Work orders

The walk back into the corridor was heavy with unspoken tension. The ship's low hum filled the silence between their steps, and the overhead lights buzzed faintly, flickering now and then as if reminding them the vessel’s life support was a fragile, dying thing.

The computer’s voice piped in again, syrupy sweet:

"Now proceeding to outfitting. Please follow the illuminated path to the locker room for equipment issuance. Proper attire is mandatory for shipboard operations!"

Small strips of floor lighting flickered on ahead of them, tracing a wavering line deeper into the ship.

Elara glanced sideways at Lara, who offered a small, grim smile. ****.

Side by side, they followed the path.

The locker room was a utilitarian space—rows of dented metal lockers, battered benches bolted to the floor, and exposed pipes hissing faintly against the far wall. A line of basic work gear hung on rusted racks, each item tagged and numbered.

The computer’s voice crackled cheerily:

"Outfit yourselves, my sweet girls! Today’s a big day!"

Elara moved first, fingers brushing over the coarse fabric of the provided clothing. Cargo pants—dark gray, heavy-duty. Thick-soled work boots. A fitted jacket with patches stitched roughly at the shoulders.

And two tank tops laid out neatly atop the pile—one deep red, the other dark blue.

She picked up the red one instinctively, holding it up against her chest.

Lara stepped in silently, picking up the blue without hesitation, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. Their private understanding needed no words.

Identical, but not the same.

They dressed quickly, peeling off the flimsy remnants of their gowns and sliding into the rough, unfamiliar garments. The cargo pants hung low on their hips, the fabric stiff but warming quickly against their skin.

The boots were too big by a half-size, but they tightened the laces and made do.

When they finished, Elara and Lara stood before one another—reflections once more, differentiated only by the splash of color at their chests. Red. Blue. Primary. Secondary.

The computer’s voice returned, brisk and businesslike:

"Primary unit: Elara. You are assigned to the bridge. A hail has been received from a nearby pod. This may be a critical update to your mission parameters."

Elara felt a jolt of cold fear lance through her chest. Another pod? Another survivor? Or something worse?

"Secondary unit: Lara. Please retrieve Maintenance Bag 04 from locker station D and report to sanitation control. Critical repairs needed to life support systems."

Lara gave her a rueful look—half encouragement, half apology—as she slung the heavy maintenance bag over one shoulder.

Their paths, for the first time, would split.

Elara tightened her fists at her sides. Stay focused. Stay alive.

The overhead lights split into two paths, illuminating separate corridors—one leading deeper into the guts of the ship, one sloping upward toward the bridge.

The computer chimed, too brightly:

"Efficiency breeds happiness! Productivity is pleasure! I’ll be monitoring your progress, my lovely workers!"

Without another word, Elara turned toward the bridge’s path, boots thudding dully against the metal decking. Behind her, Lara’s steps faded into the low mechanical growl of the ship’s bowels.

The air grew thinner as Elara climbed, the corridors tightening around her. Every flickering light, every groaning pipe, whispered of things broken and forgotten.

At the far end of the passageway, the bridge door stood slightly ajar. Beyond it, the faint crackle of static hinted at the hail the computer had mentioned.

Elara took a steadying breath, squared her shoulders beneath the stiff jacket, and pressed onward into the darkened nerve center of the Elysium Dawn.