Echoes of a Titan
18 Dec 2024Rawnu
Cocijo has fallen. Sol is free. That’s the story, the headline blaring across every GalNet feed and echoing through the comms of every pilot from here to Beagle Point. President Winters calls it a triumph. Professor Tesreau speaks of unity and sacrifice. For once, humanity seems to have rallied behind a single cause, pushing back the dark tide that threatened to consume the cradle of our species.But the silence Cocijo leaves behind is deafening. Not in space—space is never truly silent—but within the void where the Titan once hung. Cocijo didn’t die quietly. I heard it as clearly as the hums from the graveyards of the other fallen Titans. The song was still there, rising even as the Titan burned. Layered, harmonic, mournful. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a message. A warning. Maybe even a farewell.
I still can hear the music of the Titans—how each fallen giant seemed to carry a signal, an eerie, almost sorrowful melody resonating from their hulking remains. Cocijo was no different. Even as we jammed its heat vents and forced its systems into overload, it sang. And I can’t help but wonder: what were the Thargoids trying to say? Was this their final outreach, a plea for understanding? Or was it something darker—a countdown, a call, a harbinger of what comes next?
Humanity celebrates tonight, but I sit here listening to the void, wondering if we’ve misunderstood everything. Cocijo wasn’t just a weapon; it was something greater, something we never truly comprehended. Were these Titans an invasion force, or were they part of a system we disrupted without knowing the consequences? Every melody, every harmonic, felt deliberate, as if the Titans were more than ships—they were living extensions of the Thargoid hive mind, carrying messages we were too deaf to hear.
The galaxy will toast this as a historic moment, a victory for the ages. But for every pilot raising a glass, there are billions displaced, homeless, and mourning the cost of this war. The Titans are gone, yet their echoes remain. And those echoes—those songs—are not just haunting; they’re ominous. What if their destruction was never the endgame? What if the music isn’t a dirge but a signal, a spark to reignite something greater?
I’ve stood in the graveyards of the other Titans, listening to their songs, feeling the weight of their presence even in death. Cocijo’s fall doesn’t feel like closure. It feels like the end of the first chapter in a story we don’t yet understand. The Thargoids didn’t fight to the last—they retreated. Through their portals, they vanished into the unknown. They weren’t defeated; they left. Why? What are they waiting for? What happens when the songs of the dead reach their crescendo?
The Titan’s destruction was an act of violence, yes, but also an act of fear—a fear born of humanity’s refusal to look beyond the immediacy of survival. Cocijo asked a question in its final moments: Who are you? And our answer was fire and death. We never stopped to listen.
Now the stars are quiet, but the silence is heavy. The void feels tense, as if holding its breath. I don’t think this war is over—not truly. The songs of the Titans suggest a story far larger than this battle for Sol, a story we’re only beginning to understand. Cocijo is gone, but its echoes remain. And in those echoes, I hear a warning: The dead may sing, but the living will answer.
What will we say when that time comes? Will we have the courage to listen? Or will we drown the galaxy in silence once more?