Happy to be back!

[NixzTM]

Hey i'm Nixz!
I was active 10 years ago and I'm happy to be back!

Here is the comeback story of Greger Williams.



I was a proud Liberty Navy operator for more than ten years. For most of my life, that uniform was all I needed to know who I was. The Navy gave me purpose, structure, and something solid to hold onto in a galaxy that always seemed one bad day away from falling apart. I served where I was told, did what was asked of me, and never spent much time questioning orders. That was the job. You trusted the chain of command, you trusted the man beside you, and you kept moving forward.

Then one day, by order of my commander, I was supposed to head for Kansas.

I do not even remember what operation we were supposed to take part in anymore. Maybe once I did. Maybe once it was clear, written out in some briefing room, spoken over some secure channel, stamped with all the right clearances and signatures. If it was important, it is gone now. Torn out of my head like a page from a book. I have tried to force it back before, sat in silence and strained until my skull felt like it would split open, but nothing ever comes. Not the mission. Not the objective. Not the names of the men and women who might have been with me.

All I remember is some kind of flash.

It was not like an ordinary explosion. At least, not the kind I remember from training or combat drills. It was too clean, too sudden. A single moment that swallowed everything else around it. Light, then emptiness. I do not remember impact. I do not remember pain. I do not remember alarms, or shouting, or the sound of metal tearing apart. Just that flash, and then everything after it disappears into a blur.

What came next does not feel like memory. It feels like fragments from somebody else’s dream. Broken lights in a dark corridor. A low hum somewhere beyond the walls. The feeling of being watched when I could not move. Sometimes I think I remember voices, but never words. Sometimes I think I remember stars through cracked glass, stretched wrong, like the universe itself had gone thin and bent out of shape. Other times I think I remember nothing at all, and I start to wonder if I only imagined even those fragments because the truth is too empty to bear.

Time passed, but for me it felt like a long sleep.

That is the only way I know how to describe it. Not death. Not life. Just absence. Like I had been set aside somewhere while the rest of the galaxy kept turning without me. Days, months, years, I could not tell you. There was no sense to it. No sequence. No beginning and no end. One moment I was a Navy man under orders, and the next I was waking up with half my life gone and no way to measure what had been taken from me.

I do not know what happened to me. I do not know where I ended up, or if someone took me. I do not know if I was lost, stolen, used, or simply forgotten. Maybe there was an accident. Maybe it was an attack. Maybe somebody found me and decided I was more useful silent than dead. I have spent enough nights staring into the dark trying to make those pieces fit together to know they never do. Every answer opens three more questions, and every question leads back to the same wall in my head.

All I know is that I woke up in the Outer Edge Worlds with years of my life gone.

Not in a Liberty station. Not in some clean Navy infirmary with a doctor telling me I was safe. I woke up as a stranger in the cold reaches of space, far from everything I had once known. My body felt wrong, like it had not belonged to me in a long time. My hands still remembered the habits of service before my mind did. I checked corners without thinking. I watched exits. I counted sounds in the room. Navy instincts, buried deep enough that even whatever happened to me could not cut them out.

But instinct is not the same as identity.

The hardest part was not waking up out there. It was realizing that the man who had gone missing might not exist anymore. The Navy I served had moved on without me. Liberty had moved on without me. For all I knew, everyone who had known my name had filed me away as dead, deserted, or forgotten. There is a special kind of loneliness in learning that the life you remember is no longer waiting for you.

Still, I made it back.

I am here now, breathing the same air, flying the same stars, trying to remember how to be a man instead of a ghost. Some days that is easier than others. Some days I can almost believe I have a future ahead of me that is not chained to the years I lost. Other days I catch a reflection of myself in a cockpit canopy or a station window and I wonder how much of me never came back at all.

Now I am back, and I am going to try to start my life again.

That is all I can do. One step at a time.

But I am still here.

And whatever happened out there, I would rather not spend the rest of my life chasing it.

I would rather spend what remains of my life moving forwards.