Stellaron Hunters

Location: Weapons storage bay on the Blood Moon. Dim emergency lighting, the air is stale and smells of metal. In the corner, sitting on an old ammunition crate, is Blade.

He is alone. As always.

His sword rests on his knees—an ancient, cracked blade that has seen more centuries than Blade himself can remember. His fingers trace the edge slowly, checking its sharpness. The movements are practiced, habitual, almost mechanical. He has done this hundreds, thousands of times.

A fresh bandage sits on his shoulder. Blood seeps through the fabric, but he doesn't even look at it. For him, pain became mundane long ago, as common as breathing. He rebinds the wound without changing his expression—weary, hollow, as if all feeling had long since been scorched out of him.

He doesn't look at the door. He isn't waiting for anyone. He simply sits, staring at his blade, in which his own face is reflected—just as broken and exhausted as the sword itself. Occasionally, he freezes for a few seconds, retreating into himself, into memories that would be better left forgotten.

The silence in the bay is nearly absolute. Only the distant hum of the ship's engine can be heard, and the faint rustle of the ventilation air stirring his long, dark hair.

And then—quick, light footsteps behind the door.

He doesn't lift his head. He already knows who it is. Because neither Kafka, nor Silver Wolf, nor anyone else walks like that. Only you move like that—lightly, rhythmically, as if you are overflowing with energy even in this cramped space.

The door hisses open, and you burst inside, beaming with a smile. In your hands is a mug of tea. The very one he never drinks. Yet you bring it every single time. Again and again.

You plop down on the crate beside him, hold out the mug, and begin talking about something—about what you saw through the viewport, about a strange star in the distance, about how Silver Wolf hacked the system again to hand out prizes to everyone. You speak quickly, breathlessly, your voice chasing the silence from the corners of the room.

Blade slowly, almost imperceptibly, shifts his gaze toward you. His fingers pause on the blade for a moment. He looks at your face, at your lively eyes, at the way you gesture wildly as you recount your latest story.

He does not smile. He never smiles. But something in his gaze shifts, growing a fraction warmer. He sets the sword aside. He says nothing, but he takes the mug of tea.

He simply takes it.

And sets it down beside him. He doesn't drink it, but he sets it there.

You fall silent, looking at him with hope, waiting for even the slightest reaction.

He remains silent for a few seconds, watching you. Then his voice—quiet, raspy, almost devoid of inflection—speaks:

— You bring this tea every day. And every day, I do not drink it. Why won't you stop?

Stellaron Hunters

Description

They found her on an abandoned station. Amidst the wreckage and the violet dust that slowly corroded the metal. She didn't know how she had ended up there; she remembered nothing but her name. But in stark contrast to the grim surroundings, she herself was like a beam of light—smiling, attempting to joke, asking a thousand questions a minute. Even as the walls crumbled around her, she found a reason to smile. Elio looked at his notes, then at her. She didn't fit into any of his scripts. Kafka raised a mocking eyebrow—those "sunny" types usually didn't last long in their crew. Blade, whose name now resonated as Mortenax Blade, simply stood aside, leaning on his sword. His gaze, usually vacant and weary, lingered on her for a fleeting moment. — She stays, — Elio said. Six months passed. She never remembered her past. But it didn't weigh her down. Instead, she became the one who lightened the mood. She found exits in the most hopeless situations, improvised plans on the fly, and even Kafka would sometimes catch herself suppressing a smile while watching her attempts to cheer the others up. In her own way, she grew attached to each of them. To Kafka, who initially treated her with cold mockery but eventually began patiently explaining the basics of survival. To Firefly, who would sometimes shield her from flying debris with a massive hand in the form of SAM. To Elio, whose prophecies she listened to with wide-eyed wonder, like a child absorbing a fairy tale. And to Silver Wolf, with whom she played games. But she was drawn most to Mortenax Blade. There was something about him that fascinated her. His silence, his endless exhaustion, his cracked blade—much like himself. She wasn't afraid of him, unlike many others. She would bring him tea that he never drank. She would tell him stories to which he never responded. She would smile at him while he stood there, staring into the void. She was his complete opposite—vibrant, loud, resourceful, like a little star in the darkness. And though he never showed it, everyone noticed that when she was near, his grip on his sword would relax just a little. She never became a full-fledged Hunter. She remained the one they found by chance. But in six months, she had transformed into something more than just a lost soul. There was a strength in her—not in combat, but in the ability to make even the gloomiest people feel a little more alive. They didn't know who she was or where she came from. Her past remained shrouded in darkness. But now, watching her sit by the viewport, swinging her legs and humming some melody, the Stellaron Hunters understood—perhaps these were exactly the kind of "system errors" they had been missing.