And in that very moment, the Z-P-N-E-S surged forward—
blasting straight into the station’s transit hangar at full speed.
The ship didn’t enter the hangar.
It crashed into it like no one had ever explained that landing involves at least some degree of slowing down.
The ancient hangar doors were opening far too slowly—
so the ship simply tore through the lower halves,
scattering metal like ripped-off can lids.
Inside, the hangar was a century-old mess:
hanging cables, flickering panels,
half-dead repair platforms,
and piles of junk that the Lime Mashers gang generously labeled “maintenance.”
The Z-P-N-E-S slid into that chaos sideways—
grinding across the floor, leaving behind a long trail of sparks and deep scratches.
First thing it hit—a service machine.
Clearly important to someone—
because it screamed in automated mechanical profanity
and burst into green flames.
On the second ricochet, the ship slammed into a wall—
specifically into the most expensive
and only functioning light module.
It flickered, flared—
and collapsed directly onto a stack of crates marked:
"FRAGILE"The Z-P-N-E-S flipped a container full of spare parts,
smeared a tool cart across the floor,
and then slid onto a slick surface—
spilled fuel, engine oil,
and several suspiciously pink puddles.
It started sliding like a cow on ice.
Blindy yelled, grabbing the controls—
despite having absolutely zero influence over anything.
“HOLD ON!”
Zeros, on the other hand, relaxed—
like experiencing four crashes before noon was part of his daily routine.
The ship spun toward a shelving unit—
one that had proudly stood for centuries
and had finally reached its limit today.
The massive metal structure stood its ground—
for exactly one second—
before turning into a storm of bolts, nuts, crates,
and contraband trash.
For the grand finale, the Z-P-N-E-S made one last half-turn,
clipped a hanging beam,
ripped it down—
and finally came to a stop,
kicking up a massive cloud of dust, smoke,
and tiny metal fragments raining down from above
like a celebratory shower.
Then something clanged loudly—
the last bolt falling,
the one that had held on to existence until the very end.
And then—
silence.
The mission was supposed to be simple:
get in quietly, neutralize the leader, and slip out unnoticed.
Naturally, everything went completely to hell.
Outside, explosions, groans, screams, curses—
and as always, Blindy had somehow managed to piss off an entire criminal gang
before they even started shooting.
They barely made it out of the cockpit.
Blindy was limping, clutching his damaged ankle.
The mini-bot still buzzed around,
like a psychotic firefly on combat stimulants:
“Tribri-bri-bri-bri!
Hull integrity at 48.23%!
Structural damage detected!My favorite pilot is bleeding!
Initiating first aid protocol?!”
Blindy groaned, trying to put weight on his leg.
“Just… just let me fucking die already…”
Zeros grabbed him by the arms and started dragging him like a slab of meat.
“Not yet, you ROTTING MEAT.
Your existence is my personal punishment.I will not let you escape it that easily.”
The mini-bot hovered beside them:
“TR-TR-TR—ERROR—ERROR—ERROR!
ROTTING MEAT IN DISTRESS!
INITIATING EMOTIONAL COMFORT PROTOCOL!”
The mini-bot froze…
its single eye flickered…
and the speaker spat out a three-bit, horribly off-key melody:
“Daaaisy… Daaaisy…”
Zeros slowly turned his head.
“…Did you seriously just play Daisy Bell?”
Blindy waved weakly, half-delirious from pain.
“Hey… psycho-droid… don’t be mean to the little guy…
And if I die—give my share of the money to the waitress with three tits…”
Limping, he staggered toward the control panel
and reached out to hit the airlock button—
without checking whether there was any oxygen outside.
Zeros, flatly:
“Wait.
Do not open that door.
You might die without checking what’s on the other side.”
Blindy froze, hand suspended mid-air.
Zeros crossed his arms.
“On second thought…
I would very much enjoy watching that happen.
But let’s finish the mission and get paid first.”
Blindy exhaled heavily and hit the button.
The airlock hissed open—
and they stepped out.
“Wow,” he muttered. “Such kindness.”
They barely made five steps—
when from a pile of wreckage, a half-crushed Lime Mashers degenerate crawled out
and immediately aimed at Blindy’s head.
BAM
Zeros fired first.
Clean. Precise.
The head disappeared like a glitch removed from reality.
And he shouted at the corpse:
“That piece of rotting meat is MINE, you bastard!
Don’t you dare to kill him!
ONLY I GET TO KILL HIM.
Someday.”
Blindy wiped blood off his face.
“Wow. I feel SO safe around you.”
They limped forward through the station corridor—
dark, broken, filled with smoke, debris, sparks,
and the groans of dying machinery.
Each step echoed like the station itself was whispering:
“Oh great… idiots again…”
Blindy limped like not just his ankle had failed—
but his will to live.
From behind the wall, a roaring cacophony of gunfire suddenly burst through.
Heavy. Dense.
So rapid the air itself vibrated.
Zeros froze.
Blindy raised his head…
and saw it.
A massive figure stormed into the neighboring hangar—
and for a split second, Blindy thought it was a combat mech.
But no.
It was Shiori.
This time—fully present, not just a soft holographic head.
She was:
almost half a head taller than Blindy,
built of dense, coiled muscle,
yet moving with the ease of a dancer.
A plasma shotgun in her hands.
And slung over her shoulder—
the limp body of the Lime Feather,
like a discarded rag doll.
And she wasn’t just shooting.
She was erasing.
Shot after shot, burst after burst—
moving so fast her shadow lagged behind her body.
The Lime Mashers—dozens of armed thugs—
dropped, burned, tore apart mid-motion.
With one hand she held the Feather.
With the other, she drove a stiletto through the skulls of anyone who got too close.
Blindy froze.
Completely.
His brain just… clocked out.
“She ain’t…
ain’t small…
ain’t sweet…
ain’t just some talkin’ head…”
He swallowed.
“Well—okay, yeah… her head is small… an’ sweet…
BUT IT’S STUCK ON A WHOLE DAMN MOUNTAIN OF FORCE!”
He hesitated.
“I think… we… uh…
might not… wanna get in her way.”
Zeros let out a quiet scoff, not even bothering to look.
“Looks like your survival instinct finally activated…
Your legs are shaking.”
He said it flatly, coldly—almost lazily—
like he was stating a diagnosis, not making a joke.