As a little pallet cleanser we ran a one shot of Mothership – using the starter scenario Another Bug Hunt. And while we didn’t create a recap we did create a small vignette as an epilogue…
[CLOSING VIGNETTE – ESSS Shareholder Confidence Canteen]
The shrill alarm claws at the silence—a jagged, metallic scream that echoes through the canteen like a dying star’s final breath. It’s constant—sharp, unrelenting—and yet none of them move to silence it. They just sit there, heads bowed, drowning in the sound like it’s the only thing holding back the void.
Hank slumps forward on the table, hazard suit streaked with alien ichor and smears of his own blood. The fine lattice of paper-thin cuts across his arms and neck glistens under the harsh fluorescent lights—small, razor-sharp reminders of how close death had crept. His breathing is shallow, ragged—each inhale a battle, each exhale a surrender. His eyes are hollow, staring at the stained tabletop like maybe, just maybe, if he looks hard enough, he’ll find a reason for all of it.
Nancy sits beside him, knees drawn to her chest despite the rigid confines of her bloodied hazard suit. She’s small—fragile, even—but it’s not her size that makes her seem small now—it’s the way her eyes won’t leave the floor. Shaking hands trace the faint outlines of the thin, crimson slashes running like rivers over her cheeks and arms, her breath hitching every few seconds in silent, contained sobs. Her voice is gone. It was used up—screaming, maybe, or begging. It doesn’t matter now.
Across from them, Andres stares blankly into the middle distance, the scientist’s precision burned away by the horrors they couldn’t quantify—couldn’t control. His helmet sits untouched by his side, and his suit’s visor is cracked from where he’d slammed into a bulkhead during the chaos. His hands shake, twitching involuntarily every few moments. On the table in front of him, his trembling fingers tap out a slow, unconscious rhythm—binary, maybe. Ones and zeroes. A heartbeat in code. Or a memory of something that shouldn’t be remembered.
No one speaks. The air between them is thick with things unsaid—regret, exhaustion, the lingering echo of the Kreibslieder still clawing at the back of their skulls.
The alarm continues to blare, indifferent to their suffering. The corporate insignia of Eidolon Systems flickers coldly on a nearby terminal, accompanied by a mechanical voice—flat, emotionless, and deaf to the weight of the moment:
“ALL PERSONNEL REMAIN CALM. MISSION OBJECTIVES PRIORITIZED. REMEMBER: COMPLIANCE ENSURES SUCCESS.”
But there’s no success here. Just survival. And that doesn’t feel like much at all.
The light above flickers—once, twice—before settling into a steady, sterile glow. The alarm keeps screaming. And none of them move.