We Learned How to Fly Faster Than Light. Something Strange Happened.

Hello and welcome back to another episode by Sleepy Pasta. Before you doze off tonight, don't forget to leave a five star review and a comment where you are watching from. Let's begin. I gripped the control panel of the horizon until my knuckles went white. The ship hummed around us, a deep vibration that I felt in my chest more than heard.

Five years of development, 18 months of training, and now we were about to attempt what no human crew had ever done before. Systems check, Commander Powell said from the captain's chair. Her voice was steady, like this was just another simulation. Navigation systems online, Corey reported from my left, his fingers dancing across his console.

Course plotted and locked. Engine parameters nominal. Mario called from the engineering station. Containment field at 100%. All scientific instruments are recording.

Sarah added, Her dark eyes focused on her monitors. We're making history, people. I ran through my final checks as Flight Lieutenant. Life support, Optimal communication, standing by structural integrity at full capacity. I took a breath, ready for FTL initiation, Commander Ruth nodded once, her silver streaked Bob catching the light from the instrument panels.

Proceed with the countdown. Lieutenant Silva initiating FTL drive in 1098I began the sequence, my finger hovering over the activation switch. This was it. The culmination of countless theoretical models, simulations, and smaller tests. The real thing.

321 engaging. I press the switch. For a second, nothing happened, just the normal hum of the ship's systems. Then the drive kicked in. The lights dimmed momentarily as power redirected to the experimental engine, a high pitched wine built from somewhere deep in the ship's core.

Energy levels climbing, Mario reported approaching critical threshold containment field holding steady, I added, watching the readings climb. The ship began to vibrate more intensely. Not violent, but noticeable, like standing too close to a speaker at a concert. Transition in five seconds, Sarah announced. We all braced ourselves.

Though the inertial dampeners should have made the jump smooth, no one really knew what it would feel like to break the light barrier. Corey gripped his armrests. Here we go. The stars, visible through the viewport, began to stretch, drawing out into lines of light. The vibration intensified.

It's working, I said, unable to keep the awe from my voice. The stretched stars suddenly collapsed into a single point of brilliant white light, then expanded into a tunnel of radiance surrounding the ship. The horizon lurched forward as if suddenly released from invisible restraints. We've done it. Mario shouted, pumping his first FTL achieved.

Cheers erupted across the bridge. Ruth allowed herself a small smile, the most expression I'd ever seen from her during a mission. Sarah was already buried in her readings, muttering excitedly about the data streaming in. Corey laughed out loud, spinning his chair in celebration. I checked the velocity indicators, which were climbing far beyond anything humans had previously achieved, speed continuing to increase.

We're at approximately 1.2 times lightspeed and accelerating, all systems nominal. Mario confirmed The containment field is holding perfectly. Ruth nodded, satisfaction evident in her posture. Excellent work, team. According to our projections, we should reach maximum velocity in approximately 3 minutes, maintain for five, and then begin deceleration.

The stars, they're incredible, Sarah said, looking up from her instruments to the viewport outside. Reality had transformed into a tunnel of light, streaks of color blurring past us faster than the human eye could process. It was beautiful, hypnotic even. Our triumph lasted exactly 42 seconds. The first warning was a subtle fluctuation in the power grid, just a flicker of the lights that might have gone unnoticed if we weren't all hyper focused on every detail.

Minor power fluctuation. I reported within acceptable parameters. But before I could finish, the ship shuddered violently. Not the gentle vibration from before, but a bone jarring shake that would have thrown us from our seats if not for the harnesses. Warning lights flashed across my console containment field destabilizing.

What the hell? Mario's fingers flew across his station. This shouldn't be happening. The field was stable. Another violent shudder rocked the ship, stronger than the first.

Equipment that hadn't been properly secured clattered to the floor. Corey, status report. Ruth barked. I, I don't know, Commander, He replied, his earlier jubilation replaced by focus tension. Navigation systems are going haywire.

I can't get a read on our position. The tunnel of light outside began to warp, twisting in ways that hurt my eyes to look at. The ship groaned around us, metals stressed beyond its design limits. Shut it down, Ruth ordered. Emergency protocols disengage the drive now.

I hit the emergency shutdown sequence, but the system didn't respond. Drive not responding to shutdown commands. The manual override. Mario shouted, already unstrapping to reach the engineering access panel. Another violent jolt knocked him sideways.

He caught himself on a railing, cursing. Containment field at 30% and dropping. Sarah called out, her voice rising. Brace for impact, Ruth yelled. Impact with what?

We were an empty space, but I tightened my harness anyway. Pure instinct taking over the ship gave him final, massive shudder. Then came a sound I'll never forget, a deafening crack, like reality itself was splitting open. The lights went out completely, plunging us Into Darkness for three eternal seconds before the emergency systems kicked in, bathing everything in dim red light.

The violent motion stopped. The ship went eerily still. I looked up at the viewport and froze. There was nothing. Not stars, not the streaking light tunnel, not even the blackness of space dotted with distant galaxies.

Just nothing. The complete absence that my mind couldn't process. Not darkness. Darkness is something. This was the absence of anything.

What am I looking at? I whispered. No one answered. We were all staring at the absolute void beyond our ship systems. Check.

Ruth finally said, her voice tight. Everyone. I forced my eyes back to my console and felt a chill run down my spine. The readings made no sense. According to our instruments, we weren't anywhere, not lost, Literally nowhere.

Coordinates showed impossible numbers, some readouts displaying errors, others showing symbols I'd never seen before. I can't determine our location. I reported, trying to keep my voice steady. Navigation systems are online, but the data is nonsensical. Same with environmental scanners, Sarah added.

They're detecting nothing. Not empty space, nothing at all. The drive is offline, Mario said, his face pale in the red. Emergency lighting. Power systems functioning at 60%.

Life support intact. Thank God. Communications. Ruth asked. I tried hailing Mission Control, then any receiver on any frequency.

No response, not even background radiation on any channel. A heavy silence fell over the bridge as the implications sank in. We were stranded in somewhere or nowhere with a damaged ship and no idea how to get back. Does anyone else hear that? Corey suddenly asked, his head tilted slightly.

We all went quiet, listening. Hear what? I asked after several seconds. The whispers. He said, as if it was obvious.

They're faint, but Ruth nodded slowly. I hear them too, very faint. I exchanged a glance with Mario and Sarah, they looked as confused as I felt. I don't hear anything, Sarah said. Me neither.

Mario added. I strained my ears but caught nothing except the hum of the ship's systems. What are they saying? Corey's eyes unfocused slightly. I can't make it out yet.

Just whispers like someone's talking just out of earshot. Focus on the mission. Ruth said sharply. We need to assess our situation and find a way home. Silva, work with Mercado to see if we can get the drive back online.

Walker, analyse whatever data you can gather about whatever is out there. Barry, keep trying to establish our position. We all acknowledge the orders and turn to our tasks. But I couldn't shake the unease crawling up my spine. Ruth and Corey hearing whispers that the rest of us couldn't.

That wasn't good. Over the next hour, things got stranger. I caught Corey staring into the void, nodding slightly as if listening to someone. When I asked him what he was doing, he startled. They're telling me things, Knox.

He said, his voice oddly detached. About where we are, about what this place is. Who's telling you things? I asked, trying to keep my tone casual. The voices.

He blinked a few times, seeming to come back to himself. You really can't hear them? I shook my head. What are they saying? A strange smile spread across his face.

That we were meant to come here? That we've been chosen. That was when I knew we were in serious trouble. Not just the stranded and unknown space kind of trouble, but something worse. Something was affecting my crew mates minds.

I glanced at Ruth, who was having a hushed conversation with Sarah. The Commander's normally composed face showed signs of strain, her eyes darting occasionally to the viewport as if watching something move across the nothingness. Mario was the only other one who seemed unaffected, working frantically on the drive systems. He caught my eye and gave a slight head shake.

The drive wasn't coming back online anytime soon. We need to find a way home. I said quietly to him. Before whatever's affecting them gets worse or starts affecting us too. He added grimly.

I looked back at the absolute void outside our ship, feeling a creeping dread. We were trapped in some unknown region of space, possibly beyond normal reality itself, with half the crew already experiencing unexplainable psychological effects, and I had no idea how to get us home. I couldn't sleep, not with that endless nothing staring back at us through every viewport.

Mario and I had been taking shifts trying to get the FTL drive back online while keeping an eye on the others. Their condition was getting worse by the hour. I found Mario hunched over a diagnostic panel in the engine room. He'd been there for almost 6 hours straight. Any progress?

I asked. He didn't answer. His hands were moving, but not on the panel controls. Mario. I stepped closer.

That's when I saw the blood. It was dripping onto the floor in small, steady drops. Mario had a utility knife in his right hand. He was cutting into his left forearm, carving precise geometric patterns into his skin. The blood ran down his arm in thin rivulets.

Jesus. I lunged forward, grabbing for the knife. Mario, stop. His head snapped up. His eyes were different, distant, like he was looking through me instead of at me.

It wants us to see properly. He said, his voice flat. The patterns help us see. I wrestled the knife from his hand. He didn't fight hard, just kept talking in that same emotionless voice.

The void isn't empty, Knox. It's full, so full. We just can't see it yet, not without help. You need medical attention. I said, pulling him toward the first aid station.

Mario smiled. It wasn't his smile. We all need to see. You will too, eventually. I grabbed the emergency sedative from the Med kit and pressed the injector against his neck.

His eyes widened briefly, then glazed over as the drug took effect. I eased him down to the floor, then quickly cleaned and bandaged his arm. The cuts weren't too deep, thankfully, but the pattern he'd carved was disturbing. Concentric circles with strange angular symbols between them. I locked the engine room behind me and headed for the bridge.

I needed to check on the others. Corey wasn't at his station. I found him in the navigation alcove, huddled in the corner. His hands were pressed against his face. Corey.

I approached cautiously. You OK? He lowered his hands and I stopped cold. His face was covered in blood, his eyes were raw, surrounded by torn skin. He'd been clawing at them.

I can see better this way, He whispered. They told me the eyes are filters, they block what's really there. Who told you? I asked, slowly, reaching for the sedative in my pocket. The ones in the dark.

They're waiting for us. They've been waiting so long. I didn't waste time arguing. I sedated him quickly, then cleaned his face as best I could. His eyes weren't damaged, he'd only torn at the skin around them.

Small mercy. I dragged Corey to the Med Bay and secured him to one of the beds. That's when I realized Sarah wasn't in the science lab where she was supposed to be monitoring our environment. I found her at her workstation. She had surgical tools laid out neatly beside her.

Her left hand was splayed on the table, palm up. With her right hand, she was methodically cutting into her left palm with a scalpel. Sarah. I shouted. She looked up calmly.

Lieutenant Silva, I'm conducting an important experiment. You're cutting open your hand? Yes, I need to understand how we're changing. She turned her attention back to her hand. The void is altering our cellular structure.

I can feel it. I need to see the process. I moved toward her, and she held up the scalpel. Please don't interrupt my research. This is crucial data.

Sarah, you're hurting yourself. This isn't research. Pain is irrelevant to scientific discovery. She made another precise cut. I've already found something interesting.

Look. Despite myself, I glanced at her hand. She peeled back a flap of skin from her palm. The blood was dark, almost black. The pigmentation is changing, she said.

Our bodies are adapting to the void environment. I lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. She fought back with surprising strength, slashing at me with a scalpel. I felt it nicked my arm, but I managed to wrestle it away and get the sedative into her. She slumped forward.

She whispered. You're making a mistake. We need to understand what's happening to us. I bandaged her hand, secured her to a chair and headed back to the bridge. My heart was pounding.

Three of my crew mates had lost their minds in different ways. I needed to find Commander Powell. She was on the bridge, staring out the main viewport at the nothingness outside. Commander. I said, relieved to see her standing.

Normally. We have a serious situation. Mario, Corey, and Sarah are all experiencing severe psychological effects. They're self harming. I've had to sedate them.

She turned slowly. Her expression was calm, composed. The Commander Powell. I knew I was afraid of this, she said. The void is affecting them.

We need to get out of here, I said. Mario can't work on the drive in his condition. I'll have to try to repair it myself. She nodded. I'll help you secure the others.

We need to keep them safe until we can escape this region. For the next several hours, Commander Powell and I work together. We moved the affected crew to the Med Bay, restraining them for their own safety. We took inventory of our supplies and discussed repair options for the drive. But I started to notice things.

Small things at first. The way she'd stop mid sentence and tilt her head like she was listening to something. How her eyes would drift to the viewport and linger there, staring into the nothingness. Sometimes she'd nod slightly, as if agreeing with an unheard voice. By the second day, she was having trouble focusing on conversations.

She'd stare into space for longer stretches. When I'd ask her about it, she'd snap back to attention and insist she was fine, just tired, she'd say. We all are. I didn't sleep that night. I sat in the corridor outside the Med Bay, listening to the occasional Mumbles from my sedated crew mates.

Mario had woken briefly, straining against his restraints, whispering about the beauty of dissolution. Sarah kept talking about cellular metamorphosis whenever she regained consciousness. Corey just stared at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes, smiling. On the third day, I finally collapsed from exhaustion in my quarters. I must have slept for a few hours.

When I woke, Commander Powell was standing over me. She had a scalpel in her hand. Commander. I sat up quickly, pressing my back against the wall. You need to see Knox.

She said softly. Her eyes were different now, the same distant look I'd seen in the others. I've been trying to protect you, but it's time. You need to understand the beauty that's waiting for us, Ruth. I said, using her first name, trying to connect with her.

Put the scalpel down. You're not thinking clearly. I've never thought more clearly. She moved closer. The darkness is an empty knocks.

It's alive, ancient. It existed before time, and it's chosen us. I tensed, ready to move. Chosen us for what transformation? She lunged forward suddenly, slashing with a scalpel.

I jerked sideways, but not fast enough. The blade caught my cheek, opening a hotline of pain. I shoved her back and rolled off the bed, putting it between us. You're making this harder than it needs to be. She said circling around you cuts.

That's all you need to start seeing. I grabbed my pillow. And threw it at her face, then tackled her while she was distracted. We crashed to the floor. Wrestling for the scalpel, she was stronger than I expected, driven by whatever madness had taken hold of her.

The blade came dangerously close to my eye before I managed to knock it away. I pinned her arms and dragged her kicking and struggling to the Med Bay. She. Fought the whole. Way alternating between threats and bizarre promises about what they would show me if I just surrendered.

I secured her to the last empty bed next to the others. They all watched me with the same distant stare, like they were seeing something beyond the physical world. You can't resist forever. Ruth said as I checked her restraints. No one can.

The void gets inside you, whether you wanted to or not. I didn't answer. I locked the Med Bay door behind me and went to treat the cut on my face. It wasn't deep, but it would leave a scar. When I returned to the Med Bay viewport to check on them, Ruth was pressed against the observation window, staring at me with unnerving intensity.

It existed before time. She said, her voice coming through the intercom before stars, before light. It's been waiting for someone to find it again. What has? I asked, and despite myself, the entity, the consciousness in the void, it's ancient beyond comprehension.

Her eyes were fever bright. And it's coming for you too, Knox. You can't hide from it. You can't fight it. It's already inside you, growing.

Soon you'll see like we do. I shut off the intercom. And turned away. Her words followed me down the corridor. It's coming for you too.

I made my way to the bridge alone. The ship felt massive and empty with all the others confined. I sat at the main. Console and pulled up the FTL Dr. schematics. I wasn't an engineer, but I had basic training.

Maybe I could figure. Something out that Mario couldn't in his compromised state. The truth was staring me. In the face. I was the only one left.

The only crew member still sane. And I had no idea. How long that would last? I started working through. The drive diagnostics pushing away thoughts of what might be happening to my mind, my perception.

The void pressed against. The viewports, watching, waiting. I had to fix the drive, had to get us home before whatever had taken my crew mates claimed me too. I got to Day 5 before the whispers started. Five days alone on a crippled ship with four restrained crew mates who'd all lost their minds.

I was in the engine room. Hands deep in the guts of the FTL drive when I heard it. Just a soft sound. At first, like someone breathing near my ear. I spun around.

Wrench in hand. Nobody there. Get it together, Knox. I muttered to myself. The ship's systems hummed around me.

Life support, gravity generators, the remaining functional systems all working normally. But the drive was still. A mess. I'd managed to restore. Power to the containment field, but the navigation interface wasn't accepting coordinates.

I turned back to the open. Panel and heard it again. A whisper. Words I couldn't quite make out. My hand froze mid reach.

I held my breath, listening. Nothing. I exhaled slowly and went back to work, connecting the bypass circuit I'd rigged up. My fingers trembled slightly. Five days without.

Proper sleep wasn't helping. I'd been grabbing 20. Minute naps when I could, always jerking awake with the feeling of being watched. Beautiful. The word was clear this time, right beside me.

I dropped the wrench. It hit the deck with a clang that echoed through the engine room. Who's there? I called out, my voice sounding thin in the empty space. No answer, just the constant hum of the ship.

I rubbed my eyes. Sleep deprivation. Had to be. I picked up the wrench and tried to focus on the circuit board. See us.

I slammed the panel shut. And backed away. That wasn't my imagination. The voice was soft, but distinct. Female, I thought.

Not Ruth or Sarah. Something else, Something new? No, I said. Firmly not doing this. I left the engine room and.

Headed for the galley coffee. I needed coffee and food. Basic needs keep it together. I forced down a meal. Pack and drank 2 cups of coffee.

The silence of the ship. Pressed in around me, I checked my watch. Time to look in on the others. The walk to the Med Bay felt longer than usual. The corridors seem to stretch, and I caught myself checking over my shoulder twice.

Chosen, I stopped walking. Shut up, I said to the empty air. You're not real. I pushed through the Med Bay. Doors and checked the vitals on the monitors.

All four were stable. I'd been keeping them sedated but had to be careful with the dosages. I couldn't keep them under permanently. Mario was closest to the door, strapped to the bed. The geometric patterns he'd carved into his arm were scabbing over.

Corey was next. Eyes bandaged where he'd clawed at them. Sarah's hand was wrapped in gauze. And Ruth. Ruth was watching me.

Her eyes were open, alert. Hey, I said. Approaching cautiously, How are you feeling her? Lips curved into a. Smile that didn't touch her eyes.

They're talking to you now, aren't they? I froze. What? The voices, You can hear them. Her voice was raspy.

From disuse. They've been waiting for you. Knox, the last one I checked, her IV, the sedative had run out. I needed to replace it. I'm going to give you something.

To help you rest. I said, reaching for the medication. Ruth laughed. It was a horrible sound, dry and cracking. It won't help.

They're already inside you, inside all of us. I filled a syringe, trying to keep my hand steady. The void isn't empty. Knox, it's full, so full, and now it's in U2. I administered the sedative and watched as her eyes grew heavy.

Don't fight it, she murmured as she drifted off. It's beautiful when you let it in. I backed away from the bed, bumping into the counter. Behind me. The instruments clattered.

Let us in. The whisper came from. Everywhere and nowhere, I ran from the Med Bay. My heart hammered in my chest as I made it to the bridge and collapsed into the pilot's seat. The void pressed against the viewports, endless and empty.

Except it wasn't empty. Ruth was right about that. You're not real. I said to the darkness. This is sleep deprivation and stress.

We are real. I grabbed a tablet and pulled up the ship's logs. I needed to document. This if I was losing my mind, I wanted a record for whoever found us day 5 alone. I dictated experiencing auditory hallucinations similar to those reported by other crew members before their deterioration.

Possible causes sleep deprivation, psychological stress, oxygen levels, a knot, hallucinations. I threw the tablet across the bridge. It clattered against the wall and fell to the floor. Screen cracked. Get out of my head.

I shouted. We were always here. I pressed the heels of my hands against my ears, but it didn't help. The voices weren't coming through my ears, they were inside my head. I had to focus the drive, fix the drive, get us home.

I. Went back to the engine. Room and forced myself to work. Every few minutes the whispers would come. Sometimes words, sometimes just sounds.

I started humming to. Drown them out, old songs, anything I could remember. It helped a little. Hours passed. I made progress on the drive, managed to restore the main power coupling.

The whispers grew more insistent. Open your eyes properly. See beyond like the others did. My tools kept slipping from my hands. I found myself staring at my arms, wondering what patterns might look good carved into my skin.

No, I slammed my fist into the bulkhead. The pain cleared my head momentarily. I needed to check on the others again, make sure they were still sedated. I couldn't handle anyone else being awake right now. The corridors seemed darker this time, though the lighting hadn't changed.

I found myself trailing my fingers along the wall as I walked, feeling a strange texture that shouldn't have been there. When I pushed open the Med Bay doors, I stopped cold. The monitors were flat lining, all four of them. No, no, no. I rushed to Mario first, checking for a pulse.

Nothing. I moved to Corey. Same thing. Sarah, nothing. Ruth dead, all of them gone.

But that wasn't the worst part. Their bodies were wrong, twisted, bent at impossible angles. Joints turned the wrong way, Spines curved like they've been folded. Human bodies shouldn't be able to contort like that. And their faces.

God, their faces. They were smiling, all of them. Not grimaces of pain, but expressions of pure ecstasy, like they'd experienced something wonderful in their final moments. I stumbled backward until I hit the wall, then slid down to the floor. My crew was dead.

My friends were dead, and I was truly alone. They're not gone. They're transformed, waiting for you. I screamed until my throat was raw. Then I crawled out of the.

Med Bay and sealed the door. I couldn't look at them anymore. Back on the bridge, I sent out another distress call, knowing it was useless. We were too far from normal space. No one would hear us.

We hear you. I ignored the voice and pulled up the drive diagnostics again. The main systems were. Online now, but the navigation was still scrambled. I needed to manually.

Reset the coordinates. Calculate a return vector based on our last known position. The next days passed in a blur. I stopped counting. After a while, the whispers became a constant companion, urging me to join the others, to transform myself.

I fought against the compulsion to hurt myself, to cut into my skin like Mario had done. I found myself standing in front of the Med Bay door once, a scalpel in hand, with no memory of how I got there. I threw the scalpel down a. Waste chute and went back to work. Sleep became impossible.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw things moving in the darkness behind my eyelids. Things with too many angles, too many dimensions. I focused on the drive. It became my anchor to reality. I rerouted power conduits, recalculated jump coordinates, and ran simulation after simulation when I'm pointless and urged stay with us forever.

My hands shook constantly. Now food tasted like ash, but I forced myself to eat, had to keep my strength up, had to finish the repairs on what I figured was the 12th day I made a breakthrough. The navigation system. Accepted my manual coordinates. The containment field was stable.

The drive was ready for an emergency jump. One leap back toward Earth using all our remaining power. It might work. It might kill me. Either way, it would be over.

I strapped myself into the pilot's seat and initiated the emergency return protocol. The ship's computer ran through the pre jump checklist, warning me about the risks of an improperly calculated jump override. I said, my voice hoarse. Authorization Silva, 79D. The computer accepted.

The override. Stay. Don't leave us, we need you. The voices rose to a cacophony, screaming in my head. I gritted my teeth and hit the activation sequence.

For a moment. Nothing happened. Then. The ship shuddered violently. The lights flickered, warning alarms blared.

The void outside the viewports seemed to ripple to reach for the ship. And then suddenly, stars. Normal, Beautiful, distant pinpoints of light. The navigation console. Beeped.

We were back in normal space. The emergency return protocol had worked, bringing us back to our solar system. I laughed the. Sound bordering on hysterical. The voices were gone, silent, left behind in the void.

When Earth appeared on my navigation screen, I sobbed. Home. We were home. The recovery team found me still in the pilot's seat, barely conscious. I remember their shocked faces when they boarded.

The question started immediately. Where were we? What happened? How did we get back? I told them everything.

The void, the whispers, the way my crewmates had mutilated themselves before dying. They didn't believe me, not really. The official report. Blamed everything on oxygen deprivation causing mass psychosis. They said I was lucky to have survived, that I'd managed to repair the drive and bring the ship home while suffering from the same delusions that had driven my crew mates to suicide.

I tried to make them. Understand, at first, the void wasn't empty. Something lived there, something that could reach into human minds and twist them. But Doctor Denise McCormick, the psychiatrist assigned to my case, just made notes and increased my medication whenever I insisted it was real Knox, she said during our third session, her voice professionally sympathetic.

What you experienced? Was traumatic, certainly, but. There's no evidence. Of any external influence, the ship's logs show normal oxygen levels. The autopsies revealed self-inflicted injuries.

Your crew mates suffered psychotic breaks and you nearly did too. I heard them. I insisted. The voices, they're still out there. She sighed.

And. Wrote something in her notepad. If you continue with these. Delusions. We'll need to adjust your medication again.

Perhaps consider a longer inpatient stay. I stopped arguing after that. What was the point? They'd made-up their minds. Easier to blame it on oxygen, on stress, on human frailty, than to accept that we'd encountered something beyond understanding.

But I know what I heard, what I saw. The void isn't empty, and sometimes, late at night, I still hear whispers. I've been home for three weeks now. They discharged me from the hospital after a month of observation and tests. The doctor said I was.

Making remarkable progress. Their words not. Mine. What they meant was. I'd gotten better at lying.

The whispers didn't stop when I got back to Earth. They followed me. At first I thought maybe I was still recovering. The. Psych team had.

Warned me about potential lingering symptoms, flashbacks, auditory hallucinations, the whole PTSD package. But this isn't that. The whispers are clearer now, more focused. They know my name. I'm sitting at my kitchen table at 3:00 in the morning, nursing a cup of coffee that went cold an hour ago.

Sleep isn't really an. Option anymore? Not with what happens when I close my eyes. Knocks. They say we see you now.

I press my palms against my ears, but it doesn't help. The voices aren't coming from outside, they're already in. I wake up gasping. Sheets twisted around my legs. The bedside clock reads 4:17 AM.

Another night, same as all the others. The vastness beyond reality waits for you. The whisper slides through. My mind. We have glimpsed you, Knox Silva, and you have glimpsed us.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, pressing my bare feet against the cold hardwood floor. The solid sensation. Helps gives me something real to focus on. Not real, I mutter. You're not real.

The whisper responds. With something like laughter, soft and rustling like dead leaves. We were here before. Reality we will remain after I stumble to the bathroom, flip on the harsh fluorescent light. My reflection looks worse than yesterday, the bags under my eyes darker, the scar on my cheek from Ruth's attack still angry and red.

I splash cold. Water on my face, trying to shock myself fully awake. The mirror shows just. Me, but I feel watched, always watched. The ancient one has marked you, the whisper continues.

You carried us back with you, adore once opened. Shut up, I say to my reflection. Just shut the hell up. I don't go back to bed. I never do.

Instead I make. Coffee and wait for sunrise, for the whispers to retreat to the background hum they become in daylight. They never fully disappear anymore. I started keeping. Journals after the first week home.

The NASA psychiatrists suggested it might help with processing the trauma. They didn't specify what kind of journals. My apartment walls are covered with them now. Pages torn from notebooks, Printouts, sketches taped up in clusters, geometric patterns, mathematical formulas I don't remember learning. Star charts of constellations that don't exist.

I'm working on a new diagram when my phone buzzes, Lauren. My sister's been checking. In daily since I got back. I let it go to voicemail. I'll call her back when I finish this section.

The pen moves across. The paper almost on its own, plotting points and connecting them with precise lines. It's a 3 dimensional. Representation of something I saw in my dreams last night. A structure that seemed.

To fold in on itself. Existing in more. Dimensions than I can properly draw. When I finish, I. Tape it to the wall with the others stepping back to look at the collection.

They're starting to form. A larger pattern, these fragments from my dreams. I don't know what it means. Yet. But I feel like I'm getting closer to understanding.

My phone buzzes again. Lauren won't give up. I pick up this time. Hey. I say, trying to sound normal.

I've been calling you for an hour, she says. I can hear the worry in her voice. Are you OK? Yeah, just working on something. Lost track of time.

I'm coming over, she says. Have you eaten today? I look around at the kitchen. No dishes in the sink. I can't remember my last meal.

I'm fine, Lauren, I'll bring lunch, she says, ignoring my protest. See you in 30. She hangs up before. I can argue. I look at the wall of.

Diagrams then around at the rest of the apartment. What does it look like to someone? Else to someone who hasn't heard the whispers. I start taking down the. Pages, stacking them on my desk, hiding the more disturbing ones in drawers.

By the time Lauren. Knocks the apartment looks almost normal. Almost. Lauren's been coming. By every other day for the past two weeks, she brings food, makes me eat while she watches, asks careful questions about how I'm sleeping, if I'm taking my meds.

Today she brought sandwiches from the deli I used to like. We sit at the kitchen. Table and I forced myself to take bites, to chew and swallow while she talks about her work, her boyfriend, normal things. You look tired, she says finally, when her small talk runs out. I'm fine.

Knocks. She reaches across the table, puts her hand on mine. You're not fine. You've lost weight. Your apartment.

She glances around. At the spots where I miss taking down some of the diagrams. What are all these drawings? Just working through some stuff. I say the doctor said it might help.

Have you been seeing Doctor McCormick? I shake my head. After our last session, I stopped going. What was the point? Knox, You need help, real help.

They don't believe me, I say, the words coming out harsher than I intended. None of them do. Lauren sighs, squeezes my hand. I believe something happened to you out there, something terrible. But whatever it was, it's over now.

You're home. The whispers rise up. As if responding to her words. Never over, they say. Never separate again.

I pull my hand away, press it against my temple. It's not over. They came back with me. Lauren's face shifts from concern to alarm. Who came back with you?

The voices, The entity from the void. I look at her. Desperate for her to understand. I know how it sounds, but it's real, Lauren. They're real.

She's quiet for a long time, looking at me with those eyes, the same green as mine, but clear, unburdened. Finally, she stands up. I'm going to help you, she says. Whatever it takes. I believe her.

I just don't think anyone can help me now. The nightmares are getting worse. I see my crew mates in them, Mario carving patterns into his skin, Corey clawing at his eyes, Sarah with her blackened blood, Ruth's face twisted in ecstasy as her body contorts. And behind them all, something vast and ancient. Watching.

I wake from these dreams with equations in my head, coordinates to places that shouldn't exist, Formulas for bending space in ways our physics can't explain. I write them down immediately, add them to my growing collection. The whispers are stronger at night. They tell me about the entity they serve, an intelligence so old it predates our universe.

They tell me I've been chosen, marked, that I can see things others can't. But your eyes limit you. They whisper. Eyes filter truth. Remove the filters.

I find myself standing in the bathroom. The light is off, but I can see my reflection in the mirror, illuminated by the street lamp outside. I'm holding scissors. I don't remember getting them. See properly.

The whispers urge, like Corey saw. Remove the filters. The scissors rise toward my face, toward my eye. I watch my hand move. As if it belongs to someone else, the point of the scissors touches the corner of my eye.

Just a little pressure now, just a little cut. Then I'll see everything clearly. My phone rings in the other room, the special ringtone I set for Lauren. The sudden sound breaks through the whispers, and I drop the scissors with a clatter into the sink. I stumble back, my heart pounding.

What the hell was I? About to do. The phone keeps ringing. I make my way to it, hands shaking. Lauren, I say.

When I answer, my voice cracking. Knocks. Are you OK? You sound weird. No, I say, and the admission breaks something open inside me.

I'm not OK. I need help. I'm coming to get you, she says immediately. Don't move, I'll be there in 15 minutes. I sink down onto the floor, me back against the wall, and wait.

The whispers are angry. Now hissing about weakness and failure. Shut up. I tell them just shut the fuck up. They don't, of course, but I focus on the sound of my own breathing till I hear Lauren's key in the lock.

Lauren takes one look at me, at the scissors still in the bathroom sink, and calls 911. I don't fight her on it. I'm too tired, too scared of what I might do next time. The EMTs are professional, non judgmental. They ask about medications, about whether I'm having thoughts of hurting myself.

I. Tell them yes. But it's complicated. They exchange looks. I recognize the psychiatric case look.

Lauren rides with me. In the ambulance, holding my hand the whole way. She. Tells me it's going to be. OK, that we'll get through this.

I don't tell her that the. Whispers are laughing at her certainty. The hospital admits me immediately. Crisis intervention, they call it. I'm put in a room with nothing I could use to hurt myself and a parade of doctors and nurses come through asking the same questions over and over.

I stick to the basics. Insomnia, nightmares, hearing voices telling me to hurt myself. I don't mention the. Void or the entity. I've learned that lesson.

After hours of this, when I'm exhausted and just want to sleep, one more doctor comes in. He's older than the others, with salt and pepper hair and round glasses. He doesn't have a clipboard or tablet, just sits in the chair next to my bed. Lieutenant Silva, he says. I'm Doctor Vernon Jimenez.

Do you mind if we talk for a bit? I've been talking all day, I say. I don't think I have anything new to add. He smiles slightly. That's fair.

How about I talk for a minute, then? I've read your file, both the official NASA reports and Doctor Mccormick's notes. I tense up. Here it comes more talk about delusions and oxygen deprivation. I find it interesting.

He continues that four highly trained astronauts would all experience identical psychotic breaks with identical hallucinations at the same time. I look at him sharply. What? The official report says mass psychosis caused by oxygen deprivation, but the Horizons logs, which I've also reviewed, show normal O2 levels until after the crew's behavior changed. He leans forward.

Something happened out there, Lieutenant, something that doesn't fit our current understanding of reality. I stare at him, not daring to hope you believe me. I believe you experienced something real. He says carefully. I'm not ready to make claims about what exactly that something was, but I'd like to hear your account.

The full account, not the sanitized version you've been giving the other doctors. For a moment I. Can't speak. The whispers have gone quiet, as if they too are surprised. Why?

I manage finally. Why do you care, Doctor? Jimenez removes his glasses, cleans them thoughtfully with the edge of his shirt. Because truth matters, Lieutenant Silva, and because if what happened to you is real, you're not going to get better by pretending it isn't. I take a deep breath, and then I tell him everything.

Doctor Jimenez. Listens without interruption as I described the FTL jump, the void, the whispers that started with Ruth and Corey, how the entity gradually took control of my crew mates 1 by 1, the things they did to themselves. I tell him about making. It back to earth about the whispers following me home about the diagrams and equations that come to me in dreams.

When I finish. He's quiet for a long time. Then he says, May I see your drawings, the ones you've been creating since your return? Lauren brought a folder. Of them from my apartment.

I hand it to him, watching as he flips through the pages, studying each one with intense focus. Remarkable, he murmurs. Some of these equations, they're beyond current theoretical physics. I know, I say. I don't even understand half of what I'm writing.

It just comes to me. He closes the folder. Knox. May I call you Knox? I'd like to work with you not just on crisis management, but on understanding what's happening to you.

You really believe me? I believe something extraordinary happened to you and your crew. Whether it's exactly as you perceive it, I can't say yet. But dismissing it as delusion isn't helping you. For the first time in months, I feel a flicker of hope.

The whispers, I say. They're still with me all the time. Then that's where we. Start, he says, not by denying their existence, but by understanding your relationship to them, by finding ways for you to maintain control. I nod slowly.

I'd like that. Good. He stands up. Get some rest tonight. We'll begin tomorrow.

As he turns to leave, I. Say, Doctor Jimenez, thank you for listening. He smiles. That's the easiest part of my job, Knox. The hard work starts tomorrow.

For the first time since returning to Earth, I sleep without nightmares. Over. The next few? Weeks, Doctor Jimenez and I develop strategies for managing the whispers. We don't try to make them go away.

We both know that's not going to happen, but instead focus on establishing boundaries, on strengthening my sense of self against their influence. We start with simple grounding techniques, focusing on physical sensations, on the weight of my body in the chair, the texture of objects I can touch. When the whispers get loud, I learned to redirect my attention to these tangible realities.

The entity exists in a reality beyond our physical one, Doctor Jimenez explains during one session. By anchoring yourself. Firmly in this reality, you create distance between yourself and its influence. We establish daily routines, regular meals, exercise, meditation. Structure helps, gives me something to hold on to when the whispers try to pull me away.

The nightmares don't. Stop completely, but they become less frequent. When they do come, I have tools to deal with them, writing down the content immediately, then doing physical activity to reset my nervous system. What you're experiencing isn't so different from what people with certain psychiatric conditions manage every day, Doctor Jimenez tells me.

The content is different, the origin is different, but the strategies can be similar. I'm not cured. The entity is still there, still watching, still whispering, but I'm learning to live with it, to maintain the boundaries between its reality and mine. Lauren notices the. Difference.

You seem more. Present, she says during a visit. More like yourself. I don't tell her that I'll never fully be my old self again. That person died in the void with my crewmates.

But this new version of me? The one who carries the whispers but isn't controlled by them. Maybe he can have a. Life worth living. One day at a time.

I tell her, repeating Doctor Jimenez's mantra. That's all any of us can. Do. The whispers still. Come, especially at night, they still tell me about the vastness beyond reality, about the ancient being that has glimpsed me.

But now I. Have an answer for them. I hear you. I tell them, but I choose what I do with what you say. I got a call from Doctor Jimenez on a Tuesday morning.

I was making coffee when. My phone buzzed on the counter, his name lighting up the screen. Knox. He said when I answered how are you doing with the techniques we discussed? I leaned against the kitchen.

Counter better. The whispers are still there, but they're not as demanding. Good, that's progress. He paused. I'd like you to come to my office.

There's something I need to show you. Is everything OK? Yes, but this is something we should discuss in person. His voice had an edge. I.

Hadn't heard before. Can you come in tomorrow? Around 2. I looked at the calendar. On my fridge.

Six months since the horizon. Six months since I'd come back alone. Yeah, I'll be there. After we hung up, I finished making my coffee and took it to the small balcony of my apartment. The whispers were quiet.

This morning, just a faint murmur in the background of my thoughts. Doctor Jimenez had helped me understand that fighting them only made them stronger. Better to acknowledge them then redirect my attention elsewhere. The next day. I drove to Doctor Jimenez's office.

It was housed in a converted Victorian home in a quiet neighborhood away from the main medical complex. I've been coming here twice. A week for months, but something felt different today. The receptionist nodded. When I walked in.

He's expecting you. She said go right in. I knocked once on his office door before opening it. What I saw stopped me cold. The walls of Doctor Jimenez's office were completely transformed.

Gone were the degrees and certifications that usually hung there. Instead, every surface was covered with printouts of astronomical data, quantum calculations and telescope images. String lights had been. Pinned around them, illuminating sections of what looked like star charts and spectral analysis. Doctor Jimenez.

Stood in the center of it all, his silver framed glasses reflecting the light. He'd rolled up the sleeves. Of his button down shirt and his normally neat hair was slightly dishevelled. Come in, Knox. He said, gesturing to a chair. close the door behind you.

I stepped inside, shutting the door. What is all this? He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. For the past three months, I've been working with some colleagues at the university's astrophysics department. He put his glasses back on.

At first I was just looking for evidence to help with your therapy, something to either confirm or rule out your experience. But then we found this. He pointed to a large. Print out in the center of his wall, it showed what looked like a heat map of a section of space with colors ranging from deep blue to bright red.

What am I looking at? I asked This is data from three different space telescopes showing a region approximately 4.3 light years from Earth. He tapped on a dark. Blue area. This region doesn't behave like normal space.

Light bends around it, radiation patterns change when they pass through it. It's as if the physical laws themselves are different. There. I felt a chill run down my spine. The whispers, which had been quiet all day, suddenly hummed with interest.

Where exactly is this? I asked, though I already suspected the answer. Doctor Jimenez pulled. Out a folder from his desk. These are the.

Last coordinates transmitted by the horizon before your incident. He opened the folder and slid a paper toward me. And these are the coordinates. Of the anomaly we've detected. I looked down at the paper.

The numbers matched exactly. That's impossible, I whispered, But I knew it wasn't the whispers. Knew it too. Doctor Jimenez sat down across from me. Knox.

I've spent my entire career helping people distinguish between reality and delusion. When you first told me your. Story I kept an open mind, but I still assumed we were dealing with some form of shared psychosis triggered by the stress of space travel. He leaned forward. I was wrong.

I stared at the images covering his walls. My hands felt cold. So it was real. All of it. Something happened out.

There something beyond our current scientific understanding. He gestured to the wall. Of data. The university team thinks it might be a quantum anomaly or some kind of spatial distortion. They're writing papers about it, arguing theories.

He looked directly at me. But you're the only person who's been there and come back. The whispers stirred. In my mind, like they were pleased to be acknowledged. Have you told NASA?

I asked. That's why I called you here. Doctor Jimenez reached into his desk drawer and pulled out another folder, this one thicker than the first. NASA's been monitoring this anomaly too. They reached out to me 3 weeks ago after tracking my data requests.

He slid the folder across the desk. On the cover was the. NASA logo and a project name Threshold. They're planning another mission, Dr. Jimenez said.

And they want you as a consultant. I didn't touch the folder. They want to send another ship there after what happened to us with modifications based on what we've learned better shielding, different approach protocols. He. Tapped the folder.

All the details are in there. And what about the whispers, the entity, whatever it was that got into our heads? Doctor Jimenez's expression softened. That's why they need you, Knox. You're the only one who knows what to expect, the only one who might be able to prepare a crew for what they'll encounter.

I finally picked up the. Folder it was heavy filled with documents. You don't have to decide. Now, Doctor Jimenez said, take it home, read through it, think about it, and if I say no? Then they'll proceed without your input.

He spread his hands. But they're going back either way. The question is whether the next crew will have the benefit of your experience. I thought about my crew mates. Mario cutting patterns into his skin.

Corey clawing at his eyes. Sarah with her blackened blood. Ruth standing over me with a scalpel. I thought about the whispers. That still followed me.

The nightmares that still woke me. I'll look at it. I said finally. That's all I can promise right now. Doctor Jimenez nodded.

That's all anyone's asking. That night, I sat at my kitchen table with a folder open in front of me. I'd made it through about half the documents. Project Threshold was scheduled to launch in eight months. The ship would be called the Meridian, equipped with modified FTL technology based on what they've learned from the Horizons black box data.

The crew selection was still in progress. My role, if I accepted, would be to help design psychological screening protocols and training simulations based on my experience. I wouldn't be going back. Into space. They wanted my knowledge, not my presence.

As I read, the whispers returned, stronger than they've been in weeks. But. They were different now. Less threatening, more like a distant radio I could tune into or ignore at will. Sometimes I caught fragments returning, watching, learning.

They seemed almost curious. I closed the folder and went to stand by my window. The night sky was. Clear stars visible despite the city lights. Somewhere out there was the void, the place where something ancient had reached into our minds and tried to remake us.

It had. Changed me. That much was certain. But it hadn't broken me. Unlike my crew mates, I had survived to tell the story, to comprehend it.

Maybe the whispers rose and fell like waves. I knew now they would always be part of me, but they didn't control me anymore. I looked up at the stars. I'm still here, I said to the darkness beyond my window. And I'm listening.