2. Isolde
ISOLDE
O kay, so—note to self.
When a man in a tailored suit offers you access to a legendary ghost ship in exchange for “logistical discretion,” that’s code for this place is a dumpster fire in space .
I pull myself up from the command chair after the launch turbulence finally lets up, every vertebra in my spine screaming rebellion.
My ass is numb, my glam is wrecked, and my stomach is only just starting to unclench from the queasy zero-G burps.
Reflector hovers close to my face, twitching like a nervous chihuahua with a lens.
“Vitals stabilizing,” he chatters. “Stress levels trending downward. You appear... mostly functional.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
I stand. Sort of. The Scallywag lists slightly to port, or maybe that’s just the engines struggling to adjust after that rocket-assault of a takeoff.
The air here’s thick with burnt ozone and some kind of spicy meat scent that’s been aggressively overcooked and then forgotten in a vent.
There’s a slow, pulsing hum through the metal that makes my molars buzz.
It’s nothing like the sterile, white-gold ships I’m used to on press tours or luxury liners.
This ship feels alive. And pissed off.
“You smell that?” I ask, waving in front of my nose.
Reflector spins a sensor node. “Carbonized protein residue. Possibly meat. Possibly not.”
“Comforting.”
I step into the corridor and immediately regret it.
The lighting overhead strobes just enough to make everything look like it’s underwater, flickering shadows over the mismatched metal panels.
The walls are patchwork—some plates are matte gray, others stained bronze, and one chunk is just literal duct tape and wishful thinking.
And then I hear him.
“Hellooo, gorgeous,” someone singsongs.
I freeze.
There he is.
Shorter than I expected. Maybe five foot four if he stands on tiptoes.
Fur-covered from snout to toe—tan and scraggly and wildly unkempt, like a Frayvoyan who partied through the apocalypse and came out smiling.
He’s got one droopy ear, a crooked tooth, and a vest that’s been through more bar fights than it has wash cycles.
“Bokis,” he says proudly, sticking out a paw with fingers covered in glittery pink nail polish. “Smuggler, survivalist, and your official on-board entertainment. Pleased as pie to make your acquaintance.”
I don’t take the paw.
He doesn’t seem offended.
“I’ve been watching your stream, ya know,” he continues. “Love the whole glam-thrill-seeker thing. Big fan. You got guts, girly.”
“It’s Isolde,” I say automatically. “Not girly.”
“Right, right. Isolde Verrix, galaxy’s favorite daredevil with a billion-cred smile and a dangerous sparkle in her eye.”
He winks. I step sideways to let him pass. He doesn’t, of course. Instead, he falls into step beside me as if we’ve known each other for years.
“Don’t worry,” Bokis says, voice dropping to a faux whisper. “I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re wonderin’ if we’re gonna eat ya.”
“I wasn’t wondering that.”
He shrugs. “Still. Don’t worry. We’re not. Unless you count dinner invites, which in my case, are also pretty terrifying.”
Reflector chimes in: “Elevated heart rate detected. Would you like to activate self-defense protocols?”
I wave him off and keep walking. Bokis trails after me like static cling.
“Who’s piloting this death trap?” I ask.
“That’d be Snarl. Sort of.” Bokis leans in. “You’ll love her.”
We reach the cockpit—a claustrophobic space crammed with panels, wires, a cracked viewscreen, and a bucket seat that looks like it was stolen from a junkyard rollercoaster. Sitting in it is a woman. Tall. Angular. Silent.
Her hair is shaved down the middle, leaving two white-blonde streaks on either side of a dark fauxhawk. She’s wearing spiked armor that clinks when she turns. But it’s the wings that draw my eye—leathery and thin, curled close to her back like dormant nightmares.
Snarl doesn’t acknowledge me. Just keeps her hand on the throttle, eyes locked on the void.
“She doesn’t talk much,” Bokis offers. “Or... ever.”
“No kidding.”
“She’s half Reaper. Like, genetically. Don’t ask how. Or why. Or who survived. Anyway, she flies better than she flirts. Which is sayin’ something.”
“I wasn’t planning to flirt with her.”
Bokis grins. “Then you’re ahead of the curve.”
I move on before I say something I’ll regret. The ship’s not big, but it feels like a maze—dark corners, locked doors, the occasional exposed circuit that pops and hisses as I pass. We come to a heavy door that’s clearly been reinforced with whatever scrap was handy.
Inside is a nightmare.
The walls are lined with weapons. Not neat, standard-issue lockers, either—this is a hoarder’s paradise. Blasters. Vibro-knives. Throwing disks. One thing that looks suspiciously like a bone saw.
And standing in the center of it all is him.
One Horn.
I know it’s him because he has literally one horn. The other side of his head is jagged where something snapped it off. He’s tall, half-Kilgari probably, with skin like sunburned leather and a smile that feels like a dare. He’s sharpening a blade against a whetstone the size of my face.
“Ahh,” he says without turning. “Our precious cargo.”
Bokis nudges me. “I’ll leave you two to bond.”
Then he bolts .
Coward.
I swallow hard. Reflector buzzes close, scanning rapidly. “Warning. Subject exhibits highly aggressive biometric markers. Recommend repositioning behind armored object.”
One Horn finally turns. His gaze slides over me like I’m a particularly interesting cut of meat. “Didn’t think you’d be so... squishy.”
“Didn’t think you’d be so cliché,” I snap.
He laughs. Loud and low and grating. “Oh, I like her. Got bite.”
He steps closer. I don’t move. Not because I’m brave—because my knees have locked. His breath smells like fermented synthmeat and engine grease.
“Look,” I say, voice brittle. “I don’t care what sort of pirate cosplay this is. I’m not part of it. I’m a client. I’m under contract.”
“Sure,” he says. “But contracts break. Real easy. Especially when the Hulk’s involved.”
He leans in.
“Especially when you’re alone. With me .”
Reflector lets out a shrill, panicked beep and zaps him with a low-voltage warning shock. One Horn snarls and swats the droid aside. I grab Reflector before he can tumble to the deck, heart hammering in my throat.
“That’s enough,” a new voice says behind us.
Tobin Meyer, suit slightly rumpled now, eyes cool and calculating, steps into the room like he owns it. Which, I guess, he does.
“One Horn, go do... literally anything else.”
The big man gives me one last slow look, then spits on the floor and saunters out.
Meyer turns to me, smile back in place but paper-thin. “Apologies. He’s not... house-trained.”
“Yeah, no kidding. That guy is one creepy flex away from full-blown villain monologue.”
He doesn’t laugh.
He just motions me to follow. We walk down a side hall toward the crew lounge, if you can call it that—a few cracked chairs, a crate-table, and a holoscreen that doesn’t fully work. Meyer pours himself a drink from a bottle that smells like turpentine.
“Let’s level,” he says.
“Level?”
He sips. “You’re not stupid. And you’re not just some fame junkie looking for clicks. You want the Hulk. And I can get you there.”
I narrow my eyes. “In exchange for...?”
“Oh, nothing major,” he says lightly. “Just, when the time comes, you let me have first crack at what’s inside.”
“So you’re not interested in the exploration. Or the mystery. Or the stream views.”
He smiles. “Nope.”
I sit, hard. The chair wobbles. “You tricked me.”
“I delivered exactly what I promised. A ride to the Hulk. Protection. Access. You’ll get your broadcast. You’ll get your fame.”
“And you’ll get whatever vaults or relics or forgotten weapons are buried in the heart of that ship.”
“Correct.”
I laugh. It sounds brittle and weird. “You know this was supposed to be a stunt, right? Something thrilling, edgy, safe-but-spicy. Instead I’m on a deathtrap with a walking HR violation and a Reaper pilot who hasn’t blinked since I boarded.”
“You’re not wrong,” Meyer says, leaning back. “But here’s the thing, Isolde... You’re gonna do it anyway. Because you want to matter. You want to prove something.”
I flinch.
He notices.
“You’re tired of being a sideshow,” he says softly. “Of being the pretty face with the catchy intro. You want to be real.”
“Don’t—”
“You’re sick of the comments. The filters. The pressure to sparkle when all you want is to be seen. ”
My jaw tightens. I stand.
“Get out of my head, suit.”
He tips his drink to me. “See you at the Hulk.”
I storm out. Reflector trails behind, quietly humming an anxious lullaby. My heart thunders in my chest. My skin feels too tight.
But he’s not wrong.
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 say don’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 that resembles one.
Nothing on the Hulk’s surface is labeled, nothing flashes welcoming lights or emits beacon pings. It’s dead silent.
And that silence feels intentional .
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 by drunk engineers with a god complex.
He plants it against a flat portion of the Hulk’s hull, latching it on with a metallic clunk .
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 us bends perceptibly. The edges of the Hulk shiver , like it’s waking up. And then?—
RRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAK.
The hull parts.
Not like a hatch opening.
Like a wound tearing.
A vortex of light and distortion blooms in front of us. Not light like we know it—this stuff doesn’t glow. It... absorbs. Twists.
“Is that safe?” I whisper.
Meyer steps forward. “Define safe.”
“Wow, you are bad at comfort.”
“We’re going in,” he says.
And we do.
The Scallywag glides forward under Lor’s direction, slipping through the breach like a coin through silk. And then... boom .
The hull seals behind us.
No mechanical whir. No hiss. No warning.
Just— snap .
The outside world vanishes.
Gone.
The breach closes like it was never there.
Panic claws at my chest, hot and sharp. My breath comes fast and shallow. I yank at my collar, like I can suck more air from the recycled atmosphere.
“Reflector?” I rasp.
He’s still filming. Still floating. But he’s jittering now. Twitching from side to side like a panicked housefly.
“We are... inside,” he reports. “The Hulk is... self-contained. No comms. No external signals. No escape vector currently available.”
I swallow.
“You’re saying we’re sealed in.”
“I am saying,” Reflector hums, “that I have a ninety-seven percent certainty this vessel is now our entire universe.”
My knees almost give.
This isn’t a set.
This isn’t a stunt.
This is me. On the Hulk. Locked in.
“Smile, darling,” Meyer says. He steps close. Too close. His face has dropped the charm entirely. No more easy grins. No more smooth banter. Just cold ambition.
“We’re not leaving,” he says, “until I get what I came for.”
The words echo.
I meet his gaze.
And for the first time since I started this job, since I launched this persona, since I built this empire of glam and guts and gigabytes?—
I can’t fake a smile.