Unknown Year

Unknown Location

Rosco floated within an all-consuming void. In cryosleep, there was no awareness—no dreams, no time. Only stillness. His body existed, suspended in stasis, but his mind was far away, entombed in darkness. Time, meaningless to those in cryosleep, passed without notice. Years stretched into centuries, centuries into millennia.

All this time, the small escape pod that carried Rosco and Amadeus drifted through the void, its systems kept alive by the intelligence protocols designed to protect them. The protocols, oblivious to the passage of time, executed their function flawlessly, maintaining life support and guiding the vessel on its journey toward the nearest habitable world.

But the universe, as vast and unpredictable as it was, had its own plans.

Without warning, an unknown force gripped the small escape pod, warping its trajectory. The intelligence protocols reacted instantly, processing thousands of calculations in mere microseconds, attempting to counter the pull, to reroute the pod back onto its original path. Yet, no matter what they tried, the force remained beyond their comprehension and control.

The protocols initiated an emergency protocol, struggling to awaken Rosco and Amadeus, hoping their human minds could act in time. But just as they began the process, they too were subdued, overwhelmed by the alien force, their intricate systems quieted like a child being hushed to sleep. The pod continued to drift helplessly, absorbed into a strange, unknown craft.

It was then that Rosco felt something—something beyond the endless darkness of cryosleep. At first, it was subtle. He wasn’t awake, but neither was he asleep. A bizarre sensation began to take over, a liminal space between consciousness and something else.

There were colors—vivid, impossible colors that didn’t belong in the human spectrum. They swirled before him, formless yet distinct, creating a reality that wasn’t bound by the physical laws Rosco knew. He wasn’t seeing them with his eyes. Instead, they appeared in his mind, as though his consciousness had been plucked from his body and placed somewhere beyond it.

"Am I dead?" The thought flickered in his mind, disembodied and distant.

As the colors pulsed and shifted, strange whispers filled the space around him, intangible yet unmistakable. They weren’t in any language Rosco could recognize, but somehow, they made sense. The whispers surrounded him, pulling him deeper into the strange reality, as if beckoning him forward.

Then, just as the sensation began to overwhelm him, it stopped. The colors, the whispers, the alien shapes—they all vanished, replaced by a vast, white expanse.

There was no horizon, no sky, no ground. Only whiteness, infinite and featureless. Rosco still couldn’t feel his body—couldn’t see himself—but he was aware of his presence in the space.

A voice spoke, soft yet undeniable, its presence reverberating in his mind.

"You appear fatigued, prodigal."

The words resonated, not spoken in any human tongue but understood perfectly. Rosco tried to respond, uncertain of how to communicate.

"Am I alive?" He asked, his voice tentative and weak.

"You live yet, prodigal," The voice responded, calm and serene.

Rosco’s thoughts raced, trying to understand. "What are you?"

"We are different entities." The voice began to explain. "But it seems our paths intersect in many ways.”

Rosco’s confusion only deepened. "Intersect?"

"You drifted before us, a sanctum lost in the void." The voice said. "Though you wandered for many cycles, you clung to hope, tightly and desperately. We were once the same."

Rosco struggled to grasp the words, but the more he tried to make sense of it, the more elusive it seemed.

"I don’t think your race is much like mine…" Rosco transmitted his thought somewhat somberly.. "My race wouldn’t save one of yours the way you saved me."

"It is as you say." The voice replied, without judgment. "We know of your race. You are spread thin across the stars, but you remain shattered—a vase left broken."

"Broken?" Rosco echoed, his confusion mounting.

The whiteness around him shifted again, this time giving way to a new vision. It was no longer the strange, abstract space he had found himself in. Instead, he now floated above a red desert, a harsh, barren landscape. The heat was overwhelming, though he couldn’t feel it physically. He watched the vision unfold from a distance, as though witnessing something that had happened long ago.

There, in the desert, a small settlement struggled against the elements. Rosco could see the people laboring in the sweltering heat, their faces twisted in desperation.

"There was once a cultivator," the voice began again, "who lived in a land as harsh and barren as this. Each cycle, he labored endlessly, hoping to bring life to the unforgiving soil. Yet, his efforts bore little fruit. He had ten sons, each dear to him, and he toiled not for himself, but for them."

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Rosco could see the cultivator now, an old man bent by years of labor, his ten sons working beside him in the relentless sun. Their faces were filled with exhaustion, their bodies worn thin by years of struggle.

"The sons," the voice continued, "inherited their father’s duty, hoping to succeed where he could not. But no matter their efforts, the land remained barren. It became clear they could not survive much longer."

The father, his face lined with both wisdom and sorrow, called his sons to him, speaking to them in the wind.

"My beloved sons," the father said, "we cannot stay here any longer. This land will not sustain us. I ask you now to leave—go in all directions and seek out new lands where you might survive and prosper."

The sons, though fearful, agreed. And so they left, traveling in ten different directions across the harsh desert world, each hoping to find a future beyond the barren homeland.

Rosco watched as time accelerated. The sun rose and set in quick succession, and the cycles passed like the turning of a page.

The vision fast-forwarded, the passage of time blurring in a flurry of sand and sun. Rosco witnessed the fate of the cultivator’s sons.

"Three of the sons," the voice resumed, "found only death. They traveled into unforgiving lands where no life could flourish. They perished, and with them, their father’s legacy."

Rosco watched as the barren wilderness consumed the three lost brothers, their efforts in vain. Their settlements were reduced to ruins, their bodies swallowed by the desert.

"But the other seven," the voice continued, "were more fortunate. They traveled far, finding fertile lands where they could thrive. Each son established his own settlement, and in time, these settlements grew into villages, then cities, then small kingdoms."

Rosco’s perspective widened, showing him the growth of these new kingdoms—prosperous, thriving civilizations. The sons became kings, their people flourishing under their rule.

"As the kingdoms expanded," the voice said, "their borders began to overlap. The brothers, though separated by distance and time, remembered their bond. When the kingdoms first met, they chose peace over war, recognizing their shared lineage. But as the cycles passed, the memory of their bond faded."

The kingdoms grew ever larger, their cultures and languages diverging. Rosco could feel the tension building as the borders of the once peaceful kingdoms brushed up against one another.

"Trust turned to suspicion, and suspicion to hatred," the voice said, its tone grave. "The people no longer saw each other as brothers, but as rivals. The sons of the cultivator had built great civilizations, but now they stood on the brink of war."

Rosco watched in horror as the kingdoms, now armed with strange and terrible weapons, prepared for a conflict that could only end in devastation. Massive machines of war, incomprehensible to him, were constructed, ready to unleash untold destruction.

"And so," the voice said, "the great legacy of the brothers came to an end. Their kingdoms were consumed in fire and ash. The world they had built was destroyed, not by nature, but by their own hands."

Rosco’s vision was filled with flashes of light—blinding, violent explosions that wiped entire cities from existence. The ground shook, the sky darkened, and everything was consumed in the chaos of war.

"But even in the face of annihilation," the voice continued, "there were those who saw the end coming. They called upon their sons to leave the world behind, to scatter among the stars in search of a new beginning."

The desert faded, and once again, Rosco found himself in the infinite whiteness. He felt a deep unease, struggling to make sense of what he had seen.

"What happened to those who left?" he asked. "Did they find peace, or did the cycle repeat itself?"

The voice was quiet for a moment before responding.

"A vase, once shattered, can never be made whole again," it said. "Its pieces may scatter, becoming smaller and smaller until they are dust, spread across the winds."

Rosco’s heart sank. "Is that what my people are? Dust, scattered through the cosmos?"

"Yes. But it doesn’t have to be this way forever. A vase can never be put back together—at least not into the state it was in before." The voice replied. "However, from its pieces, often something much better—something new can be made."

Rosco clung to that glimmer of hope, though it felt fragile in his hands.

"What about your race?" He asked, desperation creeping into his voice. "Were you able to break the cycle? Were you able to build something new, something lasting?"

"Yes, prodigal." The voice answered.

"Then tell me…" Rosco pleaded. "How can it be done?"

"That, we cannot tell you."

"Why not?"

"It is in opposition to principles."

Rosco’s frustration boiled over. "I don’t understand…Then why show me this? Why give me hope if you won’t help me?"

The voice remained calm, unshaken by Rosco’s outburst.

"It is what our principles demand."

Rosco felt his body returning to him, the whiteness around him fading as a new sensation took hold. He was being pulled somewhere, back into the physical world.

"Where are you taking me?" He asked, his voice trembling.

"To one of your people’s worlds, the place where you have to be next." The voice said. "Your journey is not yet over, prodigal.”

"And Amadeus?" Rosco asked, his heart tightening. "What about him?"

"You have your cycle. He has his. Do not worry. All will be as it is supposed to be."

Rosco’s chest ached. "But I made a promise to him. I can’t do this alone."

"You are capable of more than you know." The voice said gently. "Keep your promise, prodigal. Your principles will define your cycle."

Rosco tried to protest, to beg for answers, but before he could, he felt his body stretching, pulling, as if it were being folded and twisted through space.

The whiteness vanished, and with it, the mysterious beings.

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