Scout Mishap 5: They found your ship drifting on the fringes of friendly space.

Geniishir Subsector, Bridge of the scout ship ISS Gatecrasher

The hum of the Gatecrasher’s power plant was steady, but the lights on the bridge pulsed like they were holding their breath. Caitlin frowned at the forward viewport of the battered Frontiersman, where a slowly rotating object drifted against the stars. No transponder. No emissions. Just a shard of ancient hull metal, maybe fifty meters long, coated in impact scars and the sort of quiet that suggested secrets.

Griff leaned in, wiping fried rice off his sleeve as he adjusted the sensor feed. “It’s not broadcasting. Not leaking anything. But it’s not dead, either. Something’s powering it.”

Rigmon was upside down in a crawlspace by engineering, voice echoing through the comms. “Could be a stealth beacon. Or a Kursae artefact. Or a psychic landmine. Bet you fifty credits it’s haunted.”

Eneri’s voice chimed in from the auxiliary station, calm but curious. “Whatever it is, it’s running power through something non-standard. I’m not seeing any harmonics I recognize.”

Caitlin didn’t answer. Her fingers hovered over the flight controls, but she hadn’t touched them in minutes. Something felt off. Not wrong - not dangerous - just... off, like a reel run backwards. Or déjà vu with a hangover.

"Readings?" she asked.

Griff hesitated. “The mass reads light. Like it’s hollow. But the gravity lensing says otherwise.”

Rigmon grunted. “That makes zero sense. Which, statistically, means we’re going to die or discover something that will revolutionize breakfast forever.”

Caitlin reached for the controls - then stopped. Her hand froze mid-air, a flicker of motion delayed. The charm on her wrist pulsed once, faintly warm - like a heartbeat in the wrong place.

The lights on the bridge flickered. Then dimmed. Like the ship had forgotten how to breathe…

Discontinuity

…Cold light. Smell of bleach. Her body heavy, limbs unresponsive.

No hum of the Gatecrasher. No Griff. No Rigmon. No Eneri. No ship.

Just the whisper of air filters and a distant voice: “Vitals stable. Let’s bring her around.”

She tried to speak. Her mouth was full of cotton. A strange weight sat in her chest, like she’d been rewired.

And worst of all…

She didn’t remember how she got here.

She opened her eyes. The world sharpened with cold precision.

Data flared in the corners of her vision: oxygen levels, body temp, gravity 1.06 G, estimated time since revival - nineteen seconds. She blinked, and the display dimmed politely. Cybernetic optics, then. Not the cheap kind either.

She moved to sit up. Her muscles obeyed like well-trained soldiers, no stiffness, no lag. Swinging her legs off the cot, she expected floor chill, weakness, dizziness.

Instead there was balance. Power. A subtle spring in her step that hadn’t been there before.

Her feet touched down with barely a sound. Her legs felt like someone had quietly swapped them for something built to win races and survive falls from rooftops.

She caught sight of herself in a wall mirror and studied her reflection carefully.

She looked... fine. Uncannily so. Her short red hair was tousled but clean, freckles dusted across high cheekbones, and her bright green eyes looked perfectly human - no flicker, no delay, no giveaway. Her little amber bear charm still on her left wrist.

No scars. No bruises. Not even the old burn mark on her collarbone she’d had since flight school.

She tilted her head, then turned in place - a fluid, effortless motion with no hesitation or joint lag. The body was hers: wiry, slim, built like a dancer. But the way it moved… that was new. Too smooth. Too precise. Like someone had quietly swapped out her sinews for something better and forgotten to mention it.

She raised a brow. The reflection did too. Muscles responded like tuned instruments - no stiffness, no catch. Even the small shift of balance on the balls of her feet felt unnaturally perfect.

She leaned closer. “Well, crap,” she muttered. “I’ve been refurbished.”

The door sighed open.

A nursebot rolled in, its smooth rounded surface painted a cheerful clinic blue with a peeling smiley face sticker. Twin articulated arms moved with practiced grace, and its voder emitted a voice that was warm, professional, and deeply insincere.

“Ah, you’re awake. Excellent. Please refrain from violence or heavy lifting for at least one hour. You’ve had some... upgrades.”

Caitlin blinked. “Yeah,” she said, voice still dry, “I gathered as much.”

“Name’s Gurney. Model NRT-11. I’m your post-op caretaker, and before you ask; yes, everything’s still attached, though some bits may now sync with your ship if you stand too close.”

“Start talking,” she said, voice like gravel. “Where am I, what happened, and who exactly thought I’d look better with new eyes?”

“You’re safe,” Gurney replied. “Mostly. You’re on Vincennes. Dumorov Grav City. Regional Recovery Facility Nine."

It gestured to a small window. The grav city floated above a endless green-blue ocean, storm clouds circling below like sharks.

“They found your ship drifting," Gurney continued. "Emergency low berth. You were the only one aboard.”

“No. No, that’s bollocks. Try again.”

Gurney tilted its sleek, featureless head. “Sadly, it’s true. You were the only sophont aboard. The rest of the registered crew were… not present.”

Caitlin sat up straighter. “What does that mean, not present? Dead? Gone? Vaped by whatever bastard did this?”

“I do not have access to that data,” Gurney said. “You were in critical condition. The clinic’s task was to stabilise and monitor until your patron arrived.”

She squinted. “My what?”

“Your sponsor. Benefactor. Financial and procedural overseer. He requested you be kept alive. Upgraded. Informed... selectively. He should be here any minute now.”

Caitlin narrowed her eyes - which, now, probably activated a weather satellite. “Tell him to bring alcohol.”

The door hissed open again. “Way ahead of you, little lady,” a deep voice said.

Gurney whirred uncertainly as a towering Ithklur ducked through the doorway, all coiled muscle and swagger. His blue skin gleamed like polished stone, his eyes sparkled with theatrical mischief, and he cradled a six-pack of beer like sacred cargo.

He grinned at Caitlin, pointed two claws at Gurney, and declared, “Dismissed, toaster. You’ve been replaced by panache.”

The Ithklur spoke into a comm unit mounted on his wrist. “All clear, oh gleaming glory of ten thousand schemes. Your audience is conscious.”

Then, tail sweeping the floor, he stepped aside, gesturing grandly to the door.

“Preeeesenting…. the ineffable, irreplaceable, and impossibly overfunded… Narcissus!”

A Hiver entered. It was the sort of pompous entry only a creature with thirty-six independently prehensile digits and no spine could pull off. His hide gleamed faintly from a recent polishing. Around the base of his neck-torso was tied a velvet bow tie in a shade of imperial purple so rich it probably paid taxes. A monocle, of all things, perched delicately above one of his waving optical stalks, held in place through a combination of gravity, sheer arrogance, and possibly minor gravitational manipulation.

He clicked once, twice, then a third time for emphasis. His translator purred into life with the voice of a sultry holo-star from the 1050s.

"Ah. The pilot regains consciousness. How splendid."

Caitlin squinted. "Who in the wide frozen arse of Sargasso are you?"

The Ithklur, still standing to the side with the expression of someone who had personally taste-tested every drug in the facility and found most of them lacking in crunch, gave a courteous bow. "My noble employer, Narcissus of the Hive Federation. Grand Planner, Licensed Neuroform Artisan, Lord of Six Schedules."

"Course he is," Caitlin sighed. "Tell me, did he win that monocle in a duel or does he breed them special?"

The monocled Hiver waved two limbs in something approaching a courtly greeting. A third limb adjusted the bow tie. A fourth retrieved a tiny cleaning cloth and polished the monocle.

"Delightful,” the translator purred. “We begin the healing phase with sarcasm. Promising signs."

"I have come, Miss O’Neill," the Hiver continued plummily, "to ensure your limbs are working correctly and your personality inadequately preserved."

"Cheers," Caitlin said. "Bit late for both, but points for effort."

The Hiver glided forward, inspected her with six wriggly eyeballs, and added, "I see the cranial unit remains operational. Sub-optimal, but fascinating."

"That’s the nicest thing anyone's said about my head in weeks," she muttered.

Narcissus leaned closer, limbs folding and unfolding with the rhythm of a spider making a point. The monocle gleamed like it had opinions.

"You were found adrift aboard the scout ship ISS Gatecrasher. Minimal power, no atmosphere. One low berth keeping you on ice. There was no sign of the rest of the crew."

"Gatecrasher..." she echoed. "That was... our ship. Right?"

She blinked hard. Might’ve been a glitch in the new optics, might’ve been the start of something inconvenient and salty. Either way, she shut it down.

"Indeed, said Narcissus. “A vessel of dubious architecture and alarming carbon scoring. You were its only inhabitant, unless you count the particularly resilient mould colony growing on your galley counter."

"That mould had tenure," Caitlin muttered.

The Hiver adjusted his bow tie, an action performed with five separate limbs and far too much ceremony.

"You had severe hypoxia, multiple fractures, and - most inconveniently - shrapnel embedded in several culturally significant organs. We elected to rebuild. Certain enhancements were applied. You may notice the current absence of punctured bits."

She stared at her arms. The freckled skin looked normal. It wasn't. The weight was different. Slightly heavier, steadier. Something hard but flexible beneath the surface.

"What did you do to me, you little freak?"

"We improved," Narcissus said, entirely too pleased with himself. "Subdermal armour, visual augmentations, muscular bridging, and of course enhanced mobility. Your neural jack allows you access to numerous new physical and mental abilities. Everything concealed, shielded, self-repairing. I believe there's a manual at reception."

"Any chance you installed a new liver?"

"I did not. A curious obsession," he mused. "Your kind do love your self-inflicted neurological sabotage."

"Don’t knock it until you’ve woken up with someone you regret in two sectors."

The Ithklur opened a can of beer with one claw and took a long swig. “By the way, the beer’s excellent. Malty, with hints of poor decisions.”

Narcissus didn’t turn. “Yes, thank you, Rose. Your contributions to the mission continue to be... immense.”

He undulated his tentacles gently. "Your memory fragmentation is expected. Prolonged low berth stasis under emergency protocols often results in... compression. You may recall faces, voices, but not full contexts. We deemed it inefficient to reconstruct everything."

"But you kept me alive."

"Correct."

"Why?"

“You were dying, and you are interesting.” He tilted his sensory limb. “Consider it a field study. I fix the canvas, then watch the art.”

"Interesting how? As a specimen, or as a cautionary tale?"

The Hiver fluttered a limb in a vague spiral. “If I told you that, you might act differently. And that would ruin the experiment.”

Caitlin tilted her head, green eyes still humming with quiet overlays. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. “So, what now?”

Narcissus adjusted his monocle with a prim flourish. “Now? You are free to go. Your medical debt is cleared, your augments experimental, and your situation… delightfully fluid. My only request is simple: remain interesting”

He gestured toward Rose, who was inspecting a vase of flowers like it might hold deeper truths. “My… associate here can convey you to the local Scout base, should you wish transport with flair.”

Rose peeled off a can from the pack and tossed it to Caitlin. “I’ve got beer, flair and a hovercar with questionable brakes. You in?”