The station loomed ahead—ancient and monolithic, drifting at the edge of eternity. Its hull was scarred by time, layered with faded insignias, forgotten faction emblems, and rusted metal that pulsed faintly with unknown energy. It didn’t feel built. It felt grown—as if the void itself had birthed it.

  The god-tier frigate docked first. Magnetic clamps hissed, locking onto the warped airlock with a groan. Inside, the crew prepared in silence—helmets sealed, dark pistols primed. Renn stood at the ramp, arms crossed, a grim smile tugging at his weathered face.

  “Keep your lids down and your mouths shut,” he muttered. “This place’s been whisperin’ since the first time I laid eyes on it. Still ain’t stopped.”

  The undead destroyer docked opposite, its ramp descending with a metallic sigh. Elite undead spilled out in perfect silence, their armor catching the low red light. Behind them stood Vermond, Kiana, and Erie—watchful, unmoving—as the station’s vast, shadowed interior seemed to breathe.

  A deep hum echoed from within.

  Kiana, softly: “Big brother... someone’s inside.”

  Vermond’s eyes flickered green. “No. Something is.”

  Erie shifted, hand near his weapon. “Why do I feel like we just stepped into a horror holovid?”

  They moved as one. The corridors were too wide, too tall—designed for something not quite human. Tattered banners hung from rusted beams. Graffiti in extinct tongues lined the walls. Some doors were sealed with old welds.

  Others slid open on their own.

  In the control chamber, dust coated dead consoles—until one screen blinked to life.

  No command. No activation.

  Just words.

  > “Evacuate.”

  “CODE RED: EVACUATE.”

  Ruen’s voice buzzed through the comms. “Uh… nobody typed that.”

  Renn, for once, didn’t quip. He stared at the screen. “That’s the emergency protocol. But no one’s here to run it.”

  Far below, something shifted.

  Not footsteps.

  Dragging.

  And deeper still—beneath steel, beneath scanners—a pulse.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Vermond’s voice was low. “Secure the cargo bays. Spread out.”

  His eyes narrowed as the flickering lights stuttered again.

  “This place is ours now.”

  The sound grew louder.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Metal groaned. Distant echoes crawled along the walls—wet, heavy, dragging sounds. Pipes trembled overhead. The floor vibrated, just slightly, like something massive was stirring beneath the deck.

  The elite undead stood motionless… then one turned.

  Then another.

  One by one, like a silent chain reaction, they began to move—toward the source of the sound.

  Their eyes glowed white. Their armor clanked with cold precision.

  Erie stepped back, glancing at Vermond. “Uhh... why are they moving?”

  Vermond didn’t answer at first. He just smiled.

  That faint, unnerving smile.

  “They heard it,” he said. “And they’re hungry.”

  Erie blinked. “That’s not creepy at all.”

  Then it happened.

  The destroyer’s cargo ramp hissed again—and hundreds of elite undead marched out in formation. A flood of armored elites, their rifles locked in position, their steps perfectly synced. The deck shuddered with their weight. No voices. No commands.

  Just cold, ruthless intent.

  The hallway filled with the sound of their march—like a mechanical heartbeat pounding against the station’s own.

  Vermond stood still, letting the wind from their passing tug at his coat. His voice was barely a whisper.

  “This station is ours.”

  And the elite undead charged into the black halls of the station—rifles raised, shields gleaming, like death itself was reclaiming forgotten ground.

  The crew of the god-tier frigate wandered the outer wings of the station—flashlights slicing through stale air, boots crunching on old dust. Ruen and the others scanned abandoned living quarters and collapsed hallways, prying open crates, collecting loose parts and scraps of data chips.

  It was quiet. Too quiet.

  Then they heard it.

  Marching.

  Renn turned to the source of the sound just in time to see it—wave after wave of elite undead, storming through a side corridor like a river of steel. Their white eyes glowed like stars, their rifles clutched in tight, disciplined grip. They moved without hesitation, a storm of undead force.

  One of the crew whispered, “What the hell are they—”

  Then the station shook.

  A deep, inhuman sound rumbled through the walls—not a machine. Not a reactor. Something… alive.

  A warning scream cut through the comms. "Motion! Something big—really big!"

  And then they saw it.

  Emerging from the shadows of a broken hangar bay…

  A massive entity.

  A pulsing, malformed beast slithered forward—its body a twisting mass of tentacles, slick and shimmering with a liquid sheen. Its core glowed faintly red, like a furnace heart buried in a sea of rot. Dozens of glinting eyes blinked across its surface—erratic, twitching, watching everything.

  Ruen stumbled back, jaw slack. “That’s—what even is that?!”

  The monster’s tentacles scraped the walls, tearing rusted steel apart like paper. With every movement, the air warped, like space itself was choking.

  Renn’s voice was hoarse. “I’ve seen things in the Maw… but this ain’t one of ‘em.”

  The creature screeched—a high, piercing cry that shattered old windows.

  The elite undead didn’t falter.

  They moved toward it.

  Dozens.

  Then hundreds.

  Weapons raised.

  Renn backed up fast, barking into the comms. “Vermond! You’ve got company. Big, slimy, and pissed!”

  Vermond’s reply came cold and steady.

  “I know.”

  The monster shrieked, its limbs lashing outward like wet whips of ink and bone. It struck again—metal screamed, lights shattered, and an elite undead was torn in half mid-run.

  The others didn’t waver.

  But it was gaining ground.

  Suddenly—

  Kiana’s voice cut through the comms, soft and clear.

  “Big brother,” she said gently, reclining on her usual couch inside the destroyer, a warm drink in her hand, eyes flicking between data on the cracked monitors. “There’s a sac just beneath its core—right shoulder. It pulses every 7.2 seconds. That’s its heart. Aim for that.”

  A pause.

  Then she added, almost lazily, “Try not to miss. It might get angry.”

  Vermond, walking alone down the warping corridor toward the battlefield, grinned slowly.

  The green lightning in his hand pulsed once.

  Back near the front, Erie flinched as a pipe burst beside him, then shouted over the comms, “Wait, how the hell did she figure that out?!”

  Vermond’s voice crackled in, calm and amused:

  “You said she’s a genius.”

  Erie blinked. “Yeah, but—” He paused. “Damn. I did.”

  The monster roared again—but now the undead shifted. They knew.

  Dozens of rifles re-angled in eerie synchronicity.

  The rhythm of the march changed.

  The hunt was on.

  The monster gave one final, gurgling shriek—its writhing limbs thrashing as the elite undead closed in like a tide. Dozens of precise shots struck the pulsing sac Kiana had marked. Black ichor exploded from the wound. The creature twisted in agony, its tentacles flailing wildly—

  Then it collapsed.

  Dead.

  The silence that followed was thick. Even the flickering lights of the station seemed to pause in respect.

  Erie stepped forward, panting lightly. He looked down at the smoldering remains, then glanced at Vermond, whose hand still crackled with fading green lightning.

  “…Is this why the Federation abandoned this place?” he muttered.

  Before Vermond could answer, footsteps echoed down the corridor. Old man Renn approached, flanked by the god-tier frigate crew—dusty, tired, wide-eyed.

  “You guys…” Renn started, stopping a few feet from the monster’s corpse. He looked between it and the undead forces standing perfectly still.

  “You guys actually defeated it?”

  Vermond turned his head slightly, shadows crawling along the edge of his cloak.

  “Kiana found its heart,” he said simply.

  Old man Renn blinked, then muttered, “Of course she did.”

  One of the frigate crew whispered, “Is it really dead?”

  One of the elite undead silently crushed the monster’s pulsing eye underfoot.

  “Yeah,” Erie said, exhaling. “It’s dead.”

  Vermond didn’t look away from the corpse. “Let’s clear the rest of the station. Then we rebuild.”

  And from deep within the ruined beast’s body… something glowed.

  Erie stepped cautiously toward the glowing mass nestled within the creature’s hollowed chest. “Uh… that thing’s still glowing. Is that… normal?”

  Vermond’s eyes narrowed. The light pulsed slowly—green, laced with deep violet tendrils that curled like veins. It wasn’t just energy.

  It was alive.

  The elite undead instantly formed a silent perimeter around the body, weapons raised—but none fired. Not without Vermond’s command.

  Kiana’s voice came through the comms, calm and analytical. “Big brother…”

  A pause. Then:

  “It’s a core. Bio-fused. Not just power—maybe a key.”

  The old man furrowed his brow. “A key to what?”

  “I don’t know,” Kiana replied softly, “but… the station changed the moment that thing died, Grandpa.”

  Renn blinked. “G-Grandpa…?” He coughed, blushing, then turned to others, daring them to laugh.

  Vermond moved closer, his hand still sparking faintly with necrotic lightning. As he approached, the station seemed to thrum with recognition. The air itself pulsed.

  The core reacted to him.

  Erie’s voice lowered. “You sure touching that’s a good idea?”

  “I don’t do good ideas,” Vermond muttered—and placed his hand on it.

  A blinding flash.

  No scream—yet every mind heard it. A psychic wail that tore through the station like thunder.

  Metal creaked. Lights shattered. Across the forgotten corridors, sealed doors slammed open with a groan like waking giants.

  Kiana gasped through the feed. “Brother… you just woke up the station’s central system.”

  Renn took a slow step back, wide-eyed. “We’re in, boys.”

  From the corpse’s chamber, a long hallway lit up ahead—ancient symbols glowing across the floor like circuitry coming alive.

  Vermond stood at its entrance, smoke trailing from his palm. His eyes glowed with a sharper green, brighter than before.

  He let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “The station’s ours,” he said. “We’re claiming everything.”

  Erie sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “This is absolutely gonna get worse before it gets better.”

  Vermond: “Without a doubt.”

  Then came a soft voice, broadcast from hidden speakers—old, metallic, female.

  “Core recognized. Reactivating systems.”

  Lights blinked to life, one after another.

  The station stirred.

  It wasn’t dead. Just asleep.

  Now it was awake.

  And watching.

  The expedition began in silence and steel.

  Vermond, Erie, Kiana, and the others ascended through the station’s massive inner shafts—half-collapsed lifts and forgotten stairwells winding toward the highest levels. At the top, buried beneath layers of dust and decay, they found the Command Center: a vast circular chamber lined with shattered screens, dormant holo-pads, and a reinforced viewport that overlooked the star-scarred abyss. The walls whispered of age, but beneath the rust and silence, power still lingered like an echo.

  Beside it, now unlocked by their efforts, loomed a vault sealed by thick blast doors—still untouched, still waiting.

  Below them, the elite undead moved with mechanical precision. Crates were offloaded and sorted—food reserves, refined alloys, alien relics, and glowing crystals that pulsed faintly under flickering lights. Each item stacked with military order across the cargo bays and storage decks.

  Vermond stood at the heart of the Command Center, his eyes watching the faint systems flicker back to life. From within his side.

  The Illegal Federation Star Map.

  He placed it gently on the central console.

  “Kind of glad we didn’t sell this for a hundred million credits back in maw,” he muttered. “Would’ve been the dumbest thing I ever did.”

  Kiana sat beside him, quietly working on a nest of old network ports. She reached out and briefly took his hand, smiled faintly, her voice low and steady. “Now it’s the smartest thing you’ve ever done, Big Brother.”

  Not everything was broken. Some consoles stuttered awake, old systems coughed back into function, and backup power purred through ancient conduits. But the station still groaned with age. Rust gripped every surface, and the main viewport revealed gaping wounds in the outer hull—scars left by time… or worse.

  Erie wandered into one of the side corridors, following a flickering trail of light to a forgotten auxiliary dock.

  And there, beneath a layer of dust and long silence, he found them.

  A massive hangar bay, quiet as a tomb.

  Lined up against the far wall, coated in faded Federation blue and bearing ghosted insignias—

  Six old Federation Fighters.

  Sleek. Fast. Built for strike runs and hit-and-fade attacks. The hulls were scarred, some panels torn away—but the frames held strong. With enough sweat and scrap…

  They could fly again.

  Erie’s eyes lit up. A grin tugged at his lips.

  “Well, hello, old beauties,” he whispered. “We’re gonna have some fun.”

  He clicked his comms. “Old man. I found toys.”

  Renn’s voice crackled back, half-amused. “Keep ‘em warm. We’ll need ‘em soon.”

  Rebuilding began not with noise, but with motion.

  The station had awakened—its heart still rusted, its bones brittle, but its purpose flickering back to life. In the hollow corridors and shattered halls, sparks flew. Welding torches hissed. Machinery groaned awake after centuries of silence.

  The elite undead moved like an army of shadows—no complaints, no fatigue. They cleared debris, reinforced structural points, and patched the worst of the hull breaches. Some worked on gravity relays, others on restoring pressure to dead sections. Their glowing eyes illuminated the dark as they toiled without rest.

  Kiana sat in the half-lit Command Center, tapping into half-buried systems with calm precision. Her voice came softly over the comms.

  “Reactor B is operational. Oxygen generators in sectors 4 through 9 are back online.”

  She sipped something warm, green light flickering across her emerald eyes. “Rebooting AI core now.”

  Erie stood at a hangar entrance, sleeves rolled up, oil on his face. He’d already pulled one fighter halfway into working condition.

  “I swear,” he muttered, tightening a bolt with an old wrench, “I was not built for honest work.”

  Then grinned.

  “But damn, this feels good.”

  Down in the cargo bay, crates were opened and sorted. Supplies, weapons, fusion coils, hydroponic seed kits—every salvageable scrap catalogued and repurposed.

  Vermond walked through the station like a ghost with a crown—silent, watchful, eyes glowing faintly as he oversaw every section. He didn’t give many orders. He didn’t need to. The undead understood his will. The crew trusted his vision. This wasn’t just about claiming a station.

  It was about building something that couldn’t be taken away.

  Renn stood by a half-lit console, arms crossed, nodding in approval.

  “I’ve seen a lotta outposts in my time,” he said to no one in particular, “but I think this one… this one might make history.”

  Above them all, the central lights of the station flickered from rust-orange to clean white.

  The station groaned as scaffolding wrapped around its fractured limbs—steel braces gripping ancient alloy like a skeleton regaining its stance.

  In the newly restored communications chamber—still humming with static and patched wires—Vermond stood before the holotable. The walls were lined with repurposed panels, flickering conduits, and an elite undead guard standing motionless near the door like a statue.

  The screen sparked, glitched, then stabilized.

  The familiar smirk of the Merchant Captain from DryUntilWet flickered into view.

  “Well, well. Didn’t think I’d see your pale face this soon,” he drawled. “How’s the old man Renn holding up?”

  Vermond didn’t bother with small talk. He held up a slender datachip. “Eight million credits. Maw auction transfer. One dark crystal—sold to a collector with more cash than caution.”

  The merchant leaned closer, eyes lighting up. “I heard about that mess. Word is the thing nearly cooked his brain.”

  Vermond’s lips curled faintly. “He paid for madness. Got a good return.”

  He tapped the holotable. A holographic blueprint of the station spun into the air, bathed in pale blue. Red markers dotted the hull like wounds. Vermond pointed to the perimeter.

  “I want medium-grade plating. Enough to seal every breach, reinforce docking ports, and cover the entire outer ring. Modular sets, hardened composite, full resistance spec—fireproof, radiation-sealed.”

  The merchant let out a low whistle. “You’re not patching this place… You’re rearming it.”

  “I don’t rebuild things halfway,” Vermond replied.

  A beat passed. Then the merchant flipped a few switches off-screen.

  “Alright, Commander Dead-Eyes. You’ve got yourself a full supply drop. I’ll warp in the cargo within twenty-four hours—sealed, sorted, dock three. You’re sure about spending the whole pile?”

  “I’m not planning on doing this twice.”

  The connection ended with a sharp tone.

  A moment later, Erie walked in, sleeves rolled up, oil streaked across his arms and brow. He dropped onto a crate, wiping his hands with a rag.

  “That the sound of us being financially obliterated?”

  Vermond didn’t look away from the blueprint.

  “That was the sound of us buying permanence.”

  High above, in the cold silence of the void, the DryUntilWet lit its engines—and began loading crates.

  Steel reinforcements. Composite armor.

  Before the cargo arrived, Ruen stumbled upon something unexpected.

  Ruen had been wandering one of the mid-level corridors—half out of boredom, half chasing a faint power reading on his handheld scanner. The deeper he went, the more the station seemed to open to him. Vines peeked from broken vents. The scent of something… sweet?

  He turned a final rusted corner and froze.

  A massive atrium stretched before him, lit by cracked but still-functioning grow lamps overhead. The walls were lined with translucent panels, glowing faintly with bioluminescent moss. But the centerpiece—

  A functioning space farm.

  Dozens of long hydroponic beds stretched across the chamber, still moist, still vibrant. Towering stalks of moon-apples, gravity pears, and glowing starlotus fruit swayed gently in an artificial breeze. Strange alien trees curled upward with roots embedded in nutrient gel.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Ruen blinked. “What the hell…”

  He plucked a small blue fruit—spongy, warm, and glowing faintly from within. He gave it a sniff. It didn’t smell poisonous.

  Then, a robotic irrigation unit zoomed past on dusty treads, spraying mist over a row of purple tubers as if it had never stopped its job in the last few decades.

  Ruen tapped his comms, eyes still wide.

  “Uh… guys? I found something. You’re not gonna believe this, but… we’ve got a working farm. With fruit. Like—real fruit. I just ate one. Might be radioactive. Worth it.”

  Static crackled, then Erie’s voice replied:

  “You what? Ruen, no one eats glowing fruit before confirming it’s not weaponized.”

  “I’m fine!” Ruen said, voice muffled slightly. “Actually, I feel great. Is my skin supposed to tingle?”

  Old man Renn cut in. “Don’t touch anything else. If it’s still functional, it means the station had long-term life-support plans. That means seeds, maybe a water recycler.”

  Erie: “Or alien fruit parasites. Just saying.”

  Vermond’s voice came last, quiet and thoughtful:

  “Mark it down. We’ll call it Eden Deck. Let’s not waste what we just inherited.”

  Somewhere in the misty green chamber, another irrigation bot beeped happily… then promptly drove into a wall and exploded.

  Ruen took another bite. “Still worth it.”

  Twenty-four hours later, space shivered.

  A ripple split the stars just beyond the station’s perimeter. From the void, six massive cargo freighters blinked into existence—grey, blocky, and old, bearing the merchant captain’s mark on their hulls: a stylized gold coin and a crooked smile.

  Dock Three lit up. Clamps extended, groaning under their own age as the first freighter slid into position with a heavy metallic thud. Automated messages chimed through the station—some in garbled old dialects, others in long-forgotten trade tongues.

  Inside the command center, Vermond and Kiana watched from the wide viewport.

  “They made it, Big brother.” Kiana said, eyes scanning the incoming data streams.

  Vermond nodded. “Let’s wake the dead.”

  Below, the cargo ramps hissed open.

  Dozens of elite undead marched forward—silent, precise, unfaltering. Their orders were burned into their minds by Vermond’s command: unpack, distribute, begin reinforcement.

  And so, the rebuild began.

  Giant modular panels—flickering with internal tech and reinforced alloy—were floated through the shattered exterior sections of the station. Sections once left gaping open to vacuum were sealed, bolted, and pressurized. Hull cracks were patched with heat-forged composite. Docking rings were replaced entirely, wide enough now to accept frigates, cruisers, even larger haulers in the future.

  Erie led a team of undead welders, his sleeves rolled up, sparks flying as he barked instructions and cursed at ancient junctions.

  “You, clamp that beam! You, stop waving the plasma torch like a glowstick!—No, Ruen, I don’t care if it looks cool!”

  Meanwhile, Kiana rewired key subsystems. Old conduits were replaced with new energy cores. Broken terminals flickered to life under her hands. The station's AI—still groggy from its awakening—began stabilizing interior climate, power flow, and structural alerts.

  “Environmental control back online,” it droned, voice oddly polite. “Hull integrity at 73% and climbing. Caution: wild animals detected in habitat deck.”

  Vermond stood amidst it all, overseeing the reconstruction with quiet intensity. His coat was dusty, hands gloved in soot and sealant. But his eyes burned bright. This wasn’t just restoration. This was rebirth.

  And in every corridor, every floor—something stirred.

  Lights returned to ancient systems.

  Echoes of the past gave way to the footfalls of the present.

  Then, it began with a flicker.

  A pulse, deep beneath the reactor decks—too far for normal scanners, but just enough to catch Kiana’s attention as she monitored the rerouted systems.

  “Big brother, something’s drawing power,” she muttered, leaning closer to the display. “Lower levels… far below the core.”

  Vermond stood behind her, arms folded. “I thought we mapped everything.”

  “You mapped everything they wanted you to see, Big brother,” Kiana replied, already tapping into the diagnostic feed. “This is behind multiple airlocks. No blueprints. No access codes. Just a blank section tagged ‘Null Zone’.”

  Erie leaned in, chewing on half a protein bar. “That sounds like exactly the place we shouldn’t go.”

  “Which means we’re definitely going,” Vermond said, already walking.

  They descended.

  Three levels below the command deck, beyond rusted catwalks and half-functional lifts, they found it—an enormous blast door, circular, embossed with ancient Federation symbols half-erased by time and soot. It wasn’t just sealed. It was buried. Reinforced plating. External locks. Hardened clamps. It looked like someone had gone out of their way to keep it shut.

  Or keep something in.

  Erie frowned. “We need a core key to bypass this.”

  Vermond raised his left hand—still faintly marked from when he touched the monster’s bio-core.

  The door responded.

  Gears whirred. Rust groaned. Locking pins cracked from decades of pressure.

  And then, with a deafening grind, the door began to open.

  Beyond it—darkness. Not empty space. Not silence.

  A void that felt alive. The air hung heavier. The floor dipped lower, becoming part metal, part black stone. Symbols glowed faintly across the walls—unfamiliar, shifting as if they were trying to rearrange themselves into something understandable.

  Erie squinted into the abyss. “Okay, so… anyone else feel like we’re standing in the opening scene of a cursed documentary?”

  Vermond whispered, “This isn’t just a hidden section. It’s alien. Modified. Someone… or something else built this down here.”

  Kiana stepped beside Vermond, holding his hands, eyes glowing faintly in the dark, while smiling. “Lets go, Big brother.”

  The elite undead behind them raised their weapons—attached floodlights beaming ahead into the unknown. What it revealed was a massive chamber stretching into the distance. Rows of what looked like pods, twisted machinery, and… something moving. Very slowly. Almost breathing.

  A long, forgotten warning blinked in crimson above a rusted terminal:

  DO NOT DISTURB THE VAULTED ONES.

  IN CASE OF BREACH, EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY.

  Vermond cracked his neck.

  “Well,” he said. “Looks like we found the station’s real secret.”

  The chamber stretched endlessly forward—dark, silent, and humming with cold, dormant life.

  Rows of pods lined the walls, stacked three levels high. Most were shattered. Some were warped by age and exposure. But a few… a few still glowed faintly. Inside them floated partial shapes—half-formed humanoids with blurred features, veins of green fluid running through them like vines in a dying forest.

  Kiana moved first, brushing dust off a rusted console. The interface chirped weakly as she pulled up ancient logs. Her green eyes darted left and right, scanning the flood of corrupted data.

  “…Failed cloning experiments,” she murmured. “Federation tech—but… not Federation design. Looks like someone modified the genetics. Tried to cross human templates with… something else.”

  Erie stood a few paces back, arms crossed, watching Vermond carefully. “And let me guess… you’ve got ideas.”

  Vermond’s light-filled eyes reflected off the nearest pod as he slowly smiled.

  “Not yet. But soon.”

  He reached forward, brushing a hand across the glass. The thing inside shifted ever so slightly—its face twitching into the hint of a snarl before falling still again. The core systems around them flickered—some sections attempting to reboot, some quietly resisting.

  “This could be a foundry,” Vermond said. “If I fix the sequencing code… stabilize the decay rates… I could make something new.”

  “Like an army? You already have your Undeads..” Erie asked, already regretting the question.

  Vermond shrugged, still smiling. “Extra soldiers that don’t rot.”

  Kiana, holding her brother’s arm now, looked up at him with a small smirk. “Maybe they can clean the hallways, too.”

  Erie sighed. “You two are actually enjoying this.”

  Vermond turned to him, still smiling. “Erie, I just found a cloning vault built on top of an alien genetic lab. This might be the first time in history someone’s smiled while standing over the bones of a galactic war crime.”

  Kiana leaned against her brother and added softly, “It’s our war crime now, Big brother.”

  Erie groaned. “That’s not the comfort you think it is.”

  The pods around them flickered as if stirred by the sound of voices.

  Somewhere deep within the system… something was waiting to be activated.

  The cloning chamber hummed to life in broken waves—first a sputter of sparks, then slow pulses of deep green light. Ancient coolant lines hissed like waking serpents as Vermond pried open the main terminal, his necrotic-surge-infused hand crackling with quiet energy. The system was brittle, scarred by time, but not dead.

  It was waiting.

  Beside him, Kiana knelt at the fractured console, fingers moving like flowing code as she rewired dead nodes and overrode ancient security layers.

  “Power stabilizing, Big Brother,” she murmured, the screen’s glow reflecting in her eyes. “If we sync your energy with the core’s rhythm… we might trigger sequencing mode.”

  “I can handle the surge,” Vermond replied softly. “Just stay close.”

  She glanced up, one of those rare, gentle looks that stilled him for a heartbeat.

  “I’m always close,” she whispered, resting her head lightly against his shoulder as she continued to work.

  Ten feet back, Erie stood with an armful of tangled wires, visibly unimpressed.

  “Oh my god,” he groaned. “You’re rebooting the single most cursed Federation experiment I’ve ever seen… and somehow making it romantic.”

  Kiana didn’t even blink. “You’re just bitter no one holds your hand while you hack corpse labs, Mister Lonely.”

  Erie raised a finger—then stopped. “…Okay, fair. But still—this is grotesque and you're Soo adorable. I’m gonna poke my eyes out.”

  Vermond smirked, brushing away the last fragments of glass shielding the core chamber. “Borrow one of the elite’s replacements. I’ll even gift wrap it.”

  Kiana chuckled, wiping dust from his coat with a soft flick. “Focus, Big brother.”

  “Alright,” Vermond replied.

  Erie dropped the wires with a dramatic clatter. “That’s it. I’m going back to the elevator. I refuse to witness domestic necromancy.”

  As he stormed off, the chamber around them began to respond.

  Screens blinked to life. Tubes pulsed. And the cloning pods… stirred.

  One of them lit up fully—systems active, stable.

  And standing there, Kiana nestled against him, Vermond smiled.

  Like a man rebuilding a nightmare with the one person who made him feel alive.

  With a hiss of ancient hydraulics and a shudder that echoed through the chamber, the pod began to open.

  Steam poured from the edges as the locks disengaged. The inside glowed faintly, casting a sickly green hue across the floor. Within the pod—empty. No clone. Just a preserved template suspended in bio-gel. A blank slate. Ready for imprinting.

  Vermond took a slow step forward, studying it.

  Potential. Power. Control.

  And a future he could shape.

  Before he could speak, warmth—Kiana’s arms wrapped around his, her head gently leaning against his shoulder again.

  She kissed his cheek, the gesture quiet and unhurried.

  “You really are a good brother,” she said with a smile. “Even when you're rebuilding baddies.”

  He blinked, just once. That smile—so light, so trusting—always managed to disarm the storm inside him.

  “…You think this makes me a good brother?”

  “I think everything you’ve done for us makes you one,” she said. “This place, this future—you’re building it for them, Erie, The old man Renn, Ruen, the idiotic crew at the god-tier frigate.”

  He looked down at her, expression unreadable for a long beat.

  Then, softly: “You're the reason I remember why.”

  Behind them, the chamber continued to awaken—lines of new pods lighting up one by one, like stars forming in a void.

  Erie’s voice crackled over the comms. “Hey. Just checked the far corridor. There’s more of these labs. Not one. Three. You two might want to take your date and spread it out.”

  Kiana just giggled, still holding her brother’s arm. “Guess we’ve got more work to do, Big Brother.”

  Vermond smiled faintly. But he can feel it, something strange going-on' on Kiana.

  Vermond stepped away from the pod, its pale light still pulsing behind him. His hand hovered over his wrist comms for a moment—then he pressed down.

  “Old man. Ruen. Everyone on the frigate. Report to the lower levels,” he said calmly. “We’ve found something. And it’s going to change everything.”

  There was a pause.

  Then Renn’s voice crackled in, heavy with suspicion. “You found another horror, didn’t you?”

  Vermond didn’t deny it. “A forgotten Federation clone bank. Fully intact. Functional. We’re bringing it back online.”

  “…You insane corpse-wrangling maniac,” Renn muttered under his breath. “We’re on our way.”

  Ruen’s voice followed, oddly cheerful. “On my way. I hope it has a kitchen. I found too many fruits to eat alone.”

  Vermond smiled faintly, then turned to Erie, who had returned with a toolbox slung over his shoulder. “Erie, start mapping the auxiliary lines. I want full access to power conduits and ventilation. And check the biometric panels—see if they can be reprogrammed.”

  Erie groaned. “So… we are fixing this place up like home.”

  Vermond nodded. “Because it is now.”

  He turned to Kiana, still beside him.

  “Let’s prep the terminals. I want a clean link between the clone system and the command center. No corruption. No backdoors.”

  She smiled again. “Okay, Big brother.”

  Moments later, boots echoed through the hallway as the others arrived—Renn grumbling, Ruen casually tossing a fruit into his mouth, the rest of the god-tier crew dragging toolkits, scanners, and portable servers. The elite undead stepped aside without a sound, forming a silent perimeter.

  The chamber filled with movement, minds, and purpose.

  Once forgotten… now reborn.

  Vermond looked around at the mess of light and shadow and memory.

  And he whispered to himself, “Let’s build an empire out of ghosts.”

  The chamber pulsed like a second heart deep within the station’s bones.

  Kiana’s fingers flew across the console, her eyes focused, lips slightly parted. Vermond stood beside her, hand glowing faintly, matching the rhythm of the cloning system’s core. Across the room, Renn and Ruen were working fast—Ruen patching conduits with gleeful focus, while Renn barked out old Federation codes from memory, cracking bypasses no one had used in decades.

  Erie, half-covered in dust, yanked a power cable into place and shouted, “Last junction hooked! We’ve got full current on line three!”

  The central pod hissed. Its display lit up green.

  Then came a low chime—steady, smooth. The sound of a system returning from the edge of death.

  Kiana gasped. “Big brother… sequencing protocol has begun. DNA integrity is… holding.”

  The fluid inside the pod shimmered. A shape took form—humanoid, vague, not yet whole. Muscles forming from memory. Veins threading like lightning. No signs of pain, just growth. Steady and controlled.

  Vermond leaned closer, his eyes glowing like cold stars. “We’ll start slow. One subject. No memories. No implants. Just a body. A vessel.”

  Kiana nodded, holding his arm. “We can imprint later, when we’re ready.”

  Renn stepped up, staring through the fogged glass of the pod. His voice was low. “I thought these labs were shut down for good. You’re actually reviving one.”

  “I’m not reviving it,” Vermond said. “I’m reclaiming it. The Federation wasted its power. I won’t.”

  The pod’s internal pulse stabilized. Life signs—steady.

  The first clone was complete.

  Ruen crossed his arms, biting into another fruit. “You sure this one won’t eat us?”

  Vermond gave a slow, calculating smile. “It won’t. Not unless I tell it to.”

  The lights above them flickered once—then stayed on.

  The chamber fell silent.

  The clone floated, suspended in green light—perfectly still. A complete human body, untouched by time or decay. No scars. No name. No soul.

  Vermond stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly—132 shining within the pale light of his gaze.

  Then he reached out.

  His hand pressed against the pod.

  The air shifted. The necrotic spark within him flared—green lightning snapping from his fingertips, crawling along the glass like veins. A strange silence overtook the hum of machines. Kiana’s breath caught. Erie leaned forward from the back of the chamber.

  Then—Vermond’s eyes flickered.

  132.

  131.

  A soul vanished.

  The clone’s body jerked.

  Not violently—just… alive.

  The pod’s light dimmed. The clone's eyes opened slowly, unnaturally calm. Their irises were perfectly human. But beneath the surface, something else flickered. An echo of obedience.

  The pod hissed open.

  Steam coiled out into the chamber as the clone stepped forward, skin pale and bare, but whole. Perfect. Living.

  It looked straight at Vermond and knelt.

  “Awaiting orders.”

  The voice was smooth. Human. But cold beneath the surface—like the elite undead.

  Ruen dropped his fruit.

  Kiana tightened her grip on Vermond’s coat, stunned. “You… Big brother, did you just… bind a soul into a living body?”

  Vermond’s face was unreadable. “Not bound. Rewritten.”

  Erie took a step back, half-whispering. “That’s a whole new kind of undead…”

  Vermond didn’t answer. He looked at the clone—no rot, no bone, no void in its voice. Fully human in form. Fully loyal in mind. Something new.

  Something terrifying.

  “Stand,” Vermond ordered.

  It rose immediately.

  “You will speak only when I allow it. Understand?”

  The clone nodded. “Yes, Master.”

  Vermond turned to the others. “We now have the first of them. Soldiers with bodies that can walk among the living. Talk. Blend. Obey.”

  Kiana smiled, staring at her brother.

  Vermond stood silent for a moment, eyes still glowing faintly—131 locked within his gaze.

  The clone stood at attention, still as stone, awaiting another command. But Vermond lifted a hand and slowly turned away.

  “Not yet,” he muttered.

  Kiana looked up. “You’re not going to make more?”

  Vermond stared at the chamber walls—cracked, rusted, groaning with age. The green lights from the pods cast flickering shadows that danced like ghosts across the ceiling.

  “No. Not until we’re ready.”

  He turned back toward the exit, boots echoing on the metallic floor. “We don’t build monsters in ruins. We rebuild the fortress first.”

  Kiana nodded, her eyes following him with soft understanding. “Then we’ll make it ready. Stronger than before.”

  Behind them, Erie leaned against the wall, arms crossed and brow raised. “Well, that’s the first time I’ve seen you hold back when you could’ve played god.”

  Vermond paused at the doorway. “Gods don’t survive long in this galaxy.”

  Erie smirked. “Fair enough.”

  The clone silently followed behind, barefoot but steady, shadowing Vermond like a loyal ghost. Kiana walked beside her brother, their steps matching. The chamber dimmed behind them as they sealed it off.

  Above, construction was already underway.

  Renn barked orders in the Command Center. Ruen and the frigate crew moved crates, patched walls, rewired terminals, and reinforced key structural supports. The elite undead climbed scaffolding with eerie coordination, welding and assembling like a swarm of machines.

  Cargo bays filled with hull plating. Cranes installed turret mounts. Generators hummed stronger by the hour.

  Time passed by, the station was no longer a tomb.

  For the first time in decades—perhaps even centuries—the air inside the derelict behemoth no longer reeked of rust, rot, and ruin. Every hallway had been scrubbed, cleared, and sterilized. Broken panels were stripped, flickering lights replaced, and hollow echoes replaced by the quiet hum of power surging through fully reconnected conduits.

  The elite undead moved with precise coordination, dressed now in maintenance harnesses and wielding brushes, sprayers, and tools. They painted the entire interior of the station a pristine white—a sharp contrast to the decay it once held. The stark color wasn’t just aesthetic—it symbolized something Vermond had decided in silence: this was a new beginning.

  The Command Center was spotless. Every screen had been removed and polished or scrapped, save for the one that still bore the Illegal Federation Star Map. It pulsed faintly in the center of the holotable, forbidden symbols etched in light, untouched by time or dust.

  Kiana ensured the data core was restructured. Backups. Redundancies. Firewall protections. Her fingers danced across consoles, rerouting systems with a calm smile and soft hums, as if she was weaving a song back into the station’s soul.

  The space farm, once overgrown and forgotten, was now thriving. Rows of fruit-bearing plants reached toward UV lamps, dripping with dew. Ruen discovered it and took it upon himself to trim, clean, and restore it. Now, it produced nutrient-rich fruits in abundance—something the crew hadn’t tasted fresh in weeks.

  The cafeteria had been cleared of mold and collapsed tables. New alloy benches lined the floor, each one delivered and unpacked by crates from the DryUntilWet. Steam vents hissed as food prep units came back online, and warm meals began circulating for both the living and the elite—though the latter only watched, waiting, pretending.

  The boarding rooms were now habitable. Beds reassembled. Walls patched. Lights restored. Even the personal lockers had been salvaged, cleaned, and reinstalled.

  Water storage was fully operational. Filters still worked—miraculously—and the reserves were untouched by decay. They ran tests for safety. It passed with flying colors. Pure. Cold. Enough for hundreds.

  All functional equipment, panels, devices, and scraps of tech across the station had been carefully moved to central storage chambers. Nothing useful was thrown out. Nothing wasted. The elite carried the items in silence, placing them in categorized zones for future reassembly or trade.

  And every piece of it… every beam, bolt, ration, and tool… came from the merchant.

  Vermond had offered a single fragment of dark crystal—barely a sliver—and the merchant accepted the trade with a trembling laugh and stars in his eyes.

  “Don’t die, Commander Dead-Eyes,” he had said. “I want more trades like that.”

  Now, the station gleamed beneath the stars. White. Clean. Alive.

  Once sealed by blast doors and buried in dust, it now shimmered with purpose. Vermond stood at the threshold, the reinforced door yawning open behind him as he stepped inside, boots echoing against clean steel.

  Rows of dark crystals—each pulsing faintly with that strange, soul-fed power—now lined the chamber. Embedded in secure cases, each shard was stabilized, contained… but undeniably dangerous. These were no longer trophies. They were currency, fuel, and weapons—all in one.

  Vermond placed the final crate inside, then stepped back and keyed the internal seal. The vault hissed shut with a low thrum of energy.

  Then he pulled a smaller, cut shard from his coat—a sliver no larger than a fingerbone—and returned to the Command Center.

  He tapped the holotable. The crystal glowed as he set it in the slot beside the comm relay. Instantly, the encrypted channel burst to life.

  The screen flickered. Then the familiar, smug grin of the DryUntilWet merchant captain filled the display.

  “Well well, Commander Dead-Eyes. Thought you were gonna vanish for another week. Missed me already?”

  Vermond didn’t smile. “Defense protocols. Station-wide. I want long-range comms too—military grade.”

  The merchant’s eyes glinted. “You expecting guests, or planning to shoot stars out of the sky?”

  “Yes.”

  A pause. Then the captain laughed. “You’re dangerous, I like that.”

  Vermond lifted the dark crystal shard into view. “This much.”

  The captain’s breath caught slightly. Even from across the system, the pull of it was palpable.

  “I’ll prep the load myself,” he said, voice hushed. “You’ll have auto-defense drones, orbital-grade turrets, shield pylons, and a full array of long-range comm buoys. Twenty hours. Dock three.”

  The screen cut out before Vermond could respond.

  He stared a moment longer, then turned as Kiana entered with a datapad full of structural schematics.

  “Orders placed?” she asked.

  Vermond nodded once. “We’re turning this station into a fortress, Kiana.”

  Kiana smiled slightly and stood beside him. “Okay, Big brother.”

  His eyes—glowing softly. "I wish grandpa was here, seeing this.."

  Kiana then holds his hands softly, leaning to his shoulder.

  From above the station, the stars continued to shift. Quiet. Watching.

  The newly-restored defense system pulsed in green along the Command Center's panels. Lines of fresh paint gleamed under soft lights. Every console, every screen, every port was clean, functional, and connected.

  In the corner of the room, Kiana sat on her new couch, legs curled beneath her, a warm cup in her hands. The drink steamed gently—a blend of reprocessed sweetleaf and something fruity they’d salvaged from the old farm storage.

  She sipped slowly, watching Vermond in silence.

  He stood by the central holotable, arms crossed, that ever-focused look in his glowing eyes. Still, he hadn’t noticed she’d been staring for the last five minutes.

  Kiana smiled softly. “Big brother... you never rest, do you?”

  Vermond looked back, faintly surprised, then relaxed a little. “I will. Just… not yet.”

  She leaned over her armrest, holding the cup with both hands. “You always say that.”

  Then she tilted her head with a teasing smirk. “You look nice when you're serious, you know? Like you're pretending not to care, but you do… a lot.”

  Vermond chuckled under his breath. “That obvious?”

  “Only to me.” Her voice dropped gently.

  Before he could reply, the station AI pinged—a sharp, clean tone that filled the Command Center.

  “Alert: Three unregistered signatures approaching. Velocity suggests scout-class. Designation—unknown, possibly outlaw. Trajectory: vector 9-2, outer perimeter.”

  Vermond’s eyes narrowed. “Put them on screen.”

  A side monitor blinked to life. Grainy at first, then focused—three small fighters, stripped of any legal transponders, their hulls patched together from stolen parts and war scrap. Fast. Light. Likely pirates.

  Kiana set her drink aside and stood behind him, arms slipping softly around his waist. “They picked the wrong station,” she said with a gentle smile against his back.

  Meanwhile, in one of the hangars:

  Erie grunted, hands buried in an old fighter’s engine array. A couple of the god-tier frigate crew knelt beside him, passing tools and rewiring the flight system.

  He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Almost done here. This one’s still got bones.”

  A comm beeped.

  “Erie,” Vermond’s voice came through. “We’ve got incoming. Three scout-class pirates. Keep those birds grounded—we’ll test the new toys first.”

  Erie laughed under his breath. “You’re such a show-off.”

  Back in the Command Center, the first auto-turrets rotated with lethal precision. Targeting locks flashed across screens. Shield pylons shimmered faintly.

  Vermond’s fingers tapped the command interface.

  “Let’s see what these bastards are made of.”

  The defense grid ignited like a sleeping beast stirred to anger.

  Three glowing lances of energy surged from the station’s newly-mounted turrets, cutting the void with precise fury. One pirate fighter exploded in a ripple of molten debris. The second tried to dodge—only to be impaled mid-spin by an auto-lock missile screaming from beneath the hangar’s teeth.

  The third—scarred but fast—turned hard and broke off, engines flaring.

  Kiana leaned forward, eyes narrowing as the escape path projected. “He’s going to try and report back. Should we—?”

  Vermond raised a hand.

  “No. Let him run a little.”

  The pirate fighter banked wide, heading for a narrow debris field just beyond the station’s edge. It accelerated—only for the debris to suddenly shimmer.

  A cloaked pod—one of the hidden net-mines dropped earlier—flared to life. It pulsed once.

  Then fired a kinetic net, crackling with EMP pulses.

  The fleeing pirate never saw it coming.

  Slam. The fighter spun wildly, engines shutting down in a flicker of blue.

  Vermond’s lips curved. “Got him.”

  Ten minutes later, in a sterile hangar deep below the station’s mid-deck:

  The pirate was dragged out of the crumpled cockpit by two elite undead, their eyes pale and patient, their grip like iron. The man kicked once, then went still as he noticed what dragged him.

  He was dumped on the floor like cargo.

  The chamber's lights flickered—then steadied.

  Vermond stepped forward from the shadows, flanked by Kiana and Erie.

  Kiana folded her arms, expression unreadable. Erie, wiping his hands with a rag, muttered, “Not even five minutes of peace…”

  The pirate coughed. “W-what is this place?”

  Vermond knelt, calm. “A future you’re not part of.”

  He tapped his finger once on the floor—and the elite undead behind the pirate stepped forward.

  Vermond’s voice was soft, but laced with cold purpose. “Talk. Everything. Or I’ll let them study you.”

  The pirate looked at Kiana—then at the undead—then at the dozens of emotionless eyes watching from the upper catwalks.

  The hangar felt cold—except for Kiana, who stood in front of the pirate with her arms folded, sipping a peach-pink drink through a straw. Her white hair shimmered under the overhead lights. Calm. Unbothered.

  The pirate stared at her like he'd just seen a celestial goddess descend from orbit.

  “I—uh—w-we weren’t gonna do anything bad,” he stammered, trying not to make eye contact, then making eye contact, then looking away, then back again. “We thought this place was abandoned! Just scouting, swear!”

  Kiana tilted her head slightly. “You approached with weapons armed.”

  “That was just—just protocol! We didn't even lock missiles! Honest!”

  Vermond raised an eyebrow from the side. “You locked one.”

  The pirate waved his hands frantically. “That was a misclick!”

  Kiana took another sip and stepped a little closer.

  The pirate's breath caught. “Oh no, she’s walking—why is she walking—”

  She leaned in just a little. “You know what happens to intruders, right?”

  “I—look—okay, listen, if I die right now, I die in the presence of an angel, so that’s fine, honestly, that’s fine—”

  Erie almost choked on his own laughter from the corner. “Oh you are so doomed.”

  The pirate held up both hands, still kneeling. “I’ll tell you everything! Everything! Coordinates, names, my crew’s favorite soup recipes—whatever you want!”

  Kiana blinked, then whispered to Vermond with a small smirk, “He’s kind of cute when he panics.”

  Vermond side-eyed her. “Don’t encourage him. We don’t need simps on the prisoner roster.”

  The pirate gasped. “I’ll simp respectfully!”

  Erie doubled over, wheezing.

  Kiana knelt down, smiling sweetly. “Alright, Mr. Scout. You're going to give us every detail on your route, your base, your friends, and your communications. Got it?”

  He nodded like a bobblehead. “Yes, ma’am. Absolutely. Ma’am. Beautiful ma’am.”

  Kiana patted his cheek. “Good boy.”

  The pirate fainted.

  Straight-up fainted.

  The pirate groaned awake, eyes fluttering open. Stark white walls. Cold metal bench. Holding cell lights humming above him.

  And standing outside the reinforced barrier—Kiana, sipping from the same peach-pink drink, twirling her straw absentmindedly.

  The pirate jolted upright.

  “Oh stars, I dreamed about you. You were wearing armor and stepping on my neck.”

  Kiana blinked slowly. “...I was wearing what?”

  He held his chest dramatically. “You’ve haunted my soul in the best possible way. Am I in trouble? Please say yes.”

  Vermond’s voice echoed from the corner speaker. “Kiana, remind me why we’re not ejecting this man.”

  “Because he’s very cooperative, Big brother,” she said sweetly, then looked at the pirate. “Aren’t you?”

  The pirate nodded furiously. “Ma’am, I will file a monthly tax report for your station if you ask. I’ll scrub every floor. I’ll wear matching uniforms with your crew.”

  Kiana squinted. “You’d serve the crew? The elite scary ones?”

  “If it means seeing your face every day, absolutely.”

  Erie’s voice crackled in through comms from engineering: “This is the weirdest interrogation I’ve ever heard and I once had to threaten a guy using a spoon.”

  Kiana tapped the glass. “Name?”

  “Whatever you want it to be.”

  “Your real name.”

  “Stitch. Call me Stitch.”

  “Okay, Stitch,” she said with a small smirk. “You’re going to tell us everything. And if you’re useful… maybe you’ll get a real job. On the lowest level. With mops.”

  Stitch grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “It would be an honor, Commander Angel.”

  Vermond through the comms: “We’re going to regret keeping him, aren’t we?”

  Erie through the comms: “Nah. He’s harmless. Just don’t let him near your sister unsupervised.”

  Kiana turned to leave, her white hair swaying behind her.

  Stitch stared after her dreamily and whispered to himself, “I’m gonna marry that woman.”

  The cell door slammed shut behind her.

  Minutes later.

  Stitch stood at attention, chest puffed out proudly, now wearing a clean (if slightly too large) crew jumpsuit with a mop in one hand and a laminated ID badge around his neck that said:

  “Provisionally Indoctrinated Sanitation Officer – Deep Clone Wing.”

  Kiana, sipping her drink as usual, handed him a datapad. “This has everything you told us. Your base coordinates, patrol routes, your old captain’s shoe size. Good boy.”

  Stitch beamed. “I just want to be useful to this... beautiful empire of light and terrifying death.”

  Erie leaned in from a side corridor. “Just don’t touch anything down there. And if one of the pods starts talking to you—run.”

  Five minutes later.

  Stitch descended into the dim corridors of the clone sector, mop in hand, humming a romantic pirate ballad.

  Then he froze.

  One of the clone pods was open.

  And a fully naked clone was standing in the middle of the chamber, eyes glowing faintly, head tilted like a confused baby bird. Muscles perfectly formed. Not blinking. Just breathing quietly.

  Stitch’s mop clattered to the floor.

  “Oh no. Oh absolutely no.”

  The clone turned slowly. Made eye contact.

  Stitch put his hands up. “Look, man, I’m just here to mop floors and maybe win over a girl way out of my league, okay? Don’t kill me, don’t eat me, don’t psychic-punch me.”

  The clone took a step forward.

  Stitch slowly backed up. “Alright, okay, good talk. I’ll just clean the hallway outside. You seem like you need space. I respect that.”

  He slipped out of the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Over comms: “Commander? Small note. There’s a very naked dude awake in Clone Room B. Please advise.”

  Vermond’s voice, calm as ever: “Does he look hostile?”

  “Honestly? No. Just… majestic and terrifying.”

  Erie: “That’s standard around here.”

  Kiana: “Good job, Stitch. You survived your first hour. Promotion pending.”

  Stitch slumped against the wall, smiling like an idiot. “Best day of my life.”

  Armed with a mop, a bucket, and a nervous smile, Stitch cautiously cracked open the clone sector door and peeked inside.

  The clone was still there.

  Still very naked.

  Still standing perfectly still like a marble statue carved by a god with a six-pack obsession.

  Stitch saluted awkwardly. “Morning, Nude-Bro. You, uh… look exactly the same as earlier. That’s cool. Consistency is key.”

  The clone didn’t blink.

  Stitch mopped around his feet, humming. “You know, I’ve worked for a lot of bad people. Mean pirates. Smelly ones. Real jerks. But this station? Feels like home. Even they don’t glare at me anymore.”

  The clone didn’t blink.

  “But you… you’re different. Like a quiet, living reminder that I’m definitely not the coolest guy in the room.”

  The clone didn’t blink.

  Stitch leaned on his mop. “I’m gonna bring you pants one day, Nude-Bro. Just you wait.”

  Later that evening, in the Command Center, Stitch nervously approached Vermond.

  “Sir. Requesting… um, special permission. Just minor. Micro-permission. Can I give Nude-Bro some pants?”

  Vermond, sipping tea beside Kiana, didn’t look up. “He doesn't need clothes unless he’s deployed.”

  Kiana leaned over with a smile. “Besides, Stitch. Some statues are meant to be admired.”

  Stitch blinked. “...Right. Okay. Got it. Totally normal workplace.”

  Erie from the hallway: “Don’t fall in love with the clone, Stitch!”

  “I’m not! I just respect his vibe!”

  Stitch returned at the clone room, mopping the floors to the fullest, meanwhile:

  The First Raid

  The pirate base hung in the void like a broken tooth—chipped, unmonitored, and full of opportunity.

  Vermond stood at the front of the breaching craft, the elite undead behind him, rifles gripped and shields humming faintly in their off-hands. They looked human—until you got close. Too still. Too quiet. Too perfect.

  The drop ramp hissed open.

  “Breach,” Vermond ordered.

  They poured in like shadows.

  No screams. Just sudden, eerie silence, then blaster fire—controlled, precise. The pirates barely had time to realize they were being raided. Some tried to run. Some drew weapons. None lasted more than seconds.

  Each time one fell, Vermond's eyes flickered.

  132. 133. 134.

  He walked among the chaos like a ghost wrapped in command. His coat rippled behind him, a grenade clipped to his belt untouched—he didn’t need it yet.

  They found the first stash inside a loading bay. Crates labeled in old smuggler code: CR-E13 / S13-X energy rifles. A full cache of black-market Federation-grade weaponry.

  “Take it,” Vermond said. The undead obeyed without words.

  136. 137. 138.

  Next bay—refined metals. Stolen alloys, smuggled starboard plating, old fusion-grade scaffolds still in wraps.

  Kiana’s voice buzzed in his ear, sweet and calm from the command center. “I’m scanning their inventory logs, Big brother. You’re gonna love what’s on deck four.”

  “Copy. Moving now,” he said, stepping over a twitching pirate trying to crawl away. His boot came down without pause.

  139.

  Erie’s voice chimed in dryly. “I’m watching this live. Honestly? You’re terrifying.”

  “Good,” Vermond said.

  Deck four was quiet.

  One last resistance squad tried a last stand behind overturned storage crates. They shouted. Vermond raised his hand. The elite raised their rifles.

  Five clean shots.

  144.

  By the time the base was purged, the station had gained:

  A full crate of smuggled energy rifles

  Seven pallets of reinforced plating and hull metals

  Three dead pirate comms routers (salvageable)

  And thirteen more souls in Vermond’s eyes.

  Back on the station, Stitch watched the returning ship from the hangar.

  “Yep,” he said. “Totally not in love with the boss either.”

  And here it comes, the second raid.

  The briefing room buzzed softly with holo-projections and strategy overlays. Vermond stood silently, reviewing the stolen data Stitch had given them—maps, patrol routes, entry codes. All taken from the pirate base where Stitch’s former crew still festered.

  They were bigger. Better armed. A deeper fortress tucked inside a hollowed asteroid with automated turrets and some psychic brute leading the lot.

  But Vermond had one advantage: he didn’t need to breathe, and neither did his army.

  Down in the cafeteria, Stitch stirred something foul in a plastic cup and slowly slid onto the bench beside Kiana. She was focused on her datapad, reviewing shield module calibrations.

  He leaned in.

  “Hey, uh… just so you know. My old boss is kinda a mind-reader freak. Not exactly stable. Loves controlling people like puppets and screaming into their heads. Also tried to turn me into a lampshade once. So, uh…”

  She blinked, looking up at him with her usual polite expression.

  “…you might wanna tell your brother to keep his thoughts tight and his team tighter. Not that I care what happens to him or the other guys. I just think you’re pretty cool. And I don’t wanna mop your exploded guts off the clone room floor.”

  Kiana raised a brow. “That’s sweet, Stitch.”

  “I’m trying.”

  She reached out and gently patted his head. “Thank you for warning me. I’ll be careful.”

  He looked dazed for a second.

  “I am… dangerously attracted to kindness,” he whispered, then snapped back to reality. “Anyway! Bye! Time to clean awkward nudity.”

  He darted off toward the lower halls, where the nude clone still stood motionless, unblinking.

  Back upstairs, Kiana tapped her comms.

  “Big brother?”

  “Mm?”

  “Stitch says their boss is a psychic.”

  A pause.

  “Interesting,” Vermond said, his voice cold.

  The planning table dimmed.

  “We’ll bring the neural dampeners.”

  And the second raid began to take form—darker, sharper, and far more dangerous than the first.

  Here comes the second raid:

  The Undead Destroyer loomed above the asteroid like a silent omen. Docked at its underbelly, the stealth boarding tube extended—clamping into the hidden access shaft Stitch had described.

  No alarms. No movement. Not yet.

  Vermond led them in—six elite undead, disguised in Suits and gears, moving with perfect silence. They didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just followed.

  Inside was rot.

  The base was dark metal and cheap lighting. Smuggled crates stacked along walls. Graffiti. Bones. A mess of vice and filth. But more than that—it was wrong. The air trembled. Whispers licked the edge of thought. Like something was listening.

  “He’s awake,” Vermond muttered. His dark and light emerald eye flickered.

  They moved floor by floor, silencing lookouts before they could breathe out a warning. Each kill was clean. Permanent.

  144. 151. 167.

  An elite lobbed a grenade through a barracks door. Screams cut short. Smoke curled into silence.

  Kiana’s voice crackled in Vermond’s earpiece. “Big brother, Sub-reactor located. I’ve hijacked their comms. They’re blind.”

  172. 181. 190.

  They reached the central chamber.

  There, atop a throne of scrap and bloodied bones, sat the Boss.

  No helmet. Just pale, bald flesh and deep veins pulsing across his scalp. His eyes were milky white. A psionic amplifier fused into his spine. Dozens of pirates surrounded him, trembling. Not from fear—but from the hold he had on their minds.

  “You reek of the Void,” the Boss said aloud, his voice echoing through their skulls.

  Vermond’s eye hit 200.

  “Good,” Vermond said softly. “Then you know what comes next.”

  The psychic screamed—filling the room with pressure, a mental quake meant to shatter sanity.

  But Vermond’s hand moved like a god’s. He raised the shard of dark crystal embedded in his chest and willed the silence to fall.

  The undead surged forward, rifles blazing. The psionic’s scream turned into a gurgle as Vermond hurled a grenade into the throne.

  Boom.

  Smoke. Heat. Silence.

  213.

  Only one voice remained.

  “I told her he’d kill you,” Stitch said over the comms, sipping something disgusting from a thermos. “RIP, boss. You were always a creep.”

  The base was now empty.

  And the crates… full of illegal goods. Black tech, captured AI cores, rare metals, gene-serums, psionic dampeners, and enough raw fuel to power the station for years.

  Vermond stood over the smoldering throne, eyes glowing bright with unnatural light. The number 213 burned in his gaze.

  “Kiana,” he said over the comms.

  “Mm?”

  “Prep the vault. We bring everything home.”

  “Yes, big brother,” she whispered sweetly. “Already warming up the landing pad.”

  The docking clamps locked with a loud clang as the raiding team stepped off the shuttle. Vermond led the pack—his coat dusted in ash, his emerald eyes glowing with the fresh count: 213. Behind him, the elite undead walked like a squad of ghosts, arms heavy with secured crates. One carried a scorched helmet, another dragged a busted psionic amplifier by the wires.

  The airlock hissed open.

  “...I swear, if this soup is recycled again, I’m flipping the entire—” Renn paused mid-rant, spoon halfway to his mouth.

  Ruen glanced up, mouth full. “Huh.”

  Around them, the rest of the god-tier frigate crew sat in the cafeteria, trays in front of them, half of them mid-conversation. The atmosphere shifted fast as the group saw Vermond emerge like a myth made flesh.

  He was silent, stained in black soot and something darker.

  One of the elite undead dropped a crate in the center of the floor with a deep metallic thud. A moment later, the others followed. Another dropped what looked like a severed control panel, sparking faintly.

  Erie trailed behind, chewing on some mystery meat from a stick. “We brought souvenirs,” he said casually. “Guess which one was psionic.”

  Vermond didn’t speak. He simply raised his hand—and the nude clone then came up, stepping forward from behind the group. Still bare, still eerily perfect. Human to the eye, but his blank stare and slow, obedient movements told another story.

  One of the frigate crew choked on his drink.

  “Damn” Renn said, standing now, his face unreadable.

  Kiana skipped in, perfect timing, a tray in hand and a steaming cup of something peach-colored. She walked straight to Vermond, slid her free arm into his, and smiled. “Big brother brought us a throne made of bones and tech. Isn’t he just the best?”

  Ruen blinked. “A throne?”

  “Oh yeah. Exploded it too,” Erie said, grabbing a drink from someone else’s tray and taking a sip.

  The clone stood unmoving beside Vermond, while behind them, crates were dragged toward the station’s elevator. Loot, weapons, resources—enough to rebuild twice over.

  Vermond’s eyes shifted briefly to Renn.

  “Food’s cold,” he said, voice low.

  Renn looked down at his tray. Then up again. “You’re insane.”

  “And winning,” Kiana added brightly, clinking her cup against Vermond’s hip. “Big brother is just the best.”

  The elevator doors parted with a soft chime, revealing crates stacked high, labeled in fractured pirate codes and charred insignias. Inside the cargo hall, the god-tier frigate crew had already cleared space. Stitch, now wearing a stolen security cap two sizes too big, saluted dramatically before tripping over a stray wrench.

  “Loot delivery!” he shouted. “Twelve crates, mostly weapons, three smuggled tech blocks, one crate labeled definitely not cursed, and a box of what I think are alien noodles!”

  Ruen caught the noodles before they hit the floor. “Score.”

  Old man Renn popped open a weapons crate and whistled low. “These are Federation-issue... second gen disruptor rifles. These bastards have better stockpiles than some warships.”

  Behind him, two elite undead silently lifted a massive crate of metals into the corner, perfectly coordinated, silent as machines. One nodded to Stitch, who beamed like he was suddenly part of a team he never applied to.

  “I got it, I got it!” Stitch rushed over with a datapad. “Logs say these alloys are ship-grade. Reinforce the entire station with ‘em—maybe even that weird clone lab!”

  Renn grunted. “You’re not completely useless after all.”

  Stitch saluted again. “Thank you, sir. Now where do I dump the possibly haunted circuit boards?”

  “Give them to Ruen.”

  “Figures.”

  Above it all, in the now gleaming Command Center, Vermond sat back on the new, white-cushioned lounge couch Kiana had claimed as hers. He didn’t move—his coat half-unbuttoned, boots dusted from the raid, eyes closed.

  Kiana sat beside him, brushing dirt from his jacket with soft fingers. His head rested gently on her lap, the emerald glint of his eyes dim and steady.

  “You were reckless again, Big brother,” she murmured, though her tone was more fond than scolding.

  “I’m tired,” Vermond muttered.

  “I know.” She leaned down, her hair brushing his forehead. “You brought us back whole. That’s what matters.”

  He didn’t reply. Just let the warmth of her presence ease the burning ache in his chest.

  She quietly placed a warm drink on the armrest, then resumed running her fingers through his hair.

  “You can sleep here,” she whispered. “I’ll wake you if anything tries to kill us.”

  Back in the half-lit dock, Erie cursed as sparks flew from an open panel.

  “Why the hell are these circuits color-coded in shades of regret?”

  He glanced over to the sixth fighter, partially reassembled, wires everywhere. Then back to the tools. He grinned to himself and wiped the grease from his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Still beats listening to those two upstairs.”

  He gave the nearest fighter a pat. “Come on, you old beast. We’ve got a war to plan.”

  Then came the Strategic Awakening.

  Vermond’s eyes flickered open, their twin emerald hues glowing faintly—213. The number glinted in the dim light of the Command Center as he slowly sat up from his sister’s lap. Kiana gave him a soft smile but said nothing, simply running a hand once through his hair before letting him rise.

  He moved toward the central holo-table, boots silent on the pristine floor. With a gentle touch of his hand, the console thrummed to life, casting ghost-blue light across the walls as a massive star map unfolded like ink in water.

  The Illegal Federation Map.

  Its data web expanded, tracing the fractured remains of old dominions—names that once meant order and strength now little more than fading echoes. Whole sectors blinked like dying stars.

  Kiana stepped beside him, sipping from her mug, eyes narrowing at the shifting data.

  “Big brother,” she murmured, voice low. “All those red zone, that’s not random collapse.”

  Vermond’s fingers moved again, zooming into the Outlaw Sectors. Sector after sector blinked and vanished beneath creeping red tendrils.

  “The Folkan,” he said under his breath. “They’re not just invading... they’re consuming. The Federation's gone. And now they’re coming for everything else.”

  Kiana folded her arms, her usual warmth muted with thought. “Big brother, If they reach deeper into outlaw space, we’ll be cornered. Nobody’s stopping them. Nobody even knows how.”

  Vermond nodded grimly. “We can’t match them. Not like this. A handful of fighters, a hidden station, a small amount of elite undeads…”

  He paused.

  “But we have options.”

  The map shifted again—highlighting the Kore Resource Territory. It glowed bright green, a pocket of untouched wealth just a few jumps away.

  “Rich in alloys, fusion cores, vault-grade wiring… and abandoned since the war,” he said. “We need that. Not just for weapons—but for building. Big ships. Real ones.”

  Down in the docking bay, Erie’s voice crackled through the comms. “I’m listening.”

  “Erie,” Vermond said, leaning slightly over the table. “We’ve got to upgrade the bays. They can make small ships now, but we’ll need more. Something larger. Durable. And lethal.”

  Erie snorted. “So, dreadnoughts. Cool. No pressure.”

  “We need a proper engineer,” Kiana added, tapping the side of the console. “One that’s alive. And not stitched together by scraps.”

  “I resemble that remark,” Erie muttered.

  She smiled. “We’ll get you help, Erie.”

  “And the blueprints,” Vermond said, eyes focused. “Not fragments. Federation-grade. Complete. We’ll pull them out of black markets if we have to. Or out of Folkan wreckage.”

  Kiana gave a nod, gaze sharpening. “It’s a start.”

  The map slowly dimmed, but its data was burned into their minds. Kiana leaned in, her voice soft near Vermond’s ear.

  “Big brother, we can’t build a new future by hiding in the dark, can we?”

  Vermond looked at her—then to the crew behind them, the elite undead assembling supplies in silent precision. One of the frigate crew stood with Stitch, pointing at crates. Even now, this place pulsed with new life.

  “No,” Vermond said. “We’ll carve one out. From metal. From fire. And from death itself.”

  He turned to face them all.

  “This station will be the heart of it. A forge for war. A place to build what we need to survive what’s coming.”

  Erie’s voice came back, more serious now. “And when we do… you planning to take the fight to them?”

  Vermond’s eyes burned brighter—213, etched in divine and demonic emerald light.

  “Oh, Erie. We’re not going to take the fight to them…”

  He stepped down from the platform, a faint smile curling on his lips.

  “We’re going to drag it from their cold, dying hands.”

  And somewhere in the dark again, the watcher smiled.