The tension is palpable. Despite all this chaos, I remain a mere spectator, huddled in the shadows of my cabin. Outside, the sky is nothing but a kaleidoscope of shifting luminous bands, with no sun on the horizon. It reminds me that this place isn’t a planet, but some kind of flat dimension. With all the implications that brings... namely, the haunting reality that I might never leave. A strange world, yet oddly familiar. Here, day and night alternate like aboard imperial ships, synced to Earth’s cycles. A bitter irony that lingers in my mind.

I’m still glued to my VR goggles, but my focus is waning. The humans and dwarves, after what seemed to be heated exchanges—at least according to the droids’ analysis of their facial expressions, because I can’t make sense of it—are now far enough from the reactor for me to relax a little. Leia confirmed as much. Yeah, from the way they bark at each other and trade glares, I doubt either group will suddenly unite and sprint toward my location. The transporters have finally managed to haul the massive reactor free from the muddy crater of debris it had sunk into after falling from the sky. It’s now moving toward the western peaks.

I should feel relieved, but I don’t. It’s curiosity, born of my lack of understanding of their language and strange powers, that keeps me glued to another droid feed. These droids, sent further north into the largest crash zone where I know the bulk of the ship landed, are revealing something extraordinary. The screens display a hellscape: mountains of twisted metal, entire sections of the Colossus scattered over kilometers. But amidst this chaos... I see cryogenic pods.

Thousands. Tens of thousands.

My heart stops. I stare at the screen, my breath shallow, my throat dry. The droids advance cautiously, weaving through colossal debris, revealing more and more pods. Some are overturned, others half-buried in the ground. But many are intact. Their shiny surfaces, their familiar design—I recognize them immediately. It’s the colonization module. This is where it crashed.

And with that, a flicker of hope ignites within me. If they’re intact, there might be survivors.

My mind races. Leia’s words echo in my head: "All cryogenic compartments are compromised. You are the only human alive." But now, faced with these images, another thought takes hold: What if she lied?

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I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. My breathing quickens, shallow and ragged. My vision blurs—not from the screens, but from exhaustion, hunger, and a rising wave of anger. Could Leia have dared to hide the truth from me?

"LEIA!!" My voice erupts, hoarse and uncontrollable. I stand abruptly, my muscles trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline. The cramped cabin feels too small, too suffocating, as I begin to shout. "Explain this to me, now! You told me they were all dead! Look at those pods! Look at them!"

Before she can respond, my mind offers a grim answer. It’s unlikely that Leia is malicious. She has been forced onto the last surviving servers during the crash. Either her sensors malfunctioned, or she lost parts of her functions and fabricated the most convenient explanation.

Leia’s synthetic voice resonates calmly in my earpiece, unperturbed.

"Admiral, I remind you that initial readings confirmed a failure in the cryogenic systems. The data recorded during the crash indicates—"

"Stop with your excuses!" I slam my fist against the metal table in front of me. My voice trembles, a mix of rage and despair. I want answers. I want the truth. "You knew there was a chance they survived, and you didn’t tell me! How many of them are in there?! How many are still alive, Leia?!"

Silence. Then, her response falls, neutral yet deafening in its simplicity.

"Status of the pods: unknown. No biological readings confirmed from your current position. Cryogenic modules are designed to withstand significant impacts, but a failure of life support systems remains probable after a shock of this magnitude."

Probable. That word pins me in place. It means there’s a chance. A chance that they’re still alive.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, but the thought gnaws at me. If people are still there, trapped in those pods, then I can’t just stay here and wait. But I can’t rush to that zone either. The humans and dwarves are still nearby, and their tensions could erupt at any moment. If I’m discovered, I lose everything.

But those pods... they could change everything. And if some colonists are alive... I can’t abandon them.

My voice is hoarse. "Leia, tell me this is a failure of your sensors, of your reasoning systems after being forcibly migrated to unsuitable servers." I need to know that the only entity I trust, the one I literally rely on for survival, hasn’t lied to me.

"Admiral, it is not within my functions or interests to lie. Yes, it is possible that some of my capabilities and sensors are compromised, and that I omitted sharing all information by considering only the highest probability."

Fuck it. What a stupid AI.

"YOU MUST NOT LIE TO ME, LEIA! DAMN IT!" I scream. She’s pushing me to the brink. I want to break down, to cry, but the thought that some colonists—people from my world, not these damn humans, some with pointy ears and bows, or dwarves with glowing runes like LEDs—might still be alive keeps me standing.