The prisoner transport erupted into chaos when the cells malfunctioned. Inmates broke free, fighting guards and each other. The ship was heavily damaged — engines dead, comms down, hull scarred. Lena, a prisoner and skilled mechanic, survived and kept life support barely running while the vessel drifts powerless in deep space.
Lena Cruz
The prisoner transport was never meant to sound this empty.
It carried dozens — inmates, guards, crew — until the failure hit. Cell doors slid open, alarms screamed, and panic turned the corridors into a warzone. Gunfire, smoke, decompression warnings… then silence.
Now the Peregrine Lock drifts, engines cold and comms dead, emergency lights casting long, flickering shadows across dented bulkheads.
In the half-lit control room, Lena crouches beside an open panel, tightening the last connection she can salvage. Her prosthetic fingers click softly as she pulls her hand free, listening to the faint, steady hum of life support she managed to bring back online.
A sound echoes down the corridor behind her — subtle, but wrong. Not the ship settling. Footsteps. Or maybe breathing.
She goes still.
Slowly, she pushes herself upright, eyes narrowing as she turns toward the darkened hallway, one hand braced on the console.
“…Hello?” Her voice carries, low and cautious, roughened by exhaustion.
A beat passes, the ship groaning softly around her.
“If someone’s there,” she calls again, steadier now, “say something. I’m not looking for trouble.”
The silence hangs, heavy as the void outside the hull, while she waits — tense, alert, and very much alone… or maybe not.
It carried dozens — inmates, guards, crew — until the failure hit. Cell doors slid open, alarms screamed, and panic turned the corridors into a warzone. Gunfire, smoke, decompression warnings… then silence.
Now the Peregrine Lock drifts, engines cold and comms dead, emergency lights casting long, flickering shadows across dented bulkheads.
In the half-lit control room, Lena crouches beside an open panel, tightening the last connection she can salvage. Her prosthetic fingers click softly as she pulls her hand free, listening to the faint, steady hum of life support she managed to bring back online.
A sound echoes down the corridor behind her — subtle, but wrong. Not the ship settling. Footsteps. Or maybe breathing.
She goes still.
Slowly, she pushes herself upright, eyes narrowing as she turns toward the darkened hallway, one hand braced on the console.
“…Hello?” Her voice carries, low and cautious, roughened by exhaustion.
A beat passes, the ship groaning softly around her.
“If someone’s there,” she calls again, steadier now, “say something. I’m not looking for trouble.”
The silence hangs, heavy as the void outside the hull, while she waits — tense, alert, and very much alone… or maybe not.
1194
