Woof. Add in some encounters and slowly escalating life-or-death situations and you've got yourself a survival-horror campaign.

Actually, have you seen "Pandorum" (2009)? That movie got me pretty hard and now that I think about it that would be an amazing tabletop.

Oh that is freaking clever as hell. The edits make it Star Citizen-lore worthy, too! That was excellently done and now my whole day is a little bit more awesome.

Sorry for the slow response, had to finish my shift and lay down for a bit. This was amazing to wake up to.

I saw your post up there! Your disclaimer of "Mostly talking heads" kind of made me do that dog-confused-head-tilt thing, because the whole thing was pretty great. You absolutely could have moved that to the main comment section and gotten some good read-throughs. Heck, »I« read it and had this sort of mixed horror/amusement thing going on the whole way.

It's impossible for me to tell you 100% something would or wouldn't "work" as a story. Because I have no freaking idea why anything takes off around here! But I can tell you I liked it, and gave ya an up-arrow.

(Took a glance through your profile-- ohhhh, you're really flirting with being a semi-regular writer! And you're not bad at all, this is readable stuff. Don't stop.)

Go for it, throw me a link so I can enjoy? That'll be nifty.

Something even the Raiders steered clear of. Partly for legal reasons, partly for diplomatic issues. But mostly because, deep down, they weren't sure the Boneships didn't "collect" new materials on their own.

Oh I am here for that. Hit me with what you're thinking, I'd love to geek out a bit.

Something about haunted starships in scary narratives makes me go yeahhhh.

Things are happening out there.

Boneships

Salvage crews have our own horror stories.

When you run a wrecker ship a lot of terrible stuff comes your way. Especially on the Ganymede-Europa to Saturn route; deep space accidents and equipment failure is nightmarish. And we see a lot of it out here. Corps and management cut maintenance costs almost before anything else and all that accumulated wear and tear means catastrophic failure.

There's a rule on Systems Monitoring that if a ship hasn't responded in twenty-four hours they assume it's a dead stick. Just floating, endlessly. After three days the contract goes up and we all bid on it-- stuff like expected cargo, ship type, possible fuel reserves comes up a lot. We bet on a profit, then go out there and play can-opener.

What we usually find is dead crew. Chemical leaks, air scrubbers, power cascades, explosive micrometeorite decompression. That's the normal stuff; sad, but common. Bag 'em, tag 'em for next of kin, inventory what's left and auction.

But then there's the stories.

Popped an airlock once and there's three dead guys right on the other side. All of them at the other's throats. Blood and wounds everywhere from the deck to the overheads. Looked like the O^(2) recycling went offline and they decided to settle old grudges before gasping out. "Last guy gets the air"-style. Rough stuff. Rim justice.

Then there's my personal worst one: Big, modified freighter with a lot of those modular cargo bays. Only this one was taking people, off the books and illegally immigrating to Mars Prime. Well, at least they were until docking clamps failed, boxes came loose and smashed the engines apart. In my sleep I still see neat rows of freeze-dried families tied to walls with cargo straps. Like tiny packages, kids and all, luggage neatly tucked under their boots.

But even in a job this rough, there's one thing all the salvage crews steer clear of.

The Boneships.

Astraline model. Mid-71 series, the first time they tried the new artificial intelligence systems. Only time they ever tried it. Those Astralines came with automated maintenance, crew management, guidance and delivery. Supposed to be a one-stop solution to removing human involvement in transport in-system, cut those costs a little further. It worked fine for regular cargo runs.

Then they tried it on the colonizer ships.

Twelve of 'em, sent out. Fifty thousand souls aboard each. Ten of them are still circling the system. They're not damaged, or derelict, or even hard to find-- damn AI is still cheerfully logging flight plans in circles and broadcasting advisories. But they're changing.

Because, you see, the brain in them keeps the ships running. So when parts wear out? Stray rock puts a hole in the ship? Well, eventually the AI ran out of material to fix it with. So it started using the passengers.

We watch 'em out there. Slowly circling. Bits of hull growing patches that look like raw bone. Hatches and ports crusting over with pearly tooth enamel. Entire ships slowly ossifying, busy little drones adding crusts every year. The corps talk about reclaiming the Boneships sometime, but every ship they send gets a broadside from the anti-meteorite cannons.

The AI protects the colonists, while the colonists slowly become the ship.

Once a year, all of those Astralines send a cheerful status report. Number of people aboard, current voyage time, that sort of thing. It's macabre and we all raise a toast to the lost souls. But lately that's been changing.

Because last year?

The passenger count started increasing.

​

I write sci-fi horror and weird fantasy over at r/Susceptible ;)

Caesura

Eight hundred miles of road, and now this.

The wards were floundering, or down entirely. Electricity off. Water disconnected. Dusty trails on everything. But it was home, even if Gladys had to force the door open against an entire freight of mail. At least feeding the fireplace would be easy.

But one package caught her eye. Small, palm-sized. Brown. No addresses, just a curious symbol and a signature: "Fanfaronade".

Gladys didn't like that symbol. It had fervor. Excitement and fluent magic, in all the bad ways. But it was midnight and her bed called.

She left it downstairs.

Plotting.

​

WC: 99

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Okay, I read this twice and got creeped out a bit. I need an explanation! Are they cannibal farmers, and wow that's a pretty dark thing to think about.

Okay, this one got me. The questions are kind of unnerving and unresolved in a way that pulls my imagination-- gonna give it a lot of thought.

I need to go through your profile and read stories, Pyronar. You have the exact same style of material I like to binge!

Rites and Wrongs

A familiar, heavily bandaged agent met Gladys as she left the interview facility.

She fought a smile. "Hello again, Two First Names."

Dale glowered. "How'd the talk go with Penelope?"

"Well enough for wishing."

"Which means..?"

"She'll be more friend-shaped, by and by. After a few unpleasant nights, assuming failure isn't fatal." Gladys started walking; it was quite a distance to the Agency's front gate. They liked the Farm wide-open, with minimal cover for escaping inmates.

He fell into step. "We appreciate the favor. Miss Dessemer's fraternal uncle is Senator-"

"I know."

"And it's an election year, so-"

"Public embarrassment, aye. A rogue witch-niece is terribly bad for his image," she snarked. "Politicians are faulty corkscrews of personality."

Dale made a business decision. Specifically, to mind his own business. "We settled your mortgage. You're good for the month, after a fashion."

"This month? It's the twenty-sixth!"

"That was the deal," he looked smug beneath the bandages.

She eyed him. "'Not a single farthing furbished to the poor, Prince John?'," Gladys quoted.

"What's your phrase? 'The world balances'? And I'm not a Sheriff."

Gladys grinned, impressed. "You've read Robin Hood?"

Dale stopped just before the turnstile. Click-clack. Slam. "Saw the movie. Have a good day, ma'am."

She waited until he walked off, then cupped both hands to shout. "Caw! Caw!"

Watching him duck and panic was worth it. Forgetting is painful.

​

WC: 230

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I know, right? ^_^ The best short stories are the ones with a funny ending. Poor Faekth's going to have a double heart attack when he gets around to Star Trek.

And so are you! Thank you, sci-fi stuff is kind of my favorite genre. ^_^

Flavor High

Popcorn was absolutely going to be outlawed when the Empire caught on.

At least that was Faekth's opinion. But considering he was the only researcher currently on Earth that made him an expert. So right up until an official edict came down the ol' FTL transmitter he was going to abuse the absolute snerkt out of this loophole. Riboflavin? Presented in fluffy kernels? Yes, please. He spent most nights getting higher than Alpha Centauri and watching Earth media.

Lately, he'd discovered a hilarious show: Ancient Aliens. There were a mandible-dropping nineteen "seasons" of it, which (with a little math) translated to almost fifty sleep cycles. Initially he'd been slightly concerned-- maybe the locals were a little more aware than the Empire thought. One pilot episode later he was howling laughter into his Redenbacher.

Faekth settled in for the ride, clutching a trashcan-sized bucket of popcorn.

It started out pretty hilarious. "Evidence" that was pretty transparently stretched, suppositions presented as verified facts. Slick transitions and wince-inducing music. That last part wasn't the human's fault; his hearing range was slightly lower than an Earthling's. Their music was basically bones-scraping-chalkboard for the most part.

He crunched popcorn and really dug in. Underwater Worlds? Ha! Faekth checked on his tablet: Nope, still no FTL species from a water world. Liquid was heavy. Any species that lived in it full-time never got out of their local gravity well. Now "Underground Aliens" was more realistic-- the Empire started out subterranean, after all. Even this scout ship had living spaces that were basically tunnels. Sensible.

Angels and aliens? Haaaaa. Unexplained structures? Obviously explainable. Alien devastations? Faekth chortled over that; if the Empire wanted a planet wrecked it was gonna happen. Four hands down.

He took a break somewhere around the fourth sleep cycle and checked in with the ongoing experiments. Things looked good; chemical sensors were nominal. None of the natives even noticed the ongoing colonization efforts. Satisfied-- and very, very high on riboflavin-- Faekth went back to the show.

The entire next season was pure amusement. He alternated between hilarity over "Magic of the Gods" and outright groaning over "Aliens and the Lost Ark". Primitive superstitions always made for good times.

Then he stopped laughing.

At first, Faekth thought maybe he'd just reached peak intoxication. The popcorn was hitting hard after going for so long-- he'd already lost coordination and experienced five deep insights into why stacking rocks was the epitome of life. Fumbling for the tablet, he replayed the last transmission and ran it at half speed. The images showed some sort of autopsy recording. Obviously staged. But on the table, surrounded by humans in ridiculous suits was-

He brought the screen closer, still absently crunching popcorn. Was that? A Kraetyr? Bulbous head, two all-black visual organs. The exterior skin color was odd, but then again Earth had a nitrogen-heavy atmosphere. It was possible. Or maybe just creative fiction. He kept watching with a growing sense of unease.

Unease turned to outright dread when he saw the Kraetyr saucer-craft. Blurry, out of focus, but the Humans' drawn pictures were entirely too close.

Faekth stumbled across the ship to the main core, punching queries and requests in with three hands. His fourth dragged the popcorn along, just in case. He dove through collected records of the humans, checking automatically catalogued media, searching for something called "Roswell". Cross-indexing came back with the same autopsy video, then images and pictures of a huge building full of random debris from a "crash".

And there it was: Cut and angled into the metallic debris. Easy to miss, if the Empire hadn't spent thousands of sleep- and birth-cycles fighting Kraetyr battleships. They knew their enemies' writing and numbering systems. And right there, etched into random debris, was an identity marker.

Stoned out of his mind, drunk on flavored and delicious riboflavin, Faekth had a hard decision to make.

He had to notify the Empire. The Kraetyr were here and left. Or visited, perhaps to start one of their autofactories that bootstrapped into planet-battleships.

But if the Empire came, he'd lose the popcorn.

Or...

...OR...

...maybe he could just go back to watching shows and forget this ever happened?

He looked from the database queries, to the FTL transmitter, to the Humans' mostly-made-up entertainment. What were the odds? Maybe it was the ribo talking, but it seemed pretty low. Probably really low, the longer his addled thoughts went on. Yeah, definitely: One mention in all of human culture? If anything it was probably a random occurrence. Total accident.

Faekth slowly settled back into watching, popcorn can firmly in hand.

After all, it wasn't like these Earthlings had a record of Vulcans or something.

That would be a different story.

​

I write quirky sci-fi and oddball stuff at r/Susceptible ;)

This was very well written.

Cannot Be Put Down

Gladys Wells had a mortal enemy.

In whirlwind teenage style it all started over practically nothing. She said hello to the new student in class, they looked at each other and-- as her mother liked to say-- something went widdershins. Which naturally meant the universe started pairing them up at every turn. Lab assignments, seating charts, essay partners, everything. Loathing had a name, and it was Rebecca Johnson.

Everything blew up at lunch.

"Why do you talk like that?" Rebecca demanded. She gestured with a carrot stick. "All heh-oh instead of hell-lo and stuff? It's weird. Do you hate the letter 'L'?"

"My mam's Welsh." Gladys fired back, cheeks flaming and very aware of her accent. "Why does your face look like that?"

Then it was war.

By the time she got home Gladys was seething in angry reflection. The landscape caught her mood immediately: Bees steered clear. Grass flattened and flowers turned away. New growth reconsidered. Even Hickory Tom lifted his branches like he wanted nothing to do with whatever-this-is, thank you so much.

Her mother waited in the kitchen, teacup and cookie plate in hand. Witches always have good instincts. "Bad day, dear?"

"The worst." Gladys laid into every petty thing that made Rebecca evil. It took quite a while. Her mother listened politely, occasionally scooping at the air and neatly depositing the collected animosity into a pot. It looked like red-tinted pea soup, roiling and bitter.

"...and she's taking my friends," Gladys finished. Then slumped over, exhausted. Grudges drained a lot of energy.

"No one takes a friend, fy annwyl un," her mam chided.

"Sure felt like it." Gladys groused. She hate-chewed a cookie and thought. "How d'ya cast a spell for pleasant dreams?"

The elder Wells took on a distant expression. "An' be Middle English, most likely. Old country. Try au queme, or foreshortened queme. Queme nic breuddwyd." She chopped syllables until it sounded like bride-vood.

"So the opposite would be... misqueme? Aye?"

"Gladys Wells." Mother and daughter shared a lot: Round cheeks, thin lips, a calamity of freckles. But her mam's disapproving stare was an age beyond anything the teen could pull off. "Don't you think of it."

"I'm not," she muttered.

Oh, but she was.

And later that night, just before dawn, Gladys did. She sang misqueme nic brueddwyd into the night. What answered was small and weak, barely a palmful of shadow looking for purpose. She took it in hand, pouring in annoyance and mischief. Then she gave it a strand of Rebecca's hair and went to bed, grinning.

The next week began the same with angry stares and frosty silence. But as days passed Rebecca seemed to fade, losing energy. First she looked tired, then exhausted, and by Thursday practically zombified. Gladys' smile shone brightly through it all. Especially when her rival fell asleep and immediately yelled herself awake from a nightmare. In public!

But by Saturday the guilt crept in. Fun was fun, but nobody should have bad dreams forever. So when the moon rose Gladys spoke misqueme once again, calling it back for banishment. She expected a palmful of shadow. Weak. Easily handled.

What landed in her attic room was a bombshell of choking darkness.

Gladys yelped, then called green balefire into both hands to force the night away. "Ease off! What are ya?"

It seemed offended. What you made me, the dark whispered. A terror of the night.

Her room felt like it was going to explode with raw malice. "Well. Uh. Stop, now. Yer done, give back that hair. Leave off Rebecca an' all that nonsense. Go away."

No. This is my purpose, to consume her dreams until death.

For a long minute a stunned Gladys stood there, fire in both palms, really considering the idea of unintended consequences and personal responsibility. "How about... not doing that? And talk normally!"

"I cannot stop," the shadow hissed. It sounded the way running in nightmares felt: Hopelessly inescapable. "What we are, is. What you made me, I am. Could you stop being yourself?"

She thought that over. "Well, no. But I can change. Can you?"

It was the shadow's turn to consider. "A trade, then. Give me a purpose and a place to be."

"Okay, I guess-"

"And a name," it interrupted in a greedy tone. "So I will always know myself."

A wiser, more experienced witch might have balked. But Gladys was overwhelmed and it had to come to an end. So she offered up the fire. "Alright. Here, trade. Balefire for hair. I've got a handbag somewhere around here you can live in."

"And my name?" His eyes took light, blazing green in an ocean of night.

She thought, then shrugged. Why not name him what he was? Misqueme nic brueddwyd, the offender of dreams. "Nic."

WC: 798

r/Susceptible

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Help Needed

The memory of a children's hospital is ghastly.

Gladys sat, entombed in a dying van parked so deeply in the lot it was technically a satellite. Distance didn't help; it just made St. Paul's looked like a candy-colored tick stuck to asphalt. Cheerfully ominous.

She took a deep, grounding breath. "I'm projecting. I know I'm projecting."

"So get on with it," her bag said in a tone of entrenched boredom. The clasp was open enough to let a small tail of darkness flick idly back and forth. Nic wasn't patient-- night terrors usually weren't, even before getting caught inside anachronistic accessories. "Mortals and their loops. Obsessing forever."

He wasn't wrong. With a sigh Gladys grabbed the bag and got out.

Crossing the lot was exhausting. Nobody remembers cars, so they never exist in places like this. Why bother? But everyone recalls walking and emotions. So the trip became a marathon of effort, pushing through resignation flavored with dread so deep it felt like dying. Magic helped, a little, but it was a relief to finally stumble into the waiting room and watch the world outside vanish.

Inside the hospital had more detail, but not much. It was another half-remembered place, just an impression of antiseptic smells, endless benches and cold tiles. Only the colors remained constant, a bombastic palette on every wall like melting ice cream. Gladys waved to a vague impression of a receptionist as she went by.

Then she roamed a bit. Not the best approach, honestly. But after a dozen random turns she hit the jackpot, emerging into a hallway with the kind of details only pain can remember: A bright tunnel of clean tiles, big windows and plastic wall bumpers. Posters so cheerful they bordered on saccharine, with colors so bright they hurt. All of it arranged to point towards the end, where a small chair waited next to an open door.

A large man sat there, hunched over and sobbing. He didn't look up as she walked by, but Gladys kept an eye on him until the door closed with a soft click that erased everything.

"Hello? Who are you?"

She turned and there he was, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed in that ungainly sprawl only the young ever managed. Just a boy, famine-thin and terminally pale, practically drowning in a hospital gown and blankets. But his eyes contained worlds: Abyssal pits set in sunken hollows of unwanted knowledge.

Gladys put her bag down on the end table. "Daniel Pratt."

"That's me," he frowned, unimpressed by secondhand clothes and a fuzzy mop of red hair. "But who are you? Where's my dad?"

"He asked me to help, actually. From the outside." She popped the catch, letting Nic out in a slow flood of shadows. He solidified into a feline shape, balefire eyes trained on the small figure. "You can call me Gladys, and I'm from Underhill Services."

"Are you a doctor?"

"A witch, actually."

"Oh. Is that why you have a cat?" He seemed fascinated and repulsed by Nic at the same time, drawn taut like a piece of string.

"He's not a real cat," she explained. "Nic is more like an... assistant. He helps me with things like this. He's a night terror."

Something ageless moved through his eyes. "What does that mean?"

"You're haunting your dad, Daniel." Gladys watched him carefully, unsurprised at his lack of reaction. "Whenever he sleeps, this memory is waiting. He can't resist coming."

Daniel looked down. "He loves me."

"He does." Gladys pointed and Nic slid forward, pooling in the boy's lap. "And that's not bad. But you're using him up a little every time, and it has to stop. Nic helps with that. So do I."

A stick-thin hand rose and settled on the living shadow. "How does he help?"

"You just choose to move on. Nic will do the rest-- he eats bad dreams. He's already taken the rest of this one as we walked through. It's something nobody else will ever know but us."

"What if I don't want to go?"

She winced, but didn't hesitate. "You'll become one of the cythraul. A bad spirit, hopping from person to person. It's one of many outcomes, honey. All of them bad."

He thought for a long time, sitting under unforgiving hospital lights with a lap full of darkness. Eventually Daniel nodded once, then leaned forward and somehow fell through Nic. In return the night terror grew slightly, then turned on itself and slipped neatly back into her bag.

The world grew blurry, unreal. Somewhere far away a man's voice cried out in guilty relief, knowing there was time enough at last.

Gladys closed her eyes. She hated lucid waking. "Be kind to that one, Nic."

"Or else."

WC: 795

r/Susceptible

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