13JUN3025
I think I’ve developed a superpower.
Not like laser eyes or gravity manipulation or anything cool like that. No. My power is more… subtle.
I can now detect when something horrible is about to happen based solely on how calm things get.
And let me tell you: things have been very, very calm lately.
Which means I am absolutely screwed.
Survival Rule #12: Peace in Deep Space Is a Lie
For the past two days, nothing’s gone wrong.
No mysterious whispering.
No strange ship shadowing me.
No doors changing destinations or crew quarters that don’t exist.
Even Gary’s been quiet. I’d ask him what’s going on, but he hasn’t spoken since the air recycler made that gurgling noise and said, “He sees you still.”
Haven’t used the galley since.
But the quiet? It’s worse.
It’s like the ship is holding its breath.
Like even the ghosts are waiting for something.
And here’s the part I hate:
I don’t think it’s waiting for me.
The Object
This morning—assuming mornings still mean anything—I picked up a signal. Faint. Repeating. Not a distress call. Not a beacon. Just a string of numbers and tones, playing on loop.
Coordinates.
Now, a smart man would ignore that.
A smart man would assume it’s a trap, or a glitch, or the cosmic equivalent of a spam call promising free void insurance.
But I am not a smart man. I’m a very bored, possibly hallucinating man with a fully recharged jump drive and absolutely no common sense left.
So I followed it.
The source? A station.
Floating in deep space. No logs. No ID. No rotation. Just a perfectly still metal ring, drifting silently like it’s been waiting a long, long time for someone stupid enough to find it.
Guess who that is.
The Door That Shouldn’t Open
I haven’t docked yet. Just ran a few scans.
The architecture doesn’t match anything in human records. Or Vantori. Or Nexivore. Or anything.
It’s made of a dark metal I can’t identify, and the surface is covered in strange markings—not writing, not symbols, more like repeating patterns that shift when you stop looking at them.
But here's the worst part.
There’s an airlock on the station’s outer ring.
It's already open.
Not pressurized. Just open.
Like it's inviting me in.
Which leads me to believe there are only two logical explanations:
I’ve reached the end of my sanity arc and this is my brain throwing one final party.
This thing is real, and I’ve stumbled onto something that should’ve stayed hidden.
Either way, I’m suiting up.
Final Thoughts
This might be the last entry from the Rust Rat’s cockpit.
If I go in and don’t come back… well, it’s been real.
If I do come back, I expect royalties from every “I Survived the Rust Rat” mug sold in my absence.
Wish me luck. Or don’t. Honestly, your prayers probably bounce off the hull at this point.
Scootch
Quote of the Day:
"If the door opens for you, it probably knows your name."
