Axel’s last useful direction pointed toward Seegson Communications. With Transit behind me and no better option available, that became the objective. The route there wasn’t difficult in theory. In practice, I circled the same section more than once, missing an obvious door and questioning whether the station was confusing or I simply was.

The map didn’t help. It showed lines and boxes, but not intent. I eventually found the correct path almost by accident. The station doesn’t guide you forward. It waits for you to notice what you’ve overlooked.

Human Resistance

I saw someone working near an elevator ahead. Before I could close distance or consider options, they spotted me and fired. No warning. No attempt at conversation. Just immediate violence.

They retreated, but not alone for long. Others joined them quickly. Whatever alliances remain on Sevastopol, I am not included in them.

I chose patience over confrontation. Crouched movement. Controlled breathing. Hard cover whenever possible. The revolver I’d picked up felt more symbolic than practical. Limited ammunition against a coordinated group is not a reliable strategy.

At one point they tracked my direction, following me through adjoining corridors. Then they stopped short of heading downstairs. I didn’t understand their hesitation, but I used it. If they avoided that level, I would use it to create distance.

Tools and Oversights

In the aftermath of the encounter, I found a broken Security Tuner. Damaged, but clearly repairable. It felt important. Sealed doors across the station hinted at systems layered behind security protocols I didn’t yet have access to.

I also collected a keycard.

And promptly forgot I had it.

I tested locked doors repeatedly before the obvious solution occurred to me. Once I used the card, the barrier that had stalled me opened instantly. The station isn’t always the obstacle. Sometimes it’s inattention.

The Nostromo Recorder

The objective here was specific: retrieve the flight recorder from the Nostromo. Something concrete. Something that felt like forward motion instead of wandering.

I reached it without incident. Accessed the data. Waited for something meaningful.

The file was corrupted.

No insight. No leverage. No answers. Just static.

The station responded to my access with a lockdown. Shutters descended. Systems shifted. I was instructed to remain in place and wait for assistance.

Waiting has not improved my odds so far.

Security Level 1

Searching nearby offices and terminals revealed the missing component for the Security Tuner. Repairing it required a careful symbol match sequence — controlled inputs, steady pacing. Calm in isolation. Potentially disastrous under pressure.

When the final confirmation tone sounded, I had Level 1 security access.

It didn’t feel triumphant. It felt incremental. Doors that were previously sealed now recognised me as authorised. That doesn’t make the station safer. It just expands where I can be unsafe.

Reassessment

I returned to the save station I’d used earlier. Not because the area was secure, but because it wasn’t. The armed group remained somewhere above. Their patrol patterns were unpredictable. I had one revolver and very few rounds.

The Xenomorph had not yet re-entered the picture in this section of the station. That absence didn’t comfort me. It felt temporary.

Seegson Communications did not provide answers. It provided access.

Access means movement. Movement means exposure.

Next entry, I move forward.