Zany Gibbons

Groupie Moon was humming tonight. Captain Geordi Haskins moved through its sound-soaked streets, his bass-axe strapped across his back like a war drum that hadn’t been played in years. The marketplace swayed with pheromone haze and synth-chants, every step a note in an unfamiliar rhythm. Iron Vesper, Chief of Security, walked beside him, her sword glinted at her hip. Two crew members flanked behind, green and wide-eyed under the Moon’s charm. Geordi didn’t blame them. This place had ways of making you forget. That’s why he didn’t trust it. They weren’t here for pleasure. The starship needed repairs after Planet Meowtra. Restocking supplies. Recovery. But Geordi felt it—that sensation, unmistakable as stage fright before a riotous crowd. Someone was following. “Whatever you want,” he said, voice like a dropped needle, “we’re not interested.” The figure stopped. Then came a voice. “I’m not here for myself, Captain. I’m Yoko-bonded with someone you once commanded.” That word. The Yoko Effect, a ritual that tethered souls and frequencies forever. He turned. She stood just outside the glow of a lantern-blossom tree, lifting her hood slowly. An Echo Siren. Her ethereal beauty is deceptive, as her alien race have been known to live hundreds of years. Her brunette hair shimmered in loose waves, catching the light like oil on water. Her eyes weren’t flirtation—they were grief. Iron Vesper’s hand hovered near her mic-hilt. “Careful.” Geordi narrowed his gaze. “Who?” The Siren stepped forward, unblinking. “Zany Gibbons.” Silence fell hard and fast. Iron Vesper’s jaw flexed. “Zany died. With the rest of the band.” “I didn’t say he escaped unscathed,” she replied. “Lady Platinum and the Muzik Empire… they broke something in him.” Geordi’s hand gripped the neck of his bass-axe. “My beloved hears your name in his dreams,” she sighs. “He needs to remember who he once was.” Geordi’s voice dropped. “Take me to him.”