Into The Void

I wake up to the low hum of the ship. It’s the kind of sound you get used to, the constant drone of machinery working against the inevitable decay. I’ve been here long enough to not pay it any mind anymore. But this morning—or whatever it is—there’s something different. A deep tremor. A faint, unsettling vibration that rolls through the walls and shakes me awake.

I sit up, my limbs stiff from the cold. There’s no warmth left on the Artemis. The life support system has been failing for weeks. I’ve stopped worrying about it. The air’s still breathable, for now. The food is running out, but there’s still some left. Just enough to keep me going a little longer.

I stretch, my body sore, and make my way to the control panel. My fingers tremble as I swipe across the dusty screen. It flickers and glitches before stabilizing, showing me a set of diagnostics I don’t understand anymore. Half the systems are offline. The rest are barely functional. But the warning lights blink red, and they’re not the usual alarms.

Something’s wrong.

A few more tremors follow, sharper now. The walls groan, the sound of metal shifting under pressure. The temperature in the ship drops again, but I’m too tired to bother adjusting the controls. It’s like this every day now. The ship’s life is running out, and so is mine.

I rise from the console, and my legs wobble slightly. The faint light from the viewport flickers. I glance outside, but there’s nothing to see. Just the endless black of space stretching beyond the glass. I used to find it peaceful. I used to find it beautiful.

But now, all I can think about is how it’s closing in on me. I’m alone. The Artemis is dying. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I wander down the narrow hallways, passing by rusted doors and flickering lights. I know every inch of this place. The mess hall. The crew quarters. The galley. Every place I used to walk through with purpose, now nothing more than an endless stretch of silent corridors.

The air is thick with the smell of metal and dust. The ship used to be alive. I remember that—when there was crew, when the sounds of conversations and laughter filled the halls. I wasn’t always alone. I had people with me. But that was a long time ago.

The alarms ring out, the sound sharp and jarring. I freeze. It’s the signal—the one I’ve been dreading. The warning lights on the walls blink red, faster, more erratic. The tremors are stronger now, making the floor beneath me vibrate.

I scramble to the control room, reaching the door and pulling it open with a strength I didn’t know I had left. The viewport is already showing something different. A disturbance in the stars. A pulse of light. I take a breath, steeling myself for what I know is coming.

And then I see it.

A star. But not just any star. It’s small but unnaturally bright. The light doesn’t look right. It pulses with a sickly intensity, flickering in a way that makes my stomach churn. It’s pulling at the Artemis. I can feel it in my chest. The gravitational force is growing stronger. My breath hitches in my throat.

It’s a neutron star. I don’t need the sensors to tell me that.

I try to breathe through the panic, but it’s hard. The pull of the star is already warping space, distorting everything around it. The ship is drifting closer, drawn in by an unseen hand. The alarms are a constant screeching reminder that we’re not going to make it. My hands are shaking, but I force myself to focus. I try to override the autopilot, but nothing responds.

The Artemis is moving toward the neutron star, and there’s no way to stop it.

I reach for the console, desperate. There has to be something I can do. But the controls are failing. The ship groans, the metal creaking under the pressure, the systems flickering in and out of life. I press my hands against the panel, but it’s useless. The ship is already in motion. The star is too close. We’re too far gone.

I stumble back, my feet unsteady as the tremors grow stronger. The walls feel like they’re closing in on me, the ship’s groans drowning out everything else. My pulse pounds in my ears. The lights above me flicker and die, one by one, leaving the room in darkness. A soft whine fills the air, and I know the ship is nearing its breaking point. The hull is starting to bend.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there, just staring out into the void. The star grows larger in the viewport, its brightness overwhelming. The fabric of space itself bends around it. I can see the stars warping, stretching as they get sucked into its gravitational pull. The universe itself is twisting. The ship is going to get caught.

I can’t stop it. I can’t escape it.

I take a step back from the viewport, my hand still on the wall to steady myself. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I know I need to move. The feeling of helplessness is suffocating, the pull of the neutron star taking everything from me. The walls tremble again, and I can feel the ship begin to shake more violently. It’s pulling us apart, piece by piece.

I turn and stagger down the hallway, trying to make it to the cargo bay. Maybe there’s something I can salvage. I don’t know why I even think that. There’s nothing left to save. The star is too close now. The Artemis is dying. I’m dying.

But I have to keep moving. It’s all I have left.

The air is growing thinner, the temperature dropping rapidly. My breath is fogging in front of me. The ship is struggling to maintain its integrity, and I feel it in every step I take. The walls groan under the strain. Every footstep echoes in the empty corridors. I can hear the hum of the engines, but it’s distorted now, warped by the pressure of the star’s gravity. The hum is growing louder, louder, and louder. I can’t escape it.

I stumble into the cargo bay and collapse to the floor, my legs too weak to hold me. I look around, but it’s useless. Nothing in here can save me. The ship is doomed. I am doomed.

And yet, I can’t stop the feeling that I’m still fighting. Fighting against something I don’t understand. Maybe I’m fighting for my life. Maybe I’m fighting for something else. But there’s nothing left to fight for. I’ve lost everything. I’m alone. The Artemis is alone. The cold, empty silence of space is all that’s left.

I press my hands to my face, trying to hold back tears I can’t even bring myself to shed. I thought I’d be stronger than this. But here I am, a single person, lost in the vastness of space, unable to do anything.

I hear the creak of the hull as the ship lurches again. The force of the star’s gravity is pulling harder now, and the walls are bending under the strain. The lights flicker and die entirely. Darkness.

And then, a sudden crack.

The ship shudders, and I feel the floor beneath me lurch violently. I fall forward, my face slamming into the cold metal of the floor. My body aches, but I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

I roll onto my back, gasping for air, but the ship is groaning louder than ever. I hear something tearing, ripping, the ship’s outer hull splitting apart. I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but it doesn’t help. The noise is unbearable.

There’s no escape.

The ship is falling apart around me. The neutron star is too close now. The force of its gravity is so intense, I can feel it pulling at my insides, at my soul. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know if I’m still alive. But I know one thing:

I’m alone. And I’m about to be consumed by the void.

The darkness is complete now. I can’t see anything. I can’t hear anything. Only the sickening pull of the star, its light burning into the back of my mind. I don’t know if I’m falling, or if I’ve already fallen. The ship’s groans are just whispers now. The ship, the Artemis, is nothing more than a memory, a faint echo.

And then, there’s nothing. Just the black. Just the silence.

How much time has passed? I don’t know. But I can feel it now. The end is close. I’m no longer sure if I exist. The pull of the neutron star is too strong now, the gravity warping everything. Time itself feels like it’s folding in on itself.

I know there’s nothing left. No hope. No escape.

Just the void.