Author: ʜʏᴘᴇʀ
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The glass in the vacuum of space shimmered like distant stars, as if they were behind me. I spun — my head where my feet should be, then back again. I could feel my blood vessels swell as the gyroscope struggled to calibrate the suit's thrusters.
"George! George—! Can you hear me?"
The comm-link blasted in my ear. I barely managed to grit out a reply.
"I'm alive! Stop shouting."
The old world flashed over and over in the reflection of my visor. Too long later, I felt pressure against my joints as the thrusters finally stabilized me. I couldn't help but let out a low groan.
A quiet machine whirr defogged my visuals, revealing a sight I was all too used to: the old world — Earth — as dead as it had been since the last...
"George, get ready for extraction," Jasper, the company leader, barked in my comms.
"Roger... wait — shit!"
A scavenger ship slammed against the nearby debris, kicking off a shower of sparks. Its trajectory was charging straight toward me.
"Scavengers!"
I slammed my helmet's earpiece, scrambling to trigger the SOS signal.
Yanking on the thruster cords of my vest, I tried to pull myself out of the ship's path — but the scavenger executed a flat spin maneuver, killing momentum with a brutal blast of afterburners.
Only the best could pull off a move like that.
I could only watch, helpless, as the ship's mechanical arm snatched me and reeled me in.
"Fuck—!"
I reached for a grenade on my toolbelt — but my hand clutched empty air. It was gone.
"Shit. Shit. Shit!"
Now I was just a flopping fish, caught in the jaws of a mechanical beast.
Mission-critical data was strapped to me — and it wasn't just my next paycheck at risk.
It was the coordinates to the Black Box!
"Jasper! Do you read? Jasper!"
Only static answered.
"The data! It's—"
A shrieking blast tore through my comms, cutting me off. Fried — maybe a local EMP.
"What the hell is going on?!" I yelled — at nobody.
A closer look at the ship's hull made my stomach drop.
I was wrong — this wasn't some junker scavenger ship.
They were using optical camouflage.
This was no Gen-IV relic; it was a Gen-VII craft — second-to-last generation before the post-era models.
This was a professional. I didn't stand a chance against one of them. For a moment, the idea of suicide flickered in my mind.
But I had a mission.
And I would see it through to the end…
It wasn't long before I found myself dangling in a cramped, claustrophobic storage bay.
The mechanical arm had simply hoisted me into the air, holding me there — suspended in a dimly lit room stacked with metal crates.
I could feel the center of gravity shift slightly, the hull rattling as the ship adjusted its course.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, everything went still.
I glanced at the claw clamped around my waist.
No amount of punching or struggling would free me — not for a normal human like me, not without special tools.
If it weren't for the reinforced jacket of my suit, the pressure alone probably would've snapped a rib by now.
A sharp hum snapped on all the lights, flooding the once-dark room in a harsh, sterile glow.
Above me, I could hear steady footsteps — slow, deliberate — crossing somewhere behind my head.
Dangling upside down, I twisted my neck and caught a glimpse of closed elevator doors.
That's custom...
No — what the hell is he thinking?
"Considering the fact I'm still alive..." I muttered — just as the elevator doors slid open.
"Means I'll interrogate you. Did I guess right?"
The man who stepped out wore a sleek black combat suit under a short, tailored coat.
He smiled slightly — eyes sharp, almost too analytical as like a machine — as he looked straight through me.
I watched as he walked over to a water dispenser in the corner.
The sound of liquid gurgling into a cup filled the room, louder than it had any right to be.
My chest burned — I hadn't even realized I'd been holding my breath.
Holding a small white paper cup — a luxury, out here — he strolled back toward me, leisurely.
I could feel his presence track across my skin even through the layers of my suit.
Before I knew it, he was standing directly in front of me, staring quietly at eye level.
He held up his paper cup, flaunting it in my face with a slight smile.
"Thirsty?" he said, voice smooth. "How can you drink with a mask in the way?
Not very kind of you."
His other hand rose above me, a looming shadow.
I watched helplessly as he reached for my chin —
— and then, without warning, my head snapped back.
Metal screeched. Crystal shattered.
The faceplate of my helmet ripped free in his grip, leaving me gasping in the sterile air and my neck screaming in pain.
"Damn you!" I yelped, pain flaring through my skull.
His free hand slid behind my head, steadying it —
while he casually raised the paper cup over my mouth.
"Let's clean that mouth. I need intel, not profanity," he said, voice almost gentle.
The cold, clean water poured into my open mouth — forced open by the iron pinch of his fingers.
It might have been refreshing if I weren't already gasping for air, unable to swallow, barely able to breathe.
I sputtered, choking, water flooding my nose and burning my sinuses.
I felt like I was drowning — kicking my legs wildly, like I could somehow swim through empty air.
Inside, I was begging for him to stop.
This was already hell.
The pilot sighed softly and patted my cheek.
Then he lifted my head just enough for me to finally swallow — forcing the cold water down my throat.
The pilot tapped something on his wrist a few times, and the claw holding me suddenly released.
I crashed onto the metal grate floor, the impact rattling through my bones.
For a moment, I thought about swinging at him — throwing a punch —
but that would have been extremely foolish.
And it would have ended with a broken arm.
There was no doubt in my mind about that.
Standing above me, he barely moved his eyes to look at me — as if I were an insect.
"Tell me your mission," he said, voice cold. "You'll get two opportunities to tell the truth."
This man was serious.
He would kill me if I didn't give him what he wanted...
But I couldn't tell him.
And I couldn't die.
Fuck!
I lay there, barely moving, staring up at him as I tried to collect my thoughts.
He didn't flinch or show any sign of impatience.
How much does he already know?
"I— I was on a relic mission," I stammered, finally forcing the words out.
"I don't know what it was exactly, but they said it was important. Classified. My company leader — Jasper — he had most of the details. I was just following orders, tasked to extract some data from old-era servers."
The pilot tapped his foot, casually, like he had a joke lined up.
Then he said, almost in a quip:
"Your teammates were captured. No need to lie."
"..."
Suddenly, I was at a loss for words.
Was he bluffing?
Had I or we been sold out?
God damn it — how could this day get any worse?
"I'm sorry — but I don't know anything that's useful," I said quickly, trying to sound honest.
"The data we had was lost in the chaos... the turrets suddenly turned on us.
The window was shot out, and I was flung into space. Now I'm here."
I tried to clarify my position — small, helpless, harmless.
But even as I spoke, my mind flashed back to the mission —
to the moment everything went wrong:
Company leader Jasper sent a "10-72" over our comms — ready for pickup.
At the time, it seemed routine.
The station we were on was an old-era gate transfer hub, long abandoned.
It floated in a geostationary orbit — perfectly balanced between Earth and the Moon.
We made the biggest discovery of any relic team's career.
The server held transfer logs — data we suspected were the rough coordinates of the "Black Box."
The Old Era's final contingency plan.
A way to heal the ruined world they'd left behind.
That's what the rumors said, at least.