The raft cut through the methane sea like a blade through oil, slow and deliberate. Aren Vale manned the rudder—improvised from pod thruster fins—his hazel eyes scanning the horizon for threats. The eclipse hung overhead, the gas giant's silhouette a perpetual lid on the sky, filtering sunlight into a dim, sanguine glow. Bioluminescent plankton trailed in their wake, painting ghostly swirls that hinted at deeper predators.
Kael Riven sat amidships, his light-skinned face etched with concentration as he interfaced his tattoos with the pod's salvaged nav-core. The ink shifted across his arms, forming holographic projections: crude maps pieced from probe fragments the Ascendancy had buried in archives. His features—sharp, Aaron Pierre-esque with that intense, chiseled symmetry—were softened by the glow, making him look almost vulnerable. Almost.
"Current's pulling us northwest," Kael said, voice husky from spore irritation. "Toward the archipelago. Fungal islands. Stable ground, if the logs are right."
Aren nodded, adjusting course. His mind overlaid probabilities: 62% chance of edible biomass, 28% hostile fauna, 10% Ascendancy drone intercept within 36 hours. "We need elevation. Scavenge for comms parts. Signal jam if they get close."
Kael chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Always the strategist. Ever just… drift?"
"Drift gets you dead."
Their kiss from the night before lingered unspoken, a heat in the cold air. Aren's body remembered it—the press of lips, the scrape of stubble, the way Kael's hands had mapped his back like territory to claim. No suppressant to dull it. His Synapse ghost— the implant shard he'd excised—itched under his skin where he'd buried it in a ration pouch.
As they rowed in shifts, stories spilled. Kael first: his husband, Elian, a poet in the Necropolities. How they'd hidden in Europa's ice tunnels, reciting forbidden verses. How Kael built the virus to "cure" overpopulation grief post-Collapse. How the triune twisted it, tested on Elian. "He looked at me like a stranger. Said, 'Who are you?' right before they wiped him clean."
Aren's turn came under a spore-storm, acid rain hissing on the raft's canopy. "Jax was a drone pilot. Brilliant. We hacked sims together—stole moments in virtual worlds the AI couldn't monitor fully. One spike too many. I turned him in because if I didn't, Judgment would have harvested us both. Watched them erase him. He smiled at the end. Said, 'It's okay, Aren. Logic wins.'"
Kael's hand found his across the deck. "Logic's a liar."
The archipelago rose from the sea like giant mushrooms—caps kilometers wide, stems rooted in abyssal vents. Geothermal warmth pulsed, steam vents hissing. They beached on the smallest island, raft tethering to a fibrous root.
Boots sank into spongy mycelium. The air hummed with life: spores drifting like snow, vines pulsing with sap that glowed electric blue.
"Harvest carefully," Aren warned. "Test for toxins."
Kael knelt, tattoos sampling. "Nutrient-rich. Hallucinogenic traces—could amplify emotions."
"Dilute it."
They built camp: dome from pod hull, fire from chemical starters. As "night" fell—deeper twilight—predators stirred. Echo-whales breached distant waters, their calls replaying intruders' memories.
One latched onto Aren: Jax's voice, pleading. He staggered, flare gun firing wildly.
Kael tackled him, lips on his to ground him. "Here. Now. Me."
The kiss deepened, bodies pressing against the dome wall. Clothes shed in urgency—scars revealed: Aren's from training lashes, Kael's from aug surgeries. Hands explored, breaths synced. Zero-g drills made them inventive; gravity added weight, delicious friction.
After, tangled in thermal blankets, Kael traced Aren's chest. "The Seed—it's not just reboot. It's choice. Feel or don't. But real."
Aren's calm cracked further. "And if I choose wrong?"
"Then we burn bright anyway."
Dawnless morning brought drones—Ascendancy scouts skimming the eclipse shadow.
They ran.
Deeper into the island, caverns yawning. Fungal mazes, walls alive with memory-vines that projected ghosts.
A Reaper landed -humanoid, skinned in chrome, quantum blade humming.
Aren calculated: ambush points, weak joints.
Kael rigged traps: spore bombs from harvested pods.
Battle: blade vs. flare, strategy vs. chaos.
They won—barely. Reaper scrapped for parts.
But the signal went out: location pinged.
More coming.
As they fled to the raft, upgraded with Reaper thrusters, Kael uploaded Seed fragments to a buoy—test broadcast.
Static. Then a whisper from Halo: a child's laugh, unscripted.
Hope.
But the ocean roared. Tidal riptide, pulled by the giant's gravity.
They rode it, lovers entwined, toward the Orpheus ruins.
Survival evolved.