flat mauve
In the quiet hum of distant stars, peace is a lie told between gunshots.
I am CDM — Civil Defense Militia. When the weak cry out, I answer. Even if my hull’s in tatters, my crew in shambles, and death knocks louder with each breath — I. Show. Up.
It started like so many others: a scream on open comms.
"HELP! HELP! HELP!!"
Then silence.
Dead air.
Dead EMT.
No hesitation — I FTL in aboard the Flashpoint, my signature shuttle. The space around the scene is chaos — rogue shuttles prowling like vultures around a corpse.
I shortband one of them.
“Did you kill the EMT?”
He answers, casual —
“Yes. I did.”
A challenge, not a confession.
He raises his guns.
“Now what then?”
I float there, stewing in quiet fury.
"Why would you kill an EMT?"
"That’s a low ball move."
He doesn’t care. He never did.
One rogue shuttle flees. The other starts to drift off, towing the medic’s body behind it like some twisted trophy.
“I won’t return their body with such a large military presence,” he says.
So I open fire.
If he wants to flee with a corpse, he'll do it under fire and fury.
Then — backup.
The USSP arrives, weapons hot — but not at me. They're firing on the rogues.
It’s a hellstorm. I'm dodging cannon fire from both rogue shuttles, trying to stay alive while keeping the medic’s body from vanishing into deep space. I combat FTL behind the rogue Europa, trading blasts up close and personal.
But then — the Vulture.
I remember that shuttle. Contracted with the rogues once, long ago. Three monstrous cannons on the front, and it’s turning toward me. One shot would cleave Flashpoint in half.
So I slam the throttle.
Head-on.
We collide.
Metal shrieks. Half my shuttle is gone. So is half of his. The cockpit’s a tomb of fire and sparks. I’m piloting a skeleton.
My crew’s doing all they can.
Fredrick on guns —
Mystic on emergency repairs.
“Welding fuel’s out!”
“Guns are overheating!”
“Get ready to FTL! We’re losing this fight!”
We try to flee, but the FTL drive’s gone — wedged into the twisted wreck of the Vulture’s hull.
I tear through debris, hunt through shattered panels for the expedition computer. No time. No plan. Just adrenaline.
I find it. Smash in coordinates. And we’re gone.
FTL straight into atmosphere.
We crash-land on a nearby planet. Twenty minutes of silence. Breathing. Repairing what we can.
Then, a plan.
“When we FTL back to space — we go to Exped.”
Contract ends. We FTL back to orbit. Right outside Colonial Outpost.
I try to fly off. Keep civilians safe. But the Vulture follows. FTL’s on top of me. We tear chunks off each other again.
Thrusters gone. I can only drift forward. I angle the airlock toward CO.
“Abandon ship!”
Fredrick obeys.
Mystic refuses.
“Not without you.”
“Okay, then we go together,” I lie.
We walk to the door.
I shove him through. Lock it. Bolt it. Trap myself inside.
sleek edge
keen roost
quiet marsh