The Gourmet Disaster of Deck 7

The mining rig stood on six spindly legs, half-sunken into the sand like a drunk spider trying to dig its own grave. Once mobile, it now tilted to one side with the weary resignation of machinery that had outlived every warranty and most of its original purpose. Rust bloomed across heat-scorched plating. A busted crane dangled from its top deck.

Wind howled through the rig’s upper gantries, dragging sand into every crevice. A faded corporate logo peeled on the side, bearing the inspirational slogan: Extraction is Glory. Someone had scrawled a rebuttal beneath it: Tell that to Deck 3.

Nothing moved. Nothing had, for some time. The only sign of recent life was a blinking signal beacon, sputtering like it had something to say but kept forgetting the words.

The truck rattled up the access ramp with a cough of exhaust and the grim determination of a pensioner outrunning a fine, Six wheels, three working properly. Rust clung to its frame in artistic defiance of paint, and someone, probably Maltz, had bolted a garden chair to the roof "for recon purposes."

One by one, the crew of the Morrigan disembarked - dust-coated, armed, and already regretting it - ducking through a warped access door into the stale gloom of the rig.

Slowly, they worked their way up the rig, climbing through buckled corridors and half-lit maintenance shafts, past forgotten tool lockers and warning signs long ignored. Somewhere on the rig was the object King Oleb wanted - an ancient bit of tech described only as “strategically significant” and “probably still glowing.”

Deck 7 looked like a cafeteria where hope had come to die. Rusted dispensers lined the walls, and something that might once have been a coffee machine sulked in a corner, plotting revenge.

Caitlin surveyed the place, arms folded, gaze unimpressed. "Grand," she noted. "Another abandoned mess full of bad decisions and worse smells. Typical."

Maltz’s nose twitched. "Smells like the aftermath of a Vargr bachelor party."

Quinn, who could technically ignore smells but refused to on principle, scanned the room. "Atmospheric composition: ninety-eight percent stale air, two percent something that should probably be illegal."

Scarred-Snout crouched near an old food dispenser, sniffed deeply, and growled. “I remember the scent of war rations. They tasted of cardboard and glory.”

And then there was Shifty.

Shifty the Hiver glided in, limbs weaving with the smug grace of a food critic walking into a fast-food joint, ready to be disappointed. Its Voder clicked twice, processing the ambiance. "Ah," it mused, "a feast for the senses."

It paused by a large, sealed cylinder marked with a faded warning label that had long since lost the will to warn anyone.

Morwen eyed it warily. "That's either food storage or waste disposal."

"Same difference," Caitlin sniffed.

Shifty ignored them both, extending a delicate manipulator. With the air of someone revealing a masterpiece, it popped the cylinder open.

The smell hit first. It was the sort of smell that redefined personal boundaries.

Caitlin gagged. "Strephon’s shaved arse! That’s not food, that’s a war crime."

Maltz took a cautious step back. "I’ve smelled better coming out of a reactor core."

Shifty, on the other hand, leaned in, the Voder purring with delight. "Exquisite," the Hiver hummed, scooping up a gelatinous handful of grey-green sludge with the reverence of a sommelier swirling a vintage wine. "Aged to perfection. Complex microbial balance. You can’t get this kind of bouquet without at least a decade of neglect."

Quinn’s eyes flickered. "Statistical analysis suggests consumption will result in a forty-seven percent chance of immediate regret."

Shifty was already slurping it down, limbs twitching in what could only be described as ecstasy. "Nonsense," it said, voice muffled by goo. "This is a triumph! A symphony. Notes of sulphur, a hint of decay, the barest whisper of panic and floor cleaner. Divine.”

Caitlin pinched the bridge of her nose. "We need to get you a hobby."

Maltz gagged. "I’m gonna torch that cylinder."

"No!" Shifty snapped, defensive as a dragon with its hoard. "This is art. You philistines wouldn’t understand."

Quinn tilted his head. "It’s actively fermenting. I understand perfectly."

Caitlin gave the sludge one last disgusted glance. "Lovely. It’s bonding with the biohazard. We’re moving on. Shifty, have fun.”

Shifty, utterly unbothered, scooped up another handful. "Barbarians."

Eventually, the cylinder’s contents, and Shifty, were both left in a state of collapse. The Hiver slithered into a corner, curled atop a pile of abandoned blankets, limbs twitching faintly as digestion set in. Its Voder hummed a low, satisfied drone, as Shifty slipped into what could only be described as a smug food coma.

Somewhere in the shadows, a maintenance drone flickered to life, scanned the room, and quietly shut itself off again. Presumably out of shame.