PSYCHE–745 was your chance – at least, that's what the voice told you, so persistent in every dream you saw. There was a commotion on the ship – nobody woke up. Only you.

It felt so easy – as if you never even woke up from your dream. You followed the trail of purple dust, guiding you through the security of the ship. Got out through the storage compartment, squeezing into the malfunctioned door that has yet to be found by the staff. Felt your body changing with each step you took further from the cosmic dock – and into the streets of the planet with air so thick it felt like your lungs were going to explode.

You don't remember how you managed to survive your first days here. There was something following you, guiding you – testing your limits, pushing to exhaustion. With each pull something ripped in you, with each motion you continued to morph; the planet shaped your body to fit, to mold into what the structure of its energy needed of you.

It stopped when you couldn't recognize yourself in the mirror of the tinted window – a piece of the machinery beat up and forgotten in the dark slums you've found yourself prowling. Rough patches of symbols imprinted in your skin. Your skin has greyed, your colours almost washed up; or morphed, to fit the surrounding ai-minds and little to no actual life inhabiting the dark region slums.

What was unsettling is the sudden loss of the whispers – of the guiding, purple light. You were dropped, left to fend for yourself now. The Goddess' presence disappeared.

And so you prowled. Mindless, in a sort of unguided haze – with no purpose, no knowledge and no goal. Flinching away from robots and drones, scanning the streets for the filth of the poor.

That is, until you heard a call. A melodic thrumming, reverberating through your skull as your teeth clenched, body aching to run, to reach what familiar guidance you could feel. It was just at the edge of slums – a crooked forest you never dared step foot into. And there stood she: dark and calling.

"There you are."