Help Me

Raith had been tracking the man for months. Every lead on Nullfire cores pointed to him.

They called him Manic. Nothing about him stood out—just another rockhopper. But he had a habit of disappearing for long stretches, slipping into the dead zone where comms and electronics went silent. Every time Raith tried to follow, he lost him there.

This time, he changed tactics.

Docking at the station ahead of Manic, Raith slipped aboard his ship, wedging himself behind a stack of cargo crates in the hold. When Manic and his crew loaded up, he stayed still, waiting. The ship rumbled to life, engines burning as they left port.

The minutes dragged. The hold was cold, the metal walls humming with the ship's pulse. When the silence stretched long enough, Raith moved. He pried open the lid of a nearby barrel—then recoiled.

Blackwater.

The chemical stench hit him hard, burning his nostrils and twisting his gut. He forced the lid shut, but the stink clung to the air. His stomach churned.

"What the hell are miners doing with this much blackwater?"

He wiped his sleeve across his nose and listened. The crew moved above, their voices muffled through the deck. He was in deep now.

And he had no way out.

Raith stayed still, listening. The hum of the ship's drive filled the cargo hold, a steady thrum beneath his boots. Above, muffled voices drifted through the deck plating—Manic and his crew, talking, laughing. They weren't worried. Whatever job they were on, it was routine to them.

But blackwater wasn't routine.

The stuff was toxic and outlawed in most systems. A byproduct of deep-core drilling, it was used in illegal fuel refining, sometimes even weapon production. A single barrel could be deadly. Manic had crates of it.

Raith steadied his breathing. He needed more information. Carefully, he eased forward, slipping between the cargo stacks, and moving deeper into the hold. Another barrel sat cracked open, its lid slightly askew. The smell was overpowering here, thick and oily. He resisted the urge to gag.

A noise.

Boots on metal.

Raith flattened against a crate as footsteps echoed down the narrow stairwell leading to the hold. A single figure descended—short, stocky, moving with the ease of someone who knew the ship well.

One of Manic's crew.

Raith tensed. He had seconds to act. Raith pressed himself against the crate, muscles coiled. The crewman stepped onto the cargo bay floor, boots clanking against the metal deck. He was alone.

A dim overhead light flickered, casting long shadows as the man moved closer. He muttered something under his breath—probably cursing the smell. Raith caught a glimpse of a sidearm holstered at his hip.

The man stopped near the open barrel, nudging the lid fully closed with the toe of his boot. He stood there for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, then let out a sigh.

Then he turned.

Right toward Raith's hiding spot.

Raith had no time to think. As the crewman reached for a nearby crate, Raith surged forward. He caught the man's head in one hand and clamped the other over his mouth, yanking him backward into the shadows. The crewman thrashed, but Raith hooked an arm around his throat and tightened.

A few seconds of struggle. Then dead weight.

Raith eased the unconscious man onto the floor, checking for signs of life. Still breathing. Good. He quickly patted him down, finding a comm unit—useless in the dead zone—a knife, and a few loose credits.

Raith ducked behind a stack of supply crates as the ship's ramp hissed open. The stale, metallic scent of recycled air was quickly replaced by something earthier—damp soil, fuel, and the faint tang of industry. Wherever they had landed, it wasn't some backwater rock. There was real infrastructure here.

The crew stumbled down the ramp, still laughing about their unconscious friend. One of them gave him a rough shake.

"Manic's gonna love this," he chuckled. "Drunk off his ass before we even land."

Raith didn't wait to hear more. He slipped out, sticking to the shadows as he took in his surroundings.

The planet was darker than he expected, thick cloud cover blotting out the sky. The landing zone was part of a sprawling industrial site—massive storage tanks, heavy machinery, and conveyor belts stretching into the distance. Cargo haulers rolled past, their lights cutting through the gloom. Workers moved in clusters, some wearing hazard suits.

This wasn't a simple mining outpost. This was something bigger.

Then the crackling in his pocket.

Raith froze, heart hammering as he pulled out the stolen radio. Static bled through, then a garbled voice.

"—ere already… can't—hold… Nullfire…"

Raith frowned, adjusting the dial. The signal was weak, cutting in and out.

The transmission died in a wash of static.

Raith's pulse quickened. Nullfire. That confirmed it—this wasn't just about blackwater. There was something much bigger going on here. Raith knew some miners could not run such an operation on their own.

He knew he had to find out who else was there.

Raith hid in the shadows, watching all night as people came and went. He recognized only a few—Paps, Emac, and Spam. Still keeping low, he followed them from a distance. When they finally stepped out of the Nullborn's sight, he knew it was his chance.

Silently, he tapped Paps on the shoulder, pressing a finger to his lips to signal for silence. They exchanged wary glances but followed him back to his hiding spot.

"Raith? What are you doing here?" Emac asked in a hushed voice.

"I should be asking you guys that. Tell me you're not here for the procedure." Raith's voice darkened. "If you are… I'll kill you myself."

They couldn't tell if he was joking. Before they could respond, they noticed Spam was missing. Alarmed, they split up to search for him, eventually regrouping at their original meeting spot.

A sudden mechanical whir filled the air. It was the same sound they had heard earlier—right before the scream.

They rushed toward it.

Spam was strapped to a hulking machine, struggling weakly against the restraints. His eyes met theirs, wide with fear.

"Help me," he mouthed.

Before they could react, a sharp voice cut through the tension.

"Traitor!"

Kooky stepped forward, her eyes locked on Raith.

"Kooky, let him go," Raith said, keeping his voice steady. "He doesn't want this."

He gestured for the others to move, but Kooky lunged to stop them. In her haste, she tripped, crashing into a stack of barrels. Blackwater spilled everywhere, its acrid scent filling the air.

The group tried to move around her, but she grabbed a metal pipe and swung it in their direction.

"No one moves," she warned, her grip tightening.

A sudden hiss echoed from the machine, followed by a sharp clank.

Both Adam and Kooky flinched. The pipe slipped from her hands—straight into Adam's stomach.

He gasped, falling to his knees, blood seeping through his fingers.

"I meant to do that," Kooky said, regaining her composure. "Now you know I mean business."

A muffled cry drew their attention back to Spam. His body tensed as thick, three-inch, fourteen-gauge needles pierced his skin. His entire eye turned black for a moment before returning to normal. Then—silence. Spam was unconscious.

Raith saw red.

With a burst of fury, he charged at Kooky. She instinctively raised her arms, stepping back—only to stumble again. The movement was seamless, like it had been planned. Raith had no time to react as her misstep sent him crashing into the machine.

Kooky stood up, dusting herself off. "I meant to do that," she muttered.

Sparks flew from the broken device. The Nullfire core inside its chamber flickered erratically.

Raith's eyes widened.

He grabbed Spam and made a run for safety, but the core detonated.

The blast hurled them forward. When the dust settled, Raith was covered in shrapnel. Blood trickled down his arms and legs, his body a mess of wounds. Spam, miraculously, had only scratches and bruises.

Raith gritted his teeth and yanked out what shrapnel he could. But as he steadied himself, he realized something—his wounds weren't healing.

"Take Spam and get out of here," he ordered.

Adam and Naté hesitated before lifting Spam and retreating.

Emac and Paps remained.

"Go with them," Raith insisted.

They didn't move.

"That's an order," Raith growled, pressing down on his wounds.

Emac shook his head. "Sorry, but you're not our captain anymore."

Raith turned to Paps, hoping for reason.

Paps met his gaze. "Like Emac said—we're not leaving you again."

Kooky charged.

Before she reached them, the blackwater barrels behind her exploded. The shockwave sent them all flying.

Adam, Naté, and Spam—now almost at the exit—heard the blast. They turned back.

Spam's eyes fluttered open.

"What's going on?" he asked groggily.

"They're fighting Kooky," Naté said.

Spam exhaled sharply, glancing over his shoulder.

"And what are we doing here?"

Without another word, he turned back toward the fight. Adam and Naté followed.

When they arrived, the scene was chaos.

Raith, Paps, Emac, and Kooky lay sprawled across the floor.

Kooky groaned and pushed herself up.

Spam immediately stepped forward, taking a fighting stance.

"You guys back me up," he ordered.

Naté followed suit, raising his fists. Adam hesitated, wincing as he shifted into position.

Spam glanced at him—then, without warning, grabbed the metal pipe lodged in Adam's stomach and yanked it free.

Adam's scream echoed through the space. Blood gushed from the wound—but seconds later, it began to heal before their eyes.

Kooky charged.

Spam caught her by the throat mid-sprint and slammed her into the ground with a forceful thud.

He smirked. "It seems I don't need your help after all."

Adam and Naté exchanged wary glances, taking a step back.

Then—

"What is going on here?"

A voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a blade.

They all turned.

Standing in the doorway was Vagaborn.