Breakbeat

7

The loading bay doors hiss open with a sluggish grind, letting in the moon’s violet haze. You and the rest of the crew stand in a loose half-circle around Captain Geordi Haskins. He’s propped against a rust-scratched railing, arms folded, his long coat flaring like stage curtains in the artificial breeze. The war-bass strapped to his back is dented—just like the Starjammer. She’s docked behind him, listing hard to port. One engine’s half-melted. Gouges rake across her hull like claw marks from a cosmic beast. Meowtra did that. Planet-sized feline freak show with purring seismic waves and orbiting hairballs. The Starjammer barely limped out of the fight. Geordi doesn’t waste time. “Alright, listen up,” he growls, voice like static ground through an amp. “Groupie Moon ain’t just a pit stop—it’s a trap with lipstick.” He scans the crew, jaw set. “The locals? Echo Sirens. They don’t hunt you—they want you. Vibraflux draws ’em in like moths to a spotlight. They get attached fast. Real fast.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “They’ll treat you like a god. Hang on your every word. Make you feel like you never had it this good. And that’s the danger. Some rockonauts never come back—not because they can’t, but because they don’t want to.” His gaze cuts to you. “Stay in groups. Keep your head. Don’t let flattery take root.” He dismisses the crew, then looks at you and Phantom: “Get the ship fixed… fast. Whatever it takes. This moon’s got a way of making forever sound easy.” Phantom slips on his shades, glancing down the alleyways dripping chrome and neon haze. “No pressure,” he mutters, nudging your arm. “Let’s go find the mechanic before someone offers me their soul.”