Phosphor

About This Game
The convoy runs dark and quiet: four ships and the cold between the stars. Behind you is everything that's already been taken. Ahead, a single point on the chart where the running might finally end. No fleet is coming to help — there is only the Warden, the Nomad, the Lance, and the Resolute, and you, threading them from one jump to the next, trying to arrive with all four still lit on your board.
Something follows. It doesn't show on the instruments the way a ship does; it comes through in pieces — a wrongness in the signal, a violet smear the screens can't hold, here and then not, never quite all in the world at once. You cannot kill what isn't fully here. You cannot outrun it forever. It has caught convoys before — their wrecks drift cold in the dark behind you — and it is patient, and it is closing.
But each time it tears through our world, it leaves a fragment behind. Gather enough of them, carry them to the place at the end of the chart, and you can do the one thing no one running has ever managed: stop. Turn. Drag the thing all the way into the world — because a thing that is wholly here can, at last, be made to die.
Get there. Get there with your fleet intact.
Command the bridge, not the cockpit
You don't fly a ship — you command a fleet. Issue orders through a tactical display and your ships carry them out: committing to a heading, bringing their guns to bear, holding the line. Pause whenever you need to read the situation and give your orders, then let it run and watch them play out. Every fight is a problem of position, timing, and nerve — not reflexes.
Every order is a commitment
Heavy ships turn slowly and hold their course. Energy is split between your guns and your shields — push your attack and your shields thin; hold them up and your guns fall quiet. There are no take-backs, only the consequences of the order you gave. And you don't win by destroying everything: you win by surviving to the next jump. Sometimes the bravest order is to run.
A fleet you'll come to know — and can lose
Four named ships, each a different answer to a different threat. Lose one and you lose what it could do for the rest of the run — there is no getting it back. Reach the end with all four still lit and you've done something almost no convoy ever has.
A run that fights back
A branching route to the edge of the chart, every jump a new tactical situation: gravity wells that drag you toward a killing centre, currents you claw against, minefields and blinding nebulae, drifting graveyards rich with salvage, tolls and ambushes — and an unseen hunter that picks off the ships that stray. The clock never stops. Neither does the thing behind you.
Features
Real-time-with-pause tactical fleet combat — command, don't pilot

A small, persistent, named fleet, where every loss is permanent

Commitment-driven movement and a guns-or-shields energy economy with no take-backs

A branching run with a distinct tactical scenario at every node

A cosmic-horror antagonist that is your clock, your hunter, and your final reckoning

A stark wireframe-CRT aesthetic — phosphor green, magenta, and a violet that shouldn't be there

You cannot kill what isn't fully here. So get to the end of the chart, with your fleet intact, and make it whole enough to die.