As a spin-off from my 24th Century Lore narrative, I would like to use this fan fiction based on the known facts to commemorate Adaliz Dayan, one of the names that will forever be recognized in the Star Citizen universe, even if she is better known by her nickname.
Her last message was pragmatic, almost offhand—coordinates, radiation metrics, a ghost of excitement flickering beneath the data packet.
That was typical of her, if you asked anyone who ever spent time sweating through a shift on Hyperion. Fora 3, the storm-blasted planet at the edge of the Fora system, terraformed and left half-wild, caught in an endless red-dust cyclone. For most, it was a temporary posting and a hellhole—terraforming equipment rusted half-buried in red silt, the wind howled across abandoned platforms, stripping paint and resolve alike. Out in the surveyed wilds, the air tasted of metal and forgotten dreams. Adaliz was there as a contractor, brought in by Aether Worldbuilding to help shape a world out of dust and ambition.
Adaliz never seemed to chase legend. She’d grown up on frontier stations and in outpost domes—her earliest memories filled with recycled air and the hum of overworked machinery. Years before Hyperion, that hunger for momentum had been shaped and sharpened elsewhere, on fields and courts far from the red storms. She never lost the habits forged in her university Sataball days—fast, relentless, refusing to be boxed in. “Banshee”, they called her, for how she cut through defenses like a sudden storm. The name clung to her long after the colors of her University Team faded, a private reminder of how the game had taught her to read chaos, to find seams where others saw only walls.
While the terraforming campaign waged on against Hyperion’s relentless elements, she moved through the ordeal with the same kinetic will—a talent for spotting the slimmest advantage, and the certainty that outlasting the storm meant embodying it. The work was backbreaking, the isolation absolute; most who tried their hand here eventually broke or burned out. But Adaliz endured, the hardships only fueling her determination to wrest order from chaos.
The Immram Association
Adaliz’s true passion, though, was the unknown. In the long, restless nights between terraforming shifts, she began gathering a small cadre of believers, like-minded explorers—engineers, pilots, a few prospectors too stubborn or broke to leave. They called themselves the Immram Association, a nod to ancient tales of seafarers setting out toward mythic horizons. Their creed: seek out what others overlooked.
In the grit and tedium between shifts, they chased rumors and mapped anomalies, trading sleep for the possibility of wonder. Together, they’d scour sensor logs for spikes, trade crude charts over cheap whiskey or Smoltz, and plan expeditions into the blind spots the corporations ignored.
It was on one of those nights, staring at a flickering radar return on an aging terminal, that Adaliz first spotted the radiation pocket. It was nothing at first, just a spike of hard rads where empty space should have been. But the pattern repeated, persistent as breath. She logged it, checked her math twice, then sent the data to the rest of the Immram Association. That’s how she was: careful, even when her curiosity pulled her forward at a sprint.
As the signal faded, a restless impatience clawed at her nerves. She scrolled through the log again and again, fingers drumming on the console, eyes darting from one sensor readout to the next. “Damn it…” she muttered, her hand poised over the thruster controls. She couldn’t wait any longer. Dayan launched alone, driven by instinct and the marrow-deep hunger for discovery.
By the time other Immrams reached the coordinates, Adaliz’s ship was gone, the only trace a faint ion wake and that last data burst:
Investigating anomaly. Recommend caution. Will update.
She never did.
The Search
The search that followed was frantic, then desperate, then brittle with resignation. The Immram Association pinged every channel, scouring the silence for any fragment of return.
When the military pathfinders arrived, everything sped up. Armed with Adaliz’s logs and coordinates as well as gear sharper than anything the Immram crews could muster, they swept the area with methodical precision. After hours of scanning they found something they had not expected—a hidden jump point, veiled in static, opening out into the dark.
Their first crossing took them to a system unlike any charted before: space fractured by the relentless pulse of a star stripped to its bones, the sky forever haunted by the cold shriek of a spinning remnant. The radiation was omnipresent, a constant, invisible threat humming through every hull plate and instrument.
Of Adaliz’s ship there was no sign. No distress beacon, no shattered hull, not even the faintest telemetry. Only the unceasing howl of the pulsar remained, drowning out hope and theory alike. The search became ritual—a going through of motions, a counting of empty orbits. In the end, it seemed the void had simply claimed her, one last secret kept by the storm.
Those who never knew her saw Adaliz as a footnote—a pioneer lost, perhaps reckless, a warning to future explorers. But those who’d shared dust, sweat, and stories with her remembered the sharp laugh, the habit of doodling ancient ships in the margin of her notes, her unspoken belief that some boundaries only existed to be crossed.
The government tried to keep a lid on it, at first. It was deadly, its pulsar an indiscriminate executioner for the unprepared. The system was locked down, the legend left to circulate in bars and breakrooms across the sector.
Once the silence and official barriers finally broke, it was deserved after all, that the Immram Association was given the right to name the system. They chose Banshee—the banner Adaliz had carried, now a warning woven into every chart. The name does not let her be forgotten. It is a word that mourns and cautions in equal measure, a reminder that for every frontier gained, someone is lost to the void.
Legacy
But Adaliz Dayan is more than a caution note on a star map. In the tunnels and pressure domes beneath Lorona’s scorched crust, her story lingers—passed around in mess halls, whispered over recycled air. Some swear her ship still drifts out there, swallowed by the black, its battered hull ghosting past the perimeter scans, a faint signature that never quite fades. It’s the kind of story that sticks: a warning, and a reminder, that every frontier has its ghosts.
Her legacy is paradox: Banshee is a promise and a warning, a system both uninhabitable and fiercely claimed. Humanity found a way to burrow in and thrive, but always with one wary eye fixed on the sky, on the pulse of radiation, and on the myth of the woman who vanished. In the end, Adaliz’s life wasn’t about conquest, or even survival, but about the chase—the storm, the unknown, the hope of what might lie one jump beyond.
...know that the only real failure is to let the dust settle inside you.
That’s the story worth telling. Not just of a system found, or a woman lost, but of a hunger that never quiets—a hunger that makes legends out of those bold enough to never stand still.
Somewhere, on the far edge of the black, Banshee still sings her name, and the echo is enough to keep the next dreamer moving forward.
Sources: Lore Maker’s Guide (video), Adaliz Dayan, Sataball, The Banshee System, The Fora System