Phantom

Rex “Phantom” Simmons, a half-retired drummer with an ego as big as a supernova, and a torque wrench holstered like a blaster. He’s a mechanical savant and former arena rock pit-beater—got kicked out of five bands, all for “creative differences” (translation: couldn’t keep his damn hands or mouth to himself). Phantom is tinkering with a gutted ship, muttering through a half-lit cigar: “Looks like this one used to purr. Let’s see if I can hear her scream.” He slams a drumstick against the side panel. Sparks fly. Something pulses deep in the ship’s bones. Not electricity. Not power. A beat. A deep, guttural bassline thrums beneath the junkyard, like the beat of a slumbering god. Scrap trembles. Wind howls. Old ship husks shudder in reverence. What Phantom found wasn’t just any wreck. It was the Starjammer ‘84, the legendary lost ship of the original Gods of Rock, buried beneath decades of debris and silenced dreams. He calls it in on a cracked comm to Powerchord Station—no one believes him. Not until Roadie Prime, the ancient AI of the station, opens a channel and simply says: “Starjammer signal confirmed. Vibraflux active. Reboot sequence authorized.” Lights flicker. The junkyard trembles. One by one, instruments and panels inside the command starship powered back up, responding not just to systems—but to sound. He climbs aboard the bridge. Sees the lava lamps flicker on. The vinyl-turntable command console spin up. Glowing frets rise from the floor like guitar necks. A hot tub bubbles. Before him, a holographic display blinks on: “WELCOME BACK, ROCKER.” Phantom sank into the pilot’s chair, adrenaline-blown, his black hair half-singed. “Guess it’s time I recruit a damn band.”