The Mammut's control room was silent except for the soft hum of life support systems. I leaned back in the chair, my breathing steady but shallow, the weight of two lives pressing against my chest. The only sound was my pulse, loud in my ears, as I stared at the blinking lights of a system reboot.

"Alright," I said to no one but myself. My voice broke the silence, grounding me. "Time to see what’s left of you, old girl."

In the corner of the control room, a battered EV suit stood upright on a rack, its metallic sheen dulled by years of neglect. I crossed the room, running my hand along its surface. A long-forgotten relic of the Mammut’s active years, its presence reassured me. Safety equipment was always among the last things removed during decommissioning, and in this moment, it felt like the universe’s small mercy.

I wrestled the suit onto my body, the joints creaking slightly as they adjusted to my frame. The internal systems flickered to life, the heads-up display projecting across my visor. Oxygen levels were stable, and the seals were holding. I clenched my fists, feeling the reinforced gloves respond with a satisfying rigidity.

“Still kicking, huh? Good, I already died once today. It would be stupid if I survived all that just to die of asphyxiation,” I muttered.

The Mammut’s corridors stretched out before me, dark and unwelcoming. Emergency lights cast long shadows, flickering in places, a testament to the erratic warp jump. I took a deep breath, bracing myself as I stepped out of the control room.

The first stop was life support.

I traced my way through the narrow halls, the sound of my boots clanging against the deck plating echoing through the empty ship. The life support systems sat behind a heavy bulkhead, which groaned as I pried it open. Inside, I found a tangle of conduits and machinery, some of it scorched, some of it intact.

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The main regulator was holding steady—a small miracle. I ran a diagnostic using the EV suit’s built-in scanner. Oxygen levels were nominal, and the scrubbers were still functional, but the backup reserves were at critically low levels.

“Guess I’ll have to ration for now,” I said, logging the data into my suit’s memory.

Next was the warp core, the heart of the Mammut.

I stepped into the engine room and froze.

The core glowed faintly, encased in the same shimmering black alloy that now coated the ship's hull. It pulsed with an almost organic rhythm, alien and unfamiliar. Cautiously, I approached the control console. The readouts were scrambled, symbols and numbers I didn’t recognize flashing across the screen.

Whatever had happened during the erratic warp jump had fundamentally changed the core. It was no longer the fusion-powered heart of an old freighter—it was something new. I reached out, hesitating for a moment before brushing my gloved fingers against the surface of the console.

The Mammut hummed in response. The sound vibrated through the deck, resonating in my bones. The core was stable—if only barely.

“Keep it together,” I whispered, backing away slowly.

The engines were next.

The aft section of the ship had taken the brunt of the warp jump’s chaotic forces. As I entered the engine room, I was greeted by the acrid stench of burnt wiring. Panels hung loose, their innards spilling out in a tangled mess. The engines themselves were intact, but their casings were warped, the same black alloy creeping along their surfaces like veins.

I ran another diagnostic. The engines were operational, but their efficiency was questionable. They’d need repairs before I could rely on them for anything more than basic maneuvers.

I continued my tour, inspecting the reactor, navigation systems, shield regulators, and structural integrity fields.

Each system told the same story: functional but damaged, the ship clinging to life just as I was. Mammut was a survivor, but barely. The shimmering alloy that coated its hull seemed to have seeped into its systems, altering them in ways I couldn’t fully understand.

By the time I returned to the control room, I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. I slumped into the chair, the EV suit heavy on my shoulders. The ship’s AI was still rebooting, its systems running through endless checks and recalibrations.

“Not bad for a first date,” I muttered, glancing at the suit’s diagnostic logs.

The Mammut was alive—if that was the right word for it—but it was hanging by a thread. Still, it was mine.

I pulled off the EV suit, hanging it back on its rack. My body ached, my mind buzzed with the sheer enormity of the task ahead. But for the first time in hours, I felt a glimmer of hope.

The Mammut had survived the impossible. And so had I.

Now, it was time to rebuild.