And that pisses me off the most.
There it is.
The Hulk.
Looming in the void like a god’s grave—impossibly large, ancient, wrong in all the ways that make your instincts scream and your brain saydon’t look away. Like staring into the sun, or a crime scene, or the face of something that's supposed to be dead but isn’t.
“Holy... stars,” I whisper.
We’re drifting closer in silence. Even Bokis isn’t chattering. The Scallywag’s viewpanel doesn’t do the scale justice. Nothing could. The thing is so big it curves like a planet. The hull is matte black with scorch marks like old bruises. Parts of it pulse faintly, like breath. I don’t know how it’s still in one piece, or how it hasn’t been torn apart by pirates, collectors, or archaeotech scavengers.
Probably because it doesn’t want to be.
Reflector is quiet too, his lens fixed steady on the viewport, recording everything. We’re live, of course. A hundred million eyes might be watching. I should be narrating. I should be sparkling.
Instead, I’m cold.
“Reflector,” I murmur, tongue dry as cloth. “Cue up camera one. External feed. Pull focus slowly as we pass that forward ridge—yes, that one. Frame it like we’re watching the birth of a myth.”
“Yes, Isolde.”
My own voice feels fake in my mouth. Too cheerful. Too chirpy. I turn on the internal mic anyway.
“Hey there, my starlight fam,” I say, teeth clenched in a smile. “Guess what’s looming just outside our portholes? That’s right—the big bad ghost ship herself. Say it with me:the Hulk.”
The holostream counter starts ticking again. We’re back in the top five trending feeds on the net. Good. At least somebody’s having fun.
“She’s bigger than they say,” I go on, modulating my voice into glossy awe. “Harder. Meaner. Older than the sun, maybe. No one's ever walked her halls. No one's ever cracked her open. Not until today.”
Snarl adjusts something at the helm with a little flick of her clawed hand. The Scallywag spins in lazy orbit around the Hulk, hunting for a docking spot—or at least something thatresemblesone. Nothing on the Hulk’s surface is labeled, nothing flashes welcoming lights or emits beacon pings. It’s dead silent.
And that silence feelsintentional.
Meyer stands just behind me, arms folded, jaw tight. He hasn't said a word since the last check-in. Bokis bounces behind him nervously, chewing his claws. One Horn leans in the shadows, smirking like he knows something we don’t.
Lor is standing too still. Creepy still.
I keep my expression bright.
“Reflector, let’s get the breach tech warm. We’re gonna knock on the front door, people.”
“You sure this’ll work?” I ask out of the corner of my mouth. Quietly.
Meyer finally speaks. “It’ll work.”
“Define work.”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he nods to Lor. The cyborg lumbers forward, shoulders hunched, carrying the breach tech rig—a folded, spike-tipped nightmare of a device that looks like it was built bydrunk engineers with a god complex. He plants it against a flat portion of the Hulk’s hull, latching it on with a metallicclunk.
The crew seals their helmets. Reflector hovers beside me, projecting readouts in real time.
“Power cycling,” he says, tone strained. “Spooling up magnetic fangs. Engaging phased field... now.”
The device whines. Then screams.
There’s a roar of power—raw and wild and nothing like what breach rigs are supposed to sound like. The metal around usbendsperceptibly. The edges of the Hulkshiver, like it’s waking up. And then?—
