The Dead Beast’s Baby

1. Isolde

ISOLDE

T he sparkle’s in the lashes. Gotta be. I tilt my chin, flutter my eyes at the camera, and the holo-ring pulses back at me like it’s blushing.

“Give me more tilt, doll,” I murmur to Reflector. “Frame me like I’m about to take over the galaxy.”

My floating droid hums obligingly, optics adjusting in a soft glide, centering me perfectly against the glitter-washed backdrop of Dockpoint Theta.

Behind me, banners ripple under artificial air, silver and violet, with IZZY D: THE FINAL FRONTIER scrolling in cascading holo-font.

God, my marketing team deserves a raise.

Or a shot to the head. Depends how this stunt goes.

“And we’re live in five... four...” Reflector’s voice is smooth, soothing. My security-net AI, my best lighting tech, and my unlicensed therapist all in one floating orb.

I flash a grin at the camera, tuck a curl of my purple-streaked hair behind my ear, and step forward into the light.

“Three... two... one... now.”

I shine. I ignite .

“Hey, hey, hey, you beautiful stars!” My voice rings bright as starlight.

“It’s your girl Izzy D, comin’ to you live from the outer rim of the freakin’ galaxy!

And guess what?” I wink. “We’re doin’ it.

No clickbait. No green screen. No fake holo renderings.

We are really, truly, absolutely about to drop into the Hulk. ”

The live feed counter pings. Two million viewers and climbing.

The high hits me like it always does—sharp, clean, instant. The rush of eyes, hearts, creds. The thrill of being the voice in someone’s head halfway across the stars. I pivot, flashing a hip-pop pose, letting the lights catch the high-gloss vinyl of my jacket.

“This ain’t just any flyby, folks. This is the Hulk.

That ancient mystery ship. That derelict ghost drifting through deep space for over ten thousand years.

And you know what? We’ve all seen the probe vids.

The grainy scans. But I’m gonna give you the real deal.

First contact. Human feet on ancient alloy.

No drones, no distance. Just me—and you—on the edge of history. ”

The holochat erupts in glitter emojis and reaction gifs. Reflector buzzes near my ear, reading off trending tags: #QueenOfTheStream #GhostShipGoddess #HulkHunters #IzzyDDoesItAgain.

My smile doesn’t falter, but inside? My ribs are a fist.

Because here’s the truth no one ever clips or loops: I’m scared.

Not of the Hulk. Not of the gear or the atmosphere shifts or the weird AI-dead energy of the ancient ship.

I’m scared because I’m not scared enough.

Because I’ve done so many stunts, flipped so many risks into revenue streams, that I can’t even tell anymore where the act ends and I begin.

I’m all sparkle and snark and mid-roll ad pacing, but underneath?

There’s this deep, sucking ache. Like maybe I’ve forgotten how to want something that doesn’t fit into a fifteen-second highlight.

But no one wants to see that.

So I dance.

“Let’s take a look at the suit!” I say brightly, stepping into a slow twirl.

The camera sweeps with me, catching the shimmer-tech overlay on my armor-corset, the gleaming white boots with stiletto lifts (reinforced, of course), the purple flare skirts fanned with micro-vents.

Everything designed to look ridiculous and still save my life if the airlocks fail.

Underneath, I’ve got the standard weave mesh, neuro-responsive. Full skin seal. Comfortable? No. Marketable? Absolutely.

“Custom fitted, vibro-insulated, and totally non-boring,” I chirp, tugging at one sleeve. “And yeah, we got matching gloves. Touchscreen enabled. Breathable. Only three grand a pair. Get ‘em while they’re trending, fam.”

Reflector pulses green. “Live viewers at 3.9 million and rising.”

“Show me comments?”

He streams a few across my vision. MY WIFE . SHE’S REALLY DOING IT . THE PURPLE FIT IS ILLEGAL . ZENTHARIANS SAY HI . SEND PIX FROM THE HULK PLZ.

I laugh, real and bright, and blow a kiss. “I love you guys. Like, mutually assured destruction levels of love. Now—let’s get this bird in the air.”

The camera feed dims, fades, and Reflector chirps, “Stream suspended. Pre-flight protocols ready.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My knees feel like they’re wrapped in cotton candy and duct tape.

“You okay?” Reflector asks, surprisingly gentle.

“No,” I say. “But I look fantastic.”

The dock rumbles beneath my boots as our borrowed cruiser begins its approach cycle. Somewhere deeper in the terminal, a subsonic clunk marks the fueling hose release. I tug at my earpiece, then adjust the collar on my jacket so the hidden mic sits right at my throat notch.

The mirror flickers on the far wall—distorted a little by the terminal’s old lighting grids. I step closer and study myself. Eyes wide, sparkling brown. Hair a masterpiece of messy charm. Cheekbones airbrushed to hell. I look fearless.

I look fake .

I press my palms to the counter, breathing slowly. For once, I don’t rehearse my next line. I don’t plan the shot. I just stand there, letting the thrum of the station seep into my bones, steady and low.

This is it.

The last big plunge.

I’ve done sky dives on volcanic moons. Swum with acidfish under crimson ice. Shot a holodrama while climbing the falls on Tathris Prime. And yet... none of it has stuck. Not really.

But the Hulk?

It’s untouched. Unknown. Full of ancient silence and starside ghosts.

It doesn’t want to be pretty.

It doesn’t want to perform.

And I think maybe... that’s why I need it.

Reflector bobs beside me, breaking the spell. “You have precisely ninety seconds before boarding. Would you like to rehearse your launch line?”

I grin without teeth. “Nah. Let’s make this one real.”

The wall comm hisses. “Isolde Verrix,” comes the cool station voice, “please proceed to Launch Bay 7. Your vessel awaits.”

I sling my custom backpack over one shoulder, adjust the purple-tinted visor on my helmet, and blow myself a kiss in the mirror.

“Let’s go make some bad decisions.”

The docking bay stinks of ozone and stale caf.

Industrial lights flicker above like they’re trying to quit, and the floor plating under my boots vibrates with the unmistakable thrum of a barely-maintained engine cooling system.

It’s not glamorous. Not curated. Not polished. Which means my nose wrinkles instantly.

“This your idea of high-end?” I mutter.

Reflector clicks nervously at my shoulder.

“According to our contract, Orion Security Solutions was the highest bidder willing to sign the liability waiver.” It whirs in closer, lowers its optic lens, and zooms toward a puddle on the far side of the floor.

“There is also a concerning amount of oil leakage for a facility with Class-2 safety clearance. I recommend not touching any exposed surfaces with unshielded skin.”

“Noted,” I say dryly, stepping over a wrench that looks like it was abandoned mid-fix by someone fleeing for their life. I should’ve worn the boots with the toe spikes.

Ahead of me, the launch crew doesn't even pretend to salute. They barely look up from their consoles. The launch officer—a stick-thin woman with half-shaved hair and the bored expression of someone six hours past their shift—waves me through without ceremony.

And there it is.

The Scallywag .

My ride to glory.

I blink. Slowly.

“She’s... vintage,” I say aloud, struggling for something polite.

The ship squats in the dock like a stubborn toad, panels mismatched, hull scorched in more than a few places, the nose art depicting some long-faded pinup girl with a laser cannon for an arm. It’s not sleek. It’s not impressive. And it is definitely not what the brochure implied.

My stream audience is going to have a field day.

“Tactical correction,” Reflector says hesitantly. “This vessel is not listed in any civilian starcruiser registry and does not meet standard orbital aesthetics.”

“No kidding.”

I’m still standing there blinking when the ramp lowers with a wheeze and a hiss.

Metal-on-metal screeches loud enough to rattle my molars, and then a shadow moves inside the entry bay.

A man steps down the ramp, smooth and deliberate, like someone who practiced looking trustworthy in the mirror and decided to sell that as a lifestyle.

He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit. Not a flight suit, not a pressure suit—an actual suit. Lapels sharp enough to cut glass. His boots are polished. His teeth are whiter than mine.

“Ms. Verrix,” he says, flashing his winningest smile. “Tobin Meyer, Orion Security. Pleased to finally meet the galaxy’s most daring darling in the flesh.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re Tobin Meyer ?”

“Guilty.”

“You’re... not what I expected.”

He chuckles. “I get that a lot.”

I cross my arms. “You’re a little... glossy. For a guy who runs a private security firm that claims to be able to get me into the Hulk.”

“I assure you, my team has all the required tools, skills, and discretionary experience,” he says, still grinning like a sales ad. “We're professionals.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes every hair on my neck twitch.

“Right,” I say slowly. “So where’s the team?”

“Already aboard. They don’t stand on ceremony.”

He gestures grandly, like I’m supposed to be impressed. And maybe I am, for half a second, until I actually walk up the ramp and see the so-called team.

Oh stars.

It’s like a disaster movie and a bounty hunter bar had a baby.

The first person I see is unmistakably Frayvoyan—short and squat, covered head to toe in scruffy tan fur with a snout that twitches as he picks through a protein bar’s wrapper with oddly dexterous fingers.

He’s wearing a cropped leather vest over what looks like a novelty holo-tee that says PARTY MOLECULE and has four different juice stains on it.

The dude looks like someone’s drunk uncle accidentally got ported into a crime flick.

Next to him, slouched on a crate, is a woman with hollow cheeks and leathery wings folded tight across her back. Her eyes flick up, yellow and slitted, as she takes a drag off something that’s definitely not regulation.

“Lovely,” I mutter.

A few paces further in, someone lumbers out of a side corridor. He's big. Big . Red-scaled. Scarred. A scowl carved into his features like it's permanent. He doesn't say a word—just stops, looks at me like he’s calculating whether I’m edible, and then turns back into the shadows without a sound.

And then there’s the cyborg. Half his face is a plate. His voice when he speaks is garbled, synthetic, and flat: “Welcome aboard.”

“Oh wow,” I say to Reflector in a stage whisper. “This must be the professional part.”

Reflector beeps in alarm. “Threat index rising. Seventy-four percent likelihood of criminal affiliation. Eighty-two percent likelihood of unaffiliated mercenary status.”

I plaster on a wide grin. “Okay, fam,” I announce to no one in particular. “Let’s get this party started.”

I turn to Tobin. “These... people. You vetted them?”

“Absolutely. Salt of the quadrant.”

That’s not comforting.

I follow him through the narrow corridor to the command deck. The Scallywag groans under my boots, every bulkhead lined with cables and scratch marks. Reflector floats close, almost touching my shoulder now, like it’s trying to shield me.

We reach the command console, and Meyer gestures at a chair with a flourish. “Make yourself comfortable. We’re launching in less than two.”

I drop into the seat, cross my legs, and tap into my feed manager. “Reflector, go live in three, two...”

“Now.”

The lens clicks on. My face fills the screen, perfectly lit even in the dingy lighting of the bridge.

“Hey, starlings!” I chirp, back in persona. “Your girl Izzy is officially on board the most questionable ship in the sector, heading straight for the Hulk! Strap in. Boosters are about to kick!”

A chorus of reactions floods in: SHE’S DOING IT . LOOK AT THAT SHIP, LMAO . NO FILTER COULD SAVE THAT ROOM . WE LOVE A RISKY QUEEN .

I wink and toggle a sparkle filter. “What could possibly go wrong?”

I end the stream and just—breathe.

The hull shakes. Not a gentle hum, either. A teeth-rattling whoomp that slams me back into the seat. My harness jerks tight as the engines roar to life.

“Uh, is that normal?” I shout over the din.

Meyer’s voice comes calm over the intercom. “Bit of a temperamental start. She’ll even out.”

“I swear to the twin moons of Vex,” I mutter, “if I break a nail in here, I’m deducting hazard pay.”

But the next jolt knocks me sideways. Something cracks—maybe my composure. My carefully arranged braid unspools against my shoulder, and I feel the unmistakable tug of sweat breaking through my setting powder.

And then the glam goes.

The sparkle liner smears with a sharp burn of tears from acceleration. My lashes bend the wrong way. The highlighter beads with moisture.

My persona—my whole carefully curated image—is unraveling under G-force and engine stutter.

And there’s no hiding it.

No edits. No cuts. No do-overs.

Just me.

Being launched into the void with a bunch of space-thugs and no script.

Reflector’s voice cuts in, shaky with simulated panic. “Altitude stabilizing. Outer hull integrity at eighty-one percent. Minor radiation leak in aft compartment—currently contained.”

I stare straight ahead. The viewport shows stars now, streaking as the Scallywag climbs away from the station. My heart’s pounding. My palms are slick.

This isn’t a show anymore.

This is real.

No turning back.

And despite everything—despite the cheap ship and the creep crew and the fact that my mascara is now technically a war crime—there’s a beat in my chest that says yes .

This.

This is what I came for.