"𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭, 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞." What had been thought of as a spaceship, a mechanical marvel traversing the interstellar expanse in our desolate void, wasn't. It was a space-travelling pulsating consciousness with... distinctive abilities. The comm system of the enigmatic galaxy had always been telepathy-a universal dialect which was more than mere whispers of impossibilities within infinite reach. Nobody flew around in spacecrafts fixing things because we weren't allowed to. Tried it. Didn't work. 147 years ago, our mining spacecraft met a fiery end, plummeting into the depths of the overworld and left it scarred but unfortunately, there were survivors. There always are. Discovered were enumerate ghostly relics of a time where mankind had reached for the stars with unmatched ambition but the scars remained, as if our survival was itself an act of defiance yet we survived it- the apocalypse that is, but it doesn't mean we were supposed to. We are all descendants of the victors of millennia of genocide and annihilation, the others are, well... dead and no matter how hard we want to try, our legacies are to be written in rogue, a silent reminder of the unyielding cycle of destruction and rebirth.