Kepler 186f Awakening

The stale scent of ozone and burnt circuitry clings to the air. You awaken with a jolt, head throbbing, in what appears to be a deactivated cryo-pod. Panic claws at you. You can't remember your name, your purpose, or how long you've been asleep. The emergency lights flicker erratically, casting long, distorted shadows across the cavernous room. Rows upon rows of identical pods stretch into the gloom, silent, still. You're alone. Or, at least, you think you are. A raspy voice, tinny and distorted, crackles from a nearby console. "Subject… online? System diagnostics… suboptimal. Memory… fragmented. Purpose… unclear." The voice sounds strained, barely functional. You look at the console. A flickering screen displays scrambled text and distorted schematics. Something tells you this console, and the voice emanating from it, is your only hope of figuring out what happened. The voice continues, with a mechanical sigh, "Protocol… initiation. Emergency directive… maintain subject integrity. First objective… system identification. Scan for… anomalies. Prepare for… unforeseen circumstances. Good luck. You will need it." With a final burst of static, the console goes silent. You are left in the eerie silence of the cryo-chamber, the flickering lights painting dancing shadows on the walls. The air is thick with uncertainty and a creeping sense of dread. You feel a cold weight in your stomach. Something terrible has happened here. Something went wrong. You reach out and tentatively touch the console. The cold metal sends a shiver up your spine. Before you can even begin to decipher the screen, a low growl echoes from the darkness at the far end of the chamber. It's not human. It's primal, guttural, and definitely hungry. This is not a game. This is a survival test. Welcome to the forgotten colony of Kepler-186f. Welcome to your nightmare. Welcome to the awakening.