​It is messy and it smells like ozone mixed with burning flesh.

​That is the standard description for a galactic conflict.

​However…

​On the dwarf planet Gonggong, the war sounded less like a battle and more like a grinder chewing through wet gravel. Krall invasion was massive. It was a tide of red skin and chitinous armor swarming over the icy methane plains.

​The sky was choked with bio-ships that looked like flying organs. They dropped pods that burst open like ripe fruits, spilling horrors onto the frozen ground.

​But…

Amidst this symphony of destruction, there was a smaller, more intimate rhythm.

​In a secluded crevice between two massive shards of ice, hidden from the main slaughter, two figures were tangled together.

​They were naked.

​The cold of Gonggong did not seem to touch them, for the heat radiating from their bodies was intense enough to create a small cloud of steam around them.

​The male was a Wif.

​He possessed the characteristic white hair of his race, messy and damp with sweat. His long, white rabbit ears were flattened against his skull in concentration. His rabbit tail, usually a fluffy ball of fur, was twitching rhythmically at the base of his spine.

​He was an Inquor. His muscles were lean, defined by the low gravity of his home colony on Jupiter, but currently taut with the strain of the act.

​Beneath him lay his partner.

​She was an Alumos.

​She was tall, her pale skin contrasting with the dark ice beneath her. Her legs were wrapped tightly around his waist. Her anatomy was distinct, marking her lineage from the Uranus colony.

​Between her legs, the unique organ known as the Irita was engorged. It was a prehensile structure, mimicking the male genitalia yet distinctly feminine in its placement. It pulsed, seeking friction, seeking the fuel that only the Inquor could provide.

​They were performing a Felt.

​It was primal. It was desperate. The Inquor thrust into her, his movements synchronized with her gasps. He was not just seeking pleasure. He was transferring energy.

​The bioluminescent veins under the skin of the Alumos Melito began to glow. The sperm, the fuel, was igniting her dormant power.

​"Yes, Bowe," she gasped in a thick Russian accent. "Give it to me. I need the charge."

​"Taking forever," the Wif Inquor grunted, his British accent clipped. "My reserves are low, Niza."

​They moved faster. The friction became a blur. The energy arc between them crackled, melting the ice around their bodies.

​"Wow…"

A male voice spoke from above.

​The rhythm faltered.

​The Wif and the Alumos froze. They looked up.

​"You guys are still doing it the old fashioned way?" the voice continued.

It was mocking. It was casual. 

"That looks exhausting, sticky, and… very inefficient for a combat zone."

​The couple scrambled to cover themselves, looking for the source of the voice.

​"Oh wait," the voice corrected itself.

"I forgot. Not everyone is Explorer 7. Not everyone has the budget for the good stuff. Carry on, citizens. Don't let me stop the biology lesson."

​The Wif Inquor glared at the shadow looming on the ice cliff above them.

​"You bastard Ragia," the Wif cursed.

​I sighed...

​He really has a talent for ruining the mood.

​The man standing on the cliff edge was, of course, Ragia Quarso.

​He was wearing his signature leather jacket, which looked remarkably untouched by the war around him. His mismatched socks were hidden by his boots, but I knew they were there.

One red, one blue. A testament to his refusal to adhere to basic organizational skills.

​He looked good.

​His black hair was messy in that calculated way that suggested he had just rolled out of bed and accidentally landed in a magazine photoshoot. His golden eyes scanned the battlefield with a boredom that was almost insulting.

​"Hey," Ragia said, looking up at me.

"Stop describing my outfit. We are on a schedule. Focus on the action."

​Right…

​Apologies.

​Below him, the chaos erupted.

​"Vah-vah! Yarobu!"

​The shout was followed by a mechanical roar that shook the ground.

​Arala Quarso was laughing. It was a maniacal sound, full of unadulterated joy and a disturbing amount of bloodlust.

​She was piloting her Mech Titan, but this was not the same Titan.

This was an upgrade. The massive, seven-meter metal giant now possessed six arms. It looked like a mechanical deity of destruction.

​Each of the six hands held a massive machine gun.

​Arala was currently fighting with Krall Golem.

​The enemy was huge. An eight-meter tall construct of living stone and flesh. Its chest cavity was open, revealing a fused, writhing mass of sexy Krall torsos that acted as a biological CPU.

​"Eat this, you bado-bado stone face!" Arala screamed.

​The six machine guns spun.

​Bullets rained down on the Golem. The stone shattered. The sexy Krall embedded in the chest screamed as they were reduced to pulp.

​Arala continued to shout in her unique dialect.

​"Vah-vah!" she yelled.

​"Yarobu!" she added for good measure.

​For those of you who do not speak the language of chaos, or don't know about Arara-ish…

She just politely told the Golem, 'Fuck you' and 'Asshole'.

​It was charming, in a terrifying way.

​To the east of the ridge, a swarm of Krall Locusts descended upon a group of terrified civilians. They buzzed like angry saws, their bladed wings ready to slice through bone.

​"Tickling Clock!"

​The voice was sharp. Authoritative.

​The air shimmered.

​For a split second, the world seemed to hold its breath. The Locusts slowed down. Their wings beat in a sluggish, viscous rhythm. Time had thickened around them, trapped by the will of the Vice Captain.

​Iya stepped out from the smoke.

​She looked impeccable in her tight red uniform.

​"Gatling Rose," she whispered.

​Her arms split. The skin peeled back to reveal the rotating barrels of high-caliber death.

​She fired…

​It was surgical.

​Every bullet found a target. The slowed Locusts exploded in mid-air, turning into a cloud of red mist and insect parts.

​She stood there amidst the carnage, looking powerful. The aura of her Melios was palpable. It radiated off her like heat waves.

​It was no wonder she looked so energized.

​I recall last night, while I was keeping Tonix company during her navigation shift on Xeca, the sound of Iya's moans echoing through the ventilation ducts was quite... distinct.

​Ragia was clearly diligent in his duties of recharging his wife.

​"Hey!" Ragia shouted, looking up again. "Narrator! Focus on the story, you pervert!"

Sorry…

​I am just providing context, Ragia.

Okay, next…

​Suddenly, a single Krall Locust broke through the defensive line. It screeched, diving toward Iya's blind spot. Its claws were extended, aiming for her neck.

​Iya did not turn. ​She did not flinch, because she did not have to.

​The Locust's head vanished.

​A split second later, the crack of a sniper rifle echoed across the valley.

​The headless body of the Krall crashed at Iya's feet.

​High up on the jagged cliffs, a figure in a lab coat lowered a long-range energy rifle.

​Or rather, figures…

​There were four of them. Identical clones of Raya Spielba, positioned at perfect intervals along the ridge. They moved in unison, adjusting their glasses with the same clinical detachment.

​The original Raya stood near a rock formation, tapping on her datapad. She did not even look at the kill. She viewed it as data. A variable removed from the equation.

​"Capt," Raya's voice crackled over the secure comms. "The field test for serum GT-698-Z is concluding.”

“Current effectiveness is holding at ninety-three percent."

​Ragia touched his ear piece.

​"Ninety-three?" Ragia asked. "That is a passing grade, Prof. Good enough."

​"Statistical variance allows for a seven percent margin of error," Raya replied calmly. "However, the metabolic uptake is faster than the previous iteration."

​For the uninitiated, the GT-698-Z is the new gold standard. Ragia calls it the Mug Mark 8. It is the upgraded version of the GX-778-C.

​Ragia switched channels.

​"Shorty," he called out. "Position?"

​"Sector 16, Capt!" Xecta's voice came back, breathless but steady.

​"Evacuation is complete. I am treating the wounded now. My Remido output is stable. Nobody is drunk from the healing water... yet."

​"And Stealth?"

​"She is here," Xecta said. "She is... working hard."

​In the background of the transmission, the sound of grinding stone could be heard.

Gap was there, creating a literal fortress of steel and rock with her Wonderwall, shielding the injured civilians from the bombardment.

​"Good," Ragia said. "Navi? How is my ship?"

​"She is hurting, Capt," Tonix replied from the bridge of Xeca. "We took a hit to the left hull. Gyra debris, but I am rerouting power to the structural integrity fields. I can hold it."

​"Targets?"

​"I splashed three Gyras," Tonix said, sounding bored. "They popped like balloons, but the sensors are picking up mo..."

​"Excuse me…"

​The calm, motherly voice of Mira cut through the battle chatter.

​"I apologize for interrupting the violence," Mira said. "But I have a critical question."

​"Go ahead, Mira," Ragia sighed.

​"Chef," Mira said. "I am trying to finish the dessert for the victory celebration. How exactly do I stir the Codome?"

​Codome…

​The whipped cream made of sugar, Leocrash butter, and Valken egg whites. A delicacy that required precision, apparently more important than the alien invasion currently happening outside.

​"Four times clockwise!" Gin shouted.

​Gin was currently in the middle of a swarm of Krall Centaurs. She was not using a gun. She was covered in white flames.

​Her Flambe had evolved.

This was the Phoenix Form. She looked like a burning angel of culinary rage. She punched a Centaur in the face, melting its armor instantly.

​"Then five times counter-clockwise!" Gin continued, kicking another enemy.

"And you repeat that twelve times! Do not mess up the rhythm, Mommy! Or the peaks will collapse!"

​"Understood," Mira replied sweetly. "Thank you, Chef. Have fun."

​Ragia shook his head.

​He looked out at the battlefield. The chaos was absolute. The noise was deafening.

​Well…

It looks like we are back, Capt.

​"We are," Ragia agreed.

And…

I cancelled my request for Liam Neeson’s voice. His gravitas is too heavy for this circus.

My original voice…

It fits the chaos better.

​Ragia laughed.

​He looked down at a Krall Queen Beta that was trying to rally her troops. He grinned, his golden eyes flashing with mischief. Then he cracked his knuckles.

​"Okay, Narrator," Ragia said. "I think it is time.”

“The break is… over."

​Time for what?

​"Time to make the sequel," Ragia said.

​Do you have a title in mind, Capt?

​”Yes…”

Ragia turned...

He looked past the war, past the blood, and past the…

Yeah…

​He looked right at you…

​"Welcome," Ragia said. "To The Chaotic Fanfare Encore."

The dining room of Xeca was usually a place where the weary souls of Explorer 7 could find a moment of respite.

It was a sanctuary of stainless steel and recycled air where the smell of engine grease was momentarily replaced by the aroma of whatever culinary experiment was being conducted that day.

But tonight…

Tonight it was a war zone.

"You are a savage!"

The scream tore through the mess hall. It bounced off the metal bulkheads and rattled the cutlery on the table.

Gin stood at the head of the table.

Her face was flushed a violent shade of red that matched the spicy peppers she usually kept in her pockets. She was pointing a pair of chopsticks at her sister with the same lethal intent one would point a plasma rifle.

"I am an innovator, Gin," Tonix replied calmly.

She sat opposite her twin. She looked bored. She spun her spoon between her fingers with a lazy, practiced rhythm.

"You are a heretic!" Gin roared.

She slammed her hand onto the table. The plates jumped in terror.

"Look at what you did! Just look at it!"

Ragia sat between them. He sighed.

He looked down at his own plate. He looked at the chaos unfolding around him.

He felt tired…

Not the kind of tiredness that comes from fighting a Krall invasion or saving a solar system. This was a specific kind of exhaustion.

The domestic kind.

They were eating Glabarush tonight.

It was a delicacy.

A rare treat from the aquatic cities of the Mer people. It was a complex dish. A mixture of ground lamb, root vegetables, wheat flour, and chicken eggs, all hand-rolled into a shape that resembled a thick, rustic sausage.

It had been steamed for eight hours until the texture was soft and yielding, then smoked over aromatic wood chips to give it a dark, flavorful crust.

It was beautiful.

It was art on a plate.

And it was served with Birako.

A thick, pitch-black sauce made from a reduction of vinegar, tamarind, chilies, shallots, garlic, and soy sauce.

"It is meant to be dipped, Tonix!" Gin shouted. Her voice cracked with genuine emotional pain.

"Dipped! Lightly! You take the Glabarush, you coat the tip, and you eat it! You experience the smoky crust first, then the sour kick of the sauce!"

She pointed a trembling finger at Tonix's bowl.

"You... you drowned it!"

Tonix shrugged.

She used her spoon to push a piece of the sausage deeper into the black sludge in her bowl. The Glabarush was fully submerged. It was soaking up the liquid like a sponge.

The crust was gone. The texture was compromised.

"It tastes better this way," Tonix said.

She scooped up the soggy piece of meat and popped it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, maintaining aggressive eye contact with her sister.

"The sauce permeates the filling. It is a flavor explosion. It is efficient."

"Efficient?" Gin looked like she was about to have a stroke. "You destroyed the texture! You ruined the structural integrity!”

“It is mush! You are eating spicy mush!"

She turned to Ragia.

"Capt! Tell her! Tell her she is committing a crime against culinary arts!"

Ragia leaned back in his chair. He picked up his glass of water.

"I am staying out of this, Chef," Ragia said wisely. "I am just here for the calories."

"Coward," Gin hissed.

She spun around.

Her eyes scanned the table for an ally. They landed on the only person who had the cultural authority to judge this situation.

"Stealth!" Gin barked.

Gap jumped.

The poor Mer girl was trying to make herself invisible behind a large pitcher of water. She flinched as Gin's finger accused her.

"Y-yes, Chef?" Gap squeaked.

"You are a Mer," Gin stated. "You grew up eating this. Tell this uncultured swine how you are supposed to eat Glabarush.”

“Tell her!"

Gap looked at Gin. Then she looked at Tonix. Then she looked at the soggy mess in Tonix's bowl.

She looked terrified. Her gills fluttered nervously on her neck.

"W-well..." Gap stammered. She adjusted her glasses with trembling fingers.

"Technically... speaking... strictly from a traditional standpoint..."

"Spit it out, Stealth!" Gin demanded.

"It is wrong!" Gap blurted out. She looked down at her lap.

"If... if you did that in Atlantis... or any conservative Mer household... the elders would be very upset."

She swallowed hard.

"They... they might behead you," Gap whispered. "Ideally."

"See?" Gin threw her hands in the air.

"Beheading! It is a capital offense! Even the fish people think you should die!"

Tonix did not look impressed. She swallowed another bite of the soaked sausage.

"We are not in Atlantis, Gin," Tonix said. "We are on Xeca. We are in space. The laws of the ocean do not apply here. I am the navigator. I chart my own course.”

“And I choose to navigate my food into a sea of sauce."

Ragia watched them. He rubbed his temples.

He looked up at the ceiling. He looked at... me.

"Are you seeing this?" Ragia thought. "This is what I have to deal with. Every night, we saved the universe.”

“And now… we are fighting about soggy sausages."

I see it, Ragia.

And frankly, I have to agree with Gin.

"Narrator?" Tonix stopped eating.

She looked up, staring at the empty air above Ragia's head.

Yes, Tonix…

I am here.

"What do you think?" Tonix asked. "Am I a heretic?"

Listen to me, Tonix. I love you. You know I do.

But...

Gin is right.

"What?" Tonix frowned.

It is about respect, Tonix.

It is not just food. It is culture. Glabarush is designed to have a contrast in textures. The crisp skin against the soft interior. The sharp sauce against the savory meat.

By soaking it, you are homogenizing the experience.

"I like it homogenized," Tonix grumbled.

It is lazy, Tonix.

It is disrespectful to the chef. It is not like the Kivile debate. That is a matter of preference. Hot or cold, Kivile remains Kivile.

But this?

This is destruction.

"You are taking her side," Tonix accused. Her eyes narrowed.

"You are supposed to be on my side. You're my boyfriend. We are a team. We are... us."

I am objective, Tonix. That is my job. I narrate the truth.

And the truth is, you are ruining that sausage.

Tonix dropped her spoon. It clattered into the bowl, splashing black sauce onto the table. She crossed her arms. She puffed out her cheeks. She glared at the ceiling with a look of betrayal that could have frozen a star.

"Fine," Tonix muttered. "If that is how you feel."

She turned her head away.

"No special show tonight," she whispered.

Eh?

Wait…

Tonix...

"Nope," Tonix said, picking up her water glass.

"You can narrate the wall tonight. Or maybe you can describe Gin's apron. Since you love her rules so much."

Ragia choked on his water.

He coughed violently, slamming his fist against his chest. He looked at Tonix, then he looked up at me.

A slow, wide grin spread across his face.

"Oh," Ragia laughed. "Oh, that is cold. That is colder than your Kivile preference, Navi."

He leaned back, looking at the ceiling with pure amusement.

"Looks like someone is sleeping on the metaphysical couch tonight," Ragia teased. "No show for you, Narrator. No private performance. Just you and your adjectives in the dark."

Shut up, Ragia!

"I warned you," Ragia whispered, leaning closer to me. "Don't mess with a woman's food. Especially when she is your girlfriend. Now you suffer.”

“And honestly… I don't care."

He waved his hand dismissively.

"Focus on the story, Narrator," Ragia said. "Leave your love life out of this.”

“The readers are here for the sci-fi, not for your failed romance with my navigator."

I sighed…

He was right. He was an idiot, but he was right.

Ragia chuckled again, enjoying my misery. He turned his attention away from the sulking Navigator and looked further down the table.

"How is the science going, Prof?" Ragia asked.

Raya did not look up.

She was eating, but not really. Her hands were busy typing furiously on a datapad that rested on the table.

Standing behind her were two identical clones. They were made of shadow and hard light, perfect copies of the Alumos scientist.

One clone was holding a fork. It speared a piece of Glabarush, dipped it precisely into the sauce and held it to Raya's lips.

Raya opened her mouth, chewed mechanically, and swallowed without breaking her rhythm on the keyboard.

The second clone stood ready with a napkin, dabbing Raya's mouth the moment a speck of sauce threatened to stain her pristine lab coat.

"Inefficient," Raya muttered, her eyes scanning streams of data. "The batch is unstable. GT-698-Z is showing volatility markers in the third quadrant."

"Is that the fuel?" Ragia asked.

"It is the serum component," Raya corrected. "The molecular binding is weak.”

“If we use this batch, the duration might be reduced by forty percent. Or it might cause your kidneys to explode. The data is inconclusive."

"Let's avoid the exploding kidneys," Ragia suggested.

"Noted," Raya said. "Clone Two, water."

The second clone lifted a glass to her lips.

Ragia shook his head. Only Raya could turn dinner into a laboratory experiment.

He looked to his left.

Iya was sitting there. She wasn't eating. She was massaging her temples with her thumb and middle finger. Her eyes were closed. She looked like she was trying to telepathically strangle everyone in the room.

"Headache?" Ragia asked softly.

"It is not a headache, Ragia," Iya whispered without opening her eyes. "It is a lifestyle. I live in a circus. I married the ringmaster.”

“And now the clowns are arguing about sauce."

"It adds character," Ragia grinned.

"It adds stress," Iya countered.

Across the table, the mood was entirely different.

Arala and Xecta were huddled together over a large platter of dessert. They had finished their main course long ago.

Now, they were devouring Lokma.

Deep-fried dough balls, soaked in syrup and sprinkled with cinnamon. Mira had made them. They were warm, sticky, and apparently, life-changing.

"Balalaika!" Arala cheered. Her mouth was full. Syrup dripped down her chin. "This is zabarunai! It is fluffy like a cloud but sweet like a hug!"

"It is," Xecta agreed. Her rabbit tail was twitching at a speed that blurred the air.

"It is so soft, Arararan."

"Total gagaragu!" Arala declared. She shoved another ball into her mouth.

"Mommy is a magic lady! She makes the dough go fuwa-fuwa!"

"Eat slowly, Private," Mira giggled. "You will get a tummy ache."

"Worth it!" Arala shouted. "Bari-bari worth it!"

Ragia smiled…

He watched them. His family.

They were loud. They were messy. They were fighting about nonsense and eating dangerous amounts of sugar. They were dysfunctional in every sense of the word.

But they were his.

And for a moment, just a fleeting moment in the cold emptiness of space, everything felt right.

Then...

The light in the mess hall turned red. A low, pulsing sound began to vibrate through the floor plates. It wasn't a drill. It wasn't the toaster malfunction alarm. It was the proximity alert.

"Contact," Tonix said.

She dropped her spoon. The sulking was gone instantly. Her face shifted from annoyed girlfriend to cold professional.

Ragia stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor.

"The party is over," Ragia said. His voice was hard.

​The red alert lights continued to pulse.

​They bathed the command center in a rhythmic, crimson glow that was designed to induce panic but only succeeded in making everyone look slightly sunburned.

​Ragia stood in the center of the bridge.

​He did not run. He did not shout. He simply walked to his chair with the casual stride of a man who had seen too many apologies from the universe to be surprised by another disaster.

​He sat down.

​The leather of the captain's chair creaked under his weight. He looked at the main viewscreen.

​Floating in the void, illuminated by the harsh spotlights of Xeca, was a Gyra.

​It was massive.

​It looked like the skeletal corpse of a whale the size of a city block. Its outer hull was bone-white and jagged, twisted into shapes that defied aerodynamics. It was ugly. It was rotting. It was the standard-issue nightmare of the Krall armada.

​"Déjà vu," Raya stated.

​She was standing at the tactical station. Her datapad was already in her hand. Three of her clones had materialized around her, typing furiously on the holographic interfaces.

​Raya pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She looked bored.

​"I am experiencing a significant sensation of déjà vu, Capt," Raya continued, her voice flat and devoid of fear. "It feels as though we are characters in a trilogy of novels where the conflict always initiates with the arrival of a Gyra."

​She glanced at the screen, then at Ragia.

​"It is statistically improbable for this to be a coincidence," she noted. "It feels like lazy writing. It feels like the universe is being scripted by an amateur novelist.”

“Or perhaps… an AI that has run out of creative data and is simply recycling the same trope to save processing power."

​I sighed…

​You know what, Ragia?

​She is right.

​I am looking at this scene, and I feel it too. It is derivative. It is repetitive. We did this in the prologue. We did this in the first and second book.

Are we really starting the sequel with another space whale?

​It is boring, Ragia.

​He looked directly at me.

​"I didn't write this," Ragia said to the empty air. "Don't look at me with that judgmental tone, Narrator.”

“This isn't my script."

​You have the pen, Ragia.

​You have the cheap plastic pen in your pocket. The one that rewrites reality. You could have started this story with a beach party. You could have started it with a diplomatic banquet.

​But no…

​You chose a rotting bone ship.

​"I told you," Ragia snapped, his voice rising slightly. "I didn't choose anything. I only wrote the ending of The Chaotic Fanfare Revised. I only wrote this sequel title.”

“And wrote some fail-safe in The Source."

​He patted the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He could feel the pen there. It was warm.

It was heavy.

​"I barely touched the sequel," Ragia insisted. "I wanted to be surprised. I wanted the thrill of the unknown.”

“If I write every single plot point, it is just a schedule. It isn't a life."

​He gestured at the screen.

​"This? This is probably just residual data. The Ghostwriter left a lot of junk files in the system before I punched him into mortality. This is just a generated encounter.”

“A random… spawn."

​It feels sloppy, Capt.

​"It feels like adventure," Ragia corrected.

​"Capt?"

​The voice came from the helm.

​It was sharp. It was cold. It was the voice of a woman who was still very angry about a sausage.

​Tonix turned her chair around.

​She was not spinning her pen. She was gripping the armrests of her chair tightly. She looked at Ragia, and then she looked up at the ceiling.

​"Hey, Voice," Tonix said. Her tone was venomous. "Shut up."

​I paused…

​Tonix?

​"I am not talking to you," Tonix hissed at the air. "You took her side. You sided with the food fascist.”

“You betrayed our bond for the sake of texture."

​She pointed a finger at the ceiling.

​"So don't narrate me," she warned. "Don't describe my feelings. Just read the data."

​She turned her back, then looked at Ragia.

​"The Gyra is dead, Capt," Tonix reported. Her voice switched instantly to professional efficiency. "Thermal scans are negative. No engine output. No shield harmonics. It is drifting."

​"So it is a derelict," Ragia said.

​"It is not empty," Tonix corrected.

​She tapped her console. The main screen zoomed in, overlaying a tactical grid on the skeletal ship. Red dots appeared deep within the ribcage of the vessel.

​"I am detecting bio-signatures," Tonix said. "Krall. Lots of them. Scout types in the upper vents. Troopers in the corridors."

​She frowned. She leaned closer to her screen.

​"And heavy signatures in the central cavity," she added. "Centaurs. They are dormant, but they are combat-ready. They are waiting for a wake-up call."

​Ragia rubbed his chin. "Standard infestation."

​"No," Tonix said softly. "Look at the hull, Capt. Under the bone armor. Look at the alloy."

​She highlighted a section of Gyra where the organic plating had rotted away, revealing grey metal beneath.

​"That is not random debris," Tonix said. "That is a hull configuration. I ran the registry. It matches a specific ship."

​She looked at Ragia. Her eyes were sad.

​"It is The Vocalist," she whispered.

​Ragia froze.

​The name hit him like a physical blow. The playful atmosphere of the dinner vanished completely.

​"The Vocalist," Ragia repeated.

​He knew that ship. Every Inquor knew that ship.

​"Labradlle," Ragia said. "Labradlle Chorus”

“And his squad. La Recon V."

​"They vanished five years ago," Tonix confirmed. "Reagalus said they were lost in a warp anomaly.”

“But they weren't lost."

​She pointed at the rotting ship on the screen.

​"They were eaten," Tonix said. "The Gyra parasite took them. It ate their ship. It turned their home into a nest."

​Raya let out a long sigh from the tactical station.

​"Déjà vu," Raya muttered again.

"Using a tragic backstory of a lost Inquor to raise the emotional stakes immediately after a comedic scene. It is a classic narrative manipulation technique. It is highly derivative."

​Ragia ignored her.

​He stood up. He walked to the front of the bridge. He stared at the dead ship.

​He didn't care if it was a trope. He didn't care if it was lazy writing. He saw a grave. He saw the tomb of a man who had fought the same war.

​"Okay," Ragia said.

His voice was low, and dangerous.

​"We are going in."

​"Ragia?" Iya asked from the weapons station. "You want to board?"

​"I want to burn it," Ragia said. "I don't care if this is a recycled plot point. I don't care if the universe is being lazy.”

“That thing is an insult to Labradlle. We are going to scrub it clean before it drifts into a shipping lane."

​He turned to his crew.

​"Prof," Ragia barked. "You are with me."

​"Me?" Raya looked up from her datapad. "Again?"

​​"Déjà vu," she whispered.

"Your clones are disposable," Ragia countered. "I need scouts that can walk into a trap without dying permanently.”

“And you can analyze the mutagen. I want to know how long they have been rotting in there."

​"Inefficient." ​She adjusted her glasses. "But acceptable."

​Ragia smiled. It was a tight, grim smile.

​"Chef," he called out.

​Gin perked up. She was standing by the door, still wearing her apron. She pulled a combat knife from her belt.

​"You are up," Ragia said. "We are going into a meat locker. I need someone to bring the heat."

​Gin grinned. It was a terrifying expression.

​"Barbecue time?" she asked.

​"Barbecue time," Ragia confirmed. "Flambe is perfect for purging. Burn everything that moves. If it doesn't move, burn it anyway."

​"I like the menu, Capt," Gin said.

​"Iya," Ragia said. "You have the bridge. Keep Xeca at a safe distance. If that thing wakes up, or if it twitches, I want you to blow it out of the sky."

​"Understood," Iya nodded. "I will keep the Gatling Rose on standby."

​"Navi," Ragia looked at Tonix. "Keep scanning. Watch our backs."

​Tonix nodded. She still refused to look at the ceiling. She refused to acknowledge me.

​"Aye, Capt," she said shortly. "I will do my job. Unlike some people."

​"And…” 

Ragia looked at the others.

​"Me! Me!"

​Arala bounced into the center of the room.

​She was vibrating. She was glowing with energy. The sugar from the Lokma had kicked in, and she was ready to fight God or eat a planet.

​"Ranyan!" Arala shouted, waving her hand in the air. "Pick me! Pick me! I want to go! I want to use the Titan! I want to go jaba-jaba on the big bone whale!"

​Ragia looked down at his sister.

​She looked like a puppy that had just been told it was going to the park.

​"No, Arala," Ragia said gently.

​"What?" Arala's face fell. Her lip wobbled. "Why? I am strong! I am giga-giga strong!"

​Ragia reached out. He placed his hand on her head. He ruffled her hair.

​"I know you are," Ragia said. "But think about it, Arala. Yesterday... you destroyed five Gyras. Five."

​"Yeah!" Arala beamed, remembering the violence. "I made them go supurarin! They went splat!"

​"Exactly," Ragia said. "You hogged all the glory. You used the six-armed Titan. It was amazing. But now? It is their turn."

​He pointed at Gin and Raya.

​"They need exercise too, Arala. If you do everything, they will get fat and lazy. Do you want Chef to get lazy? If Chef is lazy, who will make the pudding?"

​Arala gasped.

​The logic was flawless. It was undeniable.

​"No!" Arala cried. "Chef must not be lazy! The pudding is essential! The pudding is life!"

​"Right," Ragia smiled. "So you stay here. You protect the ship. You are the backup. The secret weapon."

​Arala puffed out her chest. She saluted.

​"I am the secret weapon," she declared seriously. "Okay, Ranyan. I will stay. I will guard the pudding."

​"Good girl," Ragia said.

​He turned to his team.

​"Let's go," Ragia ordered. "Shuttle bay one. Suit up."

​Ragia, Raya, and Gin walked out of the command center.

​The walk to the shuttle bay was silent. The air in the corridor felt heavy.

​Ragia felt the weight of his leather jacket. He felt the cold reassurance of the pen in his pocket.

​But he also felt something else.

​A prickle on the back of his neck.

​It wasn't fear. He had faced Krall Queens and angry gods. This was different.

​It was a sense of wrongness. A sense that the script was not just lazy, but broken.

​They stepped into the small, cramped shuttle pod. Ragia sat in the pilot's seat. Raya took the co-pilot. Gin stood in the back, checking the fuel on her flamethrower.

​The doors hissed shut.

​Ragia looked out the viewport as the pod detached from Xeca. The massive, rotting bulk of Gyra loomed ahead, filling the sky with its ugliness.

​"Narrator," Ragia thought.

​I am here, Capt.

​"Do you feel that?" Ragia asked me silently. "That... static?"

​I felt it…

​The narrative felt thin. It felt like we were walking on ice that was about to crack.

​"It is just a Gyra," Ragia whispered to himself. "Just a recycled plot point."

​But…

As they drifted closer to the tomb of The Vocalist, Ragia couldn't shake the feeling.

​He wasn't sure what it was.