two batteries are a serious tool to escape this cursed tomb. I'm no longer defenseless. I have a fighting chance.

There's no point lingering—the chamber ends here. I head back to the ladder, take a few steps, and freeze, my body tensing: was that a faint rustling? The sound was odd, muffled, like someone carelessly dragging a metal beam. Instinctively, I grip my knife tighter, my sweaty palm slick against the handle. My heart pounds as if it might burst. I slowly switch off my flashlight, plunging myself into dim twilight, straining to see or hear anything. For several long, torturous moments, silence reigns. Was it my imagination? A hallucination born of fever and exhaustion? Or did I brush against something?

I wait half a minute, holding my breath, ready to bolt. Nothing appears. No sounds. Forcing a shaky exhale, I cautiously resume my path. Maybe it was nothing. Or perhaps this damned poisoning is playing tricks on me.

With utmost care, I ascend the creaking ladder, each step eliciting a groan from the rusted metal. A nagging thought pulses in my mind: If those creatures hear this noise, I'm done for. They'll come, sensing prey. But I have no choice. I must move forward despite the fear. At last, I reach the top, back in the relatively familiar corridor. Relieved, I turn and head toward the fateful turn where I descended.

Soon, breathing becomes excruciatingly difficult. The air thickens, enveloping me in a suffocating haze. I'm desperately short of oxygen; my lungs burn. Perhaps some parts of this ghost ship are still ventilated, but here, deep inside, toxic gases accumulate? Panic grips me. Yes, it's the poisoning, and it's worsening. My head spins, my vision blurs, and a violent cough tears through my chest.

With trembling hands, I fumble in my pocket for one of the ampoules marked with something resembling "anti...". An antidote, perhaps? There's no time to think. It's either inject the unknown substance or die now. It could be poison. It could be a painkiller.

"Whatever happens…" I whisper, steeling myself, and swiftly inject the contents into my forearm. For a moment, I feel only a stinging pain, then a cold sweat breaks out. My body tenses. A minute or two passes, and I notice subtle changes. The cough eases, no longer so wrenching, and my head stops spinning so wildly. It might have worked. I may have bought myself a few more minutes or hours. There could be horrific side effects later, but for now, breathing is slightly easier, and that's what matters.

Exhausted from the ordeal and gasping for air, I feel as if I've run a marathon. Staggering, I head back to the cabin I chose as a temporary shelter, navigating by my own markings on the walls.

As I walk, my mind drifts to the strange "data bank" I found. Should I examine it? But exhaustion and reason prevail. I need rest to regain strength. Tomorrow is a new day.

Finally, I reach the familiar corridor and recognize the door. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I lean against the rusted wall, fighting to stay conscious. Then I notice something odd: my makeshift "jingling traps," a crude alarm system at the cabin's entrance, are slightly displaced. How? Did someone—or something—tamper with them while I was gone? A wave of paralyzing fear engulfs me.

I strain my ears, but the eerie silence persists. Maybe I disturbed them myself? A draft? I can't recall. The door seems untouched. Mustering my courage, I cautiously enter, knife raised. The flashlight sweeps the walls, revealing familiar shapes. Everything seems in place. I tap the doorframe with my knife, checking for hidden intruders. Silence. I exhale. Perhaps I'm growing paranoid. But better safe than sorry. I enter, secure my tattered pack, and barricade the entrance with whatever's at hand.

"Alright," I whisper to myself. "I've survived a bit longer… That's a small victory."

I glance at my swollen ankle, now a menacing bluish hue. Damn. It's badly injured. Very bad. My ribs still scream with every move, though the painkiller dulled the agony slightly. Overwhelming fatigue crashes over me. The world narrows to this cabin. I scan the room, ensuring I'm alone. Seems clear.

Relieved, I slump against the cold wall, sliding down. I fold my dusty cloak under my head as a pillow. I decide to examine the "data bank." A spark of curiosity flares. Sitting up, I take the device. It has a small screen and touch-sensitive zones. I press randomly. Nothing. The screen stays dead. No power?

I try to open the back, hoping for a battery compartment. It resists. Using my knife, I pry it open with effort. Inside is a slot for a small cylindrical power cell. Empty. I have nothing like it, and using a larger battery would likely destroy the device. Sighing, I set it aside. I'll need to find a suitable cell. Someday…

I place it nearby. The device feels cold and lifeless, but in the flickering lantern light or moments of deep exhaustion, its black panel seems to glint faintly, as if something inside is stirring, trying to connect. Or simply watching me.

Enough. I set it aside, pulling out my trusty knife and a couple of found flares, placing them nearby. I retrieve the last two syringes of unknown liquid, debating whether to risk them. I'm too drained to guess. The risk is too great. I close my eyes, yearning for proper sleep.

This day—or cycle?—has passed with terrifying speed. My internal clock is shot. A torturous cough returns, and I cover my mouth with a dirty rag. The poison lingers, or the air is toxic, and the "antidote" only temporarily eased my suffering. I must find fresh air or escape this metal trap. But I'm too weak now.

Pain and exhaustion blur my vision; the world swims. I take a sip of water with effort. I mentally review tomorrow's plan: Move forward, find an alternate exit. Locate airlocks or a hangar to determine my location and chance of rescue.

With these thoughts, I rest my head on my pack, pulling my cloak over my legs and chest. I pray I won't freeze tonight or be ambushed in my sleep.

I slip into a murky, restless doze, clutching my black knife like a sole friend and protector, ready to spring at the slightest sound. I'm in darkness, nearly a prisoner of despair. But as long as my heart beats, I'm still here. I'm still alive.

I don't know who sent me to this cursed place or if I'll ever find a way out. But I want to believe that as long as I can push past fear and keep moving, I have a tiny chance of survival. I'll try. I have no choice. It's all I have left.

With that thought, curled up on the hard floor, stifling a torturous cough, I fall into true sleep for the second time in this rusted hell.