The Duj’s cargo hold was supposed to be empty. Or at least, that’s what the crew thought as they hauled in the last of their loot from the SS Morpheus, stacking crates into the dimly lit storage bay. The hold had been left untouched for years, separated into multiple compartments by rusted shelving units, dust-covered walls, and forgotten maintenance panels.

  “We should’ve made a checklist before we started unloading,” Zog grumbled, surveying the chaotic stacks of supplies.

  Clorita rolled her optics. “Relax, Captain Inventory. We got what we needed.”

  HALAT, ever the perfectionist, remained unimpressed. “Without proper documentation, we risk losing track of high-value items. I will have to conduct an itemisation scan manually.”

  Zog groaned. “See? This is what happens when we don’t plan ahead.”

  Clorita smirked, tossing down a crate. “You’re just mad we didn’t let you play space accountant before the fun part.”

  They continued arguing as they shifted the last container into place. That’s when Clorita noticed something—something out of place.

  Near the base of one of the shelving units, just under a rusted air vent, something shiny poked out from the dust. She frowned, crouching to pick it up.

  It was a crumpled protein bar wrapper.

  Her first instinct was to toss it aside. But then she looked closer. The foil was clean, and the colors were still vibrant—no signs of age or dust buildup. As if it had been discarded recently.

  A low warning chime buzzed inside her frame.

  “Uh… hey,” she said, holding up the wrapper. “Since when do we eat protein bars?”

  Zog barely glanced over. “We don’t.”

  HALAT turned toward her immediately, stepping forward to take the wrapper. Her optics flickered as she ran a scan, processing the information. Then she stopped.

  “This has an expiration date,” HALAT said.

  Zog scoffed. “Yeah? So what?”

  HALAT’s gaze met his. “It expired five years before the Celestial Reverie almost fell into a black hole.”

  A heavy silence fell over them.

  Zog rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. So,… what are the odds that some ancient protein bar wrapper just happens to be sitting around down here, looking like it came fresh off the shelf?”

  Clorita turned the wrapper over in her hands, thoughtful. “Considering everything in this ship should be covered in a century of dust? Close to zero.”

  HALAT’s head tilted slightly. “The dust distribution here is inconsistent. Observe—there is less accumulation near the vent outlets.”

  They all turned their eyes toward the air vent.

  Zog took a slow step back. “I hate this already.”

  Clorita smirked. “Captain Paranormal’s about to have a bad day.”

  HALAT moved deeper into the hold, her optics scanning every surface. The faint scent of metal and old ship systems filled the air, but there was something else—a sterility to the space that didn’t match the untouched corridors outside.

  She stopped near a wall-mounted shelf, her gaze narrowing. She reached out and pulled down a neatly stacked pile of protein bar boxes.

  Zog crossed his arms. “Let me guess. More ghost snacks?”

  Clorita stepped closer as HALAT inspected the packaging. The boxes were identical—standard survival rations designed for long-haul trips. One of them had already been opened.

  HALAT picked it up, carefully pulling the flap back. Inside, rows of neatly packed protein bars lined the box. But several were missing from the first row as if someone had been rationing them.

  She turned one over, scanned the packaging, and slowly looked back at the others. “Same expiration date.”

  Zog rubbed his temples. “Okay, so let’s summarise. Someone has been hiding here, stealing protein bars from a century-old stockpile, drinking leaked water, and washing their hands as they live in a five-star hotel?”

  Clorita held up the bar, her expression darkening slightly. “If they’re still around, we’re about to find out.”

  The air around them suddenly felt thicker, the weight of their discovery pressing in on them.

  HALAT turned back toward the dim hall beyond the door. “If they’re alive, they’ve been here long.”

  Zog sighed, rubbing his face. “And knowing our luck, they probably don’t like visitors.”

  The dim emergency lights flickered overhead as they advanced cautiously through the corridor. Dust swirled around their feet, disturbed by their movements. The only sound was the occasional hum of ship systems operating beneath the decks and water dripping from the damaged pipe.

  Zog nudged Clorita. “Tell me again why we’re creeping around in a dark, abandoned section of the ship instead of just sealing it off and moving on?”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Because something is moving in here,” Clorita muttered, her optics adjusting to the low light. “And I’d rather know what it is before it chews through our wiring.”

  HALAT chimed in. “I detect neither a chewing mechanism nor damage consistent with organic interference.”

  Clorita rolled her eyes. “Great. Because that totally makes me feel better.”

  HALAT’s scanner pulsed softly. “Signal’s still weak. But it’s here. Close.”

  Zog’s cooling system worked overtime, gripping the polished railing as if steadying himself. “Define ‘close.’”

  HALAT paused, calculating. “Within eight meters.”

  Eight meters.

  The air shifted, subtly warmer. A trace of body heat? A scent of a place that had been lived in too long?

  They rounded the corner.

  Clorita stopped in her tracks. “Uh… guys?”

  Tucked into a wide alcove where maintenance panels had been left slightly ajar, a makeshift tent—pieced together from thermal blankets, scavenged tarps, and ship insulation foam—was a crude shelter nestled in the polished elegance of a luxury liner. The material was repeatedly frayed, patched, layered, and reinforced over decades.

  But what caught her attention wasn’t just the tent.

  It was the mess around it.

  Hundreds of Protein bar wrappers crumpled and piled in neat stacks, some tied together like a strange kind of archive. Empty water pouches were drained and organised just as carefully. And scattered throughout—

  Small things, handmade from scrap, such as tiny spaceship models bent from wire and metal shavings, figures carved from old plastic, smoothed down by obsessive fingers, and a pendant strung together from tubing and tied with repurposed electrical filament.

  Clorita crouched, picking up one of the figurines. A roughly humanoid shape, its details strangely familiar.

  Zog knelt beside her, his expression unreadable.

  This wasn’t just a hiding place.

  It was a home.

  “Okay,” Zog muttered, scanning the space. “Someone’s been living here for a long, long time.”

  Clorita nodded, her fingers trailing over a metal panel, scratched with crude symbols—a language, a log, or just the idle carvings of a mind left alone too long?

  HALAT moved to the edge of the tent, optics glowing faintly. “Whoever built this had time, skill, and a strong survival instinct.”

  Clorita studied the scraps more closely. Among them were patchwork garments built for a frame that was not quite human—the sleeves were too long, and the gloves were shaped for claws instead of fingers.

  Zog exhaled, his circuits buzzing with unease.

  “Alright,” he said. “So where the hell are they?”

  There were discarded husks of shed skin, delicate and translucent, hinting at a biological process foreign to any species they had encountered before. A pile of metal plates, shaped as if they had once been strapped to limbs, suggested a crude attempt at armour—primitive, self-crafted protection.

  Then—claw marks.

  Not random. Measured.

  Carved into the ship’s surfaces with intent.

  A script-like pattern repeated across multiple panels. A written language, incomplete but deliberate.

  Then—a sound.

  A breath.

  Not theirs.

  From somewhere beyond the tent.

  Zog’s circuits buzzed. Clorita slowly set down the figurine she had been inspecting.

  HALAT’s voice was low, precise. “We are not alone.”

  For a moment, no one moved.

  Then—

  A blur of movement.

  Something small but solid, darting between crates, low to the ground. They all turned at once—

  "Hey!" Clorita snapped, lunging forward, but it was too late.

  The figure had already made a break for the vent in the far wall. A loose panel was shoved aside, and small, clawed hands scrambled for grip as he tried to pull himself inside.

  Zog cursed, moving on instinct, but HALAT was faster.

  With precise, effortless motion, HALAT grabbed the stowaway’s legs and yanked him back out before he could disappear.

  “Target secured,” HALAT stated flatly, holding the thrashing figure at arm’s length.

  The stowaway wasn’t listening. He fought like a cornered animal, teeth bared, his leathery skin glinting under the dim light. His claws caught HALAT’s arm plating with a sharp scrape, but the bot held firm.

  The boy snarled something in a guttural, rapid-fire language—harsh syllables that meant nothing to their translation matrices.

  But his meaning was crystal clear.

  "Yeah, yeah, we get it," Clorita muttered. "You want us to let you go. Not happening, kid."

  The stowaway thrashed harder for another second before realising HALAT's grip was unyielding. His chest heaved, four arms twitching, but the wild panic in his eyes flickered—just for a moment—into something else. Resignation. Expectation.

  As if he had been caught before.

  Watching silently from atop a crate, Luma let out a long, questioning chirp.

  The stowaway froze at the sound. His broad, dark eyes flicked toward the Felixanoid, his breath still fast and shallow.

  "HALAT, put him down," Zog said, keeping his voice even. "Slowly."

  Halat hesitated, her grip loosening slightly, before lowering the boy to the ground. She didn't release him until his struggling was reduced to sharp, quick exhales. His body tensed like a spring, ready to bolt the moment they let their guard down.

  Zog crouched slightly, careful not to make any sudden moves. "You understand me, kid? What's your name?"

  The stowaway stayed silent, still coiled tight, watching their every movement. Then, finally, he rasped out a clipped, growling syllable.

  Clorita tilted her head. "That—kinda sounded like ‘Tuk.’"

  Zog nodded. "Tuk, huh? That your name?"

  The boy didn’t confirm or deny it. Just watched them, dark eyes flitting between their faces, his lower arms twitching ever so slightly.

  "Well, Tuk," Clorita said, crossing her arms. "You got some explaining to do."

  HALAT effortlessly carried the boy through the corridors, his struggling reduced to occasional sharp exhales. Clorita walked ahead, Zog close behind, while Luma padded silently alongside, watching their captive with keen feline curiosity.

  On the way, HALAT stopped abruptly, grabbed a handful of candy bars, and tucked them under his arm.

  Clorita frowned. “Really? We’re bribing him already?”

  HALAT did not break stride. “Nutritional incentives are known to reduce stress responses in juvenile biologicals.”

  Zog muttered. “Fancy way of saying ‘everyone likes candy,’ huh?”