"Floyd 1220, #145324445 Cockpit—Operational." Ryan's voice echoed in the dimly lit control room as he ran a quick diagnostic scan.
Basic repairs aren't so bad, he mused, leaning back slightly in the pilot's chair.
Pressing the intercom, he called out, "Kayle, give me the full readout on Floyd 1200 #145324445."
A moment later, Kayle's voice crackled through. "On it. You'll have it in a minute."
Ryan raised a brow. "That fast?"
"These models are relatively new. Diagnostics run smoother," Kayle replied.
Ryan smirked. "Guess that makes our job easier."
"Yeah. Also, this one barely took any damage—just some bridge scarring. Nothing serious."
Ryan glanced over the control panel, confirming Kayle's report. "Looks like it got away almost scot-free."
"Seems to be the case," Kayle agreed.
______________________________________________________
Stepping out of another trade vessel, Ryan wiped his hands on a thin cloth, brushing away the grease from his last repair job. The scent of oil and overheated metal filled the air.
"We might be able to start the 1250 Series today," he muttered, checking the schedule.
As he glanced up, his casual expression stiffened in confusion. Instead of Kayle's short, scrappy frame, he found himself staring at Wilm's shrewd face. The taller man stood with his usual unreadable expression, adjusting his glasses.
Ryan frowned. "Where's Kayle?"
"Restroom," Wilm answered flatly.
Ryan glanced at the time display—a glowing eight-digit clock embedded above the door. "Yeah, makes sense. Almost lunchtime."
He folded his arms. "So, what are you doing over here? Weren't you and Trin working on the 1230s?"
"Other teams are finishing up the 1230 and 1240 Series now," Wilm said, voice clipped as usual.
Ryan exhaled sharply. "Haaa… figures."
Wilm hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "There was some trouble over by the 1250 Series, where we started earlier."
Ryan straightened slightly. "Oh?"
Wilm nodded. "Nothing confirmed yet, but it might be worth checking out."
Ryan ran a hand through his hair, debating. Then he shrugged. "I'll head over after the break."
"It's urgent. If we leave it alone, it could cost us—heavily," Wilm said, his voice calm but firm.
Ryan frowned. "Are you sure it can't wait?"
Wilm adjusted his glasses, the light reflecting off the lenses, obscuring his eyes. "No."
Ryan studied him for a moment. Wilm had always been a bit… off, but today, there was something different. Something unsettling.
This guy just keeps getting weirder and weirder.
Still, it wasn't like he could ignore it. "Alright, I'll go."
Wilm gave a slight nod. "I'll stay behind and call Kayle once he's finished up."
Ryan raised a brow. "But isn't it urgent?"
"That's why we need you the most over there," Wilm replied smoothly. "After all, you're the Manager's favorite."
Ryan scoffed internally. Favorite? Hardly. If it were that urgent, he could've come along himself.
Still, there was no point in arguing. "Alright, I'm heading out."
As Ryan walked away, Wilm remained in place.
Behind him, just past the corner, a dark red liquid seeped across the floor, pooling around a motionless figure.
____________________________________________
1250-Series Docking Bay
Ryan arrived at the docks and immediately noticed something was off. The place was empty.
Too empty.
He scanned the area, eyes landing on one of the ships—its docking ramp left wide open.
"Weird… Are they inside?" he muttered, stepping closer.
The silence inside the hangar felt unnatural. He cupped his hands over his mouth and called out.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
His voice echoed off the metal walls. Nothing.
Still, he moved toward the open entrance of the trade vessel. He hesitated at the threshold, peering inside. The dim lighting cast long shadows, but there was no sign of movement.
A cold unease settled in his stomach. "Probably out for lunch, too," he said to himself, trying to shake off the feeling.
He exhaled sharply. "Damn it, Wilm. So much for 'urgent.' Was this your way of messing with me?"
Annoyed, he turned to leave—
THUNK.
The ship's entrance slammed shut behind him.
[HUMAN PRESENCE DETECTED.]
A mechanical voice echoed through the chamber.
Ryan spun around. "What the—"
[INITIATING EMERGENCY PROTOCOL.]
[AUTOPILOT ENGAGED.]
Panic shot through Ryan as he rushed back to the sealed door. "Autopilot? That should've been disabled when the ship docked!"
The floor beneath him rumbled. The entire vessel lurched as it powered on.
[OPENING DOCKING SITE.]
[ENERGY FIELD ACCESS APPROVED.]
Ryan's eyes widened. "No, no, no—"
The ship trembled violently as it disengaged from the station.
Through a nearby viewport, he saw it—the shimmering blue energy field surrounding Fluerost's docking bay flickered and then… disappeared.
He was being launched out of the colony.
Ryan clenched his fists. "Which bastard opened the docking field?!"
A face flashed in his mind—Wilm.
His expression darkened. "That fucker."
But even as anger boiled inside him, another thought cut through—he couldn't have done this alone.
Who helped him?
The answer didn't matter right now. What mattered was getting to the cockpit before he was permanently locked out of the colony.
Ryan pushed off the wall, floating as the ship fully detached from the docking clamps. The artificial gravity cut off, leaving him weightless.
Good. At least moving won't be an issue.
With strong, calculated motions, he propelled himself forward, navigating through the narrow corridors toward the cockpit.
He reached the central control panel—a floating blue holographic display hovered in the center.
"Unlock!" he commanded.
[ ADMINISTRATOR PASSKEY REQUIRED ]
Ryan's breath caught in his throat.
"Shit. Shit. Shiiit!"
The ship wasn't just on autopilot—it was locked down.
Someone had planned this.
And he was trapped.