Mr. Usher
Don't Mind if I Do
The space station drifts in the abyss, its massive structure silhouetted against the void, a graveyard of silence and shadow. No distress beacon sent out. No identifying signals. Grime covers any possible identifying markings on the hull's exterior.
Its once-bright hangar is scarred with the aftermath of a battle long ended—scorch marks, jagged tears in the metal, and crimson streaks dried into patterns that seem unnervingly deliberate. The hangar bay littered with scorched blaster marks on the the walls, cargo crates lie shattered, and a lone starfighter sits in disrepair, its cockpit open and empty. Yet, there are no bodies, no signs of where the station’s inhabitants have gone—only eerie emptiness. Inside, the air is thick, oppressive, as if something unseen watches from the dark corners of the halls. The walls are slick with a viscous black substance that reflects faint, sickly green emergency lights flickering overhead.
Blaster fire scars tell of desperate fighting, but the absence of bodies only deepens the unease. Equipment lies abandoned mid-task, datapads flicker with corrupted messages, and streaks of blood vanish into grates or smeared symbols that defy comprehension. Something is here, unnatural and malign, waiting for the unwelcome intruders who dare to disturb its silence.
A ghostly silence permeates the station, broken only by the faint hum of still-active machinery. As one steps inside, the temperature drops, and the air carries a faint metallic tang, hinting at something unnatural. The deeper one ventures, the more the station’s secrets whisper at the edges of one's senses, a foreboding presence hiding just beyond reach. Whatever happened here, it isn’t over.
