The morning shift at Dock Nine always began with the same metallic groan, as though the station itself resented waking up. Rourke Talon stepped out of the lift, the grate under his boots rattling from decades of fatigue and cheap repairs. The air tasted like coolant and ozone, tinged with the sharp bite of welding sparks flickering across the hangar. An entire universe existed beyond these walls, filled with nebulae and drifting ruins and wonders Rourke never had time to see. His universe, for now, was rust, cables, and malfunctioning turbines.
He rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness from another night spent in a bunk too small for a man his size. The gravity regulators had glitched again during the sleep cycle—it felt like he'd spent half the night floating, the other half pinned to the mattress. Management, of course, insisted the system was "stable." Management hadn't slept in the maintenance quarters a day in their lives.
Jorren spotted him from across the hangar and lifted a wrench in a lazy greeting.
"Morning, Talon," he called, voice echoing through the scaffolding. "Shift started eight minutes ago."
"Eight minutes is practically early," Rourke replied. "If the foreman complains, remind him I'm here out of mercy."
"Uh-huh." Jorren snorted. "Try telling him that."
Rourke climbed the metal stairs to the turbine deck. Towering above them was the day's problem: Gravity Turbine Nine, a bulky cylindrical shell with plating faded from deep navy to sickly gray. Someone had tried to repaint parts of the casing last month, but the new coat peeled like dead skin. The turbine gave off a steady hum—normal. But beneath it, barely detectable, was a second vibration, uneven and faint.
Rourke paused, brow furrowing. "It's off-beat."
"Everything here's off-beat," Jorren muttered. "Last week, the filtration system started singing. Actual notes."
"You call that singing? It sounded like a dying airlock." Rourke knelt beside the access ladder. "What's the issue this time?"
"Core oscillation again. And the foreman's in one of his moods."
"Of course he is." Rourke clipped his tool kit to his belt. "Fine. Let's see how bad it is."
He climbed into the cavity beneath the turbine's belly, the hum surrounding him like a low growl. Once inside, the vibrations grew sharper—more defined. Not chaotic. Almost rhythmic. Like something alive.
He brushed the thought away. Machines didn't breathe. They didn't pulse. But the sensation creeping through the metal into his palms made him uneasy.
He unlatched the inspection hatch and eased it open. The bolts were warm. Too warm for a core that wasn't even active yet. He leaned in, eyes narrowing.
A tremor fluttered through the plating, a tiny shudder like a heartbeat out of sync.
Behind him, the foreman's boots clanged loudly up the walkway.
"Talon!" he barked. "What's the delay?"
"I just opened it."
"Well work faster. We've got schedules."
"We'd have fewer delays if anyone bothered to maintain this thing more than once a century."
The foreman grumbled something under his breath and stomped away. Rourke exhaled, returning his focus to the core. The vibrations were growing stronger, a gradual swell that felt almost… responsive. As if the machine recognized his presence.
He reached inside with a scanner. The numbers flickered inconsistently—gravity readings spiking and dropping without reason.
"Jorren," he called out. "You seeing this?"
"Seeing what?"
"Core's fluctuating like it's powering up."
"That's impossible. The ignition sequence is locked."
"Tell that to the readings."
He leaned closer, placing a hand on the inner casing. The vibration coursed up his arm, settling deep in his chest. For a moment, the world dimmed—the hum folding inward, compressing, as though gravity itself shifted.
Rourke blinked hard and shook his head.
Lack of sleep. That was all.
He reached for the adjustment valve—
—and the turbine suddenly SHRIEKED.
The warning sirens blared. Red lights strobed across the hangar.
"Rourke! What did you do?" Jorren shouted from above.
"It's not me!" Rourke yelled back. "The core's destabilizing on its own!"
The hum intensified, rising into a violent tremor that rattled the entire cavity. Tools rattled, bolts shook loose, sparks fell like fireflies.
"Get out of there!" Jorren screamed.
Rourke tried. But the vibration pulsed again—stronger, deeper—and something inside him clenched in response. His chest tightened as if an invisible hand grasped his ribs from the inside.
Gravity warped.
A wrench on the platform floated a few inches into the air.
Rourke stared, breath frozen.
No. That wasn't possible.
Then everything collapsed.
The turbine core imploded inward like a crushed can, metal folding silently at first, then shrieking as it collapsed. Rourke threw his arms over his head—but a force wrapped around him, pulling him back, holding him in place.
The world twisted.
Screams echoed from outside. Metal ripped apart. A shockwave burst through the cavity, hurling debris past him. But he wasn't thrown. The invisible pressure around him intensified, anchoring him to the floor as the turbine collapsed in a roaring storm.
Then, just as quickly—
Silence.
A thick, unnatural silence.
Dust drifted through the air, caught in the pale lights that flickered overhead. The turbine was gone—reduced to a warped crater of twisted metal.
Rourke stood in the center, untouched.
Jorren's voice trembled from the walkway.
"Rourke… how are you still alive?"
Rourke didn't answer.
He stared at the crater around him, his hands shaking—not from fear, but from the faint tingling under his skin. A slow, steady pulse lingered inside his chest.
It felt like the vibration he'd sensed earlier.
But this time, it wasn't coming from the machine.
It was coming from him.