Change of perspective

Pinga sighed as the squeeze bottle once again refused to accept the feeding tube dangling beside the food processor. These damn things were always giving trouble—either the tubes wouldn’t straighten for cleaning or they locked up during refills. Grumbling, Pinga grabbed a filthy iron brush and scrubbed the bottle’s entrance with unnecessary ****, dislodging a stubborn chunk of unidentifiable gunk that had apparently caused the blockade. With a grunt, Pinga jammed the tube back in and hit the button on the processor.

A stream of unappetizing brown sludge oozed into the bottle.

"One down, a hundred more to go," the diminutive kitchen assistant muttered aloud, voice flat with exhaustion.

The canteen’s dull peace shattered as Director Shima floated in, flanked by two of his thugs and a pair of strangers. One looked like a nightmare brought to life—draped in pitch black, their face half-hidden by a poncho and a mask, bristling with barely-concealed gear. The other, a man in a hood and rebreather, spoke with the Director in calm tones, his gaze scanning the room with a soldier’s sharpness.

Too early for a meal. That meant they weren’t customers—they were traders.

Which meant—

A torch ship.

The realization sparked through Pinga like electricity. A real ship. A way off this rock.

Maybe... finally.

Pinga’s heart pounded as the strangers drifted out, having mentioned the foundry. Without hesitation, Pinga abandoned the bottle mid-fill, letting it spin slowly in the air, and bolted toward the little nook they dared call home. It didn’t take long to stuff the satchel—bare essentials, barely more than a spare pair of socks and a photo strip of unknown origin—but just as Pinga turned to go, a voice like grinding gravel brought everything crashing down.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Pinga spun around. Bunda. The head chef. The undisputed tyrant of the kitchens—known among the assistants as the Chief of Malnutrition. She stood a few meters away, bloodshot eyes narrowed, bulk barely contained by a stained uniform. Somehow, while the rest of the asteroid crew wasted away, Bunda seemed to be gaining mass by the week.

"I—uh—it's not—" Pinga stammered, brain seizing.

But the old hag didn’t wait. She stormed forward, her breath reeking of rotgut and vinegar.

“You lazy little shit! Skipping your shift again? I’ll have you whipped!”

"It’s not like that! I just—"

No words came. Nothing believable, anyway. And even if something had, Bunda wasn’t interested.

"I'll fucking teach you some respect myself!" she screeched, lunging like a drunk walrus, fat fingers outstretched and clumsy.

“Fuck you, you fat bitch!” Pinga snapped, and then it was on—grappling in the narrow corridor, limbs flailing in the airless quiet. Pinga twisted and writhed, scratched and shoved, adrenaline lighting up every nerve as they fought like feral animals.

Then—crunch.

The sound was wet and final.

Bunda went limp. Her head had struck a jagged outcrop of asteroid rock—red mist was already pooling in the zero-g stillness.

Pinga stared for one breathless second.

Then pushed the body away with both feet.

And then the lights went out.

“Shit.”

No time for guilt. No time for thinking. Just movement. The blackout wasn’t random—the strangers were behind it, had to be. That meant now was the chance. The Director would airlock Pinga without a second thought if caught. There was no future here anymore. Only one thin thread of hope left.

In total darkness, bruised and bleeding, Pinga moved through the tunnels—toward the airlock, toward escape.

If they were lucky, the strangers would still be there.

If not—well, better to die trying.