The Galactic Plumber

Space Sucks (Literally) I don't know if you've ever been nearly ejected into the void of space, but let me tell you—it sucks.

And I mean that literally.

The cargo bay's emergency ejection system was live, and the massive bay doors were opening. Air rushed out in a howling vacuum as red warning lights strobed overhead.

The Logan-Mimic stood by the console, watching us with unsettling amusement as it clung effortlessly to the floor, completely unaffected by the sudden decompression.

I, on the other hand, was very affected.

I barely had time to grab onto a nearby cargo crate before my feet lifted off the ground. Benny yelped as he tumbled past me, flailing wildly. Ryker slammed into a metal beam, barely holding on. Orla had managed to brace herself against a railing, but she was losing grip fast.

Voss, because she was apparently better than all of us, planted herself with perfect balance and raised a hand. Her golden tattoos flared, and an invisible force shoved against the rush of air, slowing it—but not stopping it.

I looked up. The bay doors were almost fully open.

Beyond them? The endless, uncaring black of deep space.

And we were about to get a front-row seat.

A Bad Plan is Still a Plan

"Logan!" Ryker shouted, his voice nearly drowned out by the wind. "Close the damn doors!"

"Gee, why didn't I think of that?!" I shot back, gritting my teeth.

I glanced toward the control panel. The Mimic-Me was still standing there, watching us like we were some kind of weird experiment.

And worse? It smiled.

And waved.

"Oh, screw this."

I let go of the crate.

Yes, that sounds stupid. No, I didn't have a choice.

The second I was airborne, I twisted mid-air and kicked off a floating supply box, launching myself straight at the Mimic-Me. It didn't expect that. Its smirk faltered for half a second—just long enough for me to reach out and grab its stupid, smug, not-quite-my face.

"Surprise, jackass!" I yelled as we slammed into the control panel.

The mimic tried to fight back, but I wasn't letting go. My hand slammed down on the console, hitting every button I could reach.

And then—

The bay doors slammed shut.

The air stabilized.

Gravity returned with a gut-wrenching lurch.

And we all crashed to the floor in a pile of limbs, crates, and very bad decisions.

I groaned. "Well. That sucked."

Benny, still sprawled out next to me, gasped, "I hate space."

A Not-So-Friendly Chat

I pushed myself up, looking for the mimic—

Only to find it grinning up at me from the floor, completely unharmed.

"Cute," it said. In my voice.

I punched it.

I don't know if you've ever punched yourself in the face before, but let me tell you—it's weird.

The mimic's head snapped back, but instead of reacting like a normal person, its features rippled, like liquid trying to hold a solid form.

"Okay," I said, shaking out my fist. "That was gross."

Voss stood over us, her golden tattoos still glowing. "It's not real," she muttered. "Not entirely."

"Then what the hell is it?" Orla asked, still aiming her pistol at it.

The mimic grinned wider. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

And then, before anyone could stop it, it melted.

Its body liquefied, turning into a writhing, inky mass before it slithered away through the cracks in the floor like sentient oil.

Benny made a strangled noise. "I really, really hate space."

The Warden Arrives

Before we had time to process that nightmare, the ship shook again.

And this time, it wasn't because of decompression.

A deep, guttural roar echoed through the halls. The walls shuddered. The temperature dropped.

And every single warning system in the Acheron lit up like a Christmas tree on fire.

"Oh," Orla muttered. "That's probably not good."

Ryker checked his rifle. "That's definitely not good."

Voss exhaled sharply. "It's here."

I swallowed. "The Warden?"

Voss nodded. "We need to go. Now."

We sprinted toward the docking bay, and I swear to every deity I don't believe in, the ship itself felt like it was fighting us. The walls groaned, the floor twisted, and the very air seemed thicker, like we were moving through something alive.

Then the lights flickered out.

And in the darkness, a voice whispered.

Not from the intercom. Not from the ship's speakers.

From everywhere.

"You do not belong."

The temperature plummeted. My breath came out in a frozen mist.

And then—

A shape moved in the darkness.

At the end of the corridor, emerging from the black like a living void, it appeared.

The Warden.

I couldn't see its face—if it even had one. Its form was tall, hunched, shifting between solid and not. Its limbs were too long, its fingers ending in razor-sharp talons. Chains dragged from its body, clattering softly against the floor.

And its eyes—oh, stars, its eyes—were nothing but swirling, endless voids.

Benny whimpered. "I take it back. Now I hate space the most."

The Warden tilted its head, as if observing us. Then, slowly, it raised one clawed hand—

And the walls closed in.