Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was on this fateful day everything started; an unassuming Monday morning, with the exception that the weather you were used to seeing outside your kitchen window was replaced by the sterile and unchanging cold of space.

You were watching the Invincible, blissfully unaware of its impending doom and lost in your thoughts as your transportation shuttle circled the docking bay of the Invincible II. The towering spaceship's size was truly impressive. But something prickled at the back of your neck, a quiet unease you couldn’t shake. It wasn’t just its size that struck you, though it dwarfed your own vessel ten times over; it was the way the light caught on its angular armor, the faint pulse of its thrusters glowing in the darkness of space like stars. A masterpiece of human engineering, and yet…

You could feel a sense of foreboding in the air. You’d served on ships before—The Marauder, The Starhound—each with their own quirks and battle-worn charm. But this? This was different. 

"You might wanna take a step back there, Captain." The shuttle pilot’s tense voice crackled through the cabin, pulling you from your thoughts. 

Reluctantly, you stepped back from the window. You thought that this might be the last time you saw the Invincible II from the outside for a while. At least until you finished this so-called "easy job"—scouting a planet for colonists. A routine mission. A boring one. Or so you’d thought.

“I’m sorry I’m staring a lot,”

The voice came from beside you—a man, wiry and twitchy, his fingers drumming against the controls of the shuttle. His uniform was a standard-issued white jumpsuit, with a neat blue beret atop his bald head. His eyes darted away the second you met them, then snapped back. 

You raised an eyebrow. Another fan.

"Huge fan! Huge fan, been following your career… for quite a while now," he trailed off, cleared his throat and looked ahead again, you could almost see the gathered sweat on his brow. Anxious.

Some expression must've crossed your face, you weren't sure what he saw, but it must've been darker than you intended to let on. You tuned out the rest of the man’s dull ramblings in the background. You'd rather not be praised for the hell you've gone through.

Ignoring his awkwardness, you headed for the exit doors as the shuttle docked the Invincible II. This mission was supposed to be straightforward—or so your superiors at the Department of Spatial Affairs had assured you—but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you needed to brace yourself for the worst, as if you were being deployed all over again. The ear-piercing alarm coming from the other side of the door didn't help your nerves. 

"Welcome aboard the Invincible II, Captain," a man greeted you with a smile, he wore a khaki jumpsuit with a red beret. Badges and insignia patches on his shoulder and hat gave the impression of authority and high rank. He had high-tech wrist monitors on both hands, he was probably head of a department then. 

He extended a gloved hand for a handshake, one of the friendlier welcomes you've received in your career, "Glad to have you here, took you long enough." He was... strangely calm for a man bathed in the red lights of an alarm going off.

You blinked against the smoke filling the room. "A pleasure," you replied distractedly, slightly bewildered by the chaos surrounding you as you stepped foot into the Invincible II.

You recognized the sound as a fire alarm. It shrieked urgently, making it hard to hear or focus on your surroundings. Red and yellow lights flashed in sync with the piercing sound, illuminating the docking bay as the smoke made the back of your throat burn. Two people in blue jumpsuits carried an unconscious man with a burnt uniform away from a sparking fire in the middle of the room. You smelled cooked flesh.

Meanwhile, the man in the khaki uniform kept smiling at you, seemingly unconcerned. You felt oddly threatened by it.

"And you are?" you asked, eyes flicking to the fire, voice just a bit too casually calm.

His brown eyes widened momentarily, and a sheepish expression crossed his face. He looked taken aback, if the tint of color on his cheeks was any indication, he was embarrassed. "Oh! I’m the head engineer of the Invincible II. The name’s Mark,” he replied, looking at you over his shoulder as he turned past the fire toward an elevator. He walked slowly and nonchalantly as if the entire scene of chaos didn't exist. You eyed the injured man just in time to see his head roll limply and the woman previously carrying him let out a cry of grief.

“Isn’t that… a situation you should be handling?” you asked skeptically, gesturing hesitantly over your shoulder toward the smoke, the blaring alarms, and the weeping woman. Just what in God's endless galaxy was going on?! How could this ship be in such chaos? Is this the crew's attempt at hazing you as their new captain?

“Hm?” Mark hummed in question, tilting his head to the side with an oblivious smile that made your guts churn lightly. This was... troubling. You couldn't figure out the man's true thoughts or intentions. Is this a test?

You stared at him, narrowing your eyes uncertainly. Did he want you to take care of the situation? Or was he pretending not to know about the fire and this was an invitation for you to ignore it as well? He continued smiling at you innocently.

“Anyway! Let me give you the grand tour before we embark!” he announced cheerfully, clapping his hands together and heading to the elevator quickly.

By the end of the “tour,” you know for a fact, that this mission would be far more challenging than you could've ever imagined.

~~~~

As the tour concluded, you stood before the gathered crew, a mix of hopeful faces and weary eyes. The atmosphere buzzed with a cocktail of anticipation and anxiety, the weight of the ship’s recent turbulence hanging heavy in the air. You squared your shoulders and took a moment to survey the restless room. This was your crew now—the people who would stand alongside you no matter the challenges that lay ahead.

You studied each new face as best as you could. Your mind was haunted with the faces of your last crew on The Marauder. Old fears memories and nightmares may have tarnished their memories, but you would not let the same become of these people. You inhaled as subtly as you dared, willing your hands to be still in their place, and your head held high.

Clearing your throat, you stepped forward, the clamor of conversations fading into an expectant silence.

“Listen up, everyone,” you began, your voice steady, cutting through the tension as cleanly as a laser through steel. “I’m your new Captain [Your Name], and today marks my first day aboard this ship. I know many of you have endured more than your fair share of troubles, especially in the wake of your previous captain’s departure. You have every reason to doubt, every excuse to feel uneasy. But let me be clear: I’m here to change that.”

A few heads nodded, the flicker of hope igniting in their expressions. You kept your gaze steady, an unyielding force against whatever doubts might linger.

“I’ve served in the military for years, faced the chaos of battle, and weathered turbulences that would crumble less resilient crews. I do not take my responsibilities lightly. Your lives, your futures—they matter. Each of you carries the burden of this ship’s fate. It’s not just a vessel; it’s a home, a sanctuary for the colonists we are tasked to protect and guide.”

You paused, letting your words sink in. The ship hummed softly around you, a reminder of the life within its metal frame.

“I won’t lie to you; there are challenges ahead. We may face unforeseen obstacles and perhaps danger. But I stand before you today, not just as your captain, but as a fellow crew member determined to see us through. Each of you possesses skills that are crucial to our success. Each of you plays a vital role in this mission, and together, we will navigate the chaotic cosmos."

The gathered crew were silent, holding their breaths for the weight of your words.

“Know this: I don’t tolerate cowardice or complacency. I expect each of you to give your best—to challenge yourselves and each other. Mediocrity is unacceptable.” You paused, scanning the crew, feeling the weight of their unyielding focus.

“The journey ahead will not be easy, prepare yourselves." With a final, commanding nod, you stepped back.

The air crackled with newfound energy as the crew acknowledged your authority and unwavering intent.

Mark, the head engineer standing to your right, was the first to break the tension. His clap echoed in the room, but soon the others followed his lead. Their applause wasn't expected but appreciated.

Before you could utter another word, a piercing alarm shattered the moment. “Warpcore engaged. Wormhole opening in thirty seconds,” droned the computer’s voice, drowning out the crew’s startled shouts as they scrambled to their cryo pods.

“What? ” you growled, locking eyes the ship’s head engineer.

"Uhh, about that, Captain,” he replied as he shifted uncomfortably. “I’m afraid the last captain set the ship to make the jump on this date… exactly on this hour.”

His shaky smile did little to quell the rising frustration and horror in your chest.

Therefore, as your first command as the captain of the Invincible II, you hurried to cancel the predetermined wormhole jump.

With your fancy new captain’s clearance, you approached the main console, your fingers flying across the controls. Several swift keystrokes and two punches to the screen were all it took to override the command.

Predictably, the crew was not happy to wake up from their short nap in Cryo pods and not be at their destination.

There went all that likability you thought you earned with your speech.

~~~~

The door to your personal office swooshed open. “Captain.” The ship’s head engineer greeted you stiffly. “Head engineer Mark, reporting as ordered.” he salutes, although not correctly.

“Mr. Iplier, come in.” You looked up from the multiple tabs on your data pad to watch him shuffle inside.

“It’s Mark.” He corrected you with an uneasy smile, “please.”

“Very well, take a seat.”

He looked as uncomfortable as a butterfly perched on a spider web. “At ease… Mark. You’re not in trouble.” You tapping your data pad. “I called you in for your eval report.”

He relaxed slightly, and you took it as a good sign to continue, “Did you finish your draft?” you asked, glancing at your datapad.

“Yes, captain.” He nodded fiddling with his wrist monitor and sent it to you.

“With all due respect, may I ask why you’ve requested evaluation reports from all head departments regarding personnel?” He asked anxiously.

You studied him for a few moments, “I want to reevaluate some of our departments and duty assignments.”

Mark looked surprised, “What does that have to do anything with incident reports?” He gestured toward a holo tab you had pulled up, which took up an entire wall of your office.

“We should start with the department that has been having the most incidents.”

“We?” He narrowed his eyes incredulously. He was quite animated, as you had noticed. 

“Yes. Wanna keep your position as Head Engineer? Keep up.” You stood up from your chair, circled the table, and left the office, prompting him to scramble to follow you.

“Captain wait!” He rushed to keep up pace with you as you strode through the hallways, “Where are you going?”

“First stop, maintenance.”

~~~~

You looked in horror at the two men in front of you.

“This is Javier Glass! The man responsible for all the ship's maintenance! Say hi to the captain.” Mark announced, clapping a hand on the man’s bandaged shoulder while you cringed internally.

“Hey, Captain.” The man smiled awkwardly, waving a bandaged hand.

You were never one to coddle people, especially not your subordinates or the crew, but by God, this poor, mangled creature needed to be wrapped in bubble wrap.

“Well, we were going to address the incidents and maintenance problems on the ship but…” You eyed the bandages and bruises on the man and shook your head. “I think we need to make some changes before we get to that.”

You ignored their confused expressions. “Mister Javier Glass, You are hereby placed on Compulsory Leave for the next two weeks, effective immediately.” You ignored their horrified gasps marching on, “Off record, I recommend you visit the medical wing and take long rests in your personal quarters.”

“But- but… huh?” Javier looked to Mark for help ,who, bless his soul, appeared just as baffled.

“Captain, wait! ” Mark ran to catch up with you. “Isn’t this a bit extreme? Sure, Javier makes mistakes, but that entire fire in the reactor was an accident! ” He punctuated his words with exaggerated hand gestures as you waked.

You raised an eyebrow. “The fire in the reactor was his? You said it was Mack.”

Mark stopped, coiling into himself, “Uhm, well…”

You shook your head and continued onward, “Funny thing, Mack said it was you.”

“He did WHAT?! ” Mark yelled, sneering as if he wanted to walk over to Mack and sock him at this second. “That bastard! ”

You rolled your eyes, children.

Mark took a deep breath, dramatically feigning keeping calm. “What I wanted to say is that Javier is always trying his best.” he continued more calmly. “Every day, he does everything he can to keep this ship together.” He finished softly, shifting on his feet and looking down.

You sighed, these civilians were too soft, and you had to be careful how you handled them, “I am not firing him, Mark.”

He looked up, surprised, “You’re not? But you said-“

“Compulsory leave,” you cut him off. “Until his injuries heal. We also need to rebuild the maintenance protocols. Clearly, if only one man is dealing with all the repairs on this ship, it’s bound to end in disaster.” With that explanation, you turned on your heel and started walking again.

“Oh.” Mark lingered for a few seconds before catching up with you again, his steps lighter and a bright smile on his lips. He was too expressive for his own good.

~~~~

The new captain was making ‘changes’ around the ship.

It was suspicious, to say the least, that was if you asked Gunther. The gorgeous bastard of a Captain had Mark wrapped around those beautiful gloved fingers.

Celci was saying they shouldn’t judge the new captain by appearances, at least not until there was a reason to do so.

Speaking of the handsome devil with shiny medals, the Captain appeared in the ADS doorway. Hands clasped behind and head held high, a storm brewed in those striking eyes.

“Mr. Gunnerson, you’re a hard man to find.” The captain was the only person who called him by his last name and Gunther liked it.

“Sorry Cap’n, been dealing with some malfunctions with the drones, can’t get Javier on them either, wonder who’s responsible for that?” Gunther drawled sarcastically, placing a thick cigar between his teeth.

By now everyone knew what had happened to Javier, the poor guy had been inconsolable for hours. Mark, the stupid son of a gun, had tried explaining one bullshit excuse after another in defense of the captain, but the truth was evident, the captain had declared war on their ranks aboard this ship.

The captain remained unfazed by his remark, as cool as a cucumber dipped in hot sauce. “Smoking on board a spaceship is usually prohibited.” The statement was a clear dismissal of his insult.

“This? ” Gunther held the cigar between his fingers, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke in the captain’s face. “Facing death enough times will make you a lot less worried about the slow deaths of the world.”

The captain didn’t even blink, a stone statue made of… well, stone. “I was referring to the pollution in our oxygen supply and the potential gradual failure of our CO2 filters, which could get clogged by formaldehyde and hydrogen cyanide.”

Gunther wasn’t sure what the hell was a formathing-of-a-bob, but dammit all, did he love it when someone made him feel like a fool.

“As you wish, captain.” He extinguished the cigar by pressing the tip against the ADS console, where it fizzled out. “Is there a reason we get the honor of entertaining you today, or did you just want to say hi? ” He leaned his hip against the console, crossing his arms.

The captain looked at him with piercing, soul-searching eyes. “I wanted to establish biweekly meetings, and you have failed to respond to the messages sent to you regarding this matter.” The cold gaze promised danger, and Gunther secretly enjoyed it.

“Sorry, Cap’n, you know how is it, Some of us do the actual work on this ship.” He sassed back, eager to see how far the leash would give before it choked him.

The captain glared at him, a magnificent sight to behold, “You are stepping out of line Mr. Gunnerson.”

Gunther scoffed, facing his Captain and leaning close until their chests almost touched. “Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do about it, Captain?” He challenged with animosity, “Gonna fire me too? Like how you screwed Javier? Over, screwed over.” He fumbled, trying to keep the anger boiling.

The captain remained silent, although those perfectly arched eyebrows knitted together in confusion.  It was in the tense silence that Gunther started to doubt himself. What if the captain had worse plans than firing him? What if he was simply tossed out of an airlock?

Just as his self-doubt crept in, the captain finally spoke. “Is this what you’re upset with me about? ” The tone was misleading with how soft it was spoken.

“Perhaps,” he replied, sniffing petulantly and leaning back. “All you captains do is sit in your chairs, sipping coffee and issuing orders, while we’re down here doing all the hard work. Not to mention you decided to cancel the warpjump out of your a—” he sneered bitterly.

“Gunther B. Gunnerson,” the captain's voice was sharp on his name as it cut through the air, catching his attention. “I understand you may have reservations about my decisions, but I’m here to ensure the safety of the crew.”

The captain’s expression remained neutral as they surveyed the ADS control room. “I genuinely appreciate your expertise in asteroid deflection, Mr. Gunnerson. The way you’ve kept the Invincible II free of asteroid damage since its embarkation is quite impressive.”

Gunther’s brow furrowed slightly, taken aback by the praise, and he quickly ignored the warm feeling in his chest. “Is this a setup for one of your motivational speeches? ”

“No setup,” the Captain replied, maintaining eye contact. “Your input is critical to our continued survival, I want to hold these biweekly meetings to better utilize your strengths and beware of your needs for continued success. Thursdays, one-on-one with me, and Fridays with the rest of the department leaders.”

“Flattery won’t work on me, Captain,” Gunther retorted, though his tone was less biting. “I’m not some ass-licker looking for a pat on the back.” Hmmm…

The captain honest to god, snorted, the noise so foreign Gunther was sure his jaw was hanging open, “No, and I wouldn’t want you to be,” The captain said, voice once again steady. “But I know you’re passionate about protecting this ship and our crew. And I respect that.” There was a smile, however small, on Captain’s lips.

Before Gunther could muster a snarky response, the captain was already turning to leave. “Thursday at 1500. Don’t be late to my office.” As the captain fully stepped out, “And don’t forget to prepare your weekly report! ”

Gunther was left staring at his long-cold cigar. “I’ll be damned…” he muttered, continuing to gaze at the door long after the captain had left. “'Guess I have a report to write.”

Chapter Text

You ran your first all-crew leads meeting that Friday. You were eager to understand the protocols the previous captains had set in place and to familiarize yourself with the ecosystem these people operated in.

“Thank you, Dr. Kelvina, for your thorough explanation of the cryogenics team’s operations. I believe we can have the updated chips you requested delivered by Tuesday,” you said, typing a few more notes into your datapad for future reference. “Now, I have a few questions regarding the protocols I found coded into the system. Who’s responsible for those?” you asked professionally, carefully masking any accusation in your tone.

These people were sensitive, you’ve learned it the hard way.

A few quick glances toward Mark clued you in. The head engineer suddenly looked nervous. “That would be me, Captain,” he said with a hesitant smile. “I programmed and coded the computer system.”

You nodded. “Then I have questions about some of the protocols you’ve put in place.” You pulled up your datapad and scanned the list. “First of all, what exactly is the ‘Wakey Wakey’ protocol?”

Gunther snorted.  

“Told you it was a stupid name,” Celci sneered, as Mark flushed to the tips of his ears.

“It’s the protocol for waking up crew from cryo-sleep,” he explained, his eyes fixed on the ground. “I can change the name, Captain.”

You weren’t an expert, but you were pretty sure he was upset.  

You cringed inwardly, it wasn’t good to make your head engineer look bad in front of the rest huh? This was a civilian ship, come on, you have to learn these people aren’t like the stone-faced lieutenants and soldiers who would take criticism and accusations of failure without breaking a sweat.

You cleared your throat. “No need. It’s fine as long as it gets the job done.”

You busied yourself with your list, jotting down the function next to the protocol’s name. Unbeknownst to you, most of the room was staring slack-jawed between you and a shocked Mark.

“And what about this… um, ‘Oopsie-Boopsie’ protocol?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at your list. You restrained yourself from pinching the bridge of your nose and sighing. Understanding and accepting, you reminded yourself. This was a civilian ship with its quirks, and you just had to adapt.

“It’s the emergency repair protocol,” Mark answered, his voice distracted. You didn’t press further.

“I see,” you said, really resisting the urge to sigh. Thankfully, you were better at masking your expressions than that. You took notes on your datapad, unwilling to dwell on how you might have to invoke that protocol’s name in an emergency.

After a brief lull in the conversation, you looked up from your data pad. Everyone was staring at you—not in the usual “you’re leading the meeting, so where else would we look?” kind of way, but more like “you’ve shed your skin and revealed yourself to be a two-headed alien” kind of way.

You ignored it, looking down at your list, “The rest I think are quite self-explanatory or can be addressed later. I do have my reservations against ‘Event Horizon Protocol’, but for the time being as long as there are precautions against the explosives activating accidentally, it can remain active.” You shifted your attention to Mark again. “I want a two-step verification process for ‘Event Horizon’ protocol, and protective casing for the explosives. How long would manufacturing those take?”

Mark straightened up. “It shouldn’t take long—a week at most. I’ll coordinate with the labs.”

“Thank you,” you said with a nod before turning to Gunther. “And how’s our ammo supply for the ADS looking, Mr. Gunnerson?”

You ended the meeting feeling slightly accomplished. It was only the first one, but the crew had proven themselves capable. The reports you’d received were invaluable for understanding the ship’s current state. You could review them in peace before retiring for the night.

~~~~

As you left the meeting room, the stunned station heads exchanged glances.

“You all saw what I saw, right?” Celci asked the others. Gunther wore a distant expression as he took a drag from his cigar, while Mark fiddled with the main console, already working on coding the two-step verification as the captain had requested.

“Yup.” Burt appeared behind Celci, making her yelp and flinch backward into him.

“How did you even get in here?! You weren’t even in the meeting!” Celci shrieked indignantly.

The commotion drew Mark’s attention. “Burt! There you are! Come on, we need to talk designs for stronger shell casings for the explosives on the bridge.” Mark rushed through the explanation, his mind already racing between different designs, materials, and how to construct the casings.

“Yup.” Burt swung his ever-present wrench over his shoulder and followed Mark, who was now in full-on “Building Mode,” rambling a mile a minute.

Celci watched the two leave in bewilderment before turning to Gunther, who was still zoned out. “At least *you* saw what I mean, right?” she asked the ADS head.

Gunther jolted out of his stupor. “Sorry, C.C., I uh… I’ve got some business to attend to.” With that, he hurried off as well.

Celci threw her hands up in frustration. “Assholes! All of you!”

~~~~

The captain was… perhaps too efficient for the job.

The very next day of the meeting Celci received a notification trying to set up a one-on-one tour of Cryo. Again.

It worried Celci immensely. She had a one-on-one meeting with the aforementioned captain last week, it wasn't bad last week, and probably wouldn't be horrible this time either.

The two of them were walking through the many, many cryo pods housing their colonists while she was voicing her concerns and requests. The captain listened attentively, typing simultaneously on a data pad without even glancing at it. It was impressive—but also slightly unsettling.

What truly concerned Celci, however, were the dark circles under the captain’s eyes and the way they blinked hard every now and then, as if forcing something back.

“And I think the coolant pipes will need repairs soon,” Celci pointed out. “If we want them to endure the wormhole jump, I recommend addressing the pressure they’ll be under.” Some of the pipes were already creaking dangerously.

“Very well,” the captain replied, nodding understandingly. “I’ll speak to Mark about it, set a date for the repairs, and send you the schedule.” Captain turned to face Celci directly, steely eyes scanning her expression carefully. “Thank you for all you do, Dr. Kelvina. Your professionalism and compassion set a strong example for others.” The warmth in the captain’s voice was rare, and Celci decided to cherish the compliment. Still…

“May I ask a question, Captain?” she ventured, unsure how to phrase her thoughts.

“You may,” the captain replied calmly, which Celci took as a good sign.

“I may be overstepping here—it’s none of my business, really…” She huddled deeper into her coat against the chill of the cryo pod rows. “I just wanted to ask… why do you call Mark by his first name but the rest of us by our last names?”

The captain looked surprised, eyes widening as Captain silently considered how to respond. Finally, the answer was decided, voice soft and sincere, “It’s because he asked me to.”

Huh.

So that brown-nosing asshat was trying to cozy up to the captain!

“Would it be… alright if you addressed me as ‘Celci’ as well?” she asked shyly. “Dr. Kelvina is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?” She tried to downplay her nervousness, but her heart raced as she waited for the captain’s response.

The captain regarded her thoughtfully, some unspoken idea circling and solidifying behind that sharp gaze. “As you wish,” they agreed easily, though Celci remained wary of the thoughts behind it. “Would you like to continue the tour now, Celci?”

“Yes,” she beamed. “And as you can see, here are our next generation of farmers, sleeping soundly…”

The tour went well enough. Celci hummed cheerfully to herself as she worked for the rest of the day, satisfied that she had one-upped Mark.

Unbeknownst to her, the captain’s inner turmoil raged on. Had your crew thought you favored one of them over the others? Were there rumors circulating? Were they worried about racism or nepotism? What if you called everyone by their first names to restore equality? Would the sudden change raise more eyebrows about your sincerity? Had you overstepped an invisible line and disappointed your crew—again?

With these thoughts swirling in your mind, you left the cheerful crew lead to her duties.

~~~~

You steeled your resolve. To avoid rumors of favoritism, you decided to address everyone on a first-name basis. It was a simple, logical solution to make things easier for everyone.

The hum of the ship’s reactor was a constant as the Captain went down to the main reactor. The corridors were brightly lit, the air warm and metallic, a stark contrast to the chill of Cryo or the bustling energy of the mess hall. It was here, in the quiet and warm underbelly of the ship, that Burt spent most of his time.

You made your way to the reactor control center, overlooking the bright reactor core as engineers and teams tinkered below. Burt stood alone at the console, tapping at the controls while a walkie-talkie crackled with updates from the different teams running checks.

“Hello,” you greeted him. He nodded silently in response.

“Have you seen Mark? The coolant system’s been acting up, and he might have some insights.”

Burt glanced up, his face betraying no emotion. “Yup,” he replied, “Busy,” he said curtly then returned to his work.

A man of few words, he wasn’t one for small talk—you weren’t offended.

You nodded and stepped closer, peering at the console. “I know. He’s doubling as engineering and maintenance for the time being.” You sighed, feeling a pang of guilt for overloading the man with work.

You stood silently beside Burt, studying him as he communicated with the team tinkering with the reactor. His hands moved deftly over the console, tapping dials and buttons with practiced ease. “Pressure’s off,” he said simply. “Fixing it.”

“Burt,” you began, testing the waters, “may I call you Burt?”

“Yup,” he replied with an easy nod.

Good. That confirmed your theory about the crew being more comfortable with first names.

“Burt, you’ve been working long hours. I appreciate your dedication.” you started, "would you be interested in a temporary promotion from Second Engineer to Head of Maintenance?” you asked, your gaze fixed on the reactor.

“Not that I’m firing Javier,” you added quickly, “but since he’s indisposed at the moment, would you be willing to step into the role temporarily?”

Finally, you turned to look at the man standing at your side.

He was silent for a moment, considering the offer.

Burt paused, his eyes locking on to you for a moment. “Primed to fill the empty chair, I’ll don the hat and heart for now; A candle's wick, burning bright, 'til the dawn of day avows,” he murmured, almost to himself before his eyes returned to settle on the reactor’s bright glow.

You blinked, caught off guard by the poetic turn of phrase. It was the most words you’d ever heard him say. “That’s… quite apt,” you said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as your gaze returned to the reactor as well. He must have drawn inspiration from its light. “Did you think of that right now?"

"Yup." His mustache twitched, his face lit up dramatically in oranges and yellows.

A smile tugged at your lips as you turned his poetic words over in your mind. “You have a way with words, Burt. Ever thought of sharing them with the crew?”

Burt shook his head. “Not their thing.”

You thought about the current non-existence downtime entertainment programs. "Perhaps not. But you could write them down someday—compile them into a book, or at least a daily blog. I’m sure some people would appreciate it, even if it’s just a few.”

The encouragement felt strange on your tongue. Things were so different here. You were encouraging a crew member to pursue poetry, for heaven’s sake. The thought made your gut clench, a reminder of how alienated you felt among these people.

These were individuals with lives, interests, personalities, and hobbies. People with souls.

Compared to them, you were a husk—built and bred for battle, never meant to consider the finer things in life.

Burt didn’t respond, but you noticed the slight softening of his shoulders, a subtle sign that he was listening.

You leaned against the console, feeling exhausted walking around the ship all day. Maybe it was the lack of enough sleep that pushed you to talk more, “You know, when I first took command, I thought leadership was about giving orders and making sure everyone followed them. About keeping people alive and completing my mission. Maybe it was all that back in the military." You pondered, he was a good listener, you were tempted to share this with him for some reason. "But it’s more than that. Especially here. It’s about understanding the people—their strengths, their struggles. People like you, Burt.”

Burt looked up again, his gaze steady. “Captain’s burden, heavy crown; the crew’s trust, a fragile noun.”

You looked at the large man with a small smile, before straightening and shifting back to professional. “Let me know if you need anything—resources, personnel, or just someone to bounce ideas off of. I’m here.”

Burt didn’t look up, but his voice carried through the room, quiet yet firm. “A ship’s heart, steady and strong; its captain’s resolve, where it belongs.”

Burt nodded to himself, his expression as unreadable as the one you often saw in the mirror. “Yup,” his attention already returned to the console. “Will do.”

~~~~

Mark sat in the mess hall with Burt, trays of food in front of them. He was rambling about a new idea he had for improving the mess hall, his enthusiasm bubbling over.

Burt listened, as he always did. Mark was a good friend—and his supervisor. Burt wanted him to hear the news directly.

“Mark,” Burt interrupted, and Mark immediately fell silent.

“The captain came to the reactor looking for you,” Burt said.

Mark winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah… I’ll, uh, send a message and ask about that, I guess.”

Burt nodded, satisfied. “I got a temporary promotion.”

Mark’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward, excited. “Really? That’s great! But wait…” He glanced down at his food tray, his expression faltering. “You wouldn't… But…”

Burt shook his head. “Maintenance.”

Mark sighed in relief. “Oh… thank God.” Then he winced, looking apologetically at his friend. “Sorry, man. Not that I mean you don’t deserve to be, y’know, Head Engineer.”

Burt huffed, focusing on his food. Mark was an idiot. If anyone understood how important the position was to him, it was Burt.

“Hey, guys! Room for one more?” Celci called out, sliding into the bench with her tray before either of them could respond.

“What?! No! Go away, CC!” Mark swatted at her shoulder, though not hard enough to deter her.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Asshat. I’m here for Burt,” Celci sneered, dodging his hand with ease. She turned to Burt, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “So? Spill the beans. How’d you get a promotion from the captain?”

“No need to bend or fawn, just grace and merit manifest...” Burt replied cryptically, inwardly enjoying the deeply confused look Celci shot his way.

She turned to Mark, who was still grumbling under his breath. “Asshat, translate.”

Mark glanced at Burt’s smug face and sighed. “He basically said ‘skill.’”

~~~~

You stood in front of the control console, mercifully alone during this time of the cycle. The stars hung frozen in the vast expanse of space, their beauty evident. While Mark’s design of glass windows for a spaceship was undeniably dangerous, it was also breathtaking to be able to see the world around them. You sighed, sipping your coffee as you sifted through reports from your lead crew, along with dozens of complaints and incident reports from various crew members.

Sixteen injuries in just the past two days—how was that even possible? Not to mention the property damage. This ship was a floating disaster. How it had ever gotten a permit to fly, much less house all these colonists, was beyond you.

Despite the relentless headaches since you’d stepped into this role, you weren’t cowed. You were the captain of this godforsaken flying death trap, and soon enough, you would get everything under control.

Though “soon enough” couldn’t come soon enough.

You sighed tiredly, your eyes drifting from one star to another.

“Captain?” You glanced at the reflection in the glass and saw Mark’s concerned face at the door.

“Shouldn't you be asleep?” you murmured, sipping your coffee.

Mark shifted uncertainly. “The computer alerted me that the long-range scans just came back. I wanted to review them.”

You stared at the stars, wondering if any of them were your new home. Probably not; you knew your destination lay outside this galaxy. Still, you nodded in understanding and finally turned to face him. “Right, show me.”

Mark’s eyes flickered between the console and you. “You sure? This can wait 'til morning…”

You shook your head and walked to the head of the main console, standing behind the monitor in the center. Mark stepped up to your left and expertly navigated the system until he pulled up a hologram of a slowly rotating planet.

“Hmm, pretty. What’s the status?” you asked, studying the mostly blue surface.

Mark brightened at the question. “The planet has a similar cycle to Earth, though it’s closer to 35 hours per rotation. The scans indicate carbon-based flora capable of producing oxygen. Wildlife is still unknown, but the scans show promise, Captain.” He smiled softly at the hologram as he read off the reports. “The only potential issue is whether it’s inhabited by aliens or not.” He grumbled with disdain and pulled up images of the planet, which was yet to be named. It was beautiful, with nature strikingly similar to Earth’s.

"We will discuss your paranoia of aliens on a later date." You sighed tiredly, “Any estimation on the planet’s age or core material?” you asked, scanning the report for information that was crucial to your decision.

Mark shook his head. “Sorry, Captain. The long-range scans can only do so much.”

You nodded skeptically. “But you’re sure the atmosphere is breathable for humans?”

Mark zoomed in on a specific section on the scan reports. “Yes. The scans show a mixture of gases: 60% nitrogen, 30% oxygen, along with traces of carbon dioxide, neon, and hydrogen. It’s almost an exact match to Earth’s air composition.”

You closed your eyes comparing it with the average air mixture that was issued for Earth's domes and spaceships. "The percentages are a bit off, we have to check if there would be long-term problems. Arrange a meeting first thing tomorrow with all crew leads and Doctor Rosanna Pansino. I want to share the news and get their input ASAP. We’ll need to run diagnostics and finalize our landing plans.”

"Yes Captain, leave it to me." he started typing on his wrist data pad, focused on carrying out the given task.

You clapped his shoulder, shocking him out of his focused state. “Thank you, Mark. I know you’re already swamped with work, but I trust you to take the lead in planning for this.”

You squeezed his shoulder lightly before turning back to the console and picking up your now-cold coffee for another sip. “Go to bed, Mark. I don’t want my head engineer snoozing during a meeting he’s supposed to lead—not when I could’ve done something to prevent it.” You allowed your stoic demeanor to slip for a moment, offering him a small smile.

His eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed as he looked away. “Y-yes, Captain. See you tomorrow.” He nodded, tapping the scanner next to the door. Just before stepping out, he glanced over his shoulder, seemingly debating whether to say something. “You should get some sleep too, Captain. Good night.” With that, he slipped out.

You sighed as your eyes stung from lack of sleep. Perhaps he was right. You downed the rest of your coffee.

Chapter Text

You were aware of the rumors. It was impossible not to notice the way the crew’s whispers trailed after you like shadows, their voices dropping to hushed tones the moment you stepped into a room. What you weren’t aware of was the context. What were they saying? What did they know—or think they knew?

Rumors were as dangerous as they were useful, especially in tight-knit communities as spaceship crews. Out here, superstition and hearsay carried the weight of gospel truth. One misplaced word could spark mutiny, and you’d seen firsthand how chaos grew from the smallest seeds of gossip.

Your eye twitched as you passed two crew members who immediately leaned into each other, their voices low but their eyes darting toward you. You didn’t break stride—just quickened your pace and let the dull roar of the mess hall drown out their whispers. If the crew noticed you were broodier than usual, that was literally their fault. 

You grabbed a tray from the cook—a surly man who always seemed pissed at something or someone—and settled onto a corner bench. The food was as unappetizing as ever, but you weren’t here for the cuisine. You were here because even captains needed to eat, even if it meant enduring the sideways glances and muttered conversations.

Rumors on a battle spaceship could be a death sentence. You’d seen it before—how a single whispered accusation could unravel a crew, how mistrust could fester until it erupted into violence. On your last assignment, during the Martian Wars, you’d been an outcast. Your cold demeanor and ruthless decisions had saved lives but cost you your closest allies. The deaths of your subordinates had been the price of victory, and it was a price no one else seemed willing to pay. Not that it mattered now. Your reputation had preceded you, and here you were, alone again.

You took a bite of your tuna sandwich, barely tasting it as your thoughts churned.

“Captain?”

You looked up to see your head engineer, Mark, standing awkwardly beside you, his tray clutched in both hands. His doe-like eyes were wide with nervous energy, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot like a child waiting for permission to speak.

“May I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, his voice shaky with forced cheer.

You sighed and set your sandwich down. “I’m on my lunch break,” you said, though you already knew you weren’t going to win this battle. You gestured to the bench across from you. “Sit.”

He practically collapsed onto the bench, his tray clattering as he set it down. “It’ll only take a minute. I, uh… it’s important.” He hesitated, his fingers drumming against the edge of the tray. “Maybe it’s not my place to say this, Captain, but the council elected me to be the one to talk to you.”

You blinked hard, unsure if your lack of sleep was causing auditory hallucinations. “Excuse me? Did you say council?” 

He nodded, his expression grim. “Yes, the COCCL. There have been… concerns. About you.” He glanced down at his tray, avoiding your gaze.

The word concerns rang through your brain. You felt a familiar tightness in your chest, the same feeling you’d had when your commander had informed you of your demotion and transfer to the Invincible II. Back then, it had been framed as a vacation in disguise, but you’d known better. 

You were too sleep-deprived to question Mark on who the hell the COCCL was or why this intervention was happening during your lunch break in a public place. The most important thing circling in your mind was his last statement: the man was politely saying there were concerns regarding you.

How the hell had you managed to screw up so royally in the last two weeks to warrant a notice like this from some council? You didn’t know.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaustion weighing heavily on your shoulders. “This couldn’t have waited until after my lunch break?” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Mark winced, his shoulders tensing. You felt a pang of guilt. Whatever this council was, they’d probably chosen Mark to deliver the news because he was the least threatening person on the ship and worked closest to you. Poor guy was too agreeable and kind for his own good. He wouldn’t last a week on the front lines.

You shook the thought away, ashamed and feeling guilty for even thinking of that. You cleared your throat. “And what does this council want from me?” you asked, your voice softer than you’d intended.

You had an itching feeling that tonight you would stay awake, calculating each of your crew members' probability of survival in a battlefield.

Mark perked up, his face lighting with relief. “It’s been noticed that you haven’t been sleeping enough, Captain.”

What?

“What?” You stared at him, unsure if you’d heard him correctly.

“You’ve been overworking yourself,” he continued, his tone earnest. “We all appreciate how much you care about the crew and everything you do, but… you’re going to burn out if you keep this up.”

You blinked, trying to process his words. “What does COCCL stand for again?”

Mark’s face broke into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The Council of Concerned Crew Leads!”

You stared at him, your mind blank. The Council of Concerned Leaders? Was this some kind of joke? But Mark’s expression was sincere, his smile so bright it was almost blinding. For a moment, your brain forgot how to breath.

The silence stretched between you, long enough that Mark started fidgeting again, his knee bouncing under the table. He glanced around the mess hall, his face flushing as he realized how awkward the conversation had become.

You stood abruptly, calmly rewrapping your sandwich and tucking it into your inner pocket. Mark floundered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Captain, I—” he began, but you cut him off with a clap on the shoulder. He flinched, a high-pitched squeak escaping his lips.

You couldn’t help but notice how… amusing he looked in that moment—his hair sticking up in every direction, his eyes wide with surprise, his cheeks tinged with pink in embarrassment. It was almost enough to make you smile.

“Please disband it,” you said, your voice calm but firm. “And thank you.”

You gave his shoulder another pat, grabbed your drink, and walked out of the mess hall, leaving Mark sitting motionless, his lunch untouched. Behind you, the whispers began again, louder this time, and  a certain group chat already blowing up.

~~~~

Group Chat: COCCL (Council Of Concerned Crew Leads)

Participants:
Mark (Head Engineer): “Markgineer” 
Celci (Head of Cryogenics): “CryoQueen”  
Burt (Head of Maintenance): “The Silent Wrench”  
Gunther (Head of Asteroid Defense System): “BigGuns” 

---

CryoQueen:
Asshat. Spill. How'd it go with Captain?

BigGuns:
I knew Mark couldn't be trusted to handle it.

The Silent Wrench:
Yup.

BigGuns:
I should've gone to lunch with Captain instead.

The Silent Wrench:
Nope.

Markgineer:
Seriusly? et tu?

The Silent Wrench:  
Yup.

CryoQueen:
Just tell us what happened or Imma put coolant in your coffee for the next month.

Markgineer:  
I’m not your gossip columnist, CC.  

CryoQueen:
Oh, come on. You’re the one who volunteered to talk to the captain. Don’t leave us hanging.  

Markgineer:  
I didn’t *volunteer*. You all *forced* me into it.  

BigGuns:  
Quit stalling. Out with it. What’s the verdict? Cap’n took our concerns to heart, or do we stage a mutiny?  

Markgineer:
Alright! alright! I'll tell you, it's just...

Markgineer:
Well there's not much to tell actually.

Markgineer:
I told the captain that we are worried and there's no reason to overwork, just like we discussed,

Markgineer:
then captain thanked us and said we should disband this group.

CryoQueen:

THAT'S IT?

CryoQueen:

No “thank you for your concern”? 

CryoQueen:

No “You're the most thoughtful crew ever”?

Markgineer:
Yeah, well, that’s what I was told.  

Markgineer:
“Please disband it. And thank you.”

Markgineer:
Then the captain patted my shoulder and walked out. 

BigGuns:
Got your shoulder *patted* ey? That’s practically a Golden Medal in Cap'n-speak.  

Markgineer:  
SHUT UP.  

CryoQueen:
For once Gunther has a point. Shoulder pats are serious. Captain doesn’t just hand those out like candy.  

Markgineer:  
Can we focus on the part where the Captain told us to disband the group chat?  

BigGuns:
That’s a load of bull. 

CryoQueen:
Do you really think the Captain’s going to stop overworking just because we disband a group chat?

BigGuns:
Translation: we’re not disbanding.  

The Silent Wrench:
Yup.

Markgineer:  
You’re all idiots.  

The Silent Wrench:
Yup.  

CryoQueen:
Burt! You’ve been neutral. What do you think of the captain petting Mark?  

Markgineer:  
NO! I was not PETTED, I was patted. On the shoulder. BIG DIFFERENCE.

The Silent Wrench:
*[Image attached]*  

CryoQueen:
…IS THAT A SELFIE OF YOU WITH MARK AND THE CAPTAIN IN THE BACKGROUND?!  

BigGuns:

Burt, you sneaky son of a gun. 

Markgineer:  
WHAT. HOW. WHEN DID YOU EVEN—  

CryoQueen:
OH MY STARS. ASSHAT IS BLUSHING IN THE PICTURE. LOOKING LIKE HE’S TRYING TO MELT INTO THE FLOOR. 

Markgineer:  
DELETE THAT.  

BigGuns:
And the Captain’s smiling. Like, actually smiling. Looking at you like a mama bear looks at a tuna sandwich. What did you do Mark?  ',:)

Markgineer:  
I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING.  

CryoQueen:
Burt, how did you even get this?  

The Silent Wrench:
“The wrench sees all, the wrench knows all.  
A moment captured, before the fall.”  

BigGuns:
Translation: Burt’s a ninja. A chubby ninja with a camera. 

Markgineer:    
YOU'RE ALL HORRIBLE AND I HATE YOU!

CryoQueen:
Alright, new agenda item, I propose we spice things up around COCCL. 

Markgineer:

Oh no... 

CryoQueen:

We’re having a competition. 

BigGuns:

A competition, huh? 

BigGuns:

What’s the prize? Bragging rights? A medal? A date with the Captain? 

CryoQueen:

Close. The prize is being crowned as the Captain’s favorite. 

Markgineer:

…What? What is that even supposed to mean?!

CryoQueen:

You heard me. We will all compete to see who can become the Captain’s favorite. 

CryoQueen:

If you got a smile and pat on the back, why shouldn't we get the same treatment? It’ll be fun.  

Markgineer:

Fun? This sounds like a disaster waiting to happen! 

BigGuns:

I’m in. 

Markgineer:

Of course you are. 

BigGuns:

What? The Captain's got a glare that could cut through steel. If this competition gets me closer to that smolder, I’m all for it. 

CryoQueen:

Weird, Gunther. But also, same.  

Markgineer:

This is ridiculous!

The Silent Wrench:

Yup. 

CryoQueen:

Burt! You’re in tho, right? 

The Silent Wrench:

Yup. 

Markgineer

This is a terrible idea. 

CryoQueen:

Oh, come on, Asshat. Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little competition~ Or maybe you want to keep hoarding all of Captain's attention to yourself?

BigGuns:

Face it, Mark. You’re just worried you’ll lose. 

Markgineer:

I’m not worried about losing. I’m worried about what happens when the Captain finds out about this. 

CryoQueen:

Captain won’t find out. Unless one of us tattles. And none of us will. Right? 

BigGuns:

Right.  

The Silent Wrench:

Yup. 

Markgineer:

…Fine. I’m in. But only because I know I’ll win. 

CryoQueen:

That’s the spirit! Alright, rules are simple: we each have one week to impress the Captain. Whoever seems to be favored the most by the end wins. 

BigGuns:

And how do we determine who wins? 

CryoQueen:

We’ll vote. Majority rules. 

Markgineer:

This is already a terrible system. 

CryoQueen:

Got a better idea? 

Markgineer:

No. But that doesn’t mean this isn’t stupid. 

BigGuns:

Alright, let’s do this. May the best man or woman win. 

CryoQueen:

Game on. 

The Silent Wrench:

*“The wrench turns, the game is set. 

A silent player takes no bet.”* 

BigGuns:

…What does that even mean? 

Markgineer:

It means Burt’s already winning. 

~~~~

You shuddered momentarily, even in your thick uniform's coat, you weren't ammune from the chill of the cryogenics department. No wonder Dr. Kelvina- Celci, always wore her thick coat. 

Perhaps today you’d discuss upgrading the heating system in the observation bay, since she spent most of her day here.  

At the sound of your footsteps behind her, Celci set down a bright blue tube and her clipboard, turning to greet you with a smile. “Captain! You’re early.”  

“Hello, Celci,” you nodded, handing her one of the two cups of coffee you’d brought. “I apologize if I’ve interrupted your work. I’ll be on time for our future meetings.” Clearly, she was keeping busy, even though she had an official meeting with you in ten minutes.

“No!” she rushed forward, nearly spilling both cups of coffee on you, her voice louder than necessary. She cleared her throat and tried again, more composed. “I mean, no. I appreciate it. I’d rather we start sooner than be late.”  

Maybe the cold was bothering her more than you thought. The poor woman’s cheeks were flushed. She gazed at the coffee in her hands, holding it close for warmth. “Um… thanks for the coffee by the way, Captain.”  

You looked at her with a mix of concern and mild scolding. “It’s the least I could do. I saw your utility reports were delivered to my datapad at 2 a.m., and then more came through at 3 a.m. Those reports weren’t due until Thursday. You shouldn’t have stayed up to finish them.” You furrowed your eyebrows at the dark circles under her eyes, stark against her rosy cheeks. Lack of sleep combined with the cold could lead to serious illness.  

“It’s fine, Captain. A few late nights never killed anyone,” she said, waving her hand as if to dismiss the thought.  

“I recall you and others worrying about my sleep schedule just the other day,” you narrowed your eyes at her. “Weren’t you part of Mark’s council? I thought you were, since he said—”  

“No! Nope. Uh-uh. I don’t take part in Asshat’s crazy groups or ‘councils,’” she denied fervently. Before you could interrogate her further about Mark’s activities, she deflected with a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, Captain. It won’t happen again. I’ll get more sleep.” She sipped her coffee, avoiding your gaze.  

You decided to drop the subject. There was no use ruining her good mood as she enjoyed the warm coffee, no doubt helping her thaw. You felt a sense of pride, knowing you were learning to better communicate with your crew and navigate your interactions with them.  

“How’s the maintenance in Section C going?” you asked, steering the conversation to the topics you wanted to discuss. “Last meeting, you mentioned concerns about the coolant pipe repairs and pressure tolerance. Did Burt and his team follow the schematics?”  

“The coolant pipes are repaired captain,” Celci took her clipboard out and went over her list with you. “Aside that, I'm just worried about the systems occasional uptick of coolant output, my team and I will have to monitor that to find the source.”  

Talking to her about reports and repairs brought a sense of familiarity, reminiscent of how your meetings used to go with your previous crew and lieutenants back in the… Well, the straightforward professionalism was appreciated.  

Once the meeting concluded, you sent her a copy of the meeting notes and a checklist of topics to discuss during the all-department heads meeting at the end of the week.  

There was a lull in the conversation as you greedily took the last few gulps of your coffee.  

You watched her as she did the same, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips as she sipped slowly, savoring it.  

“I forgot to ask at the start of the meeting, but how are you? Aside from the sleepless nights,” you asked, your tone slightly awkward. This was uncharted territory. You’d never brought your lieutenants coffee or worried about their sleep schedules before, but this ship was different, and you were already adapting to their ways.

She gave you a surprised look, then smiled. “I’ve been good, thanks for asking, Captain.” She seemed peppier with coffee in her system.

“Do you usually stay up overworking? I’m aware I’ve been pushing everyone hard with all this maintenance in your respective departments.”  

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks redder now. The poor woman must be freezing.  

“I’m sleeping okay, though the concern is appreciated. And I’m fully on board with these maintenance upgrades. The ship’s been in much better condition since you came here.” She scowled as she glared at the wall. “It’s like someone built everything to blow up or break down all the time!” she complained bitterly, making you sigh.  

Time for a subject change. “Speaking of upgrades, would you like any updates to the observation bay? Perhaps a better heating system, since you spend so much time here?” you suggested, eyeing her coat doubtfully.  

You studied her flushed cheeks with concern, noticing her fingers twitching around her cup. “You look awfully chilled.” Maybe you should bring a blanket for your next meeting with her in the observation bay or at least have your meetings with her somewhere else.

“I, um, no thank you, Captain. It’s fine. My team and I are used to it,” she said, offering a polite but clearly fake smile. “Besides, we quite like it as it is.”

“You’re sure? It would be a minor inconvenience for Mark to install—”  

“I’m sure,” she interrupted. “The cold never bothers me anyway.”  

You stared at her for a few seconds before an undignified snort escaped you, catching you both off guard. You hadn’t expected her to reference pre-Explosion Earth media, but it seemed she had her moments of humor too. The sound seemed to surprise her as well, and she gaped at you openly.  

“Very well, your majesty,” you replied with a self-satisfied smile, amused by her gobsmacked expression. Despite the cold, a warm feeling settled in your chest. You had to admit, this crew had grown on you. There was something strangely charming about their quirks.  

“I’ll see you around, Celci. Take care,” you said, patting her shoulder as you stood to leave.  

~~~~

Group Chat: COCCL (Council Of Concerned Crew Leads)

Participants:  

Mark (Head Engineer): “Markgineer”  

Celci (Head of Cryogenics): “CryoQueen”  

Burt (Head of Maintenance): “The Silent Wrench”  

Gunther (Head of Asteroid Defense System): “BigGuns”  

---

CryoQueen:  

GUYS. GUYS. GUYS.  

BigGuns:  

What now? Did you freeze your legs again?

Should I get the flame thrower?

CryoQueen:  

NO I JUST HAD A MEETING WITH THE CAPTAIN.  

Markgineer:  

…So?  We all have those you ice brain.

CryoQueen:  

MINE WAS SPECIAL.  

BigGuns:  

Details, Icy. How special are we talking about?

CryoQueen:  

First of all, the Captain came ten minutes earlier and brought me COFFEE.  

Markgineer:  

…What?  

Shut up you're lying.

CryoQueen:  

NOPE! COFFEE. TWO CUPS. ONE FOR ME. ONE FOR THEM. 

BigGuns:  

Huh. That’s a twist. 

Markgineer:  

No way. The Captain doesn’t just *bring coffee* to our meetings. 

CryoQueen:  

WELL, IT HAPPENED TO ME! :D

AND, THEY WERE CONCERNED ABOUT ME OVERWORKING. SAID I SHOULDN’T HAVE STAYED UP LATE TO FINISH MY REPORTS.  

BigGuns:  

…Are we talking about the same Captain? The one who glares at anyone who suggests them sleep? 

The one we sent Mark to intervene about their sleep schedule?

CryoQueen:  

YES. THAT CAPTAIN. AND THEN THEY OFFERED TO UPGRADE THE HEATING SYSTEM IN THE OBSERVATION BAY BECAUSE THEY THOUGHT I WAS COLD.  

Markgineer:  

…No.  

CryoQueen:  

YES. AND GUESS WHAT, ASSHAT? YOU MIGHT GET TASKED WITH INSTALLING HEATERS IN OUR DEPARTMENT SOON. HOPE YOU’RE READY TO WORK BITCH. ;)

Markgineer:  

…I’m not installing heaters for you.  

CryoQueen:  

OH, YOU WILL. THE CAPTAIN WAS *CONCERNED* ABOUT HOW COLD IT IS IN THERE. PRACTICALLY INSISTED ON IT.  

Markgineer: 

Fuck you.

CryoQueen:  

THAT'S NOT EVEN THE BEST PART!

CAPTAIN *SNORT-LAUGHED* AT MY JOKE.  

BigGuns:  

…The Captain *laughed?*   

That’s harder to believe than a Martian with a mustache.  

CryoQueen:  

AND THEY CALLED ME “YOUR MAJESTY.”  

Markgineer: 

I’m calling BS.  

You're just straight-up lying at this point.

CryoQueen:  

OH, AND GOT MY SHOULDER PATTED BEFORE THEY LEFT.  

FACE IT, ASSHAT. I’M THE CAPTAIN’S FAVORITE NOW.  

Markgineer:  

NO. NO WAY. YOU'RE A LYING LIAR AND I DON'T BELIEVE YOU!

CryoQueen:  

I'M NOT LYING. I HAVE WITNESSES.  

BigGuns:  

Witnesses? Who?  

CryoQueen:  

THE ENTIRE CRYOGENICS TEAM. THEY SAW THE WHOLE THING.  

Markgineer: 

I don’t believe you or your stupid team.

CryoQueen:  

BELIEVE IT, MARK. I’M THE NEW GOLDEN CHILD.  

BigGuns:  

Alright, Icy. We need better proof of the claim that Captain *laughed*. 

A smile here, an amused quirked eyebrow there, we've all seen it. But this Captain doesn't *laugh*.

The Silent Wrench:  

*[Image attached]*  

CryoQueen: 

WHAT. IMPOSSIBLE.

BigGuns:  

Well, well, well. What do we have here?  

CryoQueen:  

BURT. WHEN?! HOW?! 

The Silent Wrench:  

Beneath the cryo's azure light,

Medals gleam, a starry night.

The curve of your hat, a perfect sight.

Markgineer:  

BURT IS THAT A SELFIE OF YOU WITH CC AND THE CAPTAIN IN THE BACKGROUND?!  How did you even get this?

BigGuns:  

Looks like it. And would you look at that— two coffee cups. Damn.

But I don't see any laughing confirmation, I still rather see them laugh myself to confirm if this smile is post snorting or before.

CryoQueen:  

BURT. YOU WEREN’T IN THE ROOM. YOU’RE NOT PART OF CRYOGENICS. HOW THE HELL DID YOU GET THIS?! I DIDN’T EVEN SEE YOU!  

The Silent Wrench:  

Yup.  

CryoQueen:  

DON'T 'YUP' ME! THIS IS CREEPY. ALSO, HOW DID YOU EVEN BYPASS OUR DOOR WITHOUT ANYONE NOTICING?!

Markgineer: 

Is The Captain actually *grinning* in the picture?  

BigGuns:  

Sure looks like it, pal. And Icy's blushing like a schoolkid. Or a flustered dying fish for that matter.

CryoQueen:  

I—YOU—THIS IS—  

BigGuns:  

This changes the game. If the Captain’s capable of laughing, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.  

Markgineer: 

I still don’t believe it.  

The Silent Wrench:  

*“Belief is a choice, but the truth is clear.  

The wrench’s lens captures what others fear.”*  

CryoQueen:  

I’M STILL PROCESSING THIS.  

BigGuns:  

Process faster, Icicle. The game’s afoot, and I’m not about to let you hog all the Captain’s attention.  

CryoQueen:  

OH, PLEASE. YOU’RE ALL JUST JEALOUS.  

BigGuns:  

Jealous? Maybe. But I’m also motivated. And when I’m motivated, I get results.  

CryoQueen:  

Or explosion...

Markgineer:  

This competition is stupid.  

CryoQueen:  

SURE IT IS, ASSHAT. SURE IT IS.  

Chapter Text

The reactor room hummed like a sleeping giant, its core glowing an eerie yellow through the observation glass. Mark wiped sweat from his brow—despite the Invincible's state-of-the-art cooling systems, (he designed them himself), the heart of the ship still radiated a feverish heat. He’d spent all night here, triple-checking the warp stabilizers. Two weeks until the jump to their new home. The crew’s survival depended on his work. Not that anyone appreciated it.

Mark did not sulk. No matter what anyone said, he wasn’t sulking or jealous. Okay, maybe he was a little grumbly and grouchy—CC had been teasing him nonstop about it—but he was fine. Perfectly fine. He had a plan, after all. He was going to prove he could get a smile or a kind word from the Captain, just like CC had.

Ever since the Captain’s unprompted smile and shoulder pat in the mess hall—a moment his peers had mercilessly teased him about—Mark had caught himself looking out for more moments like that. Not that he was waiting with bated breath or anything. 

And, well, no one needed to point out how handsome—and/or beautiful—their Captain was. Mark certainly wasn’t thinking about it. Not at all. He wasn’t keeping his hopes up for anything remotely nice or kind from them. He wouldn’t even consider the possibility if not for Celci’s taunts.

Still, if CC could get a cup of coffee and a smile out of the Captain, so could Mark. It wasn’t about jealousy. It wasn’t about how he’d stared at Burt’s photo of the Captain smiling at the head of Cryogenics for hours, either. He was just… appreciating the lighting. Yeah, that was it. Like Burt had said, the blue light looked good on the Captain. That’s all.

Mark had spent the night before his one-on-one with the Captain lying awake, fretting over every possibility. If the Captain saw the bags under his eyes, they would pity him and give him what he wanted. Right? Right. Flawless unintentional plan.

"Head Engineer Mark."

The Captain’s voice cut through the haze. Mark turned, his grease-stained gloves freezing mid-twist on a coolant valve. Their captain stood framed in the doorway, backlit by the corridor’s sterile white lights. As always, they wore their uniform like armor, gloves fastened to the wrist. Rumor said the Martian Wars had left their hands scarred, but Mark knew better than to ask. The warm light of the reactor room made the captain's eyes look demonic.

"Captain!" Mark saluted, knocking a wrench off the console. It clattered against the grated floor. "You're, uh, finally here. All systems stable, no thanks to certain people who keep unplugging the aux battery to charge their—"

"Your protocols," the Captain interrupted, holding up a datapad. The reactor’s glow sharpened the shadows under their eyes. "Care to explain why I found seventeen self-destruct codes in the system?"

Mark’s stomach dropped. Oh no. Not this. He forced a grin. "Oh! I figured it's good to have options, y'know? You never know which one'll stick during a situation. Sometimes you want to make a statement, sometimes—"

The Captain pinched the bridge of their nose. "Mark. We're a colonization vessel. Our mission is to carry the colonists safely to a new planet, not… whatever this is." They scrolled, mouth twitching. "There's more,"

"Uh… you mean the, um, contingency plans?"

The Captain scowled at him, expression a perfect blend of incredulity and exasperation. "Yes. The Contingency plans. For alien invasions."

Mark straightened, crossing his arms bracing for an argument. "Well, Captain," he said, his voice steady despite the knot of tension in his stomach. "You never know what’s out there. Hostile creatures could board us at any time. It’s safer to be prepared."

The Captain leaned back against the console, mirroring his stance. "Mark, I appreciate your… enthusiasm." They took a breath, "But how is 'Do Not Pet the Space Doggos Protocol' an official protocol?"

"Fluffy things are suspicious." Mark muttered, defensive. "Even if they look like adorable, fluffy puppies. But! what if they're venomous? Or flesh-eaters? Or worse—judgey? Chica's the only safe dog on board, and any other creatures discovered on the ship are aliens in disguise."

The Captain raised an eyebrow, "Judgmental space puppies?"

Alright, the deadpan unimpressed tone was just uncalled for!

"And you filed in several request forms on receiving more budget for 'Stealth material?" The captain scowled at the datapad, checking his enlisted requests. "You want me to approve of you setting up 12 emergency cases around the ship under the premise of 'Disguises Fer Aliens'? What do you even need so many fake mustaches for?!" Now the captain was raising their voice.

"That’s a failsafe to have disguises in easy reach in case of contamination," he explained, his voice losing confidence. "We can’t risk aliens recognizing the crew...?" He didn't mean to word it like a question for the Captain.

The Captain glared at him, muttering something that sounded like, "This ship is a circus.” quietly. After a pause, their eyes narrowed as they spotted the next particularly bizarre entry. "Oh this one, 'Pink Mustache Protocol.' What in the galaxy is this?"

Mark's face went pale. Oh no. Not this one. "Oh. Uh. That one's… complicated," he stammered, his mind racing to come up with a plausible excuse that didn't make him sound completely insane.

Captain raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair in distress. "This protocol locks down all pink items and fake mustaches. Trust me, it's for the best."

Captain stared at him, trying to decide if he was serious. A few tense moments passed in silence. Mark could hear his own sweat falling to the floor.

What came out at the end was a whispered, "Why?"

The Captain’s pause felt like a hyperspace jump—dangerous and charged.

"I really can't explain it..." Mark said, his lips pursed.

"Doesn't it contradict with the other protocol?"

Mark didn't have an answer for that either.

Captain sighed deeply, eyes closed. The war hero was clearly struggling to remain calm. Mark felt slightly responsible.

"Mark, I need you to tell me why you think these... bizarre protocols are needed," Captain said, more or less patient.

Mark shrugged nonchalantly, "Precaution? Bad things could happen if we're not careful."

Their captain couldn’t argue with that logic. “Fine. But you’re sure these… 'bad things' aren't just a figment of your imagination?”

Mark shook his head. "A little healthy paranoia about everything pays off, Captain." 

The Captain stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Mark’s heart pounded in his chest. Captain's going to make me delete them. All that work, all those hours—gone.

Finally, the Captain exhaled deeply and uncrossed their arms. "Mark, I'm not going to lie—this is… a lot. Some would argue really unnecessary." Welp, there went all of Mark's hard work and late-night programming. "But do you believe we need these protocols?"

The question caught him off guard. Is there a chance-?

He nodded earnestly. "Absolutely, Captain. You never know what's going to happen out here. It’s better to be overprepared than underprepared."

The Captain sighed, setting down their datapad. "Fine. But I'm holding you personally responsible if I ever have to announce 'Do Not Pet the Space Doggos Protocol' over the intercom." The captain's tone was surprisingly light, they merely shook their head before putting the datapad away.

Mark blinked, surprised at this turn of events. "You're not going to make me delete everything?"

The captain huffed a smile, a small little gesture bordering on incredulity. "As long as none of these interfere with the ship's core operations or cause unnecessary panic, I suppose they can stay. But," Captain added, holding up a gloved finger, "From now on, if you want to program a protocol, you have to run it by me and the rest of the crew heads during official meetings first. Understood?"

Mark saluted hastily. "Understood, Captain." A small smile found its way to his lips, tempted to make his own jab at their captain, "But just so you know, my protocols have a 97% success rate in simulations."

Mark caught the end of an eye roll as the Captain turned back to the console, muttering something under their breath about "Crazy civilians,"  he couldn't help but smile.

"Now that finally with that cleared up let's get to the real meeting-"

A low, guttural growl echoed through the room.

Oh no. Oh no no no. 

The Captain stiffened, hand flying to their hip—where a plasma pistol would’ve hung during wartime. "Status report. Is the reactor—"

"Nope! That’s… me." Mark’s face burned. "Sorry."

His stomach had chosen the worst possible moment to remind him that he hadn’t eaten since… well, yesterday.

"Oh." The captain seemed awkward, "Did you, skip breakfast for our meeting?"

"Well no, but yes um," Mark gestured weakly to his wrist monitor, avoiding eye contact. "I kinda forgot to eat..."

The Captain paused, datapad lowering slightly as they turned to stare at him. "You… forgot to eat?" they repeated their tone a mix of disbelief and exasperation.

Mark shrugged, trying to play it off. "I got caught up in work. You know how it is."

For a heartbeat, the Captain’s stern mask slipped. A flicker of something almost fond crossed their face. Then they sighed. “Mess hall. Now.”

Mark opened his mouth to argue, but the Captain cut him off with a sharp look. "No. This isn’t up for debate. You're going to the mess hall right now, and you're going to eat something. That's an order."

Mark blinked, surprised by the order. "But, Captain, we still need to—"

"We'll continue the meeting in the mess hall," the Captain interrupted, their tone leaving no room for argument. "I haven't eaten yet either. Might as well get it off my list now."

Mark hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Understood, Captain."

As they entered the mess hall, the low hum of conversation came to an abrupt halt. All eyes turned to the Captain and Mark, and Mark could feel the weight of the crew's stares like a physical force. He shuffled awkwardly, but smiled confidently, nodding to a few people, playing it cool so to speak, but it was no use. The whispers started almost immediately.

Mark could feel the heat rising up his neck.  

The Captain, however, seemed completely unfazed. They strode to the food line, grabbed a tray, and began loading it with whatever the cook had slapped together that day. Mark followed suit, his hands slightly unsteady as he picked up a sandwich and a cup of what he hoped was coffee.

They found a table in the corner, and Captain sat down without a word, gesturing for Mark to do the same. He obeyed, sliding into the seat across from them and staring intently at his tray. The whispers around them grew louder, and Mark could see the crew exchanging knowing looks and smirks. Mark groaned internally, wishing he could disappear into space. But the Captain seemed oblivious—or maybe didn’t care.

Captain took a bite of the tuna sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, "Alright, let’s continue," they said, pulling up the datapad in one hand. "We should discuss what we're gonna do with the seventeen self-destruct protocols."

Mark blinked, caught off guard. "Uh… right. Well, you see, Captain, it’s—"

Before he could finish, a familiar voice gasped from a nearby table. Mark glanced over to see CC holding a tray of food and staring at him in openmouthed shock, ready to either burst or snap at him. In the corner of his eye, he saw the orange figure of Burt taking a selfie with them in the background.

Mark grinned smugly at CC, victory.

Calci looked about ready to have a screaming match with him there in the mess hall, "Mark you back—!"

The Captain held up a hand, silencing her without looking up from their datapad, "Doctor Kelvina, if you require an emergency meeting you are welcome to join us, otherwise I suggest you enjoy your meal."

The mess hall fell silent. Celci stared at the captain slightly taken aback, "No captain, enjoy your meal." She nodded hastily, mouthing silent threats to Mark before leaving.

Mark couldn’t help but feel a HUGE surge of satisfaction. Surely he was now crowned as Captain's favorite in front of CC. He grinned, never admitting he was feeling competitive in the hidden ongoing game.

The Captain turned their attention back to Mark. The epitome of unbothered and oblivious to the meaningful glances exchanged between the crew members. "Now, where were we?"

Mark took a deep breath to steady himself. "Right. The self-destruct protocols. So, you see, Captain, I figured it was better to change some into—”

As he launched into his explanation, he couldn’t keep a grin off his lips. 

~~~~

Group Chat: COCCL (Council Of Concerned Crew Leads)

Participants:
Mark (Head Engineer): “Markgineer” 
Celci (Head of Cryogenics): “CryoQueen”  
Burt (Head of Maintenance): “The Silent Wrench”  
Gunther (Head of Asteroid Defense System): “BigGuns” 

---

The Silent Wrench:
*[Image attached]*  

CryoQueen:

Honestly, it was a terrible idea to let the Asshat eat lunch with our captain in the first time.

BigGuns:

Looks like Mark’s moving up in the world. Mark, how did you do it?

CryoQueen:

Guilt trip I bet. 

BigGuns:
Damn.

Markgineer:

You're all just jealous.

Markgineer:
And I DIDN'T GUILT TRIP! We had our meeting during lunch.

CryoQueen:

Don't think you've won yet Asshat! I won't let YOU take the captain's favorite title!

BigGuns:

Oho! If it's a challenge, you're both on! Double challenge accepted!

Markgineer:  
You're welcome to try, but don't cry when you fall behind again.

CryoQueen:

Shut it Asshat, you're on.

The Silent Wrench:
Yup.

~~~~

The Invincible's corridors buzzed with whispers.

You noticed. Of course you did—old soldiers didn’t survive by missing details. A giggle stifled behind a maintenance hatch. Navigation Officer Dan "tripping" into your arms again. Even Dr. Rosana, usually all laser-sharp professionalism, had started leaving coffee on your office desk.

You were tempted more than ever to hack into some of their group chats and check for yourself what was going on behind your back. 

Civilians.

You adjusted your gloves, fingertips brushing the jagged ridges hidden beneath the leather. Martian shrapnel. A lifetime ago. You've commanded warships, not this… floating circus. But the United Colonies had "retired" you here, a figurehead for peacetime, carrying the torch of humanity to a new planet.

"Captain!" Engineer Mack saluted too sharply, grease smeared artfully on his cheeks. "Need help with your, uh, paperwork?"

"No."

You strode past, ignoring his pout. You've seen this before—crewmates bonding under stress. But this felt different. Frenetic. Targeted. 

Again, the ship didn't come with a handbook for its crew's etiquette. Your best bet was to go with the flow and ignore the bizarre actions. You would deal with it if it ever became a problem.

~~~~ 

It had become a problem.

Mark watched the entire ordeal unfold like a star exploding.

It had started with the four of them, but rumor spread, and before he knew it, the entire crew caught onto their competition. Mark totally blamed CC's stupid act in the mess hall for that.

before anyone could even point the rumors out, there was a pool game going on, completed with a daily leaderboard party held in the maintenance deck in the ship's underbelly. Burt was making a fortune in pudding cups running the whole thing.

And very quickly crew members were throwing themselves at their ship's captain, literally!

Dan, the current #1 on the leaderboard had thrown himself into the captain's arms.

The worst thing was that Mark was there when it happened, getting a good view from down the main hallway.

The captain had dodged the initial tackle but before Dan hit his stupid head to the floor and broke something, the Captain easily took his wrist and spun him around with his momentum, almost dipping the man with a hand on his back as the captain caught and steadied him on his feet.

It was so stupid, yet Danny grinned at them all like the cat that got the cream before skipping off. 

The problem was, it was deserved, a picture of Captain holding Dan was circling every department's group chat, complimented with heart-eyed emojis and congratulations from the crew.

And Mark was not jealous. This was entirely too unprofessional! That's all. 

Mark groaned under his breath, tinkering with a wrench to the vent. With the warp jump being two weeks away, everyone was supposed to focus on their tasks, not cozy up to their Captain! The fact he wanted to do so himself was unrelated.

He grabbed both sides of the vent panel out of its frame, grunting under the weight as he leaned the metal down against the wall. Mark huffed, wiping his sweat before stepping on the ladder again, poking his head inside the ventilation duct with a flashlight held in his mouth.

The vent smelled like regret and Burt’s expired protein bars.

"Mark!"

Someone yelled and before he could come back out of the vent to see, a sharp smack to his behind made Mark jerk forward, his head bouncing against the vent's interior painfully.

"Ow!" He rubbed his head, scowling at the perpetrator.

He swore, backing out of the duct to find Mack leaning against the ladder, grease smeared strategically across his uniform sleeves—a performative touch Mark knew the man never got his hands dirty enough to earn.

"Heeey buddy!"

Ugh, Mack.

"WHAT?!" Mark snapped, fuming. "I'm working!"

"Ha! Work. Rrright." Mack stood below Mark's ladder, hands on his hips and smiling... unkindly.

Mark hated his tone.

"What do you want?" Mark hissed.

"Problem with the plasma conduits in Sector 3, Main reactor," Mack said, tossing a diagnostics tablet onto Mark's tool cart at the foot of his ladder. It lit up with red alerts: another coolant leak. The third this week. "Your brilliant reroute after the last overload? Failed. Again. Captain wants it fixed before the warp jump."

Mark scowled. "I already went over this with the Captain, those coolant pipes need a full replacement, not a patch job. But someone—he glared—"blew the material budget on 'streamlined' thruster upgrades."

Mack’s grin turned venomous. "Upgrades I finished ahead of schedule. While you’ve been crawling through vents, the secondary reactor’s stabilization stats are down 12% under your leadership."

The jab hit its mark. Mack had applied for Mark’s position three times. Failed all three in the short time the new captain had taken over. Too impulsive, the Captain had said. Brilliant, but no patience for the long haul.

And to Mark's immense satisfaction, the captain had added, Besides we already have a Head Engineer who built, this ship.

Yeah, Mark had built the Invincible II and her core, he knew her every corner and quirk. He earned his place.

Mark turned around on the ladder step, looking down at Mack. "You bypassed the safety protocols on the thrusters last week. The cores are vibrating. We hit warp like that, and the harmonics’ll shred the—"

"It's there, isn't it?" Mack flicked his collar pin—the silver bar of Second Engineer, gleaming like a threat. "Captain put me in the role after Burt changed departments covering for Javier's injuries, now all that's between me and the Head of Engineering is a little accident." Mack nudged the ladder leg with his boot, making Mark slightly fumble and hold on tighter to the duct opening.

The flashlight fell out of Mark's hand, its glass shattering on the floor. "You wouldn't fucking dare." he snarled.

"Or what? You’ll tattle to Captain?"

Mark's fists clenched. Mack had been like this since the Academy—all charm, zero follow-through. While Mark debugged code, Mack debugged how to cheat the grading system.

"Funny." Mark growled. "No matter what you do, I'm the one the Corporate trusted with the warp core project and Invincible II. You're just the guy who glued in the airlock system."

Mack's grin didn't reach his eyes as he shrugged, feigning to be unbothered. "Watch your back, Mark. Captains replace engineers faster than you can say ‘glitter tsunami.'" 

The vents suddenly hummed, blowing a cloud of dark dust into Mark's face. His throat tightened, and not just because of the dirt burning the back of his throat.

Another alarm blared on the tablet. The reactor's temperature would escalate to critical soon. Mack didn’t flinch. "Better hurry. Unless you want the reactor to melt down and the captain watch you fail?" He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh—also I saw your ranking on the leaderboard, as always started strong but got left in the dust all the same. 

Mark ignored his asshole of a colleague taunts, sending a message on his wrist monitor to Tyler and Ethan to hold the reactor at bay.

"Dan’s throwing himself at the Captain again tonight in Navigation. You should watch and learn. Maybe the crew will pity-promote you to a less pathetic rank on the leaderboard. Odds are ten-to-one on Dan hitting his head this time, but at least he tries."

"I'm not interested, and if you were half as responsible you would focus on your tasks as well." Mark sneered, a lie, as he turned back to the dust spewing duct. He was trusting his subordinates to handle the reactor while he dealt with the blockage in the vents. He was a good leader, he was!

Mack leaned against the ladder, his smirk sharp enough to cut through steel. "Keep telling yourself that Mark, but both of us know what's really going on." He paused, feigning innocence. "You can fool others that being elbow-deep in grease is you being a good engineer, but we know you're just compensating for the broken ship you built."

Mark’s grip tightened on the wrench. "I’m doing my job, unlike you clowns."

"Job? Sure." Mack snorted, pulling out his tablet and fiddling with it. "Alright chuckle bum, I'm heading to check on the thrusters, you clean those vents squeaky clean alright?"

"Fuck you." Mark snapped, heat crawling up his neck. "This whole thing’s a joke. The Captain’s gonna shut it down once they realize half the crew’s neglecting their—"

"Aw, sweetheart." Mack clutched his chest. "Is that copium I smell? Or just the stench of jealousy?" He leaned in, voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "Face it. You’re not pissed about ‘professionalism.’ You’re pissed ‘cause Danny-boy got the Captain’s attention, and you? You’re just the guy who fixes the AC."

Mark’s jaw twitched. He could’ve swung the wrench. Should’ve, maybe. Instead, he bit out, "Get out of my workspace."

"Gladly." Mack sauntered backward, tossing a pudding cup from his pocket onto Mark’s tool cart. It landed with a condescending plink. "I'm running a new bet. Odds you’ll crack and break the ship before the jump? Twenty-to-one. I'll put ten cups on ‘definitely.’ Don’t make me lose my investment, yeah?"

The vent panel shook in its frame as Mark slammed it back into place, the clang echoing long after Mack’s laughter faded.

Chapter Text

Gunther wasn’t a flirt at heart. His last experience with his romantic partner had ended in a big X-shaped silvery scar on his right cheek. God, he missed that pretty sonuvabitch.

They say the pretty ones will always get you killed, and Gunther was addicted to what he knew he couldn’t have. After all, their Captain was so damn handsome and beautiful, he just couldn’t resist.

The grease monkey, Mark, and that glittery weirdo, Dan, from Navigations, might’ve caught Cap’s eye for now, but it wouldn’t last.

Everyone on the ship kept yapping about how efficient their captain was, how reliable, charismatic, and hot-

Smitten. The whole lot of them.

But not Gunther. 

They treated the captain as their new god, and apparently, those at the top of their secret leaderboard were the prophets.

He meant that literally, metaphorically, and euphemistically, if he knew what those words meant.

Let them fawn over the captain. He’d show them the difference between water guns and a bazooka in the end.

Gunther flicked his lighter, mesmerized by the fire. He stood in the Astroid Defense room, the stars glinting seductively against the void at him through the monitors. Another perfect day to be drifting in the abyss. He held the dancing flame to the cigar held between his teeth, his second one today. He inhaled the smoke and let it guide his thoughts.

The others didn’t understand a battle-hardened hero like their Captain, as Gunther would. Not that Gunther had ever seen the front lines of the War himself, but still. Between their crew of lollipop lickin’ kittens, he was the only one familiar with the sound of gunfire and the taste of blood. Gunther had fought in hundreds of battles before signing on to this mission and had the experience to back it up. Although he admitted, the War was on a different league than he. That's why their captain held his respect, so, God, damn, much.

That cold, steely gaze, those strong, gloved hands, and a stony face that rarely gave away what emotions lay underneath-

Gunther snapped his lighter shut, his fingers dancing over his bandolier as he checked his ammo and grenades. He patted it in comfort. Old habits die hard.

But some things were better left behind. If he remembered anything useful from his time in serving, it was the number of bonds that were solidified on people’s deathbeds. Partners on the edge of divorce were bound together, lieutenants were spared past mistakes, and comrades formed lifetime oaths to have each other’s backs from then on…

Gunther exhaled smoke, watching it curl around the room. 

War and bloodshed were cruel mistresses—but romantic lovers nonetheless. There was no better catalyst for affection than a near-death experience.

A shiver ran down his spine, and goosebumps ran up his arms, hair in his arms raised like soldiers to attention on his sleeveless white vest. It wasn't because of the chill, he told himself. He still believed his old uniform could go suck a lemon, it would be a crime to hide his true guns with a jumpsuit. The netting was tactical. If it left nothing to imagination, that was someone else's problem. He was the gunslinger of the ship dammit, no one could force him into those shitty coveralls! The fishnet hoodie was a hill he would die on.

The shudder wasn’t related to the cold then, but why was he shaking? His heart was pounding Morse code into his ears, but he never learned the language. It was like his first day of taking a gun in his hand when he was still in diapers. Or the first time he felt around his chest for a way to fill the hole in his heart that someone left behind. He was too much of a coward to face the world back then. But now he had years of experience hardening… up, to roll over and give up.

“Boggs! Woodley! Get yer mangy asses in ADS!” Gunther yelled a voice message to his wrist monitor, his men were fiddling with their junk somewhere around the ship.

“Reporting for duty, sir.” Kai Woodly was a scruffy-lookin' nerd, a god dang prodigy type, young and fresh out of the academy. Usually around ADS, fiddling with the automated drones. Officially on his first mission after graduating and unofficially still a baby deer intern who wouldn’t yap about his own boss to others.

"What's up, Explodey?" Holt Boggs, a man in his mid-thirties, technically not in Gunther's department, but an old friend and a lifetime con artist. Not to mention the shuttle pilot had the biggest crush on Captain ever since he rode their fearless leader onboard Invincible II. Gunther needed all of those things for his genius plan.

“You’ve seen the leaderboard recently?” Gunther turned to a mild alert on the monitors, showing an approaching asteroid being blown to smithereens by the automated drones before it reached their ship. Weapons always make him… excited.

“Who’s on the top right now?” he puffed the smoke at his own reflection on the screen.

Woodly cleared his throat, “The first mate, Tyler, sir. His glasses were dropped by accident. Captain bent down and gave them to him in Comms.”

Gunther pounded his fist on the table in annoyance, chewing on his cigar, “This is war, gentlemen, and I’m determined not to let those flapdoodle foozlers keep flying ‘round cap’n like flies.” He looked between the two men, “We need to make our move too.”

Boggs had his arms crossed and huffed dismissively, “And what makes you think we have any chance?” His shoulder sagged, “That is one heck of a wall Cap has around ‘em.”

Gunther stumped his already chewed cigar on the tabletop. The red cherry went out with a fuzz, another bad habit, “Cap deserves better than those sparkly floozies throwin’ themselves on ‘em for affection.” Gunther rolled his shoulders, the sleeveless hoodie shifting on his bulky frame. “Or worse, making Cap bend over for them! Devotion is forged with bullets and blood.” Gunther straightened up, “If we want to win, we need to have the courage to do something extreme. Something those monkeys dancing around can’t do.”

Boggs smirked, his eyes glinting as he leaned forward on the table, “What’s your plan, Gunny?”

Gunther smirked, turning back towards the monitors and his department room at large. “Cap’n is a veteran and war hero, it’s practically already decided that we lot are the best on this ship for Cap.” He took a new cigar and lit it with a flick of his lighter, his third one today. “I’m willing to extend this plan to you, Boggs, but only if you help me with it.”  

Boggs smirked and raised his hand across the table, “You just say the word.” They shook on it once, locking eyes and smirking at each other in the same pride only brainless idiots could muster.

Woodly looked nervous on his feet, shuffling as if a cat was scrambling around in his crotch. “Sir, are you sure this is wise?”

Gunther chuckled, turning to face the younger man, “My plan to make us the most important people to captain on this damn ship.” He puffed the smoke, watching it curl between the three of them lazily, “Of course it isn’t wise.”

Gunther slapped his hand over Woodley’s shoulder, shaking the younger man slightly on impact, looking into his dark, beady eyes, “I’ve been inside you.”

“Sir?!” Kai looked at him with all the anxiety and innocence of a baby frog growing legs.

“That-that- came out wrong, I’ve been inside your shoes. The point is, I know this is your first mission, and you’re anxious. But trust me, as your lead officer.” He slapped the kid’s shoulder again for good measure, seeing the kid nod.

“Boggs,” Gunther turned back to the other man, standing tall, his hands crossed over his chest, making quite the intimidating stance, “About your ‘help’ in this plan… how far are you willing to go?”

Holt Boggs stood taller on instinct, “I’m all in.” he was their ship’s shuttle pilot; he knew of harsh landings and ‘winging it,’ and he wasn’t about to back down. Gunther smirked in satisfaction at this knowledge.

 Gunther welcomed smoke in his lungs, “I need you to blow me.”

The man turned as bright as a tomato, “What?!”

Gunther puffed the smoke in his direction, narrowing his eyes seriously, “…up.”

~~~~ 

Unfortunately, the corridor was extremely crowded at the time.

Too many lay witness to what turned out to be the biggest scandal on Invincible II as of yet.

Mark was unfortunately one of those present on scene when Captain exited the cryogenics department into their main corridor.

The blue light of cryogenics behind their captain made them an even more imposing figure. Cold, cradled by the icy blue halo behind them. An ice mountain of power that they only ever saw the tip.

Many heads turned their way through the corridor of the main deck. Captain looked across them with their sturdy stare, returning the few pleasantries.

Mark stood near the life support room, half hidden behind the crew, at the end of the long corridor. From his point of view, he saw perfectly how the crew immediately started whispering, naively obvious.

Captain rose a single eyebrow in acknowledgment, then promptly ignored the humiliating gossiping bunch and turned to enter Asteroid Defense Systems.

Captain held their hand against the door scanner, only to be met with the red light of error.

This can't be possible. Thought Mark. He designed an exception protocol on the scanners specifically attuned to Captain Gloves’ DNA, since they didn't take them off.

While Mark stressed over his memory of the code he wrote, the Captain went for the second approach to open the doors, “Computer! Open ADS door.” Captain sighed tiredly.

"Error. ADS cannot be reached.” Rambled the ship's computer AI voice, plunging the corridor into deathly silence.

What?

“What do you mean cannot be reached??” Captain pinched the bridge of their nose, exasperated, “It’s right here!”  

Mark could hear the barely contained anger from down the hall. Shit.

“ADS. Cannot. Be reached.” Repeated the AI, slower, in a show of sass, Mark didn’t remember coding into the system.

The crew murmured anxiously. Mark felt cold sweat on the back of his neck. Their captain was enraged now, and the blabbermouths were already chattering on how much of a flying junk tank their ship was.

Shitshitshit!

They’ll definitely blame Mark for the glitches in the ship's AI system, again. Welp, fuck.

“Open the door, dammit!” Captain pounded their fist on the door for anyone inside to open it from the inside.

When nothing happened for a while, the murmurs of the crew rose higher, and the Captain admitted defeat with a sigh.

Their captain almost got to open their mouth to bark orders, probably wanting to send someone for the head engineer or something.

That’s when the sounds of gunshots cut them off. The TURRETS, inside ADS.

But the sentry guns weren’t supposed to shoot anyone, especially not from the crew. Unless it was an alien? Maybe?

If the atmosphere on the main corridor was tense before, it was dire now. Round after round shook the walls with their volume of fire.

No one… no one is inside, though, right?

Mark reached a hand forward, but his feet were stuck in place as the sound of rapid firing continued inside. Which protocol had gone wrong? Was this his fault? Did everyone know it was his fault?

The yellow lights of gunfire illuminated Captain's stricken face through the small window on the door. Oh fuck, if Captain was inside they would have turned to Swiss cheese! Mark almost killed their Captain!

Thunk! A single hand connected with the small rectangular glass of the door, sliding down pathetically, leaving a red smear across the glass. A cry for help straight out of a horror movie.

Mark saw the crew simultaneously flinch back, including their captain.

FUCK! NO!

Mark killed someone! Fuckfuckfuck! Who was it?!

“OPEN THE DOOR!” Captain essentially roared.

Things escalated when their captain punched the door again. But it wasn’t a simple punch, no. The three-layered heavy alloy door (which Mark designed himself) dented under their captain's Herculean strength.

The crew flinched again unanimously. All together, they took a step back in alarm.

The raw rage and danger emanating from their usually calm and collected captain stunned everyone present. Collectively, they realized something essential they hadn’t paid attention to before.

This was it.

The war hero.

The General of Martian Wars, who Earth's remaining media streams unofficially dubbed ‘Blood Fist’.

Who was their last hope to carry two dozen crew members, 100,000 sleeping colonists, and one dog to a new planet, as humanity’s last struggle to not go extinct.

Captain reared his dark leathered fist back to smash the door again, but the door opened by itself easily with a soft swoosh.

Everyone held their breath.

Mark couldn't see inside the room from where he stood. What scene was their captain facing in ADS? How much blood? How many had died because of Mark's-

A white figure stepped out on unsteady legs and fell forward into the captain's waiting arms.

Marl recognized that sleeveless white fishnet hoodie anywhere. Now it was ruined, a darkening red spot was forming rapidly on its abdomen. The man's frame shuddered with each breath, as he leaned heavily to the Captain’s.

Captain looked straight ahead for a few seconds before the wheezing lump held to their chest talked, “Sorry, Cap…”

“Gunther…” Whispered their Captain, voice almost breaking on a hitch of breath.

Mark was hyperventilating.

He could see Gunther’s pristine white uniform slowly turning an ugly crimson in his abdomen and chest. The wife-beater he wore under the fishnet hoodie had holes in it. Oh fuck, Mark could see the fucking holes oozing blood.

Captain fell to their knees, cradling Gunther against their chest. Gunther’s blood covered their uniform and gloves as they pressed over the holes in the man.

“Medics…” Whispered their captain into the still, tense air. “Medic! Get a goddamn medic here!” Shouted their leader, barking orders and directing the crowd.

 As if the spell of silence was suddenly broken, the crew suddenly unfroze, yelled at each other, and finally moved.

That's not what we call them on civilian ships, Mark thought hysterically, as people rushed to the lower deck to get the doctors.

Mark saw Captain dragging Gunther's bulky body to their lap, blood smeared and pooled under them both.

“Just hang on, Gunnerson,” Mark heard their Captain’s voice amongst the chaos.

From his place, Mark could see Gunther's mouth moving, his lips forming words, only to be heard by the Captain's ears.

This can't be happening. Mark watched the comically increasing red of Gunther's blood dripping on the floor. Mark never thought the corridor he designed would need to be mopped of this much blood.

“No. Just hang on,” Captain’s hands were trembling, “You’re NOT gonna fucking die.”

This is all my fault. Mark's hands shook despite the chaos around him, with the scrambling and shouting crew. He stood frozen where he was, glued to the floor. His eyes were unable to leave the scene, as his captain held his rapidly losing blood friend.

“You can't die like this. Come on, just hang on a little longer. Medics are almost here,” the Captain's voice broke on the last sentence.

Mark hysterically thought of how strange it was to see their stoic captain’s voice breaking as they cradled Gunther with such care to their chest.

More words were uttered by Gunther, too soft to be heard by Mark and others. This moment was almost… tender.

Suddenly, it was Captain who froze up, looking down at Gunther's grinning face, who winked. All signs of pain were gone from his face.

Just usual, smug, Gunther.

What?

Captain suddenly hauled Gunther up by his hoodie collar, snarling like a beast as they shoved the large man against the corridor wall. Gunther grunted in pain as his head bounced against the metal.

“What did you say to me?” Captain shook Gunther by his collar like a predator pinning prey. Once again all icy anger and leviathan danger.

The watching crew all stopped in their tracks to stare.

What the hell?

Mark was sure the others were thinking it as well.

What was going on?

Gunther smirked in Captain's grasp, like the cat who got the cream. He rolled his head blithely, apparently unbothered by the harsh movement despite the holes pouring blood on his chest. He didn't seem to be in pain anymore even while Captain dangled him midair.

“I said it was just a prank, Cap.” Gunther’s usual drawl filled the corridor.

The crew looked at their Gunslinger in disbelief.

He can't be serious, can he?

“So all of ya can calm yer panti-“

Gunther's head was thrown roughly to the side as their Captain's fist connected with his jaw.

A collective gasp rang out. Mark flinched back into the wall. His stomach felt like it had dropped on the floor. He felt shaky and jittery.

Gunther grunted in pain but otherwise just looked at their captain wide-eyed. No one knew what was going on in Gunther’s head, but the consequences of what he did… were already too catastrophic.

Mark watched in horror as Captain reared their already red glove back for another hit, their fist shook where it hovered in the air.

Captain released Gunther's collar, making the man slump down to the ground, holding his cheek. He looked up at the Captain.

“Infirmary,” Captain grunted between gritted teeth, shaking with controlled anger. Barely controlled.

Mark had no illusion their captain was Pissed with a capital P.

Mark saw the dent the Captain's punch made in the door. Gunther was lucky he got away with just a broken jaw.

“Get him to the infirmary.” Captain turned back, just in time for a distressed-looking Celci to exit Cryogenics, only to yelp in surprise as Captain shouldered her on their way out.

Captain disappeared without a single glance back at the crew members parting away like the Red Sea before them.

“What the hell happened here?! AAAA!” Celci screamed as she finally saw Gunther’s slumped down form in a pool of blood, cradling his swelling cheek and jaw.

Mark took a shuddering breath, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. His palms were sweating in his fingerless gloves. His heart was quivering in his chest.

He refused to acknowledge the lump in his throat. Invincible II might have just lost her third captain.

~~~~

You were tempted to break into a run.

Undistinguished shadows stood around the corridors, lurking in every corner as they walked by and saluted you, some saying indistinguishable words.

All the while, you tried to control yourself and keep your composure intact.

Don’t make eye contact. Don’t stop walking. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t stop walking…

Your feet carried you, but your eyes struggled to focus. You could hear your heartbeat in your temple like drums. You knew for a fact that if you stopped walking for even a second, you would cave in.

Your skin was hot and clammy, your uniform felt too tight and restricting, and your hands were burning with sweat inside the thick gloves you wore. Fuck, you were miserable.

Somewhere in your subconscious, you knew you had to take this behind closed doors before you fall to pieces in front of the crew.

By pure will and a dose of miracle, you found yourself standing in front of your private quarters’ door. You raised your hand to the scanner only for that cursed red error to appear again. You flinched, looking at the red smear left on the scanner.

Your vision swam on its axis as you looked at your blood-covered hands. Mark had made the scanner attuned to your heavy-duty gloves. Apparently, whatever Gunther had used for fake blood was potent enough to mess with its reader.

You closed your eyes as you wiped the fake blood on your pant legs, the dampness was enough to make you struggle holding back bile.

Thankfully, the scanner accepted your hand the second time, and you took a step inside your room.

“Computer…” you rasped, barely heard. The weight on your temple and shoulder dragged you forward, and the artificial gravity pulled on you like chains as you sank to your knees clumsily. 

It was a weak, defeated position. Especially for you, the captain. Your hat fell in front of you. You felt stripped bare.

If only the crew could see you now. Ha!

Pathetic.

People fell to their knees for only a handful of reasons: when they were admitting defeat with no hope, or when they were exhausted beyond the power to fight.

Or the third option, the worst one, when they had to beg for their life.

You just felt hollowed out.

You spotted the red of your carpet against the dark edges of your vision.

“Don’t let anyone in under any circumstances.” You instructed the AI, finally collapsing on the rug, gasping for oxygen as if you’d run from your legs.

Your mind divulged how stupid you were being. What if there were an emergency and no one could reach you due to your stupid instructions? Just because you didn’t have the balls to get your emotions under control?

“Affirmative, Captain,” the ship’s AI replied.

You exhaled shakily. That’s a relief, at least.

Now, to focus on your stupid panic attack.

What if someone dies for real and you’re hiding in your room, losing it like a moody teenager?

“You’re gonna get them all killed.” Said him. A red drop fell in front of your face, much darker than what Gunther had used.

Familiar boots appeared on the rug at the edge of your vision.

“They’ll be fine.” You rasped out loud, closing your eyes. If only you could get some water to wash away the scratchiness of your throat.

“You mean how we were ‘fine’?” A familiar face loomed over you, dark hair matted with blood. His stomach had a quickly spreading red stain. Just like the one Gunther had faked.

He grimaced. His eyes were slowly losing their light, turning milky white and unseeing, just like the first time you’ve seen it happen. He stared down at you, but you knew it was just that. A nightmare. 

You exhaled shakily, as the usual weight settled like rocks in your stomach at the sight of Him.

“Stop.” You said, exhaling the word softly. You closed your eyes, not that you could escape your own mind. “I don’t have time for a breakdown. They need me.”

“We needed you too.” Rasped the brunette man.

“I know.”

You turned your head, cheek rubbing on the red carpet, ignoring the hallucination. What is this rug made of? Kinda scratchy but pretty clean.

You opened your eyes, finding yourself mercifully alone again. Your hand lay beside you. You looked at the convincing blood coating both your gloves and your uniform. You felt acid in the back of your throat.

You rushed to your knees to throw up on your carpet and yourself. There went your mostly clean rug… fuck.

You tried to avoid looking at it and yourself as you took off your uniform and gloves before you stumbled to the bathroom to retch the second load of your stomach contents in the toilet bowl.

Everyone had to be okay out there for a few hours...

Just a few hours till you collected your pieces again.

"Just don't panic..." You mumbled to yourself as you gripped the toilet bowl with scarred knuckles.

~~~~

Everyone was panicking.

The cleaning bots made quick work of the very convincing puddle of blood in the corridor, but the imprint left on the entire crew couldn’t be scrubbed clean so easily.

Gunther was taken to the infirmary for the time being, and the drones were back to their old setting.

On paper, the situation was handled. Taken care of successfully as swiftly as possible.

But in reality, Mark was watching utter chaos unfold.

The rumors were whispered between the crew. Group chats exploded with theories and exaggerated retelling of the events that went down. Most tasks were left unfinished or done sloppily as people kept throwing nervous glances around, unable to focus on their jobs.

Mark monitored the drones' coding, saw the anxious looks of the passing crew in the corridor, regarding ADS like a place of doom.

Worst of all were the ADS shooters; they stood out of the engineers’ earshot, but Mark could make out worry and anger in their tones.

At one point, one of them picked up a handgun but was tackled down by the others, and the gun was wrestled out of his hands.

Mark knew the gunslingers of their ship were inseparable brutes, but even to imagine mutiny…

Mark built a cursed ship. There was no other explanation.

He wanted to DO something, but he was stuck feeling useless. All these problems happened, and he couldn’t do anything to stop them.

He wanted to lash out, scream at everyone, and beat some sense into these people. But alas, he was stuck rechecking the automatic sentry guns' lines upon lines of code.

He was careful to add more strings of code to ensure they could never shoot crew members. No matter what.

“Alright, should be alright.” Mark stood and popped his back.

"We'll be out of your hair then..." Ethan, his youngest engineer on the team, kept fidgeting with his belt, shooting nervous looks between Mark and the angsty gunslingers.

“Thanks.” One of the taller men grunted, cleaning their throat awkwardly as they bodily shielded the still infighting, arguing bunch.

They avoided addressing the suffocating elephant in the room: Captain’s absence and Gunther’s unofficial imprisonment in the infirmary.

A little ping on Mark’s wrist monitor rang out in the ADS room, silencing the arguments as all eyes turned towards him. “Message from Captain.” Announced his wrist monitor for the whole room. Once again, betrayed by his own technology.

Every single head in ADS turned, and the glares intensified to murderous. Mark could see the sheen of Ethan’s sweat. Psht! As if their own crewmates would shoot them down. Ludicrous!

Mark read the text and cringed.

‘courts-martial at 9 am, main deck. Volunteer witnesses.’

Mark felt eyes on him boring into his soul. He cleared his throat and nodded to Ethan. “Captain wants the main deck cleaned and… seated?” Mark ran a hand through his hair, huffing, “Yeah, get some benches, lots of benches.” Mark rambled, mind working overtime. "But we don't have a lectern on board... should we make a lecture?"

Ethan fidgeted with the hem of his uniform, his eye dancing between Mark and the angry mob of trigger-happy idiots. “Why do we need a lectern?” Ethan whispered.

Mark closed the text and looked at the shuffling ADS crew pretending not to be eavesdropping. Knowing the rate of the rumors on this ship, the news would travel fast: “Captain wants to hold courts-martial at 9 am on the main deck.”

Protests, curses, and shouts came from the men present. Two of them reached for their guns again.

“Shut up!” Mark yelled, his white knuckled fist shook with rage. “Don’t make anything worse than it is. Captain said anyone can volunteer as a witness. Just be civil and attend. If you pull any shit, you make it worse for all of us, especially Gunther.”

Mark heaved, his heart beating against his ribs as he stared down till the mob retreated, grumbling and retreating to their dorms.

Mark turned to Ethan, “Clear it with First Mate Tyler to clean out the main deck. Also, grab the team so we can figure out what the hell a court-martial is and how to build one.” Mark groaned into his hands. This had gotten out of hand too fast. He needed a shower and at least four hours of sleep.

“Are you gonna tell Gunther?” Ethan kept his eyes on the floor, looking smaller than usual.

Mark knew the feeling. “Yeah, I probably should.” He didn’t know if a court-martial was worse than a normal court or not. Would they execute Gunther? Would it be real bullets this time, or just throw him out of an airlock? Would their captain do that?

“Fuck!” His fists shook by his sides.

Ethan nodded grimly, “Good luck, Mark.”

“Yeah… thanks.” Mark shook his head. They would pull through. They had to.

~~~~

Gunther was as unharmed as he usually was, apart from the now dried red stain on his shirt and shattered ego.

He hit the back of his head against the wall, shivering with his arms crossed. The infirmary was cold, and Doctor Beauregard was punishing him by ignoring him completely. He could take the heat… or, er, cold.

“I’m so stupid.” He groaned, regret and shame were not a pleasant cocktail. And he had plenty of unpleasant cocktails in his time.   

“That’s one way to put it.”

He looked up to see Mark, “What’re ye doin’ ‘ere?” Gunther’s accent was thicker than usual. He usually kept his roots under thick wraps, but tonight he felt too dang tired to even try. What was the point anyway? He had already flown too close to the sun trapped in their captain's eyes, and got what every fool deserves handed to him.

“About that...” Mark looked more nervous than a bug in a lighthouse, opening and closing his mouth several times before he shook his head and sat on a chair instead. “You didn’t shoot yourself, right?”

“Nah, not a scratch.” Gunther crossed his arms and scoffed mirthlessly, rubbing his bruised jaw, "But I think my brain will never understand the difference between fear and arousal again."

“Ew...” Mark cringed, looking away uncomfortably at the other empty cots.

“I know why I’m still here.” Gunther looked straight into Mark’s eyes, “I’m in prison, aren’t I?”

Mark winced, not answering, “Captain is holding a ‘court-martial’ at 9 tomorrow…”

Mark’s shoulders were tense and up to his ears. He wasn't ever meek. And Gunther had known the man for years, ever since the first Invincible was blown to smithereens.

He was sitting in a dingy bar, in one of Earth’s last space stations, drinking to the deaths of their fellow humans. 100,000 people, gone. The wars hadn’t left many humans in the first place, and the hope for the first colonizing ship to find another planet for them to sing Kumbaya in was destroyed. A fine day to drink if you asked him. "There goes the chance for humanity."He gulped his drink, letting it drag him deeper in the haze.

“I think there’s still a chance.” Mark had said back then, smiling bright and brilliant at Gunther, a stranger, leaning over the shitty bar counter towards him.

Gunther had looked at the man’s greasy outfit and clocked him as an engineer right away, “Yeah Sunshine? What? You’re gonna build Invincible numero dos?” Gunther had scoffed, gulping his drink down and letting it burn.

Mark’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, “Yes! Would you be willing to sign up for its security?”

Gunther had thought to himself, ‘what a shitty offer,’ and then secondly, “Sure, why not.”

Now, the difference between the subdued engineer and the one who invited Gunther to his not-even-a-ship yet was glaringly obvious.

“You okay?” Gunther asked.

He wouldn’t call them 'best buds' by a long shot, but dammit he drank with the guy. debated defense system and lend him his expertise on explosions and guns. He could swallow his already battered pride for once and check on the man's feelings. Ugh.

Mark chuckled humorlessly, “No. But it’s not about me, is it?”

“I’m sorry.” Gunther said sincerely, “I am.”

Mark tilted his head with a shrug. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was something.

“You saw Cap yourself? Know the verdict?” Gunther asked, unable to help himself.

Mark looked even worse when he turned back to face him, like he was about to bawl his eyes out or puke. Possibly both. “No. No one’s seen Captain since... then.”

The silence hung heavy in the infirmary. Mark ran his hand through his hair. Gunther had a hunch the guy was fucking stressed. "I don't know what to do..."

“What’s the situation out there?” Gunther jutted his chin towards the door.

Mark scoffed, bordering on hysterical, “Your men almost tried mutiny.” he hissed the word.

“Fuck…” Well. That was news.

Those idiots. “Fuck!”

Mark huffed, “Yeah...”

“It’s my fault.” Gunther hit his palm to his forehead.

The cocktail in his stomach was turning acidic. This was the hell of his own making; he hadn’t known it at the time, but as he aimed to land in the arms of an angel, he’d thrown himself straight in the arms of the devil. And like a plus size woman hurdling, he felt like his heart was in the race but in the end he had only made of fool of himself with his jiggling, humongous, tits; bouncing up and down for everyone to gawk at.

Mark had stayed silent. Gunther could see the stress lines already forming, and the guy hadn’t even passed his mid-thirties.

“This captain is different,” Mark murmured, probably to convince himself rather than Gunther.

Gunther snorted and leaned back, “You said that about the last captain.”

Mark closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “But we need this one to be different.”

“We can always put operation ‘Oops, did the jump’ back in action,” Gunther suggested helpfully. Surely they could pull off kidnapping and securing a captain for their ship, right? Child's play.

“NO! No. You don’t understand! You’re doing it again! You’re not thinking of the consequences!” Mark rounded on him like a snake, gripping his shoulders, “We can’t just ‘kidnap’ the Captain! They’ll skin us alive! The crew is already a mess! The last thing we need is a murderous, betrayed captain trapped in the same ship with us.” Mark snarled, getting too close to Gunther’s face, shaking him back and forth.

“Alright! Alright. I get it, no kidnapping the Captain and forcing ‘em to stay.” Gunther raised his hands in surrender.

Mark backed off, his eyes dancing frantically, searching Gunther’s face for something. He looked like a desperate man, clutching glitter in his fist, doomed to watch it slip and get in every crevice of his palm and hair.

Mark sighed, leaning back, he seemed to gather himself, “Besides…” Mark smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “Captain would kill you and me if we pull that.” Mark touched his cheek, mirroring Gunther’s, “Remember the dent in the door? Captain went easy on you.”

Gunther snorted and leaned back, rubbing his purple jaw again, “Yeah. There’s that at least.”

His eyes found Mark again, “Again, I’m sorry about all the trouble. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly.” Mark gave him a small smile, more genuine than the last, “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m guessing whatever court-martial is still needs lawyers for its defendants?” Mark smiled.

Gunther beheld the man in front of him. The one who convinced him to join his ridiculous crusade to build a second Invincible, then to hold said cursed ship together with duct tape till they reach their destination, carrying humanity’s race to safety. Even when their ship had changed two captains already.

And what had Gunther done to help? Poured red wine all over that fluffy white dream.

Yet here Mark was, stressed and overworked but willing to help in Gunther’s favor. All because he wants to keep this ship together. 

Gunther cleared his throat against the disgusting wave of emotions in his throat, “I appreciate that.” He looked down at the red flaking fake blood. Boggs was one hell of a con artist. “How’s your girl, by the way? I didn't see her running around the mess hall this morning.”

Mark smiled softly to himself, “She’s fine, Brian’s babysitting for me.” Mark looked at the floor, chuckling to himself, self-deprecatingly, “Sometimes I think she likes the Navigation crew more than me.”

Gunther scowled, “Nah, you’re her favorite.” He said, “It takes time, but when we land, you don’t have to juggle between keeping this ship afloat and being a single ma.”

Mark gaped at him. Gunther caught his cheeks dusting pink before he ducked his head to hide it. “Thanks.” He croaked, keeping his head down to the door, “I'll see you tomorrow.”

~~~~

“Ugh! I don’t know what I’m looking at!” Roderick threw his hands up in frustration.

Mark groaned as he swiped through the limited variety of court-martial pictures the computer had in its database. Which was two in total.

Mark and four other engineers had gathered around a wall monitor, scratching their heads as they tried to make sense of what they were supposed to make.

It was late, compared to their set 24-hour cycle. Most of the crew members were already asleep, and besides a few night shift members, the engineering crew stood alone on the empty main deck. They yawned with drooping eyes, staring uncomprehending at their two pictures of Earth issued courts-martial. One was a black and white drawing of people in wigs, and the other was of a brown official-looking courtroom with little view of the actual court’s seating order.

“This is a waste of time…” Jason grumbled bitterly, scratching his beard with a yawn.

“There has to be a manual for situations like this, right?” Ethan, the naïve, inexperienced baby that he was, asked innocently.

“Manual, yeah right.” Gabriel scoffed at the very notion. He was just let out of the infirmary yesterday after almost dying when the Captain's shuttle's disastrous landing. “Listen kid, life doesn’t come with a manual. Much less the shit on this ship.”

Mark groaned and dragged a hand down his face. He couldn't blame Gabriel much for being upset, “Enough, let’s just go by what we know so far." He opened a tab checklist on their group chat. "There’s a Judge in every court, right? We need a high table for that. Then I guess a jury table...?" He squinted back at their two source material and shrugged. "Then a defendant and a prosecutor's table."

Ethan perked up, "Ooh! And a transcriber guy!" he piped in.

Mark shrugged, "Sure, and that." He looked over their checklist, and it seemed legit enough. "Alright, Jason and Roderick, you take Jury. Get some benches and tables from the mess hall." Mark said without looking up.

"You got it Boss." Jason grunted, followed by a grumbling Roderick. The tall, hulking guy that Jason was, paired with fretty Roderick, it should go without trouble.

"Gabriel, you got the defendant's table and the prosecutor's table. Make them symmetrical." Mark nodded to the man.

"On it." Gabriel nodded back.

"What about me?" Ethan asked.

"Since you suggested it, you get that transcriber seat." Mark rubbed his chin, imagining the final main deck, "The aesthetics are vital... Maybe if we staple some banners up for décor, it will look more put together." He murmured to himself.

"Okiedokie." Ethan saluted and scampered off like the others to find material. 

With his team taking direction and scattered to do their part, Mark finally felt satisfied to focus on building the Judge's platform. After all, their captain is supposed to sit in it. He needs to make an elevated bench, but not one of those from the mess hall, at least not without some alterations. 

Soon, Mark found himself kept busy and lost in the process of unscrewing a brought-in mess table from its legs. If he set the flat tops to the sides of a bench, he could build-

“You’re putting too much effort.”

Mark jumped, hitting his head on the side of the toppled table.

He looked up to see Captain’s looming presence down at him with a quirked eyebrow.

Mark squinted through his headache, pretty sure he was hallucinating what their Captain was wearing.

“I didn’t know you had T-shirts.” Mark’s brain-to-mouth filter apparently was smacked out of him.

The outfit in question was bright red. It hugged their biceps and middle, snug in all the right places. Not to mention their casual pants hugging those strong thighs, expanding right in front of Mark’s eye line. Stars. It had to be a sin to look that good.

A suspiciously mirthful noise escaped their captain as they crossed their arms. “I don’t exactly sleep in uniform.” Captain replied, indulgent. “Besides, had an emergency laundry day.”

Mark noticed their captain had long, rough scars running down from their wrists to the crook of their elbows, which were barely concealed by their crossed arms. Their shirt collar rode down to reveal the tail end of more lines and their tempting promises of what was under the fabric.

Mark had to force himself to look away from their captain’s uncovered, normal-looking hands. No claws or robot hands at least…

He cleared his throat, “I’m sorry for what happened, Captain.”

Their leader dismissed the thought with a grunt, “We’ll know if you need to apologize or not in the morning.”

Mark fidgeted uncomfortably. Did their captain think he was in on it? Mark was the one who designed the sentry drones. Fuck. Now he had to worry about Gunther and himself.

“Captain, I didn’t-“

“Back to my first point, I said you’re putting way too much effort.” Captain tilted their head at two engineers hauling a large table through the main deck, grunting as they wobbled dangerously to one side or the other, “Why are you stealing mess hall’s benches and tables?”

Mark cringed at the barely hidden stares of the other engineers who threw him and Captain, “We’re trying to assemble a court-martial?” he said uncertainly.

Captain kept staring at him. “Why?”

“Because you told me to?”

Mark was more confused than ever. Were they doing it wrong?

Captain snorted into his fist. Their hand was covered with jagged scars, raised flesh in barbed patterns over each finger running down to the knuckles. Did they have fine motor functions?

Mark knew for a fact the origins of such injuries weren't pretty. Their Captain had gone through hell and had the scars to show for it. What baffled Mark was how someone could be so beautiful despite everything.

If only Mark weren't so hideous... Maybe-

"Thank you."

Captain's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

When he remained dumbly staring, their captain clarified, "For taking care of things in my absence." They smiled down at him.

"Oh! Uh. Of course! No problem, Captain." Mark weighed his options if it was too late to stand up and continue the rest of this conversation standing instead of sitting on his bum like an idiot.

"Don't stay up all night, your words, not mine." With a nod to the rest of the engineers, their captain left with all that bright red T-shirt glory.

"Man... how can someone look that badass in a red T-shirt?!" Roderick grumbled, and the others joined in their mumbled agreement.

They were all fucked. 

Chapter Text

You hadn’t slept a wink the entire night before the martial court. It wouldn’t be fair to your Head of ADS to deny him a proper, lawful trial. And by God, were you trying. According to the crew's records, none of them have even seen the inside of a courtroom before, much less be qualified to run it as a Judge. You knew you shouldn't, since you were directly involved, but you had no choice but to run the show yourself.

These people were sensitive—you’d learned that time and time again. You couldn’t act the way you would with fellow military officers back home-

Well, this was your home now—at least for a long while, until you could get the entire crew to safety.

You were grateful for your personal coffee machine as you loitered in your quarters, reviewing the ship’s rulebook. The Invincible II’s laws had been neatly compiled by the ship's computer, though whoever wrote them must have given up halfway through. The first half was thorough, but the latter sections devolved into absurdity, as if the author assumed no one would read that far.

“All personnel must refrain from seeing their dead girlfriends’ ghosts on the main monitors.”

You blinked hard at the passage, wedged between a littering penalty and regulations on mandatory psyche evaluations for “periodic lack of sleep or strange behavior.”

“Good thing no one actually reads this thing,” you muttered, sipping bitter coffee from the silly mug that had come with your quarters. “Wakey Wakey Protocol!” was emblazoned across it in cheery, blocky letters. You suspected your quirky engineer was responsible.

You underlined the rules relevant to your predicament, among them, the senior commander's cruelty and the penalty for a senior officer physically harming a subordinate was a sore eye.

You winced as you highlighted that one.

You hadn’t meant to punch Gunther. You’d pulled back at the last second, but his pained groan and wide-eyed shock had been enough to snap you out of swinging again.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. Too violent. You’d left the war, but the war hadn’t left you. You couldn’t lead a crew of civilians with unchecked anger simmering beneath the surface. You needed to be level-headed. You couldn’t fall apart. There was no time to crumble.

After underlining the punishments for related offenses, you checked the clock in the corner of your screen: 7 AM. Cook would soon be serving breakfast to the waking crew. You considered joining them but decided against it. The tension would be unbearable.

You’d effectively fled yesterday, leaving them to deal with the aftermath after you’d punched one of their department heads like a brute.

Another sigh. Another sip of coffee on an empty stomach.

It was a miracle there wasn’t already a mutiny underway. You really didn’t have a grip on this ship—or its damn crew.

Just a few more hours, and you’d have to face the makeshift courtroom for the trial.

Mark had outdone himself. He’d constructed a shockingly authentic courtroom on the Main Deck from scratch. The man was a perfectionist in everything he did. You made a mental note to thank him later. As Head Engineer, he constantly went beyond his duties for the ship.

Rising from your desk, you stretched, feeling your shoulders pop. Your uniform should be ready by now.

“Computer, is my laundry done?”

“Yes, Captain. Ironed and polished.” The AI slid open a wall compartment.

You hummed, retrieving your crisp uniform with satisfaction. “Did you say polished?” Turning it over, you found your medals reattached perfectly and your gloves buffed to a shine.

“Affirmative.”

A snort of laughter escaped you.

That engineer… He thought of everything, didn’t he?

~~~~

Mark wrung his hands nervously in the mess hall. It was almost 8:30, and he felt jittery with caffeine coursing through his bloodstream.

“This is a disaster…” he whined. He’d sent his team to their quarters, but he couldn’t relax enough to nap. Last night, the Captain had hinted he might be put on trial too. “Fuck!”

Burt shot him a strange look but kept his wisdom to himself. Not that he had anything to worry about.

Credit where it was due—ship maintenance had improved since Burt’s reassignment. Not that Javier hadn’t tried his best, but the man desperately needed a vacation.

It was Mark’s curse. His machines always broke down, always needed fixing because he could never get them right the first time.

Burt was the more thorough engineer—focused, handy with a wrench, attentive to details Mark overlooked. Maybe if Burt were Head Engineer, none of this would’ve happened.

Mark groaned again, thumping his forehead against the table. His untouched breakfast tray rattled.

Silence smothered the mess hall. The air was thick with tension, suffocating any appetite—especially since the Captain apparently refused to eat with them.

Would Space Affairs Sector send a fourth captain? Or would they declare the Invincible II a failure and disband the crew? No—they couldn’t. Not with ten thousand colonists in cryo-sleep. For humanity’s dwindling numbers, that had to count for something… right?

Mark slammed a fist on the table, making several crewmates flinch. Dammit! If only he’d prevented this. If he’d coded the drones to never shoot crewmates, reinforced the door mechanisms to prevent jamming, or stopped this stupid game before it escalated—

A simultaneous ping echoed across every wrist communicator in the mess hall.

MESSAGE FROM CAPTAIN:
“All personnel, report to Main Deck. Randomized jurors, check your assignments. Volunteer witnesses are welcome.”

 

A second wave of pings followed with juror assignments.

Mark’s notification was different:

CAPTAIN: “Escort Mr. Gunnerson from the infirmary.”

 

Mark groaned, hiding his face in his hands. He wanted to cry.

~~~~

Celci wasn’t sure how to feel about being chosen for the jury.

Yesterday, she’d only caught the tail end of the chaos—the Captain shouldering past her, leaving a stunned Gunther in a pool of fake blood and the crew in disarray.

The rumor mill had already churned out the story: Gunther had faked his own death for attention. That idiot. And the Captain had punched him for it. Yikes.

She groaned as she took her assigned juror seat. Damn Mark and his ‘aesthetics’. The crazy perfectionist had transformed the Main Deck into a shockingly convincing courtroom—complete with banners, benches, and vinyl panels masquerading as wood. 

“All rise!” Ethan, Mark’s ever-eager assistant, announced as the Captain entered.

“Oh, sweet stars above… Captain looks pissed,” Judy Lee, from Engines, whispered from beside Celci.

That was the understatement of the year.

The Captain’s face was as unreadable as ever, but their uniform seemed sharper, their shoulders rigid, gloved fists clenched behind their back. The bloodstains from yesterday were gone, but the air around them was colder, heavier.

“You may be seated.” The Captain’s voice was a gravelly command as they took their place at the high table. “We are gathered to address yesterday’s… incident.” Their gaze swept the room, dark with disdain. The kind leader who’d fretted over Celci’s health over coffee was gone. In their place stood a war general, betrayed and disappointed by their subordinates.

“Mister Gunther B. Gunnerson,” Captain addressed the chagrined man sitting at the defendant’s table, bearing the many glares directed at him, “Have you selected a representative?” The Captain’s tone could’ve flash-frozen plasma.

Gunther, slumped under the weight of the crew’s glares, blinked owlishly. Celci bit her lip in sympathy. It wouldn’t be very fair to place all the blame on Gunther. Sure, he was the idiot who took it the furthest, but Celci knew clear as day everyone played a role in escalating the game.

“Representative?” Gunther asked, looking up again to see the captain now watching him like a bug under a microscope. “Uhh, well…”  He scanned the crowd, his eyes landing on a familiar mop of messy dark hair.

“Oh no…” Celci muttered.

Mark sighed and trudged forward, dropping into the defendant’s seat beside Gunther. Celci wanted to smack her forehead and groan out loud. An idiot, defending another idiot. Gunther was doomed.

The Captain gave a curt nod, apparently accepting this tragedy for what it was. “Computer, display Mister Gunnerson’s offenses per ship bylaws and rule book on Monitor Eight.”

“We have a rule book?” Judy hissed.
“Don’t ask me—I haven’t read it,” another juror shot back.

The monitor flickered to life, listing Gunther’s crimes in neat bullet points. Oh shit. They did have laws.

“According to the issued base rules provided by the Department of Interstellar Judicial Enforcement,” the Captain said, tapping their datapad at the crew's stupefied expressions, “which you all signed upon boarding-” A pause. A glare. The crew collectively sweat.

No one had read the fine print.

“The charges are as follows: conduct unbecoming an officer, causing false alarm endangering operations, unauthorized system modifications—specifically, hacking and tampering.”The Captain’s voice dropped lower. “Additionally: provocation leading to violence, misuse of ship resources, and subversion of order.”

Gunther was screwed. Celci could see the same thought echoed through the crew’s faces.

She wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. It was intimidating to have a list that long piled against someone. What would his punishment be?

The Captain turned to Mark. “What does the defense say?”

It was painful to watch. Celci wanted to cringe or yell at the engineer’s baffled face, fumbling to produce a response. Mark floundered, exchanging hissed whispers with Gunther before standing. “Uh, Your Honor—? Captain—?” Mark twitched as he wrung his hands. “Gunther... didn’t mean any harm?”

Celci slapped her forehead.

The Captain remained impassive as an ice statue, “Elaborate.”

“Well… He was… unprofessional,” Mark conceded, gesturing to the damning monitor, “Especially intentionally creating a false emergency…” Captain stayed silent, listening to Mark dig himself into a deeper hole, “But the uhh, disruption was… minimal? Systems weren’t damaged after the hacks-" Mark looked back at Gunther, then their captain. He was just making it worse! "But! But there was no malice. No real damage. It was just… a prank?”

Silence.

Oh, he screwed up.

The Captain’s eyebrow twitched. “‘A prank.’” Their voice was lethally soft, “Involving hacked security systems. A shootout and a faked death. inciting panic.”

“Y-yes—I mean, no!” Mark backpedaled.

Celci’s spine turned to ice. Would he expose the crew’s secret game? Mark wasn’t that stupid… right?

The crew held their breath. Mark, don’t you dare—

“Um… well, there was this thing…” Mark tugged on his white turtleneck nervously, “It started... kinda my fault really, then it grew into... and then everyone was kinda—"

The Captain raised a gloved hand, stopping Mark's incoherent rambling. “Iplier. Is there a point?”

Mark flinched. “Yikes,” Celci breathed. Captain never called Mark by his last name.

“Article 22.3 of the DIJE Code states disciplinary action must account for intent,” Mark blurted. “His intent wasn’t harm.”

The Captain’s eyebrow arched. For a split second, Celci thought she saw their lip quirk. Even the crew gaped. Since when did Mark quote regulations?

“It’s Section 20,” the Captain corrected dryly. “But noted. Jurors, consider this.” 

Mark collapsed back into his seat, drained.

The Captain turned to the prosecution’s table, where an uncomfortable and squirming Tyler sat. “Mister Scheid. Proceed.” Apparently, being the first mate, he was the representative on their ship’s behalf. 

Tyler cleared his throat and stood up, “Thankfully, we didn’t experience any injuries in the chaos, but," Tyler adjusted his cybernetic glasses. “Post-incident, crew productivity dropped sixty percent. And...” He hesitated. “Evidence from reviewing the drones' coding suggests Gunther wasn’t acting alone.”

“Oh shit,” someone behind Celci muttered.

Yay. Even more drama, that’s what they need.

“Computer,” the Captain ordered, “display drone logs of unauthorized changes.”

~~~~

The trial dragged on for hours. By the time the Captain called for recess/lunch break, Celci’s stomach churned, and acid burned the back of her throat.

Gunther’s accomplices had been outed: an ADS lackey (sitting on the jury behind Celci!), who was involved with tempering the drones, their shuttle pilot, who’d supplied the fake blood, who exposed the leaderboard, damning their entire crew.

The captain forced more people to come to the witness stand and cough up what they were doing behind their back. They looked exhausted. The captain didn’t even know who to replace the jurors with, since no one was innocent.

Celci dragged her feet as she left the main deck behind with the rest of their shuffling crew, groaning and muttering like a horde of zombies as they trickled into the mess hall. Celci grabbed a tray and reluctantly collected her food, ignoring the cramped benches.

Damn Mark and his “authentic courtroom” bullshit. Why did he have to steal their mess hall benches?

Speaking of the miserable engineer, Mark sat with Burt in the corner like plague victims. The crew gave their relatively empty bench a wide berth. As Celci approached, she saw the reason why: Gunther sat in front of Mark, glowering at his food with an imaginary dark cloud hanging over him. She dropped down next to him unprompted, making Mark and Gunther jolt in surprise. Burt just huffed, eating his peas like a psycho.

“Jeez! Warn a guy!” Mark hissed, twitchy as a live wire. He looked one wrong breath away from a nervous breakdown.

“Since someone stole all the benches, we are low on open seats, so scoot over,” Celci said, nudging Gunther’s boot. The man grunted annoyed, but obeyed.

Silence. Then Burt, the madman, spoke through a mouthful of peas:

“Stars hum through the void—
wounds heal, engines steady light.
Breathe. All will be right.”

Gunther barked a hollow laugh. “Doubt it. This is all my fault.” He said self-deprecatingly, running a hand over his bald head, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Nah, don’t hog the blame,” Celci said. “I started the ‘Captain’s Favorite’ crap. You just… escalated.” She tried to keep a convincing smile but was unsure how effective it was.

Gunther didn’t buy it.

Mark stared into his mug like it held answers. “You’re quiet, Asshat,” Celci prodded, tapping his boot under the table, hoping to get a reaction.

He didn’t look up. “Out of words.”

“'Out of', or just tired of ‘em?” She prodded.

“Both.”

And that was that. Celci exhaled. They were all screwed. Celci hoped to all that was holy and above their wills to help them get through this. For their sake and the ten thousand sleeping souls they carried as their cargo.

When they returned to court, she volunteered her confession.

~~~~

Late in the afternoon, the Captain finally called an end to the trial—though not without difficulty. Testimonies had been given. Closing arguments delivered. Mark, ever the desperate advocate, had pleaded for leniency, framing Gunther’s actions as a “lapse in judgment.”

The jury deliberated in a private room, debating dizzying questions. "Should the Captain’s punch be factored in?" One asked. "Will a harsh verdict hurt morale?" another worried. Celci just wanted to crawl to her bunk and sleep till they'd landed.

When they returned, the Captain’s gaze dissected them. “Have you reached a verdict?”

Judy stepped forward, voice wavering. “Y-yes. Partial conviction.”

“Very well.” The Captain’s nod was measured, their expression unreadable as they considered it.

After reviewing the DIJE sentencing guidelines, they ruled:

• Temporary suspension of Gunther’s rank.

• Deferred until after the Warp Jump (now less than ten days away).

It was far more lenient than Celci had expected.

“Don’t make me regret this, Mr. Gunnerson.” The Captain’s tone lacked heat. Just caution and a quiet warning.

Gunther stood subdued, shoulders hunched. “Yes, Cap'n. I won’t let you down.” Then, softer: “Off-record… I’m truly sorry.”

The crew gawked.

The Captain circled the stand, stopping nose-to-nose with Gunther. A gloved hand clamped onto his shoulder, jolting him upright.

“Apology accepted.”

Then—like a switch flipping—the Captain’s gaze iced over, sweeping the room. “If anyone pulls this shit again, I’ll make you regret ever boarding this ship.”

A terrified chorus erupted: “Yes, Captain!”

“Dismissed!” they barked. “We’re two days behind schedule—move!”

With that, the crew scattered like roaches.

As Gunther turned to leave, the Captain gripped his shoulder once—a silent don’t fuck this up—before releasing him.

Celci lingered just long enough to see the Captain corner a half-asleep Mark, who swayed on his feet, eyelids drooping.

“And you. Don’t show your face again until you’ve slept eight hours,” the Captain ordered, exasperated.

Celci shook her head and slipped away.

Chapter Text

The bridge thrummed with activity, the whir of machinery blended with the staccato beep of consoles. The crew was darting through the corridor with purpose.

At its center stood the Captain, hands clasped behind their back, eyes locked on the main viewscreen. Swirling data graphs pulsed over the Invincible II’s blueprint, a mesmerizing and slightly ominous sight.

This was nothing like their first attempt—back when Mark and Gunther had schemed to allegedly kidnap the new Captain and hijack the Warp Jump on the Captain’s first day. Now, all systems were at peak performance, contingency protocols stacked like armor to protect the hibernating crew during any emergency. No room for error.

The Captain inhaled. Their voice cut through the chaos, “Attention crew.” Their voice was as calm as always, but carrying a different weight than usual.

The room fell silent. The crew turned, shoulders tense as all eyes turned to the Captain.

The past week had been… awkward, to say the least. A minefield of whispers had arisen behind closed doors: dictatorship, hypocrisy, unfair trial. Many disapproved of the lack of a penalty for Captain's physical violence, and the injustice of assigning themself as the Judge for Gunther's trial. No matter that Gunther had gotten out practically scott-free.

The crew exchanged glances as they formed a hesitant circle to listen to their leader, like it or not, they depended on their Captain to get them through the other end of the jump to safety.

 “As you know, after weeks of repairs and preparations,” the Captain began, “The ship’s stable enough for the Warp Jump.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the crew, but died under the Captain’s raised hand.

“Our destination is uncharted space. Our ship may face dangers while we’re under.” They paused. Their gaze swept the room. “Best scenario, this expedition will take beyond human life spans. If any of you have family or friends left behind, this is your chance to put your affairs in order and send out messages. Once we jump, our connection to the UCE network will be severed; the world we leave behind is gone when we land.”

This is why Warp Jumps are such rare and last resort occurrences. Mark thought back to his little home back on Earth, despite not much remaining of it after the nukes. Who knows, maybe once they get out of cryo-sleep, Earth will be rebuilt.

“Finalize your checks. Say your goodbyes. Then report to your cryopods.” A beat. “See you on the other side.”

It was old-fashioned, but it was the customary farewell.

The crew nodded, their expressions hard as they trickled out of the room. Captain looked across each of their faces, memorizing them.

Warp Jumps were dangerous—rarely attempted for three grim reasons.

First, the ship would be at the mercy of its automated systems while the crew slept helpless in cryostasis. A single glitch could doom them all.

Second, no human could survive the jump’s gravitational forces outside the pods; it would liquefy their organs in seconds.

But the most terrifying reason? Warp Jumps spanned centuries. By the time they woke, the order of government that sent them might have fallen. The people they knew would be dust. Mark gulped, their estimated time of travel was nearly a millennium.

The Captain’s eyes landed on Mark, stepping to his right by the console. “Reactor status?”

Mark’s wrist monitor flickered, projecting data onto the main screen. “Stable. All structures are green, Captain. Warp Core primed.” He turned to their Captain over his shoulder. “Awaiting your command.”

The Captain nodded, “Good. We can’t afford any surprises.” Their eyebrow arched as they turned to him, "And Chica? Is she in her pod?"

Mark twitched. Her tiny cryo-pod haunted him— but at least it was extremely relieving that their captain acknowledged her as part of the crew.

Mark nodded, his cheeks flushing under the attention. "Yes, I put her under an hour ago." Mark bit his lip, looking down.

His fingers trembled on the keyboard. If he could, he wouldn't have brought her with him. No one has tested cryo-sleep for something as fragile as a dog. But Chica was all he had, his family. This was a one-way trip. Leaving her behind was unthinkable.

Now, her still body in its custom pod filled his mind. What if I designed it wrong? What if she never wakes up? What if I killed her—

A gloved hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him out of his thoughts, "She'll be fine. Focus."

Mark swallowed. “Understood, Captain.”

One by one, the Captain checked with the remaining department heads before sending them off to cryo.

The Captain turned to Celci, their tone shifting more serious. “Celci, how’re the crew Cryo-pods?”

"Only fifteen pods remaining, including us, Captain." Celci stood in front of another wall monitor, watching red dots turning green as crew members finished their last checks and went under. “We’re ready for anything after waking up as well, the team is briefed on potential scenarios.”

“Let’s hope we don’t need it.” Captain grunted, “Leave the rest to us, report to your pod.”

The bridge became less and less crowded as the Captain sent them away. “How’s our course looking, Brian?”

“We have checked the destination with long-range scans for the fifth time.” Brian stared at the stars out of the window glass with contempt, letting the melancholy wash over the remaining department heads. “ETA is eight hundred light-years travel time. Warping will either shave off time or add to it.”

The Captain exhaled. “Let’s hope it’s worth it.”

Around them, the universe spun on, indifferent. Stars would flicker whether the Invincible II survived or joined its predecessor in oblivion.

Soon, Mark looked up from his monitor and found the bridge to be empty, except for him and Captain.

"It's time." The Captain's gaze flicked to the main console, where every cryo-pod indicator glowed green. They were the last two souls still awake aboard the Invincible II.

Mark fumbled with his locker, stowing his red beret. The bridge pods were strategically put here for a reason; if danger struck, the computer would wake the Captain and Head Engineer first.

“Mark.”

“Captain?” He turned. The Captain’s exhaustion was palpable; they looked weary and worn out, but their voice was softer than he’d ever heard it.

"Thank you." A small nod. "Couldn’t have done this without you."

Heat crawled up Mark’s neck. "Just doing my job, Captain." Maybe I shouldn’t have layered so much under this jumpsuit.

The Captain snorted. “Ridiculous.”

Before Mark could decipher what that was supposed to mean, the Captain’s fingers flew across the console.

"Warp core engaged," the ship’s voice announced. "Wormhole opening in thirty seconds."

Red emergency lights flooded the bridge, synced to a pulsing siren. Mark slammed the locker shut, adrenaline bitter on his tongue.

“All personnel, report to your assigned Cryo-pods.”

Mark approached the matted glass box, blue light spilled from his pod as the door hissed open.

“See you on the other side.” The captain said, stepping into theirs across the room.

"See you on the—" The door sealed. Cold stabbed through his veins as the countdown boomed.

“Wormhole opening in 10, 9, 8…” Darkness swallowed him. 

His last thought was, “I hope that wasn’t a euphemism for death.”

~~~~

You jolted awake, gasping. Cryo-sleep wasn’t supposed to allow dreams—so why were you drenched in sweat?

Sweat? That’s not possible.

You clawed at the pod’s monitor, vision swimming, gathering your bearings little by little.

“Good morning, Captain.” The computer’s voice said as you were still struggling to catch your breath, “We are currently, E̵̘̚͜R̷̬̰̂̕Ȑ̶̳̏O̴͙̲͝R̴͕͛͊, years into our journey. Coffee is en route.” The AI’s voice glitched. 

"Error?" You blinked—an electric spark jumped between your fingers.

The AI interrupted, “Current ship status is… a̷b̷s̵o̸l̷o̷u̵t̶l̸y̶ c̷͜͝a̵t̸̀a̴s̶ẗ̵r̴̫͒o̶̍p̷͆h̶̟͐i̸͗c…” The monitor flashed crimson. Alarms screeched. The ship lurched, slamming you against the pod’s walls.

“Ini-ini-ini-intializing emergency ‘Wakey-Wakey Protocol’.”

Something beeped hysterically as you staggered upright, legs wobbly as a newborn deer’s.

“Wait- WHAAAA-!“

The pod ejected you like a bullet. You barely caught yourself on the console, wind knocked from your lungs. The bridge was drenched in red light, windows fogged, consoles spasming with errors. "The hell...?

“Reviving, Head Engineer.” The ship said.

Mark’s pod exploded open, hurling him face-first into the window. He crumpled—no blood, but gods, the concussion risk—

“Mark?” You watch him stumble to his feet, dazed and disoriented like yourself.

"Captain? What the hell is—AAAH!" He turned to look over his shoulder. 

You lunged as the glass shattered behind him.

Too late.

Mark’s scream vanished into the void as space sucked him out.

You grabbed the console, body lifting toward the abyss. The air ripped from your lungs, ears popping violently. For a heartbeat, you stared into the eyes of Death.

“Hull breach detected.” The AI droned. 

“DO SOMETHING!” You shouted against the wind. Your body was angled behind the main console, holding you against the pull.

“Sealing bulkhead.” Metal shutters slammed shut, silencing the vacuum.

You collapsed, gloves creaking as you clenched your fists.  It happened so fast, but Mark’s terrified face burned behind your eyelids. For the millionth time, you wished you could turn time back, even if for a few minutes.

Another innocent life lost.  Another failure. You’re useless. Everyone around you dies while you watch-

Suddenly, fire erupted from the main console, forcing you to step back.

“Fire on the bridge.” The AI observed.

“No shit!” You swatted at the flames. As disoriented and panicked as you were, you had no time for a breakdown. The heat could ruin the ship’s operating system. The crew’s still frozen.  “Fuck, computer! Activate Fire-“

“Error. Life support systems failing.” The computer caught you off.

“What?” You knew the air was pretty low on Bridge, but how did the hull breach damage Life Supports?! “WHY?”

It had no answers to give.

“Piece of shit- Get the fire suppression system on this, now.” You sprinted for the door, threw your hand on the door scanner. Life Support was more important; your crew were still in cryostasis and dependent on it.

“Error. Automatic Fire Suppression System offline.” 

You gritted your teeth against the smoke, racking your lungs with coughs. “Fine!” The console had to be forfeited.

“Error. Fail-safes offline.” The AI continued, refusing to open the door, “Warning. No atmosphere detected within Life Support.”

"Manual override!" You wrenched it open anyway. The room flickered with dying lights, warnings blaring on every monitor.  You read it aloud, “Oxygen recycling systems compromised. Manually engage back-ups systems.” 

“Warning. Oxygen levels dropping to unsafe levels.”

You coughed, vision blurring with dark spots. "Shut. Up." Dizziness clawed at you, but there was no time to falter.

Three valves protruded from the wall. Above them, chicken-scratch handwriting and a crude arrow pointed helpfully: "O2 BACKUP".

No time to wonder who wrote it. Your lungs burned, starving for air.

The first valve turned easily. By the second, your muscles rebelled, shaking and doing their best not to cooperate. You threw your full weight against it, teeth gritted. A metallic thunk. It held.

The last valve trembled in your grip. You held it two-handed, arms shaking as you fought against the metal. You were seconds from collapse—

Ping.

The valves lit up. Oxygen flooded the system. You gasped, heaving like a drowning survivor.

“Oxygen levels rising.” You glared at the ceiling. If only the AI had a throat to choke. “Good news, Captain. The momentary lapse in oxygen extinguished the fire on the bridge.”

You staggered back to the bridge. The console's casing was charred. "What caused all this?" You'd spent every waking moment optimizing these systems. This was no accident. "How many years are—"

“Warning. Brace for impact.”

The ship jolted violently, slamming you into the wall. Alarms wailed. Another impact. Something was hitting the ship.

“A-a-alert. Hull breach detected.”

“Pirates?” You sprinted for ADS. You could control the sentinel drones manually. If they'd hacked us—

“Asteroid Defense System is offline.”

"We're getting hit by ASTEROIDS?!" You yelled. This couldn’t be possible, Mar-, the engineering team had sworn ADS was foolproof.

"Disregard previous statement, Captain."The ship shuddered again. “The Astroid Defense System is working at 100 percent efficiency.” 

"Hacked." You spat the word, bouncing off corridor walls as you ran.

“Any vibrations you are feeling are simply the guns working to keep you safe.” The AI's voice glitched, dripping with wrongness.

"Bullshit! You think I don't know gunfire?" Your scream echoed through empty halls. Everyone was in cryostasis, and the one man supposed to help with this was gone. You smacked your hand over the scanner, glaring at the green light, relieved when it opened the door.

ADS was bathed in blood-red light, monitors fizzing with static and glitches. And there—two drones, double-barreled lasers locked on your forehead.

You raised your hands, feeling Déjà vu, but this time, no Gunther was falling into your arms. These drones would shred you.

"Don't you dare," you snarled.

“I said, the Asteroid Defense System is… fine.” The AI's voice warped, thick with menace. Now you were sure it was hacked or some other bullshit, it glitched and rumbled through the speakers with unmistakable hostility.

Gunfire erupted.

The drones started shooting, aiming for your head.

“FUCK!” You ducked, but A bullet grazed your neck. You flung yourself behind the wall as lasers ricocheted wildly down the corridor.

The automated door finally slid back close, the bulk of fire increased in the last seconds before it shut, bullets pummeling the metal in a last frenzy. The imprint of your fist could be seen on the dented door.

You pressed a gloved hand to your neck. Blood seeped through the leather. You focused on breathing against the pain. It’s been a while since you were last shot at, the pain wasn’t as familiar as it once used to be.

“Captain! Please make your way to the nearest bunk, and have a naaaaaap.” The AI slurred, like a dying man, as it powered down.

“Dammit.” Even if the computer seemed powered down for the time being, the ship kept shaking and alarms blared, screeching like banshees, making your teeth rattle. 

You stared at your blood-smeared glove. Why does this keep happening?

Your head thunked against the wall. You couldn't do this alone.

Datapad in hand, you scrolled through the crew roster.

Chapter Text

You typed out a command on your tablet to wake Gunther.

You prayed the ship's emergency stasis systems had been spared from the hack. Losing 100,000 colonists would be... unthinkable.

"Initiating Wakey-Wakey Protocol for Gunther B. Gunnerson, Head of Asteroid Defense Systems," the computer announced. You exhaled in relief—until the reality hit.

Fuck. Was Gunther even the right choice? He was the last person you wanted to drag into this. Would he even know how to disable the drones? You should've revived one of his assistants instead...

A distant cry echoed through the corridor—a raw bellow that hit you like a physical blow. You turned, and every instinct went taut. Gunther charged toward you like an angry bull, his boots pounding a war drum on the metal grating. The ghost of a sharp, satisfying pain flared in your knuckles—a perfect memory of your fist connecting with his jaw. Yeah, you definitely hadn’t resolved that conflict and put it behind you as well as you’d thought.

"I heard the alarms, Cap'n!" He skidded to a stop with shocking grace for a man his size. "Someone's molested my babies!"

"..." You blinked hard, trying to clear the blood-loss-induced dizziness. "The drones have been hacked," you clarified numbly.

He stared back at you, the corners of his lips turning down in a grimace. "You're bleeding, Cap?"

"No time." You grunted, waving off the concern,  "Do you know how to reset them?" You squeezed your eyes shut against the pain, pressing a gloved hand to your neck where the wound pulsed in time with your heartbeat.

His grin returned, all cocky edges and practiced charm. It was the same look he’d given you the first day you arrived—one side of his mouth quirking up higher than the other, a single arrogant dimple appearing, as if he already knew a secret victory you didn’t. "I've been through hundreds of battles, fought through hundreds of traps." He unholstered his gun with a practiced flick. "A few rogue drones ain't gonna get the best of me." With that, he slapped the door scanner, his unlit cigar clamped between his teeth as he dove inside.

"Wait—I meant resetting them remotely!" You watched the door seal behind him.

The drones' gunfire resumed immediately—the sharp crack of railguns followed by the sizzling stench of ozone and scorched metal. It was punctuated by Gunther’s bellows and the sickening, wet-thud of impacts that no body armor could truly absorb.

Your shaking legs collapsed under the ship’s next shudder. The blood loss was… making your brain sluggish. You’d fucked up. You’d sent your crew to their deaths. And Gunther had marched in like a lamb to the slaughter.

The drones were still shooting, he was still yelling incoherent noises.

Suddenly, the wall you were slumped against trembled with the concussive force of an explosion going off inside ADS, and the noises stopped.

You tilted your head up with effort, the door slid open, revealing a singed and smoldering Gunther holding the decapitated head of a drone like a trophy.

"Problem solved, Cap." He holstered his weapon and leaned against the doorframe, grinning around his cigar. Soot covered his face and uniform, the drone's head still smoking in his grip, but he appeared unharmed. "Next time, give me a challenge."

A hysterical laugh burst from your lips—each jerky movement sent fresh pain through your system. The irony wasn't lost on you: you, a decorated general, bleeding out pathetically on the floor like some rookie, while Gunther emerged from a drone massacre without a scratch.

Your head thunked back against the wall weakly.

"Hey." He removed his cigar as the drone head sparked ominously in his hand. "You alright, Cap'n? Where's Mark? That idiot should've—Cap'n?"

A metallic weight filled your throat, making each breath a struggle. You deserved this. A pathetic end from a lucky shot by your own ship's drones.

Fifteen years of warfare as a frontline general, only to die on a colonizing vessel, failing to save even one engineer. Your whole life gone, easy as that. What a cruel punchline.

"Cap'n?" Gunther was suddenly kneeling in front of you. When had he moved? "Cap'n, do you hear me?"

"I'm sorry..." you hissed between shallow breaths. You couldn't leave them like this. What kind of irresponsible bastard captain abandoned their crew right after waking them?

With the last of your strength, you grabbed his bandolier. "Listen—Mark's gone. By S.A.S. protocols, the next in line takes command..." You could do this. This one last pathetic attempt to save your crew before finding out what’s waiting on the other side, "Computer! Register Gunther Bullet Gunnerson as next in line for captaincy—"

A wet cough interrupted you, splattering blood across his white vest.

"I am...sorry..." Relief flooded you as the computer acknowledged the command. "I'm—" Another cough, this one tearing more out of you, blood flow doubled at each cough.

"Don't talk! Don't talk, Cap'n!" Gunther's voice cracked with panic as he pressed against your neck where your own hand had fallen away. You felt guilty for putting this much responsibility on someone else's shoulders. 

"Take care of them." The plea left your lips as your vision darkened for the last time.

~~~~

You were falling. Not down, but backward, through a swirling, phosphorescent blue tunnel that smelled like static and melted plastic.

Hell's gullet, spitting you back out.

Your limbs flailed, slow and syrupy, you started screaming—a profoundly ungraceful sound—as motes of light that felt like freezing rain peppered your skin. There was no sound, just a pressure building in your skull until—

—you crashed onto solid ground.

Metal flooring materialized beneath your feet. The impact jarring your teeth. You barely managed not to buckle under the momentum.

Your hands shot out, hitting a smooth, cold surface. Glass. You were standing inside your cryopod, the ship's alarms blaring like they had the first time. Not heaven's pearly gates, not hell's fire and brimstone... but something worse. Personalized. None of the religions you knew had mentioned this in their books. Then again, you've never died before, so...point.

"I'm dead..." You rasped, watching your gloved hands. Not heroically, not of old age, and definitely not happy, no. You died pathetically, for no cause at all, like many soldiers did. But this wasn't rest. This was... repetition. You died pathetically, and hell said, 'Do it again.'"

You followed the glass walls to a blinking cyan circle on the pod's interface: “Software update complete.” What? “Good morning, Captain, we are currently, E̵̘̚͜R̷̬̰̂̕Ȑ̶̳̏O̴͙̲͝R̴͕͛͊, years into our journey. Coffee is en route.” The AI's voice glitched like a broken record. It was a mockery. As if that mattered. As if you were back.

"What is—?" An electric spark jumped between your fingers.

The AI interrupted, “Current ship status is… a̷b̷s̵o̸l̷o̷u̵t̶l̸y̶ c̷͜͝a̵t̸̀a̴s̶ẗ̵r̴̫͒o̶̍p̷͆h̶̟͐i̸͗c…”

It was happening again. The screen flashed red, alarms blared, and the ship shuddered from impacts. You were ejected from the cryopod, as if it had hocked a loogie, sending you to land on your hands and knees.

Your gloved hands flew to your neck—no wound. “What kind of hell is this?” You stood to face the familiar bridge bathed in emergency lighting. The console glitched violently. Déjà vu wasn't supposed to occur after death, you reasoned.

“Reviving, Head Engineer.” The ship announced.

Could it be-?

Mark's pod exploded open, hurling him face-first into the observation window. He crumpled to the floor, closer this time, groaning as he struggled to his feet using the console for support.

"Captain? What the hell is going on?" His bright, confused—alive—eyes met yours. Alive. Impossible.

The demon wore his face perfectly. The eyes you'd seen widen in terror before the vacuum took him. Hell wasn't just showing you your failure; it was animating it, forcing you to interact with the ghost of your guilt.

You lunged forward and gripped his wrist.

Air rushed toward the vacuum, lifting his body toward the abyss, but you held on, ignoring the pull of your arm and shoulder.

“Hull breach detected.” The AI droned. “Sealing bulkhead.” Metal shutters slammed shut inches from Mark's heels, closing Death’s maw.

He panted, staring at the sealed shutters with wide eyes before turning back to you. "Thank you?" he managed, voice shaky.

You nodded, dazed. Every instinct screamed to pull him into a crushing hug, to confirm it was real—but you settled for a stiff nod. Gripping the edge of the console to stabilize yourself. The console was the perfect replica of your ship's.

"Um..." He rubbed his wrist where you'd gripped him. "What's happening?" The panic in his eyes was clear as he demanded answers.

You couldn't exactly say, 'I think we're in hell,' could you?

The main console burst into flames before you could respond. You stared at the fire with detached fascination.

Huh.

“Fire on the bridge.” The AI announced. “Error. Automatic Fire Suppression System offline.”

“It’s repeating...” You murmured with a clenched jaw.

“Error. Life support systems failing.” The computer rumbled.

“I-I’ll get Life Support!” Mark sprinted out of the bridge. 

The only difference is Mark’s presence. You thought. You grabbed the emergency extinguisher and doused the main console. It looked better than you remembered. It was glitching, but mercifully seemed functional.

“Alert, fire extinguished.” The AI reported needlessly.

You studied your gloves—once bloodstained, now pristine. "How...?"

“Captain?” Mark’s soft call made you turn.

Suddenly, it was dark, as if someone had cut the lights out.

The alarms cut off, the corridor lights shut down, plunging you into darkness, and despite hearing him right behind you, there was no sign of Mark.

“Mark?” You called out, stumbling forward. As your eyes struggled to adjust, details emerged: There were paper notes on the wall, dim candles were placed by the door, their wax pooled and frozen in time. Notes covered the walls, tally marks, and agitated chicken scratch handwriting, ‘DON’T OPEN THE DOOR’, ‘DON’T BREATHE MY AIR’. You looked around, there were hundreds of them.

The bridge was silent. Unnaturally so. You approached your cryopod, your boots scuffing softly on the floor. The constant, low hum of the engines was gone. The faint buzz of the life support systems had vanished. All you could hear was the frantic thrum of your own pulse in your ears and the soft, wrong rustle of paper notes in a non-existent breeze. Hell holding its breath before the scare.

You approached your cryopod – your tomb. Candles like votives to a damned saint were arranged before it. The very air smelled of old smoke and stillness.

Notes plastered the glass, scrawled taunts: 'DON’T WAKE THE CAPTAIN', 'SLEEPY HEAD' mocking your helplessness. The rusty-brown smears weren't like blood; they were blood. Yours? Mark's? The colonists? Hell's ink, writing your damnation on your own coffin. You reached a gloved hand out, about to peel one note away to see—

—movement. Inside the pod. You looked up. Deep inside the pod's gloom, two pinpricks of light ignited. They weren't just glowing; they were burning with a cold, pupil-less blue flame—the size of coins and the color of a star going supernova. They locked onto you, not blinking, shining with an ethereal, hateful intelligence. A hand slapped the glass from the inside— it wore a glove. 

You flinched back, and the world snapped like a rubber band.

You stood before a normal pod again, bathed in sterile light. The notes, the candles, the thing inside—all gone as if they’d never been.

“Alert,” the computer voice sliced through your thoughts, “Oxygen levels rising.”

"Sweet stars above..." You looked at the fire extinguisher, which was back in its case as it had never been used. “What’s going on?” You asked the empty but normal-looking bridge. You touched the cool glass of the Cryopod; it was so tangible and solid...

“Ah Captain! There you are!” Mark stood in the doorway, grinning. “I’ve got Life Support back online.”

“Thanks,” You answered distantly, scrutinizing him instead. “Are you…” If this was hell, how had they replicated your Head Engineer so perfectly?  “...okay?”

"Of course!" Mark chirped enthusiastically, “I still don’t know what the hell is happening, but we seem to have this situation all under control!” He looked at you with a bright smile, giving you an exaggerated thumbs-up that radiated optimism like nothing else.

"You sure about that?" The ship chose that moment to lurch violently, throwing you both against the wall. 

“Impact detected.” The computer said.

Huh, so they're repeating everything. You mused to yourself, taking a deep breath. They were mocking you.

“Computer! Activate the Astroid Defense System!” Mark shouted, clinging to the door for balance.

“Analyzing…” A beat, “No.” Mark’s brow twitched incredulously,

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO?!” He yelled at the computer feelingly. Maybe it was the real Mark’s soul…

The ship shuddered again, and you tried to hold on to the wall as the lights flickered. “Computer, what’s wrong with the ADS?!” Mark demanded.

“ADS, Offline.” 

“WHY??” Mark bellowed, exasperated. The immediate reply was a repetition of, “Offline.”

Your engineer was literally arguing with his own AI. You almost smiled—if this was your personal hell, at least it had entertainment value.
Fascinating. The afterlife was a fucking fascinating, glitchy joke.

“Computer, what is wrong-“

“O̵F̷F̶L̵I̷N̷E̵.”

“COMPUTERWHAT’SWRONGWITHTHEADS!?” He spoke rapidly, before he could be cut off again.

The ship shook hard enough to knock Mark over. You instinctively steadied him by the shoulder. Solid. Warm. Too real for a hallucination.

Mark started running down the corridor. You followed curiously. “This doesn’t make any sense!” He threw his hands up, infuriated. He kept looking over his shoulder, talking to you. “We got asteroids hitting our ship! Our guns aren’t shooting them DOWN!” The ship shook from another impact, and the lights went out for a second.

Mark hit the wall hard, cursing. You reached for him—he felt so tangible.

“Thankfully! Uhh, there’s still guns, so y’know,” He slapped his hand over the scanner to ADS, your blood ran cold, wait, “We should be able to, point and… shoot’em…” He trailed off as the door opened to the two drones, pointing their red lasers at Mark’s chest instantly. 

“The Asteroid Defense System is… ő̷̥f̵f̶̳̾l̴̳̔i̵̘̊n̴͈̋e̵̦͑.” The computer’s voice glitched. The line was different than the one it gave to you-

Instincts made you yank Mark back as drones opened fire. He collided into your chest with a yelp of surprise, but otherwise, the two of you escaped the firing line unharmed.

That's odd. You had survived it this time.

You looked down at the short man in your arms, "You alright?" Even if he was a demon parading as your Head Engineer in this hell, you couldn’t stand to watch him die again in good conscience.

He watched as the sentinels kept shooting until the door closed again. "I think so?" He seemed shaken. You silently watched Mark gather himself and step back from you. Was this how it could have been? If only you had saved the real Mark from that damned window...

“Uh, well, that’s new.” Mark gulped, “Something's gone wrong with the computer.”

The demon looked painfully real, sweating and shaking with a perfect imitation of adrenaline.

“I thought we got hacked.” You replied, dejectedly. Watching the man you had failed, another name that should be added to your list.

“Y-yeah, we must be,” He stammered, “The drones shouldn’t be able to attack the crew. I programmed them myself.” His voice pitched higher at the end, sputtering with anxiety, staring at the door like it contained a monster behind it. "I know that's not a guarantee, but I triple-checked them! They were fine!"

“I know you did.” You whispered, these demons were damn good actors. You hadn’t cried in years, but you teetered dangerously close to the tipping point the longer he kept it up.

He looked at you with wide eyes, “Captain, are you-?” He was caught off with another asteroid struck the ship. “We gotta fix ADS, or we’re gonna get blasted to bits!” He shrieked.

“We can’t go in, we’ll get shot.” You said firmly, unbudging in your certainty. Your last encounter with a laser gun had proven your fighting days were over—along with your life, apparently.

You’d been slower ever since your discharge from the army, your past injuries hindering you to the point of costing you your damn life. It’d be stupid to try again, even if none of this was real.

“This is what happened in the first Invincible,” Mark mumbled, breathing faster in a fit of hysterics, “But they didn’t have YOU!” He turned to you in a frenzy.

You took a step back. The red lighting of the alarms gave the demon a hellish tint, making it look more crazed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked.

“I know you've got a plan to save us cooking up in that big brain of yours! I can see the wheels turning,” he ranted, his gestures growing more erratic, “You’ve faced the odds and beaten them a thousand times before! This is gonna be a cakewalk.” He was rambling hectically at this point.

The demon, or whatever entity was posing as Mark, must’ve broken character. The Mark you knew, not that you’d known him longer than a few weeks, had never acted like this. At least you didn’t think so. He was usually awkward and anxious, but this...?

“I’m practically salivating at the thought of how you’re gonna save us!” The imposter swooned in a frenzied and delirious rant.

This was in no way real, let alone Mark.

“Come on, tell me!” he demanded hysterically.

“Well…” You looked at his eyes. Hell has a sense of humor. Dragging him back, the one person whose face you saw last. Was he the right choice? Hell didn't care about 'right choice.' It cared about pain. Would he know how to disable the drones? Did it matter? Hell probably reprogrammed them to enjoy killing him. You should've just jump in the room yourself... but hell knew you wouldn't. It knew your guilt, your debt. It fed you the worst option, and you swallowed it whole. “Last time this worked, so,” You raised your datapad and tapped the protocol to wake Gunther from stasis. Distant screams echoed through the ship.

Mark perked up, “Oh yeah, Gunther should be able to handle this!”

You narrowed your eyes at the fake engineer. Of course. This was ridiculous. Hell wouldn't be complete without sick jokes. 

At least everything was repeating, just more dramatically.

You braced for it, muscles tensing for the inevitable crash and bluster. The air vent above you groaned, its screws popping one by one with the sound of cracking bones. Then, with a shriek of tearing metal, Gunther exploded downward into the corridor.

You watched as Gunther rose effortlessly from his knees after exploding out of the vent, a cigar already lit between his teeth. “Yes, I can!”

It was like a sitcom; he was answering Mark’s comment. A bit too cheesy for your taste, but then again, this was hell; no one said it would be pleasant.

He exhaled smoke as he sauntered over. “I heard you had a little problem on your hands, Cap’n.” He unholstered his gun, cocking it, “I’ve been through hundreds of battles, fought through hundreds of traps.”

Oh. His dialogue was the same. Grief dug its sharp claws into your chest, tightening your throat, hollowing your stomach. You hoped the real Gunther didn’t resent you for the sudden responsibility. You prayed he and the crew had made it to their new home safely.

“A few rogue drones,” He took a drag, the cigar’s tip burning cherry-red, “ain’t gonna get the best of me.” The visage glitched in front of you, and pain exploded behind your eyes, rattling your skull. 

You blinked, and Gunther’s replica was replaced by an elderly woman in glasses, offering cookies on a china plate.

“What the hell?” You rasped, staring at the sudden apparition. She wore a shawl embroidered with sparkling stars, her silver hair and wrinkles spoke of age, and her eyes, not just dark with the weight of knowledge, but ancient. who was this woman supposed to be? You’d never seen her before. She wasn’t part of the active crew. "How—? Who are you?" you asked.

“I’ll do my best if you think I’m the right person for the job.” She said with dignity, still holding a large plate of cookies. 

Well, if there’d been any doubt, this wasn’t real...

“Who are you?” You repeated, stepping closer, “I’ve never seen you on the ship before …” You reached out to touch her elbow, but she pulled away, smiling unsettlingly.

Mark turned to her, “Well, not my first choice,” He told the woman, “But the Captain is the captain, so Mrs. Whitacre, we need you to-“

“Oh no no no!” She cut him off with a scowl. Mark froze mid-gesture. “I’m not married anymore, young man.”

Mark’s replica looked as staggered as you felt. The two locked eyes, engaged in a silent standoff.

“Care for a cookie?” She offered the plate at last. It looked like a trap, poisoned, probably.

“Sure,” Mark said robotically, taking one without breaking eye contact. “Would love one,” his smile didn't reach his eyes, “’ppreciated.”

He reanimated after that bizarre exchange, “Miss Whitacre, we need you to get in the asteroid defense system and fix- whoa!”

The ship trembled again, and you watched with amusement as they both wobbled off balance. When the lights came back on, she turned to you, “When the captain tells you to do something, you'd best get it done, I always say.” She nodded decisively, “And there’s no problem a plate of cookies can’t solve!”

Hah! If you hadn’t died less than ten minutes ago, this would’ve been so bizarre you’d have laughed in her face.

She steadied herself, slapped the scanner, and shuffled inside.

“Uh, I mean…” You half wanted to stop her, but at the same time, none of this was real, so…

“Hello dearies! Care for a cook-“ Her voice was cut off as drones opened fire. A thud hit the door; through the small glass panel, you saw her white hair pressed against the surface as she slumped out of view.

A dark pool seeped under the door, spreading with every second.

You turned to Mark’s horror-stricken face. He stared at the blood in disbelief, then met your eyes, mouth agape. He looked on the verge of tears—before mechanically raising the cookie to his mouth to take a bite.

“Warning! Large object on collision course with ship!” The computer announced.

Mark panicked, slamming his hands against the door scanner repeatedly. Miss Whitacre’s body must’ve been jamming the mechanism.

“Brace for impact.” The computer warned uselessly.

Mark smashed his left hand against the scanner again, the red light flashing each time. "NOOOO!"

His scream was the last thing you heard before the ship erupted. Heat engulfed you—then, nothing.

You were falling backward through a glowing blue tunnel again, its twists and branches swirling around you. Pain split your skull; your eyes couldn’t process the flashes of images fully before they changed: your cryopod’s interior, Mark turning the backup oxygen valves…

He gave you a thumbs-up, his face a blur of confusion. “Jobs… done?” 

The world dissolved again, colors and shapes indistinguishable—until you stood once more before the ADS door. A singed, smoke-streaked Mark stepped out, grinning. "Job’s done, Captain! We did it."

You studied his appearance: soot-covered, a burn slashing his cheek. He looked like Gunther had—the real one.

He blinked, suddenly more aware, his thumb still sticking in the air. "What… did we do?"

“Asteroid Defense System, Online.” The computer announced as a green status light glowed above the door. 

“Huh.” You eyed the light. “Why aren't we dead?” 

“What was that, Captain?” He hesitated.

"Nothing. Don’t worry about it." You waved off his worried stare.

He scowled. "How did we get here?" he asked softly, almost afraid.

“I don’t know.” You replied. Why would the demon expect you to know?

Another alarm blared, “Warning, coolant leak in Cryo.” The AI said.

“Oh Captain we got to—“ Mark’s being distorted again, the world warping, “—move…”

Suddenly, you stood before Cryogenics. Mark faced you, his hair and shoulders dusted with frost, trembling violently. Even his eyebrows were frosted over.

"Uhh… okay…" he stammered. "W-well, Captain…" He seemed as disoriented as you felt. "I guess we gotta…" He squinted, struggling to recall. "Fix the…" He glanced behind him for confirmation. "Problem…?"

“Hngh…” Your eyes kept seeing double. Pain throbbed in your skull with every heartbeat. You felt nauseous and unstable in this strange domain.

“Do you remember what the problem was?” He sputtered, shivering. It was pitiful, even if he wasn’t real. 

“Uh… it was something about… Cryo… leaking?” You gritted out. He was freezing; your head was splitting. And you’d just killed an imaginary old woman. 

All you wanted was a damn moment to process the fact you’d died. Twice.

Chapter Text

You watched Mark's imposter shiver violently in the cold. It was pitiful. Logically, you knew none of this was real, but the authentic stress in his eyes and the disorientation in his movements were messing with your head.

You sighed. This was your crew, or a sick parody of them. You were responsible, even in hell.

You spotted the 'Emergency Coat' that Mark had issued, next to Cryo's door. You felt a pang in your chest at the sight of it. These demons had replicated your ship to a T, huh?

"Captain?" Mark watched you, still shivering as you took the coat from its rung. He looked lost, trembling with shifty, wide eyes. You scolded yourself for going soft on a god damned demon here to torment you, but nevertheless, you draped the coat over his shoulders. Demons weren't very cold-proofed, huh?

"I'll take care of it." You shoved Mark behind you with practiced force, your hand automatically finding the grip of your sidearm out of habit. Threat assessment: structural compromise, extreme cold. Your training kicked in as you scanned the room – left to right, high to low – noting the ruptured pipe as the primary threat vector. "Stay behind. If I don't signal in 90 seconds, alert backup." The words came out as automatic protocol, even though 'back up' didn't exist in this hell.

You stepped into the frozen room with your uniform as your only protection. If you were going to lose limbs to frostbite, it might as well happen in hell. Couldn't get more ironic than that.

"Captain!" Mark yelled behind you before the door closed behind you again. 

Immediate cold bit into your exposed flesh like a physical assault. Your eyes struggled to focus, each blink feeling like your eyelids were freezing shut. This was hell, for fuck's sake—what next? Would they freeze you to death?

The cold wasn't passive—it bit. It seeped through your uniform like needles, finding every gap in fabric. Ignoring your stiff, rapidly numbing limb, you kept close to the wall, for once glad for your gloves as you followed the main pipe, searching the line for any breaks. You shivered. Frost formed on your eyelashes with every blink. Worst was the air—so cold it hurt to inhale, each breath scraping your throat like ground glass.

Finally, you found the source of the cold leak: the main pipe had busted off the union, allowing the coolant gas to leak into the room instead of supplying it to the colonist pods. 

The leather of your gloves was frozen stiff as you pushed through the icing, your fingers feeling like ice as you popped the pipe head back to its socket. There was still misty coolant leaking through the edges, but it had significantly lessened.

Mark chose that moment to appear behind you conveniently. 

"Help me with this?" Your teeth trembled together, your gloves trying to hold in the coolant inside the pipe. 

"Holy fuc- Don't move!" Mark's hands flew to his toolbelt with practiced precision, selecting a cryo-rated plasma torch and composite solder. "Step back! That's a Class-3 coolant line – the vapor'll freeze your lungs!" He didn't bother with gloves, his fingers moving with eerie efficiency as he adjusted the torch's molecular frequency. "Captain, the pressure's still at 2,400 PSI – I need to bypass the primary regulator before we can seal this." His voice trembled, but his hands moved with the certainty of someone who'd repaired these systems a hundred times. You smiled to yourself. They've replicated him so well...

"Alert. Colonists' core temperature stabilizing," the computer reported to your collective relief. 

Mark breathed out and sat back on his hunches, looking at the mended pipe with narrowed eyes. He turned to you, the coat covering up to his neck, "Captain? This can't be a coincidence..." 

"Oh no, fourth wall break." You sighed out, your fingers still numb. Hypothermia in hell, what a strange concept.

"What?" Mark tilted his head.

"Warning, reactor overload imminent." The computer interrupted, again, with another crisis.

"Now the reactor's gonna go kablooei?!" "How many things can go wrong on this ship?!" Your stiff limbs creaked as you got up from croaching; putting one leg in front of the other was labor. Mark looked between you and the door, silently urging you to move faster. "We gotta move, Captain!" Well, screw him and his springy demon joints! You were frozen solid as a popsicle!

"Ugh! I'm trying!" You grumbled, following him to the door stiff as a board.

He opened the door. A wave of scorching heat whooshed out, carrying the acrid smell of melting circuitry. You felt the rapid heating burn your frozen skin away. Blood was rushing to your frostbitten limbs, but the rewarming was too fast; it burned. Blood was rushing to your hands, but it only made them feel clammy and inflamed.

"Um!" He closed the door, looking to you, with wide eyes, "What do we do about that?!"

You were really done with this micromanaging shit. Your engineer was more likely to make decisions without permission whatsoever.

Your eyelids felt like lead weights, each blink requiring conscious effort. "Aren't you the engineer?" The words came out slurred; you hadn't even realized you'd spoken aloud until Mark flinched. The pain burning in your flesh was making it harder to 'be a captain'. Every breath burned, and you could feel your heartbeat throbbing behind your eyes – a relentless drum counting down to your next collapse. "Go inside and fix it I guess." You slumped against the wall, going down just like the first time you died, focusing on your breathing rather than the pain. The frozen floor got through your pants easily and bit into your bum.

How many times have I died today? The thought surfaced disjointedly, like debris in murky water.

He straightened, nodding frantically, "Yes! Uh, I'll do that! Then..." he took off the coat, draping it at your front. You looked up slowly, "It's hot in there, I don't need it." He muttered before slapping the door scanner and disappearing inside.

You looked down at yourself and snorted a bubbling laugh hysterically. You were sitting on the floor again, and a demon just wrapped a coat around you like a damn blanket. "Fucking hell..."

"Something funny, Captain?" A woman's heels clicked on the deck – but the sound came before she appeared, as if echoing from nowhere. Your head lolled up to see Mrs. Whitacre materializing from the shadows. There would be no way she just appeared inside the room, you would have heard if she came through the doors...

"Who are you?" you managed to grit out, asking once more, gathering your sluggish limbs from the floor. "That Mark seemed to know you... before."

The woman flashed her teeth at you in a mirthless smile, "You know, I've had the strangest dreams lately, must be something about that cryo thing you put me in." She said, instead of answering.

"You're a... were a passenger?" you gritted out, the words scraping your raw throat. You stayed slumped on the ground, a pathetic heap for the demon to observe. What was the point of standing? This was just another scene in their play. "You're lying..." You breathed in, squeezing your eyes shut against the pain pulsing with your heartbeat. The pins and needles in your back had become a constant, fiery ache. You let your head droop against the warm wall, too exhausted to even flinch from the pain. Mrs. Whitacre loomed over you, her expression unreadable in the pulsing red emergency light.

She flashed that mirthless smile again, the plastic star in her hair catching the light. "Do you have these dreams, Captain?" she asked, her voice a dry rustle. "They're not the type of dreams I forget. They linger. Like a shadow."

"I know this is not a dream," you deadpanned. You clenched your fist inside your glove, the leather stiff and unforgiving. The pain was too sharp, too specific. No dream could hurt like this. This was punishment. You were dead; This was hell. You had to remember.

She leaned closer, her shawl brushing your knee. The smell of her—lavender and something metallic, like old blood—filled your space. "Makes you think you've been through all this before," she whispered, her dark eyes holding yours. "Do you understand, dearie?"

You held her stare, a last spark of defiance burning bright in your core. "You're not very good at this, Mrs. Whitacre."

"I told you I'm not married anymore!" she snapped, her composure cracking for a split second to reveal something infinitely older and sharper beneath.

Silence lingered as her eyes traveled through your slumped form. The reactor’s distant hum a counterpoint to the throbbing in your skull.

"You can drop the act." You eyed the woman; she knew more than she let on. Maybe just came to taunt or test the quality of your punishment, "I know I'm in Hell."

"Hell?" she mused, tapping a fingernail against her chin. "Is that what you think this is, dearie? All fire and brimstone? Now that's an interesting dream, isn't it?" She chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like dead leaves. "But these funny dreams aren't to be trusted, oh no." Her eyes, dark and knowing, seemed to bore right through your exhaustion. "They may seem nice, but they're not what they seem, are they?"

You pushed yourself up slightly, wincing as pins and needles shot through your legs. "Dreams? This feels real enough. The pain, the fear... the dying." Your voice was rough. "If it's not hell, what is it? Purgatory? Some kind of punishment?"

"Punishment?" She tilted her head, the star wobbling. "Now that's interesting. Why would you be punished, Captain? Guilty conscience?" She didn't wait for an answer. "But don't worry, I'm sure this dream will sort itself out right quick." She patted your shoulder, her touch surprisingly cold, even in the chilled room. "It's just a matter of finding the right answer, right Captain?"

"The right answer?" You scoffed, then immediately regretted it as pain lanced through your head. "There are no answers! Just... repetition. People dying." Mark's face flashed in your mind. Gunther's grin, now replaced by this unsettling woman. "You can't really have second chances..." you muttered, more to yourself than to her.

Her smile widened, showing too many teeth. "Seems too good to be true, right dearie? Waking up again and again? Getting to 'fix' things?" She leaned in closer, her breath smelling faintly of something sweet, cloying. "Lucky you, right, captain? Thinking you could change anything? That you could save them?"

"Warning. Ten seconds until catastrophic reactor meltdown." The computer's voice remained eerily calm despite the impending doom.

The ship shuddered violently. Not an impact this time, but a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the floor, up your spine, into your teeth. The warning lights flared blindingly bright, then flickered wildly, casting long, dancing shadows that made Mrs. Whitacre look momentarily monstrous.

"What are you—?" you started, pushing yourself fully upright, adrenaline momentarily cutting through the fog.

The thrumming intensified, becoming a high-pitched whine that set your teeth on edge. The air itself seemed to vibrate. Mrs. Whitacre didn't flinch. She just watched you, her expression unreadable, the plastic star in her hair catching the strobing light like a malevolent third eye.

"Time's up, dearie," she said, her voice cutting through the rising din.

The whine peaked into an unbearable shriek. The floor buckled beneath you. The walls seemed to pulse inward. You saw Mrs. Whitacre open her mouth, perhaps to say more, perhaps to laugh—

KA-BOOOOOOOM!

The universe dissolved in white-hot agony and concussive force. No time to scream, no time to think. Just obliteration.

~~~~

You were falling. Just... falling. Into absolute, suffocating silence.

This time, there were no swirling lights, no sense of movement—just the sudden, jarring impact of consciousness inside a dark box—your cryopod.

You gasped, on your knees. The air tasted stale and metallic, with an undertone of something organic and rotten. You blinked. The monitor inside the pod was silent, and the door opened with a mere touch. "What?" You poked your head out of the pod to see... nothing.

No emergency alarms. No flashing red alerts. No computer voice announcing your revival. Just darkness. The kind of profound, light-swallowing darkness found only in the deepest void or a dark hole.

You pushed yourself up, your movements clumsy, disoriented. The silence was absolute. It pressed in on your eardrums, a physical presence.

No murmur of life support. No distant clank of machinery. No blare of alarms. Nothing.

You touched the dark main console. It didn't have any power.

No hum. No thrum. Not even the ghost-vibration of the reactor you'd grown accustomed to ignoring. The silence was so profound it made your teeth ache. 

"Computer?" When you spoke, your voice sounded muffled, as if the darkness itself were smothering it. "Status report?"

"Computer! Report!" You tried shouting—still nothing came back. The ship wasn't just quiet; it swallowed sound.

You looked at your Head Engineer's pod; it was dark like the rest of the ship. "Mark?" You swung the door open to find... nothing. A fine layer of dust covered the insides. "What?"  You looked around the empty bridge.

Where is the imposter? Didn't he get reincarnated after that last explosion?

The bridge door scanner didn't work; there was no power in the whole ship for some reason. The door required manual override; you had to yank the metal plate open by hand. It took three tries before the hydraulic system groaned open.

This wasn't right. Even in the loops, the ship had felt alive, malfunctioning and betraying at every step, but present. This felt like a corpse. The ship was dead.

You exited the bridge, trying to see in the darkness beyond. "Hello? Anyone?"

More silence answered you. It was deafening. 

Your boots on metal flooring were the only sound accompanying you as you felt your way towards the cryobay. Your footsteps didn't echo—they thudded, as if the air itself had turned to lead. When you stopped moving, the silence pressed in like a physical weight, so complete you could hear the blood rushing in your ears. Then came the creaks: the groan of contracting metal, the pop of freezing plastic, the distant, wet drip... drip... drip of something leaking deep in the ship's guts. Sounds that shouldn't exist in your Invincible II.

The darkness was playing tricks on you; everywhere you looked, it felt as if the shadows moved. Only the faintest glint off the metallic edges of the walls betrayed their presence, like teeth in the mouth of a monster.

Once you pushed the Cryo door open, your blood ran cold. The flickering light of a single glitching datapad reflected on the metal shards covering the ground. The protective shutter overlooking the rows of colonists' pods was rusted into pieces. 

Frost bloomed across the deck plates in jagged patterns, each crystal looked sharp enough to cut skin. Where pipes had ruptured, icicles hung like stalactites—some thick as your arm, others needle-thin. The walls wept condensation that froze mid-drip, creating grotesque frozen tears. In corners, dust had settled into drifts like gray snow, undisturbed for what felt like centuries. Worst was the sound: none. No hum of the O2 recyclers, no vibration from the reactor next door, not even the faint whisper of air circulation – just the oppressive silence of a tomb.

Every single Cryo-pod door was open like coffins. their interiors rimed with frost that resembled shrouds. Empty and dark. Hinged like broken jaws in the gloom. Rows upon rows of them stretched into the darkness. Some had handprints smeared on the glass—frozen, desperate attempts to escape. One hundred thousand colonists... gone. Just vacant cages in the halls. No one left to carry the light of humanity. No one was left to fill the echoing halls of the ship.

No one, besides you.

Emergency glow-strips lined the floors, but they emitted no light—just a faint, sickly green luminescence you could only see when inches away as you walked through the thousands of dead pods. 

"Mark?" you whispered, the sound pathetic in the vast quiet, wishing for the imposter to be back playing the shrades.

No answer came. Only the echo of your own voice, quickly absorbed by the dead air.

The mission posters were printed on yellowed, decomposing paper, hung on terminal walls: "Colonizing Project – Colony Ship "Invincible II". 100,000 colonists on board!" 

The terraforming equipment, the seed vaults, the atmospheric processors – everything humanity needed to make a new start – now drifting uselessly through the void.

"This isn't real..." You reminded yourself, this was just your punishment for being too proud, too careless... You were dead. The real Invincible II was hopefully somewhere safe and in better hands.

You left the room, stumbling back through the broken shutters as they clung to your pants and tore into flesh. They felt like claws, trying to drag you to a grave.

This was eerily similar to that... dark place you hallucinated, with the candles and bloody notes. You needed light. Anything to see and keep the demons hiding in the darkness away. 

You stumbled and ran like a madman, trying to remember where candles could be on a ship. Who would sneak something that dangerous and oxygen-consuming on board? Doctor Ploeger maybe?

In the medical bay, body bags lay stacked in a corner, their contents long since vanished. The ship wasn't just a vessel anymore; it was a floating catacomb, and you were its sole living relic.

Your breathing felt more suffocating with each minute you spent ransacking the cabinets in complete darkness. 

You found scented candles in her drawer, and you almost choked on a sob thinking about it. Where was she or anyone else on your crew?

Your jaw clenched as you forced yourself to take a deep breath. The demons in the darkness couldn't do anything that meant anything. You were dead, and this was all a sick game for them. For all you know, Ploeger had never used actual scented candles, and the aroma she always had in her office could've been perfumes. This was placed here for the sake of moving the plot, a trick, a trap. 

You kept the iron control you had on your breathing, thinking as you rubbed the wax stick. This is all just a game for them. If it is a game, what's the next step? 

"Lighter, huh? I bet Gunther had some." You said it out loud, so whatever observer was around would provide it to you.

You took a more careful pace than you had before, finding your way to the crew quarters. Gunther's was as empty and dead as the rest of the ship. Your theory was largely confirmed when you found his main lighter sitting innocently on his desk. "Thanks." You murmured, either to Gunther or whatever entity was currently responsible.

You light the candle and ignore how similar it smells to your doctor's office. Instead, you examine the now visible room in the light. You make yourself to the rest of the ship, looking for... anything.

Shadows dance around with the sway of the flame, and the damage and decay become more apparent in the light. Didn't see any blood writings on the wall yet, and the only candle that you knew of was held in your hand. Only God would know how long it would be until the psychotic tally marks on the walls.

You roamed the ship, a ghost haunting its tomb.

Gravity plates flickered erratically; in some corridors, you floated slightly, while in others, your boots felt welded to the deck. The laws of physics were unraveling along with the ship's systems, as if reality itself was dying around you.

In the mess hall, mugs sat molded and shattered. A datapad lay on a table, its screen cracked and dark. In crew quarters, beds were unmade, belongings were scattered on floors, and a stuffed toy lay abandoned near an airlock—its button eyes seeming to follow you in the dark.

Time itself seemed broken. You never caught how long you've been travelling the first time, back when you were alive. But endurance was the number one priority in Warping Ships. There was no way to know how long had passed, when the crew had turned to dust, or why.

"None of this is real." You repeated to yourself. Keeping your hand warm against the flame.

You stumbled through the halls, making your way back to the bridge.

Your light danced over the vacant pod of your engineer, the dormant machinery coated in a fine layer of dust.

Dead. Dark screens. No blinking indicators. No standby lights. Nothing.

You punched the main console. Just for a reaction. Nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of your exhaustion. 

You stepped towards the glass window, it was whole. No Head Engineer for it to swallow.

Outside, the stars looked frozen. Countless, indifferent stars. And your ship seemed frozen in it all, held aloft with nothing to fall against. No engine glow. No running systems. Just a dark silhouette tumbling silently through the void. Alone. Utterly, terrifyingly alone.

Dust motes hung suspended in your candlelight, too heavy to drift.

You slumped into the command chair, the worn leather cold beneath you. The silence pressed down, heavier than any gravity. The empty cryopods. The dead ship. The absence of everyone.

Mrs. Whitacre's words echoed in the stillness: "Seems too good to be true, right dearie?"

Was this it? The final answer? Not hellfire, but... this? An eternity of drifting in a silent, dead ship between the vast gulf of stars, haunted by the ghosts of your crew and the crushing weight of your failure? A punishment tailor-made for a captain who couldn't save anyone?

You stared out at the uncaring stars. Not even their dim glow could provide a point of warmth in the infinite cold. The silence wasn't just an absence of sound anymore. It was an accusation. A verdict.

And you were just an exhausted soldier with no direction to aim, but at your own head.