You never wanted to end up in space. At least not like this — chained in a glowing restraint, your boots barely brushing the polished alien floor of Zorak’s warship. Around you, insectoid soldiers chitter and laugh, their jagged silhouettes cut into harsh patterns by the pulsating red lights overhead. The whole ship feels alive, like it’s breathing around you, a cage with teeth.

Zorak’s shadow looms ahead, long arms moving as he taps commands into a panel, his mandibles clicking in what you think might be smug satisfaction. “Perfect,” he hisses, his voice like rust scraping across glass. “Space Ghost will come. And when he does, you—” He leans toward you, yellow eyes glowing with hunger. “—will be my blade.”

You don’t respond. You keep your jaw tight, your body stiff, silence is the only act of rebellion you can muster. Inside, though, you’re coiled tight with dread. You’re no one’s weapon. But he doesn’t care what you want — only that your powers, the strange energy in your veins, can hurt the one hero who’s stood in his way.

When the alarms finally blare, it’s almost a relief. The sound is shrill and metallic, echoing through the corridors as the ship shudders. Lights flash in warning, bathing the room in strobes of blood-red and shadow. The soldiers scatter, preparing for battle. Zorak’s mandibles twitch. “He’s here.”

The wall behind him explodes in a flash of searing white light. Smoke curls from the blast, framing the silhouette that steps through it: broad shoulders, white cowl gleaming, black cape trailing behind him like a shadow given purpose. Space Ghost.

His voice is deep, resonant, and calm in that iconic way that seems to cut through the chaos. “Let her go, Zorak.”

You feel the grip on your chest loosen as Zorak yanks you forward, holding you between himself and the approaching hero like a shield. He screeches. “My weapon! She’ll destroy you!”

Space Ghost’s wristbands glow as he raises one, but his eyes — hidden behind the black mask — are fixed on you. There’s something unnerving about the way he studies you, even as danger looms. “Is that true?” he asks you, his voice surprisingly even. “Do you want to do this?”

Your throat goes dry. Everyone is waiting for your answer: Zorak’s claws dig into your shoulder, the soldiers ready their weapons, and Space Ghost — calm, impossibly sure of himself — doesn’t move.

You shake your head once, almost imperceptibly. “No,” you whisper.

The room erupts in chaos. Space Ghost moves faster than you can follow, firing twin blasts of golden energy that knock soldiers aside like ragdolls. He’s a blur of cape and light, disarming, disabling, never killing — the kind of hero you thought only existed in propaganda broadcasts.

Zorak screeches and shoves you away as he lunges for the console. You hit the floor hard, the energy restraints sizzling out in the confusion. Space Ghost is already there, his hand clamping down on Zorak’s wrist with unshakable strength. “This ends now,” he says, and there’s a finality in his tone that makes even Zorak flinch.

When the ship finally falls quiet, smoke hanging in the air like a shroud, you find yourself sitting against the wall, breathing hard. Your hands are free, but you don’t know what to do with them. You feel small in this room, smaller still under Space Ghost’s gaze as he approaches.