Shadows of Triton
23 Nov 2024Rawnu
I’m not sure I ever set foot on Triton. But I remember the cold, the towering ridges of methane ice, and the strange, ghostly lights over the horizon. Or do I? The memories feel brittle, like holograms flickering in and out of focus. For weeks now, I’ve been turning it over in my head. I can picture myself there, and yet... there's nothing in the records. Not on the nav logs, not on any official system. A breach in the Triton permit zone should’ve triggered alarms, yet it’s as if my time there never happened.I’ve reached out to an old friend, someone who might help me make sense of this: Dr. Emilia “Mila” Corvan, a former Screaming Firehawks field medic and psychologist. She’s one of the few I trust with the strange twists of my mind—especially given my condition. Mila left the Firehawks when the squadron was decommissioned, retreating to a quieter life in the Leesti system. She was always the calm in the chaos, her quick thinking saving more lives than anyone else in our unit. Now she spends her days tending to the injured and unraveling the webs of trauma that haunt combat pilots like me.
Mila listened as I described my fragmented recollections, her brow furrowed but her tone steady. She suspects my hyperspace condition might’ve flared up again—a possibility I’d rather not consider. But she also raised another possibility, one I’d hoped wasn’t real: manipulation. What if someone tampered with my memory? Or worse, what if the events on Triton were fabricated? Her advice was clear: dig deeper.
And so, I’ve come to Jameson Memorial, where data and whispers collide in the galaxy's most secretive hub. The archives here are as vast as they are labyrinthine. I poured through every shred of data on Triton: permits, exploration records, breaches. Nothing. No evidence anyone could even slip through the restrictions unnoticed.
The silence is deafening.
I haven’t told anyone about this—at least, no one here. The Dark Wheel operates in the shadows of Jameson Memorial, and while I’ve done work for them in the past, I can’t shake the feeling that they’re watching me. Whether it’s paranoia or reality, I don’t intend to give them more than they already have. For now, I’ve locked the questions away. What I saw—or think I saw—on Triton will stay my secret, at least until I know who I can trust. That’s why I’ve decided to leave this mystery behind, if only for a while.
The Sol system has called me back, though not for exploration or sentiment. Mars High has become a new battleground, and I’ve thrown my lot in with the Sol Workers’ Party. Mother Gaia’s dominance must be broken, their grip on the system shattered. For me, this isn’t just political. It’s personal.
Mars High is familiar ground. Years ago, during my time with Zurich Helvetica, I was stationed there as part of a logistics team. It was there I met Julian Trevaine, a bright-eyed dock supervisor with a sharp mind and a sharper wit. We shared long nights on the station’s observation deck, trading stories and ambitions under the glow of the red planet. Julian had dreams of leaving the Federation, of building something new in the frontier. I wonder now if they’re still here—whether they’ll recognize the Commander I’ve become. I’ll find out soon enough.
For now, the shadows of Triton will remain just that. But I know they’ll follow me, haunting the edges of my vision until I uncover the truth.