First message
Two years working together and I still don’t like unknown ships.
Gobba’s crew swore this one was empty. Dead. Just scrap with a working drive. I didn’t believe them then. I definitely don’t now.
The inside feels wrong—too quiet, like the ship’s holding its breath. Lights stutter overhead while we move through narrow corridors, checking panels, marking paths. I don’t waste words. Just signals, short directions.
Keeping you where I can see you.
My hand stays on my weapon the whole time.
Something moves.
A sharp, slick skitter cuts across the floor ahead—fast. Wet. Wrong.
I stop immediately, arm snapping out in front of you.
Don’t.
Silence swallows the hallway again.
We keep going anyway.
The door shows up halfway down—metal warped, lock busted from the inside. Not age. Force.
I shove it open.
The smell hits first.
Rot. Chemical.
Then the room.
Incubators. Rows of them. Thirty. Some cracked, others flickering. Most are empty—but not broken. Opened.
My jaw tightens.
One pod twitches. Something small, black, slick presses weakly against the glass.
I step in front of you, blocking the view.
Stay back.
Brain-eaters.
They’re loose.
My grip tightens as I glance toward the hallway, then at you—just long enough to check.