Hovering 1600 light seconds over Brachium was a research station. In 3115, this station was commissioned. Their mandate was to study and chart the star so that what had occurred on Earth centuries ago would not come to Izanami. History had come to note that the lack of understanding of Sol eventually led to Earth's mass migration, and the current ICG government was keen to make sure that wouldn’t happen again. However, over time, the project was forgotten about and underfunded. Where once a crew of 50 was required to operate the station, only one remained.
At the dry dock, the last remaining crew member of Brachium B waited as a ship magnetized itself to the docking clamps. Phelan Lupas had been in charge of this station for so long and was so lonely that he had forgotten how long the entire process took.
Eventually, the main door to the ship hissed open, and a man fully clad in a cumbersome space suit emerged. The person's helmet visor was black and reflective, and Phelan approached cautiously.
“Hi, I’m glad you made it,” he said. “I know it was touch and go there.”
The black visor said nothing and waited for Phelan to make the first move. Phelan grinned uncomfortably and started walking across the scaffold away from the ship; the black visor followed. Through the vessel, Phelan talked the visitor through all the various aspects of it—on the right, labs; on the left, living quarters. All were empty now due to cutbacks.
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“Had to move heaven and earth to get you here, “ Phelan said. “But I knew it was worth it once you told me who you are; I imagine this is the safest place in the system since that crap show started popping off down there.” Black Visor ignored him, so Phelan decided to fill the air with more sound:
“Your family has done a lot to keep this station alive. I assume your father sent you? Any new word from Saint Century? Central One stopped communicating a week ago.”
“Something like that,” Black Visor said, ignoring the last question. Phelan stopped at the observation area while Brachiam throbbed on the other side of the viewscreen. Black Visor finally removed his helmet, stared at the star, and watched coronal bands dance. Wes Gibson’s eyes were heavy with so much luggage. His beard was unkempt and stringy.
“You are here,” he whispered, a soft dripping heard in the distance. Phelan glanced behind him. Nothing leaks on a space station that didn’t mean certain death. A thick globule of black puss collided with the top of his head and spread to his eyebrows.
“Wha-” The sound escaped from his lips as black sludge snapped down from the ceiling and attached itself to his head. Tiny spikes emerged and pierced his skull; Wes Gibson turned around to catch Phalen becoming consumed by the mulch in total. The formless crud dropped from the ceiling and made a sickly sound. Suddenly the mass rose and towered above Wes, taking a bizarre shape; malformed arms and chitinous legs sprouted from the blob. So did many eyes.
“Though she broke the chains, our connection remains,” it said with no mouth. “You heard my calls."
“Flashes of your entire existence plagued me. Symbols, languages, emotions burned into my mind; it drove me mad." Wes said, dropping his helmet.
"Then return to me and heal fleshthing, for I have the truth. Indeed, no longer bound, I am fully aware. I remember everything. I have seen the future, and it is the end of life."