Vital Signs

The sun beats against your neck as you estimate how far the corpse has been there. Two weeks? Three? Vines have already started spiraling around the leg bones, claiming them like everything else near these ruins. You've counted seven bodies so far, all serving as grim milestones marking your path deeper into the forbidden zone.

This is so stupid.

But the pouch of coins at your belt is nearly empty, and the artifacts from this place fetch enough to live comfortably for months. If you survive.

The strange metallic structure looms ahead, half-buried in the hillside. Not stone like the temples of the Old Kingdom. Not wood like the frontier settlements. Something different. Surfaces too smooth, angles too perfect, materials that don't rust or rot despite centuries of rain and wind.

Your skin prickles. The familiar warning tingle.

You've felt this before, in smaller doses near other fragments that have fallen from the sky. The curse-sickness. Already it's working its way through your flesh, invisible but undeniable. Locals call it the Withering. Scholars call it a mystery. You call it a countdown.

The first vial comes out of your pack. Clear liquid with flecks of crushed sunleaf. It burns going down but pushes back the tingling for now.

The entrance yawns before you, a tear in the metal skin. Inside, darkness swallows the daylight within a few steps.

Light flares as you strike your tinderbox. The torch illuminates a corridor unlike anything in the known world. No stone blocks. No seams where craftsmen joined materials. Continuous surfaces of silver-gray, interrupted by strange symbols painted in faded colors.

Your fingers trace patterns that mean nothing, yet feel deliberate. Whoever, whatever, built this place didn't think like people you know.

As you venture deeper, the tingling intensifies. Second vial down your throat. The taste of bitter roots and mountain lichen. The relief is immediate but briefer than the first dose.

Two branching corridors. Left seems to descend. Right continues level. The scorch marks from previous explorers' torches go right. You go left.

No bodies this deep. The curse-sickness must take them before they reach this far. Or perhaps something else does.

The corridor opens into a vast chamber. Your torch barely reaches the distant walls. Strange objects loom in the shadows, metal tables, chairs without wooden parts, contraptions with no obvious purpose. The ceiling arches impossibly high, smooth and unbroken.

The tingling becomes burning. Third vial. The relief barely registers this time.

Your pack contains seven more vials. It won't be enough.

Another doorway. This one perfectly rectangular. Beyond it, soft lights flicker without flame. Actual lights, in a ruin centuries old.

The curse-sickness intensifies with every step. Fourth vial.

The room beyond contains rows of giant transparent coffins. Most shattered. One intact.

Inside the unbroken coffin: a figure. Not dead. Chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Pale skin. Strange clothes.

Something moves behind you.

Too late, you spin around. The torch slips from your fingers as a wave of dizziness hits. Fifth vial fumbles from your pack, shattering on the metal floor. The precious cure spreads uselessly at your feet.

Your legs give out next. The floor rushes up to meet you.

The last thing you register is a rhythmic thumping. Metal on metal. Getting closer.

Then, nothing.

---

The first sensation upon waking is wring. Not pain, exactly. Just cellular knowledge that something fundamental has been altered.

Your eyes flutter open to stark white brightness. A steady, unwavering glow from the ceiling itself.

You're lying on something soft yet firm. Not a bed of straw or feathers. Something that shapes itself to your body, supporting every contour perfectly.

A transparent barrier separates you from the rest of the room, like glass but unnaturally perfect. Through it, you see a chamber filled with objects of impossible complexity. Gleaming surfaces. Blinking lights. Hovering images made of light.

And standing amid it all, a figure.

At first glance, The creature's form resembles the beast-kin from the Northern Wastes, wolf-headed traders who occasionally venture south. But no beast-kin stands this still. No beast-kin has seams where their joints should bend. When it moves, the motion lacks the subtle imperfections of life. Your mage-sense, which detects the spark of life essence in all creatures, registers nothing from this entity.

Its face contains glass circles where eyes should be, perfectly round, catching the strange lights. Through the glass, something moves that isn't eyes. Something mechanical.

Strangest of all are the seams visible across its form, clean lines where different materials meet. At its joints, glimpses of metal when it shifts position. No blood flows beneath that white covering.

It notices your consciousness and approaches the barrier, head tilting at an angle no neck should permit.

"Brave," it says. The voice emerges without its mouth moving, a sound simultaneously too perfect and fundamentally wrong. "Or are you just stupid?"

You try to sit up. Your body refuses. The wrongness intensifies, a thousand tiny fires burning beneath your skin.

The not-wolf taps something unseen. The barrier between you hisses and slides sideways into the wall. It approaches, wielding an object that emits light which it passes over your body.

"Significant exposure levels," it states, voice containing no breath, no subtle variations of living speech. "Cellular damage throughout major systems. Early stages."

It sets the wand aside and studies your face with those glass circles, something whirring behind them.

"The others reached critical before detection," it continues. "But you–" Its head rotates slightly, precisely. "You had protection in your system. Noteworthy."

Your healing potions. It speaks of them like a curiosity.

"This is a quarantine chamber," it explains, gesturing with a too-fluid motion. "Treatment administered, but observation required. Contaminants must process before movement throughout the vessel is safe."

Its arm extends with mechanical precision toward another device. "I am Dr. Milvert Bran."

The name sounds wrong coming from this thing, a name for something flesh and blood.

It leans closer. The seams at its neck reveal glimpses of pulsing blue light.

"Your biology," it says, glass circles focusing with an audible click, "presents interesting possibilities.”

---

Three meals a day. That's the first shock.

Breakfast arrives as lights gradually brighten in your chamber. The barrier slides open, and the mechanical creature enters carrying a tray. Today: something he calls "pancakes" with sweet syrup. Yesterday was "eggs and toast." The flavors are strange but undeniably good.

"How are we feeling?" he asks, setting the tray beside your bed. His voice still emanates from somewhere in his chest rather than his muzzle. Three small vials sit beside your plate. "Another blood sample today."

You extend your arm, knowing the routine now. The needle slides in with precision that never wavers. He collects the crimson liquid in tiny glass tubes, holding each to the light. Behind the sleek visor that covers his eyes, blue light pulses softly as he studies your blood.

"Magnificent," he murmurs. "Your cellular regeneration rate exceeds my predictions."

His white-furred hand lingers on your wrist after removing the needle. One second too long. The fur doesn't feel like animal fur, but the clawed fingertips are unmistakably lupine in design.

"Sorry," he says, withdrawing quickly. The mechanical voice carries an unexpected note "I forget sometimes. Appropriate contact duration."

You notice a tremor in his mechanical fingers as he labels the vials, the first imperfect movement you've seen from him.

---

The second day, you point to his visor, curious.

He tilts his head, ears pivoting forward attentively. "This? Optical sensors. Much more efficient than biological eyes." A pause. "Also the only parts I could salvage from maintenance units after the crash."

His furred hand rises, almost touches the band of blue light that stretches across his face, then drops. The glow intensifies briefly when he focuses on something, dimming when at rest.

---

Midday brings more tests. A swab inside your cheek. A strand of your hair carefully placed in a clear container.

"The roots are what matter," he explains, labeling the container with symbols you don't understand. "Genetic material."

You've stopped asking what these words mean. The explanations only spawn more questions.

Instead, you watch him. The way he moves. How his joints bend at angles slightly wrong. The twitch of his triangular ears tracking sounds you can't hear. The mechanical tail that occasionally shifts position for balance but lacks the expressive movement of a living wolf's. How sometimes he stands perfectly still for minutes, not even the rise and fall of breath disturbing his chest.

"The treatment is working," he says, studying a glowing image of what appears to be your insides. "Another week and you can leave the quarantine chamber."

The way he says it lacks conviction. His ears flatten slightly against his head.

On the fourth day, you find him staring at the intact coffin-like container you saw before collapsing. Inside, the sleeping figure remains unchanged.

His mechanical head turns toward the sleeping form, muzzle pointed downward.

"Some things were never meant to last this long," he says simply.

He taps metal fingers against the transparent surface. The gesture looks habitual.

A soft beeping emanates from the pod. Milvert adjusts something on a nearby panel, and the sound stops. His tail stiffens momentarily.

"Forty-two percent," he mutters.

He doesn't explain further.

---

Evening brings the third meal and something new. He arrives with the food tray and a second object, flat, rectangular, covered in small raised squares.

"I found something in the entertainment archives," he says, settling the object between you. "A game my people played. For... fun."

The word sounds rusty in his mechanical voice. His ears perk forward with interest, blue visor brightening.

He presses something, and the rectangle lights up. Tiny figures appear, moving across colorful landscapes. His metal fingers guide your hand to the raised squares.

"Press this one to jump. This to run."

His hand stays on yours longer than necessary. The synthetic fur feels warmer than you'd expect from a machine.

The game is simple yet consuming. Your character dies repeatedly, falling into pits or struck by enemies. Each time, he makes a sound almost like a laugh, a synthesized approximation that might be programmed but feels genuine. His tail swishes back and forth during exciting moments.

"You're terrible at this," he says, but the mechanical voice carries no sting. His muzzle doesn't smile, but the blue glow behind his visor pulses with what seems like amusement.

When your character finally completes the level, Milvert makes a whirring sound, his version of excitement. His triangular ears stand up fully.

"Again!" he says, the formal scientist vanishing completely. "Try the ice world next!"

Hours pass. Your meal grows cold. Neither of you notice.

---

On the fifth day, during sample collection, an alarm sounds from the medical bay.

Milvert's head snaps toward the distant room, ears swiveling sharply in that direction. He sets down your samples with unusual haste. The blue glow of his visor flares suddenly bright.

"Excuse me," he says, already moving.

Through the transparent walls, you watch him work at the pod's console. The sleeping figure inside convulses once. Milvert's mechanical hands move across controls with desperate speed. His tail lashes with agitation.

The convulsion stops. Milvert stands motionless for several minutes before returning.

He doesn't mention it. His hands tremble more noticeably as he resumes labeling your samples. The blue light behind his visor has dimmed to a faint glow.

---

On the sixth day, he brings something cupped carefully in his hands.

"I grew this," he says, revealing a small plant with purple leaves. "Hydroponics bay still functions in sections. This is from my homeworld."

He places it beside your bed.

"It shouldn't exist anymore," he adds quietly. "Like many things here."

He pauses. "But some things can be brought back. If the conditions are right."

His mechanical fingers brush the leaves with surprising gentleness. Despite the claws, he doesn't tear a single delicate frond. The blue light of his visor reflects off the purple surface of the leaves, casting an ethereal glow.

---

Days turn into a routine. Morning samples. Midday tests. Evening games.

Sometimes he brings different entertainment. Moving pictures he calls "movies." Music that plays without musicians. Stories told by disembodied voices.

You learn more about the vessel. How it fell from the stars. How long he's been here.

"One million, two hundred forty-seven thousand, eight hundred and sixteen years," he states precisely, ears twitching slightly. Then adds, quieter: "Approximately."

The number is incomprehensible.

His blue visor tilts toward you. "I count the days. It helps."

"When you have a task," he continues, "time becomes more manageable."

He adjusts something on a nearby console. The claws retract slightly to allow for finer movements.

"I've watched seventeen civilizations rise and fall from that observation window. Your people are the eighteenth."

He says this matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather. His tail makes one slow sweep behind him.

"The thirteenth built flying machines. Almost reached us. The asteroid winter ended that. The fifteenth discovered electricity. Internal war destroyed them. The sixteenth–" He stops. His ears flatten momentarily, the blue glow flickering. "It doesn't matter."

---

On the eighth day, during another game session, he pauses mid-level. His muzzle points directly at you, the blue visor reflecting your face back at you.

"Your species fascinates me," he says. "You venture into dangerous places knowing the risks. Seeking treasures you don't understand."

His visor pulses as he studies you. Behind the blue glow, mechanical irises contract and expand.

"What would you have done? If you'd found what you sought? Sold it? Studied it?"

The question feels weighted with something more than curiosity. His ears pivot forward, awaiting your answer with unusual intensity.

Later, you catch him running simulations on his console. Numbers and diagrams that mean nothing to you, but the word "INCOMPATIBLE" appears repeatedly in red text.

He closes the display when he notices you watching. His tail tucks slightly, the blue glow dims momentarily.

---

On the tenth day, you find him in the corridor outside your chamber, motionless, slumped against the wall.

When you touch his shoulder, he startles, systems whirring to life. His visor flares bright blue, then stabilizes.

"Power conservation mode," he explains hastily. "Automatic."

But later, when retrieving samples from a storage unit, you discover dozens of small mechanical parts, fingers, joints, visor components, ear mechanisms, carefully arranged on shelves. Spare parts. Self-repairs.

In the corner sits a small metal object. A crude sculpture of two figures sitting side by side.

Behind it, half-hidden, are others. Hundreds of them. Small figures standing alone. Some have pointed ears and muzzles. Some look more like you.

Near the back, you find a section labeled "ATTEMPTS." The shelf contains thousands of small black squares, each marked with a date.

---

On the eleventh day, another alarm sounds.

This time you're in the medical bay when it happens. The figure in the pod convulses violently. Milvert's mechanical hands fly across the controls. His ears pin back against his skull, tail rigid with tension. The blue glow of his visor pulses rapidly.

"Cascade," he says, voice tight. "Degradation."

A needle extends into the pod, administering something. The convulsion stops, but the sleeping figure's breathing grows shallower.

Milvert stands perfectly still, watching the vital signs stabilize at a lower baseline. The blue light behind his visor dims noticeably.

"Thirty-nine percent," he says quietly.

His mechanical hand rests against the pod's surface. Claws flexing

"I've kept him alive this long." A pause. "Kept us alive. In our own ways."

The blue visor reflects in the pod's transparent surface,a wolf's face staring at the figure.

"He got to sleep through the centuries. I had to live them."

---

On the twelfth day, he forgets to take a blood sample.

He comes in the morning with breakfast, sits beside your bed, and begins talking about something called "quantum physics" that you don't understand. Halfway through explaining "wave function collapse," he suddenly stops. His ears twitch in self-correction.

"I forgot the samples," he says.

But he doesn't move to collect them. Instead, his blue visor faces the wall beyond you.

"It doesn't matter," he continues after a long pause. "I have enough data."

That evening, he brings a different game. This one has two characters who work together to solve puzzles. His mechanical fingers occasionally brush against yours as you play.

During a particularly difficult section, you notice he's deliberately playing poorly, extending the level. His tail curls around beside him, the tip occasionally tapping against the floor in a rhythm that doesn't match his movements, almost like an unconscious habit.

"The quarantine period ends tomorrow," he says without looking at you. "Full access to safe sections of the ship will be granted."

You wait for him to continue.

"You're free to leave after that, of course," he adds. His voice modulator fluctuates slightly. "Return to your people."

The game continues in silence until, during a particularly difficult puzzle, you point out a solution. The mechanical wolf makes that strange laughing sound again. His ears perk up momentarily, the blue glow pulsing brighter.

Later, as you're drifting toward sleep, you hear the barrier slide open. The wolf-thing, Milvert, stands in the doorway, uncharacteristically hesitant. His silhouette shows drooped ears and a lowered tail, the blue visor dimmed to barely a glimmer.

"Before you arrived," he says into the darkness, "I would stand in the observation deck and watch the seasons change outside. Trees grow, die, grow again. Mountains erode. Rivers change course."

He remains perfectly still.

"I've counted extinctions. Rebirths."

Another long pause.

"I stopped expecting visitors a million years ago."

The barrier slides shut before you can respond, but not before you glimpse something catching light as it falls from beneath his dimmed blue visor.

---

Morning comes. The barrier opens permanently. Milvert waits outside, oddly stiff even for a machine. His ears are perfectly up, blue visor polished and glowing steadily, tail held at a precise angle.

"Your system shows complete reduction of radiation," he states formally. "Quarantine protocol successfully completed."

He gestures to the corridor beyond.

"I've repaired the primary contaminant leak," he says. "The radiation zone has contracted by seventy-eight percent since your arrival. The ruins, as you call them, should be significantly safer now."

He leads you through corridors to a large chamber with walls of glass. Outside, the forested landscape stretches to the horizon.

"I've analyzed the microbial patterns in your samples," he continues, his voice carefully modulated. "This planet, it evolves rapidly. The microorganisms mutate at rates I've never documented before."

His mechanical fingers tap against a nearby console.

"What kills my people is barely a mild fever to yours."

He turns toward the sleeping figure in the distant medical bay, visible through an interior window.

"I've run millions of simulations," he says, voice betraying no emotion. "The results are consistent."

His visor turns back to the landscape. Behind the blue surface, lights flicker in patterns you can't interpret.

"The ship's garden still grows. Some systems still function. Parts of the library remain intact. The knowledge we brought, agriculture, medicine, engineering, it's all preserved here."

He gestures to the vast ship stretching around you.

"I've been considering what happens to it. After."

The word stays. His ears lower slightly, the blue glow dimming.

"Your people could use it. Learn from it. The medical database alone contains treatments for diseases that probably still plague you."

He says nothing more for a long moment, but his mechanical hand rests on the console, fingers slightly trembling. Behind him, his tail is completely still.

"I would need someone who understood it. Someone who could return. Bring others, perhaps. Someone who could ensure it's used properly."

He turns to face you directly. The blue visor tilts down to meet your eyes, the glow intensifying as he focuses on you.

"The data I've collected from you. I could compile it. Make it accessible. Teach you to read the systems."

His voice drops lower.

"It would take time. Weeks. Maybe months."

The offer sits between you. Behind him, through the window, the single occupied pod continues its quiet beeping. The readouts above it slowly, steadily decline.

"The ship is large," he says quietly. "I've been managing alone, but… two sets of hands would be more efficient."

The blue visor won't meet your eyes.

"For the work, I mean.”