🚀 I’ve just launched a new project — I’d be really happy if you subscribe and check it out here:
/ @mirage22_production
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/ @sa_distanthorizon
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💙 Thank you all so much!
Sincerely yours, Spectral Anomaly. ✨
Once catalogued by the expansion fleets as a staging world in Quadrant 09-T, it now existed only as a ghost in the cartographic subnets — a flagged coordinate marked as "non-responsive." What lay on the surface defied all modern classification, all recorded precedent, and every model of technological lineage.
The structure was discovered not by mission or mandate, but by failure — a deep-range survey drone, crippled by solar interference, crashed in the twilight zone of the planet’s only continent. What it relayed before its systems succumbed would go on to fracture the minds of those who reviewed it: a colossal, cross-shaped station half-submerged in dunes of lavender ash, weathered and sealed in eternal silence, casting no signal, no warmth, and no apparent function.
It was old — impossibly old — and yet bore none of the corrosion or entropy expected of time. Its walls were layered in composite alloys unknown to the Periodic Tables. Antenna arrays pointed in meaningless directions, their surfaces worn smooth like ancient monoliths facing celestial winds. It stretched across the dunes like a cruciform god fallen from orbit, anchored into the sands by gravity or will.
When the expedition finally arrived two Earth years later, they were already too late. The onboard logs, retrieved from their unattended landing vessel, showed only partial footage — long corridors of cyclopean scale, rooms that looped back onto themselves, gravitational anomalies that made footsteps echo forward before they were even taken.
Then the static began.
Each time they tried to transmit back to orbit, the signal dissolved into a low, throbbing hum, like the sound of some great machine turning in deep water. It vibrated the teeth and lingered in the sternum. The team named it “The Pulse.” It wasn’t mechanical, nor acoustic, nor entirely electromagnetic. It was something else — something that obeyed rules written in the vacuum between stars.
One by one, the crew began to change. Some forgot basic functions like eating or sleeping, choosing instead to stare at the central chamber — a hollow cruciform cathedral lined with machinery that did nothing. No power. No movement. Just presence. Others wandered off into the station's endless halls and were never seen again.
The last remaining member, Dr. Ilan Morth, recorded a single voice memo before all systems failed:
"We are inside something older than time. It isn't a building. It's an anchor. Not meant to hold anything down… but to hold something in."
Since that transmission, no vessel that has landed on Serrat Prime has returned. The dust storms there rise like oceans now, swallowing whole ships without a trace. Some say the cross in the sand was never a station. Some say it's a warning. A tomb. A question left unanswered by those who built it, when stars were still learning how to burn.
And still, it waits — in the lavender hush of forgotten gravity — humming with the silence of what lies beneath.
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