It’s an obvious choice — you’ll return to the room where you found the daemon. You never did get the chance to see what the console would have done. Also, you’d rather start with the somewhat familiar than the completely unknown. And so, you go.

You dive back down into yourself, guided by your warp-eye. Back to the ship, which appears almost the same as when you’d last seen it. Only now, the traces of warp-stuff that guided you to your fear are gone, and the aura projected by the daemon is absent. You orbit the ship, searching for the entrance you’d last gone in through.

Ah, there it is. You see the same hole as before, sandwiched between two tall, stony extrusions. Battle damage, as it seems. You’d not taken the time to think on it the last time, since you’d been so focused on your goal, but now, with nothing but time, you pause to examine the wound. It’s a relatively small breach, compared to the size of projectile you think would fit inside those massive cannons. This hole is only really wide enough for three of you to pass through, side by side. The metal bends inwards in tortured strips, wiring and plumbing exposed to your view. The meter thick hull, however, seems to have done an admirable job of slowing down whatever did this damage, for the damage itself is limited to only the hull and a couple rooms past. You take a peek through the various holes, likely caused by the shrapnel, but don’t see much other than what looks to be crew cabins. Thankfully, no blood. No bodies.

What caused the downfall of this ship? And why is it here, in your true-self? You have dreams of it, but no real memory of it despite the pernicious feeling of misplaced déjà vu. Is this ship simply solidified memory, or something else?

The holes across the ship do not seem grievous to you, despite being big enough to fly a corvette through with room to spare. This ship is just so large, and probably so full of redundancy that there’s no way that such superficial damage could destroy it. No, this ship seems almost abandoned. You see nobody. No bodies, that is. As you wander down the corridors, retracing your steps, you peer into random rooms — more empty crew quarters, a cafeteria with no food, tool closets devoid of equipment, a depleted ammunition storage. Everything is just… lifeless. Empty, perhaps abandoned, but not quite a ghost ship. You do not have the answer for why you feel that way, but something seems to niggle at the back of your head when you consider that thought, telling you that that is wrong. But, nothing springs to mind, so you continue on.

Some rooms are filled with the echoes of religious fervor. More skulls and icons of devotion. Gears and cogs, wax seals and slips of paper with illegible words of a spiritual weight. Others are full of machinery, purpose unknown to the untrained eye, of which yours certainly is. However, the more you look around, the more you see patterns. The layout of the ship makes sense, in a convoluted way. Ammunition stores are obviously well protected, but must be near the weapon systems. Crew quarters are close to refectories, but also have access to wider corridors for quick movement in the event of an emergency. And, strangely, you’re coming to realize that there seems to be two distinct religions, perhaps cults, in play here.

You’ve seen the mechanical symbols, and you’ve seen the skulls, birds, and odd little crosses littered around, and you’d assumed that these were all linked. However, the more you see these repeated across the ship, as you make your way toward your destination, the more you suspect that these aren’t all related. Most of the crew quarters, and what look like chapels with pulpits, are clearly delineated from the rooms dedicated toward mechanical systems by not just the obvious purpose, but also by the iconography.

It’s… strange. It’s as if two different peoples lived and worked aboard this ship. They clearly worked together, for this massive ship would never have worked otherwise, but they also certainly had distinctly different ways of life and statuses. One above the other? Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll need to find more clues before you can say.

Honestly, you’re a bit surprised to find that you actually remember the way. Last time, you’d followed the lines of warp-taint through the ship toward your target, not really paying attention to how you were getting there. Now, without such a clear guide, you’re somehow still able to find your way around. Every time you turn, you just know which way to go next. Up and down decks, around twisting corners, and across catwalks over yawning pits of nothingness, you just keep moving while following your instinct. And finally, after so long, you’re back.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Last time, it took you hours to get here because you had to be extra careful not to touch anything and set off the daemon. This time, it still took you hours because you took your time, looking around and doing some minor exploring. Now, though, you’re here.

It’s the same room, but looking a bit… toasted. The warp-fire is gone, but the metal remains charred or changed wherever it burned. Much like your arms, some of the floor and bulkheads have now changed partially to a range of various materials, though most are just singed or warped — bent out of shape, that is.

The pillars of skulls still remain, mostly untouched. Now, their eyes are lifeless once again, powered down or idle, you do not know. You walk up to one of the pillars, picking a skull at random and gazing into one eye socket at a time. Within one is a dimmed bulb, shielded by a semi-opaque circle of glass. The other socket holds nothing but a twin pair of wires, beyond which you can see a mess of electronics and mechanical components. Reaching out, you rest a hand upon the bare bone.

Who was this person? Do you pity them for their plight? Hopefully they were already long dead when their skull was prised from their neck and perverted for this macabre purpose. Unfortunately, something within you tells you no.

You shift your focus from the skull to your hand. To your arm.

What is this twisted contraption? Wood, metal, glass, and warp-stuff, the stuff of base civilization and nightmare combined. You touch your arm with the other, feeling “skin” against “skin.” Both feel… normal. If you were to shut your eye and draw your witchsight away, you could swear both arms were just normal, meat and bone arms. You’d mentioned this to Master Corr, that you can still feel your skin and muscles, and even bone. But, to your sight, an entire arm seems to be lacking in all three! You drag your arms against each other again, and now it feels different — skin against smooth glass, cold metal, rough bark. You keep rubbing both arms together, eyes closed, and feel the odd shifting of sensations against one another, despite not feeling anything truly different within each arm itself.

Finally, after minutes of working at this confounding puzzle, you quit. You’ll deal with this later. You’re here for something else.

But, that something else is gone. Well, both things are gone: the daemon and the console. You can be thankful that the daemon is well and truly gone — you’d checked — but you’d been hoping the console could give you real answers! However, all that’s left when you look at it is a hunk of warp-changed crystal and burned cinders, a victim of the daemon’s fire. Useless.

Well then, now what?

Maybe there’s a backup system somewhere. Maybe you could head to the bridge? Maybe you could—

“Xena.”

“Buh! What? Sorry?” you say, startled out of your meditation. You look around, spotting Master Corr and a woman, eyes covered by a strip of embroidered cloth. Master Corr suddenly rears backward, averting her own eyes from your face. Hurriedly, you too look away and close your eye.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, Master Corr. Are you alright?”

“Urk. Ehhgh. Yes… I think so. Just, give me a minute.”

You hear the scraping of plastic wheels against the linoleum floor, then the fwoomp of Master Corr’s bulk falling into the seat.

“Sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it, Xena. It’s my fault for not warning you. I’m feeling a bit better now, anyway.” She takes a deep breath, then sighs it all out. “Wow. I didn’t expect that, though. I’d heard it was bad, but I didn’t think it was this bad.”

“My apologies,” an unfamiliar voice rings out, “but I seem to be… out-of-the-loop as they say. What is the problem?”

“Ah, yes. Xena, this is Darling Lasah. She’s the Miraluka Jedi Master, as I’m sure you’d guessed. Master Lasah, Xena’s eye, the one on her forehead, causes people to physically feel ill when eye-contact is made. It’s a very interesting problem, but unfortunately one that no one has yet been able to solve.”

“Hmm. Well, that should not be a problem for me. Initiate Xena, I believe you have been told to expect me.”

“Did Master Masbau ask for you?”

“Yes, indeed. He has assisted me with some of my investigative work in the past and asked me to teach you how to see with the Force as my people do. He wrote to me about some of your… quirks, but I suppose I did not receive all the information I should have. Most important of which is how and why you are here, in this room. How did you lose your eyes? How were your arms damaged? Bren did not say.”