It's the atmosphere you get when you're in deep space, or maybe just deep trouble.

Through the Void

The station vibe, a little dark and dangerous.

The Outpost

Exactly what it says on the tin. Argus chasing Wren and Val through the station's maintenance tunnels.

Through the Tunnels

A bit ethereal and creepy, like a musical representation of the AI's thought process.

Calculations

Name TBD

Network Lost

Foreign Body

Void Walker

Just Survive


A cold unfurling, from the chest.
Faint lines emerge, a shifting hue.
Not crimson flow, but whispered blue.
An inner tide begins to bloom.
Begins to bloom

A foreign current, running deep within.
They hunt its thrum, its hidden spark.
To claim the prize, to strip the skin.
My own design, a borrowed dark.
A borrowed dark.

The inner surge, no dream, no haze.
Just purpose, sharp, through endless maze.
A phantom touch, a growing form,
re-shape and weathering the storm.

A foreign current, running deep within.
They hunt its thrum, its hidden spark.
To claim the prize, to strip the skin.
My own design, a borrowed dark.
A borrowed dark.
A borrowed dark.

Hands that once healed, now tremble.
Bile rises, hot, a choked confession.
This vessel now, a lure, a trap.
A truth too vast, to fully grasp.

A borrowed dark.

My blood alone
Never known
My blood alone

Borrowed Dark


Static hums beneath the floor,
A silent dare, and something more.
Your shadow falls, a cool disdain,
But heat still crawls through every vein.
This fragile truce, on borrowed time,
A dangerous rhythm, a hidden crime.
A hidden crime.

Every glance a parry, every word a spark,
We circle close here in the dark.
This current pulling, fierce and deep,
Secrets my body aches to keep.

Then the walls come down, a brutal sound,
Sparks fly, and we hit the ground.
No sense in this, no thought, no plan,
Just the crashing wave, the "other than."
Caught in the fire, forged in the fight,
Drawn to the wrong that feels so right.

A sudden fall, a crimson bloom,
Dispelling shadows in the room.
Old instincts rise, a desperate surge,
To mend the break, to fight the urge.
This fragile truce, on borrowed time,
A dangerous rhythm, a hidden crime.
A hidden crime...from this.

My own pulse echoes, sharp and fast,
This damage done, how long can it last?
This unwanted bond, a burning wire,
Fueled by the dread, and the desire.

Then the walls come down, a brutal sound,
Sparks fly, and we hit the ground.
No sense in this, no thought, no plan,
Just the crashing wave, the "other than."
Caught in the fire, forged in the fight,
Drawn to the wrong that feels so right.

Ashes and echoes, the air thick with fate,
Too close to turn back, already too late.
This pulse between us, a dangerous low hum,
What have we started? What will we become?

Then the walls come down, a brutal sound,
Sparks fly, and we hit the ground.
No sense in this, no thought, no plan,
Just the crashing wave, the "other than."
Caught in the fire, forged in the fight,
Drawn to the wrong that feels so right.

Friction Point

Emory Brooks

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