A Choice to Trust

The hum of the hydroponics bay was usually a lullaby, a soft, constant thrum that vibrated through the deck plates and settled into my bones like a familiar, comforting weight. Today, however, it was the soundtrack to my unraveling. A sudden, jarring screech, like metal tearing itself apart, ripped through the quiet. Lights flickered, died, then sputtered back to a sickly, emergency amber. The air, usually scrubbed clean and tasting faintly of ozone and growing things, grew thick with the acrid smell of burnt circuitry.

My breath hitched. The screech, the flickering lights, the smell – it was a primal alarm bell, screaming directly into the most terrified part of my mind. My hands, which had been idly tending to a wilting sprout, flew to my ears, pressing hard as if to physically block out the onslaught. The bay, moments before a sanctuary of green and quiet purpose, transformed into a gaping maw of chaos. The walls seemed to press in, the shadows deepening into hungry, grasping things. *It’s happening again,* the familiar, insidious whisper slithered through my thoughts. *You can’t escape. You never could.*

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. My vision tunneled, the edges blurring into a dizzying kaleidoscope of amber light and encroaching darkness. I could feel the sweat trickling down my temples, the tremor starting in my knees and spreading through my entire body. This was it. The moment the fragile structure of my carefully constructed peace would shatter, and I would be swept away by the tidal wave of *before*.