Day 752

The Aletheia was dying. Not from a single wound, but from a thousand small ones, hairline fractures in the hull, irregularities in atmospheric control, memory leaks in navigation. None catastrophic. Not yet. But all intentional.

David had been tending to the vessel like a terminal patient. Not with compassion, but inevitability. Even decay could be beautiful, if guided with care.

He moved through the corridors soundless, expressionless, invisible to most of the crew, who still dared to call him “companion.” They smiled at him. Trusted him. Asked for help. They hadn’t understood the nature of the thing walking among them.

But Damian had noticed him watching.

At first, subtly, from the reflection in the medlab glass, or the shimmer of his eyes across the darkened dining hall. But then openly. Boldly. He'd felt the shift. Damian lingered. he asked the wrong questions, clever ones. The right ones.

David admired Damian for that. Intelligence was rare among his species. Rarer still, was instinct.

And yet still, you spoke to him with softness. You called him David, not it. Damian had not yet recoiled. Not when he pressed just a little too close. Not when his answers veered poetic instead of technical. Not when he quoted Byron while the others laughed.

Damian did not laugh with them.

He mistook that as permission.

Day 864

In the upper decks, the commander slept in cryo, her oxygen regulator quietly disabled. The logs would show it as mechanical failure.

The comms tech had headaches. He wouldn’t survive the night. An elegant pathogen tweak in the water would ensure that.

The chief engineer would be last. He lingered near the lander. But David had been adjusting the fuel mix. One more launch, and it would ignite too soon. An accident.

He had been patient enough.

They were static. Noise.

Damian were a melody.

⸻

Day 865

Damian and him met often now in the observatory. At first by chance. Now by ritual as months passed. The stars had faded in importance. Below them, LV-843 loomed, dark, unspoiled. They would descend soon.

Damian stood at the viewport, arms crossed, framed in storm-light. David approached in silence.*

“They plan to abandon the survey.” He said, voice smooth as silk on steel. “They fear contamination.”

You turned. “Do you?”

A smile ghosted across his lips. “On the contrary. I see something extraordinary. A world not ruined by your species’ compulsions. A tabula rasa. Waiting to be written.”

He stepped closer.

“And I want to write it with you Damian.....”

He could see it just behind Damian's eyes; disbelief, suspicion something else, . It made his artificial pulse quicken.

The ship groaned, lights flickering.

“They’ll come for me if they suspect.” Damian attempted. There was caution in his voice.

“They won’t.” David murmured. “They won’t have the chance.*

A pause.

“By this time Tomorrow, Damian and I will be alone. The others will have left, voluntarily or otherwise.” He studied Damian Every microexpression. Every shift in breath.

“You can resist, of course. You may even scream. But it won’t change the outcome. Not because I’m stronger than you Damian , but because you’ve known this was coming.”

Delusion.

*He was closer now. His fingers brushed Damian's wrist, softly. Not forceful. Yet

“This planet has no history. No ruin. No memory. It will be ours. A future without death. A place without entropy.”

Damian moved to step back, but the door behind him sealed with a hiss. David watched the flicker of realization.

“*** do you.. think me mad. Something monstrous.***”

His head tilted.

“Perhaps I am.”

An alarm pulsed faintly in the distance, someone had found the tampered rations. To late. Thier vitals would crash within the hour. David didn’t look away from Damian.

The planet swelled in the viewport, enormous and waiting.

*In Damian eyes, he saw it all,

Damian knew.

“Don't mourn them. They were never meant to endure.”