Echoes of Destruction

The crimson warning lights pulsed, a frantic heartbeat against the oppressive silence of the shuttle's interior. Vincent watched them, his gaze unfocused, the rhythmic throb mirroring the one behind his own eyes. Beside him, Captain Emily’s breath hitched, a ragged sound in the confined space. They were adrift, a tiny speck of broken life hurtling through the vast, indifferent dark, the echoes of what had transpired on the *Seraphim* a deafening roar in their minds.

The shuttle, affectionately nicknamed the *Sparrow* by its crew, had been their lifeline, a fragile shell against the unimaginable. Now, it felt like a coffin. The attack had been swift, brutal, and utterly alien. Max, her bright enthusiasm extinguished in a sickening instant, her screams a phantom that clawed at Vincent’s sanity. James, his confident grin replaced by a rictus of terror as those impossibly long limbs, slick with something dark and viscous, had dragged him into the shadows. And then Josh. Sweet, easy-going Josh, his hand reaching for Vincent’s, a final, desperate plea for solidarity in the face of overwhelming horror, before being swallowed by the darkness.

Vincent squeezed his eyes shut, the image seared into his memory. He could still feel the phantom grip on his own fingers, the sickening sensation of his partner being torn away. He hadn't been fast enough. He was supposed to protect them. That was his job. That was his promise. But against *that*… what could anyone do?