Blake Fisher woke up.
Which was already fucking wrong.
The last thing he remembered was a red car blasting through a red light with the kind of confidence normally reserved for people who were about to ruin someone else's entire week. The driver's face—eyes wide, mouth open, soul visibly evacuating—had burned itself into Blake's brain at the exact moment several tons of physics decided Blake was optional.
Blake had expectations.
Pain.Screaming.A hospital bed.A nurse saying "Don't move."
Possibly someone asking for his insurance details while he cried.
What he did not expect was… nothing.
No pain.No bandages.No tubes sticking out of places they shouldn't be.
Just a mild headache. The kind you got when you slept wrong or tried to remember a password you absolutely fucking knew yesterday.
Blake blinked.
He was standing.
"Oh, fuck off," he muttered.
People who got hit by cars did not wake up standing. They woke up horizontal, confused, and with at least one limb considering early retirement.
He looked around.
He was inside a tube.
A tall, transparent, cylindrical tube. The kind you saw in movies right before someone got cloned, interrogated, or dissolved into science juice.
Beyond the glass was a metal room filled with panels and dark equipment. The glass directly in front of him was lightly frosted, like someone had decided, You know what? He doesn't need the full nightmare yet.
"…Okay," Blake said carefully. "So either I'm hallucinating, or modern healthcare has gone completely off the fucking rails."
He looked down.
T-shirt.Shorts.Bare legs.
Not hospital clothes.
But—important—not naked.
Blake clung to that fact like a drowning man clung to driftwood.
Then something appeared in front of his face.
Not a screen.
Not projected.
Just there.
Floating. Centered. Tracking his eyes like a very polite but deeply invasive demon.
[Welcome aboard, Repairman.][You have been transported to this vessel after your life force ceased on your previous world.]
Blake stared.
"…My what fucking ceased?"
No response.
More text appeared.
[Main Mission][Repair and Claim Ownership of This Vessel: Aubrey]
[Main Survival Quest][Don't Die.]
[Survival Quest Available][Exit Stasis Control Room.]
Blake laughed.
It came out a little hysterical.
"Okay. No. No, let's slow the fuck down."
He pointed at the floating text.
"I died."
Pause.
"I got transported."
Another pause.
"And now I'm a repairman."
He gestured wildly at the tube.
"For… whatever the fuck this is."
Silence.
"Great," Blake said tightly. "Fantastic. This tracks. This fits the theme."
Because the week had been absolute shit.
Lost his job.Car broke down.Eviction notice taped to his door like a personal attack.
If he'd owned a dog, it would've run away.If he'd had a girlfriend, she'd have already left—or joined a yoga retreat and spiritually outgrown him.
Honestly? Being dead felt like the universe just finishing the paperwork.
"Alright," Blake muttered. "Worst case scenario, I'm already dead. What are you gonna do? Kill me again?"
He paused.
"…Please don't answer that."
He looked around the tube.
"How do I get out of this thing without triggering whatever melts me into goo?"
His eyes dropped.
Big red button.
"Oh, fuck you," Blake said.
He stared at it.
He pressed it anyway.
Nothing happened.
Instead, a message slid into view at the bottom of his vision like a smug error notification.
[Electronics Failure.][Repair? Yes / No]
Blake snorted.
"…Of course."
"Yes."
His right hand lit up.
Actually lit the fuck up.
Yellow light spilled from his palm like someone had shoved a glow stick into his bones. The glow spread into the button.
Ten seconds later—
Hiss.
The tube slid open.
[Repair Complete.][Repairman Skill Level: 1 — 02%]
"…I just leveled up," Blake said weakly. "From fixing a button. I'm going to scream."
He stepped out.
The room was metal-walled and utilitarian. Tubes lined both sides—empty, silent, and deeply unsettling in the way abandoned dentist chairs were unsettling.
A desk sat at the far end, facing the tubes. Its controls were dead.
Behind it: a door.
"Of course there's a fucking door," Blake muttered.
He approached the touch panel.
[Door Electronics Failure.][Repair? Yes / No]
"Yes," Blake said immediately. "Before I think too hard and lose my shit."
The glow returned.
This one took longer.
Twenty seconds.
[Repair Complete.][Repairman Skill Level: 1 — 08%]
The door slid open.
Fatigue slammed into him like a bill he forgot to pay.
Blake staggered and grabbed the wall.
"Oh," he gasped. "Okay. Repairs cost energy. Cool. Cool cool cool. Love that for me."
[Survival Quest Complete.][Repairman Skill Level: 1 — 18%]
A new quest appeared.
[Survival Quest Available][Repair Food Synthesizer.]
"Good," Blake said. "Food. Food is safe. Food doesn't try to kill you."
He stepped into the hallway.
It was a fucking disaster.
Debris everywhere.Missing panels.Wires hanging like the place had been half-eaten.Emergency lights flickering like they were arguing about whether life was worth it.
"This place is a shithole," Blake muttered. "Is this a bunker? A lab? A very aggressive IKEA?"
He went left, ignoring closed doors. Energy was clearly limited, and he wasn't about to die because he got curious about storage closets.
Eventually, he reached an open doorway.
Inside was a large room.
Tables.Benches.
And bodies.
A lot of bodies.
Skeletons.
Dry. Dusty. Slumped, sprawled, collapsed.
Blake froze.
"…Nope."
He backed up half a step.
"No. Fuck no. Absolutely fucking not."
He leaned against the doorframe, breathing fast.
"Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. Skeletons are normal. Museums have skeletons. This could be a museum."
He stepped inside.
The bodies were wearing fitting, sealed suits.
Not clothes.
Suits.
Blake stopped.
"…Those are not museum outfits."
He swallowed hard.
"No smell," he muttered. "So… silver lining? Fucking hell, I hate this."
His eyes tracked along the wall.
Four identical machines.
Four.
"…That's too many," Blake whispered. "That's way too fucking many."
His gaze dropped to the long bench in front of them.
Cafeteria style.
Something clicked.
The suits.The machines.The sealed room.The word vessel.
Blake slowly straightened.
"…Oh."
He looked around again.
"Oh fuck."
His voice went high.
"Oh fuck no."
He spun in a slow circle.
"No no no no no."
He pointed at a skeleton.
"You're wearing a space suit."
He pointed at the machines.
"You're food synthesizers."
He slapped the wall.
"This is metal."
Blake looked up.
"…I'm on a fucking spaceship."
His knees wobbled.
"I'm on a fucking spaceship."
He dragged his hands down his face.
"I got hit by a car and woke up on a fucking spaceship."
A beat.
"…That is not how reincarnation is supposed to work."
He approached the nearest machine.
[Food Synthesizer Electronics Failure.][Repair? Yes / No]
"Yes," Blake whispered. "Please. Before I fully lose my goddamn mind."
The repair took a full minute.
By the end, Blake was this close to sitting on the floor and not getting back up.
[Survival Quest Complete.][Repairman Skill Level: 1 — 28%]
[Food Synthesizer Online.][Emergency Power Remaining: 168 hours.]
"A week," Blake muttered. "On a spaceship. With skeletons. Fuck my life."
The screen lit up.
Emergency RationWater (Cold / Chilled / Hot)
"…Of course there's no pizza."
He selected a ration and chilled water.
The exhaustion vanished.
"Oh," Blake said. "Okay. That's… annoyingly good."
A new quest appeared.
[Survival Quest Available][Find a Complete Pressure Suit. Repair if Necessary.]
Blake looked at the skeletons.
"…I am so fucking sorry about this."
And the ship—silent, vast, ancient, and very real—waited around him.
No one was wearing what Blake—using his extremely limited but deeply sincere knowledge of science fiction—would call a proper pressure suit.
Which meant one of two things.
Either he was wrong.
Or this ship had depressurised at some point and everyone here had lost that argument.
"Okay," Blake muttered. "Let's test a theory before I start hyperventilating."
He leaned down and hesitantly touched the nearest set of clothing.
Information immediately bloomed into his vision.
[I.V.A Suit — Intravehicular Activity.][Provides Limited Emergency Decompression Protection.][Worn Under E.V.A Pressure Suit.][Minor Damage. Repair? Yes / No]
"…IVA," Blake repeated. "Which means inside the vehicle."
He frowned.
"So this is basically the space equivalent of pajamas with ambition."
He straightened and looked around again.
"As disgusting as the idea of putting on a dead person's clothes is," Blake said aloud, "I would like something better than a T-shirt and shorts when the walls might randomly decide to stop existing."
Also shoes.
Shoes felt important.
The IVA suits, mercifully, included a kind of slip-on boot that attached to the legs. Blake stared at them with genuine gratitude.
"Thank you, dead space people," he said solemnly. "For thinking of footwear."
Being a painfully average-sized human, Blake didn't have to skeleton-shop for long before finding a body that looked like it had once been his size.
He paused.
Looked around.
Then, because he wasn't a complete monster, took the time to carry the rest of the remains to the opposite side of the Mess.
Skeletons, he discovered, weighed almost nothing.
Which somehow made the whole thing worse.
"…That's unsettling," Blake muttered. "That should not be that easy."
Removing the suit was deeply unpleasant.
First, he had to figure out how the closure seam worked.
Then he had to figure out how to get the bones out of the sleeves.
Then the legs.
Then the boots.
There was a lot of shaking involved.
Too much shaking.
Blake gagged once.
Twice.
"Okay," he said through clenched teeth. "I have officially hit my weirdness quota for the day."
Another prompt appeared.
[Minor Damage. Repair? Yes / No]
"Yes," Blake said immediately. "Please. And if you can also erase my memory of this, that would be fantastic."
His hand glowed.
Ten seconds later—
[Repair Complete.]
The suit not only repaired itself.
It cleaned itself.
Blake froze.
"…Oh thank fuck," he breathed.
He stared at the now-pristine IVA suit.
"I don't know what I would've done if that thing still smelled like death. Dead person bacteria has never once been listed as a skincare benefit."
[Repairman Skill Level: 1 — 30%]
Dressed at last in something that felt remotely appropriate for being alive in space, Blake drank the rest of his water, grabbed two more ration bars and another bottle, and headed back into the hallway.
Ten minutes of walking later, he had discovered exactly nothing of interest.
More closed doors.More broken panels.
Every door he checked was non-functional.
And every time his hand hovered near them, Blake pulled back.
"Nope," he muttered. "Energy is precious. I am not spending it on curiosity."
Eventually, he reached two hatches.
The one on the left was unmistakable.
Airlock.
It stood open.
Inside, a compartment was also open—revealing a collection of bulky suits and bubble-faced helmets.
Blake stopped well short of stepping inside and carefully touched the control panel from outside.
[Airlock Control Malfunction. Repair? Yes / No]
"Yes," Blake said. "From here. Where the air still loves me."
His hand glowed.
This repair took a full minute.
Blake watched the light crawl across the panel while mentally rehearsing every movie scene where an airlock betrayed someone.
Fatigue hit immediately after completion.
[Repairman Skill Level: 1 — 36%]
"Nope," Blake said firmly. "Still not walking in blind."
He waited.
Nothing exploded.
Nothing vented.
Satisfied, Blake stepped into the airlock and inspected the suits, gently touching each one.
All of them needed minor repairs.
Same with the helmets.
"Of course you do," Blake muttered. "Nothing is ever just fine."
He picked up one pressure suit and helmet, exited the airlock, and pressed the control to safely close the inner hatch.
Then he repaired them.
[Survival Quest Complete.][Repairman Skill Level: 1 — 50%]
Blake sagged against the wall.
"Halfway to… whatever the hell this means," he said.
He turned to the other hatch.
[Engineering / Cargo Bay Hatch Malfunction.][WARNING: AREA BEYOND HATCH NOT PRESSURISED!]
Blake stared at it.
Then nodded.
"And that door can stay fucking closed for now, thank you very much."
He turned around.
"I would like a bed," Blake decided. "Somewhere quiet. Preferably without skeletons."
Although sleeping on a Mess table was technically an option, Blake refused to accept that as a life choice.
Maybe even an empty storeroom.
Somewhere to put the bodies later.
He briefly considered the airlock.
Then shook his head.
"Too far," he muttered. "And those IVA suits are way too valuable to just yeet into space."
Returning to the Mess, Blake paused.
"Okay," he said. "Directions."
He pointed one way.
"Engine Room is south."
Completely arbitrary.
But it helped.
Which made the Mess west.
That meant east was… something else.
He chose the door opposite the Mess.
[Door Malfunction. Repair? Yes / No]
No warning about depressurisation.
Still.
"You know what?" Blake said. "I'm putting the space suit on anyway."
Getting into it was surprisingly easy.
The helmet dropped into place and locked with a twist.
A screen on his left forearm lit up.
Green lights.
Oxygen at 100%.
"Oh," Blake said. "That's comforting."
He repaired the door.
Sixty seconds later, it opened.
To an empty bedroom.
No rush of air.No screaming vacuum.No immediate death.
Blake blinked.
"…Huh."
He was almost disappointed.
Almost.
He removed the suit and laid it neatly by the door before looking around.
Double bed.Closet.Drawers.Bathroom with toilet and shower.Even a lamp.
The place could use some freshening up, but at least it wasn't buried under dust.
Starship advantage, apparently.
"I think I could live here," Blake said quietly.
A new message appeared.
[Survival Quest Available][Repair Main Reactor Core.]
Blake stared at it.
"…Just can't get a minute's peace, can I."
And somewhere deep within the silent, broken ship, the reactor waited.