PERSONAL LOG – RESTRICTED ACCESS It started with the sound of boots.
Pacifica is always loud the hum of arc welders, the clatter of pallets, the old piping groaning like bones under pressure — but this was different. I was in Sub-Bay 3B, sifting through the Valkyrie wreck. The same one that had nearly gutted the Maschinenpistole. The same one that.... I know better now.
The sound came again — measured, deliberate. Not someone passing through. Someone coming for me.
I didn’t turn.
Not at first.
I kept digging through the wreckage. The fighter’s outer shell was ruined, but the internal layering had a sheen I couldn’t identify like a living oil slick. Black, purple, silver. It shimmered even in dead light. The onboard reactor had rotted, melted to glass, but the cockpit… the cockpit was intact.
And something inside me knew that was important.
The voice came a moment later.
“You’ve been quiet.”
Not through comms. Not a shout. Not even close.
They were standing behind me.
I turned.
Senior uniform. I recognized the cut — one of the upper echelons. I should’ve saluted. Should’ve asked why they were in this section, unescorted. But I didn't speak. Because I saw their eyes.
Too clear. Too still.
They didn’t blink.
They just watched me, head tilted a few degrees, like they already knew the questions I wouldn’t ask.
And then they said:
“You’re preparing.”
I said nothing. But they nodded anyway — slowly, as if confirming something to themselves.
“You felt it, didn’t you? In the hull. In your teeth. That low signal. It’s not interference.”
PRIVATE RECORD – SYSTEM MEMORY SCRAPE
I found myself nodding. My throat was dry. My palms were slick against the paneling.
“I thought it was feedback,” I managed. “At first.”
They stepped forward. The flickering lights above the catwalk caught something under their collar — something that pulsed, just once. Like a second heartbeat.
“It isn’t. It’s the pulse. You’ve been tuned. Now you need to be layered.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
They smiled. But it was a smile without softness — a gesture of understanding, not comfort.
“You’ll see it in the wreck. It remembers you. Take what it offers.”
I looked back at the Valkyrie.
“I thought it was destroyed.”
“You thought wrong.”
They stepped past me — slow, quiet — one gloved hand trailing across the melted frame like it was a relic. Like they were remembering.
Then they turned back.
“You’ll leave soon. When it’s time, you won’t need a map.”
PERSONAL NOTES – LOCAL STORAGE ONLY They left after that. No authorization code. Not even a name.
But the hatch sealed itself behind them.
The lights haven’t stopped flickering since.
I’ve started extracting the fragments. The external armor of the Valkyrie peels back like it wants to be harvested. It flakes into spirals, then rebinds shifting like something molten, waiting for instruction.
I don’t know how I know where to place them. My hands move before my thoughts. The Maschinenpistole accepts the modifications without resistance. No weld scars. No system faults.
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Unmarked Transmission Received Not Logged