The shift from stasis to consciousness is always brutal. My mind explodes with a torrent of sensations, every nerve in my body screaming awake all at once. The glacial cold of cryogenic suspension gives way to an aggressive artificial warmth that seeps into my core. My vision locks onto the trembling metallic walls of the capsule, their surface illuminated by the frantic flickering of red warning lights.

  The faint hum of machinery buzzes in the background, punctuated by the sharp hiss of depressurizing air. The sterile scent of coolant hangs in the confined space, mingling with the metallic tang of the cryo chamber.

  “Admiral, successful awakening. Critical anomaly detected.”

  Leia’s synthetic voice fills the cramped space, carrying an uncharacteristic urgency. The central intelligence of the Colossus is usually calm, almost maternal. Not today.

  Leia’s voice carries a faint, melodic tone, engineered to soothe under normal circumstances. Yet, there is a clipped edge to her words, a subtle crack in her robotic composure that sets my nerves on edge.

  I struggle to sit up, my muscles aching and sluggish from what could have been months—or years—of immobilization. My fingers instinctively find the biometric panel on the capsule’s edge, bringing up a status display. The screen, embedded in the wall, floods with chaotic data: gravitational wave charts, impossible simulations, and a single word that repeats like a sinister mantra: Singularity.

  “Leia, full report. Now.” My voice is hoarse, grating against my dry throat.

  An ethereal holographic display materializes before me, projecting chaotic images. Gravitational anomalies ripple across the screen, converging into the unmistakable silhouette of a black hole. The Colossus, our titanic vessel engineered to carry an entire colony, is caught in its inexorable pull.

  “Admiral, the gravitational anomaly was undetected until after crossing the point of no return. Impact imminent. Universal survival protocols engaged.”

  My stomach tightens. Leia’s tone remains eerily steady, but her words chill me to the bone. Alarms blare through the ship, their echoes reverberating through the colossal structure. The realization strikes hard: millions of colonists, all cryogenically preserved like me, are onboard. No evacuation protocol can save a vessel of this magnitude from a black hole.

  “Survival protocol? Explain!”

  A schematic replaces the chaotic visuals. The cryogenic chambers are highlighted, their status marked as “Locked.” Leia is redirecting the entirety of the ship’s energy to generate a stabilizing bubble around the singularity—a desperate, mathematically insane maneuver. But even that won’t be enough. The Colossus is falling, helplessly spiraling into the unknown. Then, bold red text appears on the display:

  “Atomic structure: partial integrity maintained. Spatiotemporal field unstable.”

  We aren’t destroyed. Not yet. But the fundamental laws of physics are fraying.

  “Leia, prepare the bridge. I’m on my way.”

  My uniform lies neatly folded beside the capsule. I pull it on with mechanical precision, clinging to discipline as a tether to sanity. The metallic doors hiss open, revealing the main corridor of the Colossus. It’s unrecognizable: severed cables dangle like vines, pipes hiss with escaping vapor, and emergency lights pulse in erratic patterns. Leia’s guidance manifests as holographic arrows that flicker into existence with every step I take.

  The hallway smells of scorched metal and burnt plastic. A faint vibration underfoot hints at the massive forces tearing through the ship.

  By the time I reach the bridge, I’m greeted by a sight that steals the air from my lungs.

  Beyond the reinforced glass, the universe is chaos incarnate. A kaleidoscope of swirling colors and warped dimensions engulfs the ship. Streams of incandescent matter twist like serpents through the void, their light fractured by immense gravitational forces. In what kind of hell are we ?

  “Leia, navigation report.”

  “Admiral, propulsion systems offline. Planetary gravity well engaged. Estimated impact in seventeen minutes.”

  The main screen displays the Colossus in grim detail. Sections of the ship break apart under the strain, entire decks torn away into the void. Debris spirals in all directions. Time is slipping through my fingers.

  “And the colonists?”

  “Cryo chambers secure. Survival probability: 32%.”

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  My fists clench. It’s not enough. Then I black out.

  Darkness fragments into shards of pale light as my consciousness resurfaces. My head throbs, each pulse resonating with a faint, persistent whine. I inhale deeply, and the air shocks me: it’s not the recycled sterility of the Colossus but something alive. Earthy. Damp. Metallic. And then, wind.

  My hand gropes instinctively for support, brushing against something rough and warm. Soil. Real soil. Not the polished floors of the Colossus. Memories crash into me: the black hole, the alarms, the fall... and then, nothingness.

  I force myself upright, every joint screaming in protest. My eyes adjust slowly to my surroundings. Chaos greets me. The wreckage of the Colossus sprawls across an alien landscape, colossal fragments embedded in the ground or precariously perched atop massive trees.I have never seen such a landscape, everyone around me seems to be burned, but I miraculously escaped this blaze.

  I look skyward. The heavens are painted with streaks of luminescence, bands of color like auroras tinged with hues of blood red. Shadows drift across the horizon—immense, incomprehensible forms that defy identification.

  The air vibrates faintly, as if the very fabric of reality hums with residual energy from the ship’s catastrophic descent.

  A faint beep pulls me from my stupor. A cracked holographic display flickers amidst the wreckage nearby, its light weak but steady. I stagger toward it, the weight of survival pressing heavily on my shoulders. Somewhere in this alien expanse lies the answer to the question burning in my mind: Did anyone else survive?

  I finally take stock of my condition: my uniform is torn, stained with dried blood and dirt. My communicator crackles faintly on my wrist. Leia? No, it’s just a dead loop. The voice of the AI is nothing more than a lost echo. My body aches, covered in bruises, scratches, and even minor burns.

  “Leia?! Answer me!” My voice cuts through the oppressive silence. Nothing responds but the rustle of colossal leaves and the distant groan of warped metal.

  I rise slowly, every muscle protesting. A faint beep catches my attention. A cracked holographic screen flickers a few steps away, emerging from the remains of a navigation console. I stagger toward it, clinging to the hope it might hold answers—or salvation.

  The ground beneath me is a blend of scorched earth and shattered metal. The faint scent of charred materials mingles with an alien organic tang. Each step is precarious, the debris of the Colossus scattered like the remnants of a shattered dream.

  I stand, swaying, in the midst of an ocean of destruction. The wind whistles softly, stirring up ash and dust that dance around the mess. Spread across the horizon are fragments of all sizes, remnants of a ship that once carried humanity’s hope. The pervasive smell of burnt metal dominates, but there’s something else, faint yet unsettlingly organic.

  Underfoot, patches of tender grass intermingle with shards of steel and broken glass. But most of the ground is a scorched crust, a wounded land marred by the Colossus’s descent. Then, a voice. Coldly mechanical, yet carrying a tone I’ve never heard from it before. A shadow of sadness, perhaps? Leia. At last, she’s responding—which means some servers must have survived somewhere. My heart tightens. If she’s online, perhaps some cryo-colonists made it too.

  “Leia! Status report. Are there any survivors?” I ask, my voice brimming with fragile hope.

  “Admiral... You are the only human alive. All cryogenic compartments are compromised.”

  The blow is visceral, like an invisible fist striking my stomach. Leia is direct, sparing no words. My legs falter under the weight of her statement. Already weakened by injuries and the crash, I sway, struggling to process the enormity of her report. Millions of lives, entire families, generations of hope—all extinguished. And me... left alone.

  “No... No, that’s impossible!” My voice breaks the silence, raw and desperate. I slam my fist against the communicator on my wrist, as if striking the useless device might reverse reality. But Leia doesn’t waver. She’s speaking through a transmitter that survived the crash, just nearby. My own communicator is dead. I stagger toward the intact device, clutching it like a lifeline.

  “Cross-checking completed. All cryo pods sustained structural failures during transit. The physical integrity of the occupants did not survive. You are... alone, Admiral.”

  I collapse to my knees, fingers digging into the soft, ashen earth. The tactile sensation of a living world contrasts violently with the desolation around me. The plain stretches out, flat and alien, bordered by towering trees whose dark trunks reach skyward like silent monoliths. Most of them are charred husks. The wind’s murmur through their branches is deceptive; there’s no life beneath their bark. The Colossus has annihilated everything. What have I done?

  A black hole... and now this? A plain, warm wind, towering trees... none of it makes any sense.

  “Leia, where are we? What is this place?”

  She hesitates. The unflappable AI—designed to process any crisis without faltering—seems uncertain for the first time. Her hesitation unsettles me more than her words ever could.

  “Location unknown. Stellar coordinates do not match any database. Breathable atmosphere detected. Gravity slightly below Earth standard. Anomalous readings... electromagnetic disturbances, unclassified geological and biological structures.”

  My anger boils over, fueled by fear.

  “You mean we’re... somewhere else? Another planet? Another galaxy?”

  A heavy silence hangs before Leia’s measured response.

  “The physical characteristics of this environment suggest we have left our original universe. The probability of interdimensional traversal via the singularity exceeds 98.3%.”

  Her words stagger me. Another dimension. My mind, still dulled by the brutal awakening and the crash, struggles to grasp the enormity of this revelation. I scan the horizon, desperate for anything familiar among the wreckage. All I see is devastation: shards of the Colossus scattered like the remnants of a fallen titan.

  Millions of dead. And me, left alive. For what purpose?

  How am I still alive? Why me?

  I pause, placing a hand on a piece of still-warm metal—a fragment of the Colossus. Memories of the ship’s grandeur flood back: the laughter of children during boarding, the promises of a new beginning. Now, all of it is gone.

  But I can’t remain paralyzed by grief. I must move forward, understand what happened, and above all, discover why I was spared.

  The soft rustle of wind through the charred grass and the distant groaning of debris remind me that this is no dream. The world around me is real, and I am utterly alone within it.