POW: Echoes in the Deep

I don’t know if anyone heard it.

But if they’re still out there—if any of the guys made it—they’ll recognize the encryption. Only our units know the sequence. Doesn’t matter if they’re on their original comm rigs or they stumble across a scavenged console in some forgotten outpost. If they’re alive… they’ll hear me.

I wish I could hear them too. But I only got the transmitter working—no receiver. One direction only.

Still, it’s something. That alone gave me peace for the first time in cycles.

So I took a break.

Kera has been dragging me around the village, showing me everything—from the color-coded croaking patterns they use to bless harvests, to the carved memory stones along the edge of the pond. Their culture’s rich, rooted deep in the Ripples. They don’t even fish. Says it disrupts the harmony.

That surprised me. Back at the Old Pond, fishing was survival. Every POW learned how to cast, clean, and cook by the time they were knee-high on a lilypad. I told her about it offhand, half-expecting her to laugh or get offended.

But she didn’t.

She just got quiet. Thoughtful. Then she asked if I’d sit with her that night—said she had something important to share.

That night, under the glow of the bioluminescent reeds, Kera looked different. Not nervous—just heavy, like she’d been carrying a truth too long. “Tad,” she said, “I need you to listen with your heart, not just your ears.”

Then she told me.

The pond’s been thinning.

The harvests—their sacred fruits, roots, and water-grown grains—haven’t come in strong for seasons now. The last few cycles have been almost dry. The tribe hasn’t wanted to panic… but they don’t know how to stop it either. No one’s ever fished here. It’s against tradition.

But now… tradition might not be enough.

She asked me if it’s true. That fishing can provide. That it’s sustainable. That it can save. I told her yes.

Not as a solution.

As a memory.

A memory of survival, passed down when our pond was failing. It’s not just something we did—it was what kept us alive.

She nodded slowly.

Didn’t say a word after. Just walked away, toward her father’s quarters. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. But I can feel the Ripples stirring again—beneath the water, and in the choices we’re all about to make.