【ANOM THEORY】

In the vast black stillness of space, stars burned bright and distant—like the indifferent gaze of a universe that couldn’t care less.

Hovering in the middle of all that cosmic nothingness was a single ship. Small. Ugly. Absolutely still.

Inside, things were far less calm.

A pale-skinned alien with a massive circular red nose slammed his fingers across a flickering dashboard, teeth bared as red error screens popped in and out of existence like frantic digital fireflies. His striped shirt clung to him like a sad circus act in zero-G.

“Quol, what the hell’s going on?!” he shouted.

Another alien stomped into the command deck—if “stomping” was a fair term for something with six tentacle-like legs and a head the size of a full-grown human torso. This one was sky-blue, with glossy, pupil-less eyes and the general aura of someone two steps away from molting in stress.

“You’re asking me? Aren’t you the one flying this rust bucket?!” Quol snapped back, legs still dancing towards Hallagor.

“You’re the one with engineering experience!” the pale-skinned alien—Hallagor—shouted, flailing his head in panic.

“I retired, remember? I told you this morning, that life’s behind me,” Quol growled, pushing the topic aside. “Now why the voidspawned hell isn’t this thing moving?”

“It just… stopped. Sensors say nothing’s wrong. AI’s not responding. Total blackout.”

“We’ve got a delivery deadline, dammit!” Quol shoved Hallagor aside and took over the console. “Move over, amateur.”

“Tch. Be my guest, bum.” Hallagor backed off, muttering, arms crossed in offense.

And then—as if the ship decided to play horror simulator—all the lights cut out.

Total darkness.

A beat later, emergency reds blinked on. Low. Pulsing. Like a heartbeat. And then came the sirens—dull and distorted, as if the ship itself was confused and terrified.

Hallagor froze. “You… you make it worse?”

“No,” Quol whispered, pale. “The plasma-core’s offline. Entire engine room’s cold, more like, the power source was disconnected.”

Hallagor responded confused “How’s that possible? The only ones on the ship are you and I. No one’s in the engine room.”

“Exactly, the only one’s on the ship are the both of us, what’s that supposed to tell you Hallagor?” Quol asked a little frustrated with a hint of fear, he was trying to get Hallagor to reach the same conclusion as himself.

Hallagor slowly blinked at him. “You’re saying there’s… something else on the ship?”

That’s when they heard it.

Laughter.

Not just any laughter—maniacal, echoing through the walls, warped through the vents like a ghost trying to do stand-up.

“Muahahaha!”

Hallagor stepped back. “Who’s there?! Show yourself!”

“Bwahahahaha!!” The laugh grew louder, closer, ridiculous.

Quol looked like he was about to vibrate out of existence. Hallagor’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. Neither of them wanted to find out if a Flecheirant, Tharnox Beast, or Xenospire had boarded their ship.

The laughter was so over-the-top it almost sounded… theatrical.

Hallagor prepared to scream. Quol prepared to faint. And just as they braced for death—

“Ugh. This stupid ringtone. Why did Jess think this would be cool? I told her I wasn’t going for the ‘supervillain’ type.”

A voice. Not monstrous. Not distorted. Just… annoyed.

A figure stepped out from the shadows of the hallway. Human. Black trench coat, mismatched clothes, wild black hair with a dyed streak of blue like a rebellious afterthought. Looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Or years. He was fiddling with a glowing wrist device that wouldn’t shut up.

Turned out the crazy laughter was coming from his device.

Once he finally got it to shut up, he looked up, noticed the confused aliens—and smiled.

“Oh hey, didn’t see you there. What’s up?”

Hallagor and Quol stared, slack-jawed.

“Who… who are you?” Quol asked, tentatively.

“And how the hell did you get on our ship?” Hallagor added.

The stranger’s grin widened. “Interrogative types, huh? Stowaway? Intruder? Phantom menace? Proletariat uprising? So many options, so little context.”

He spun in a little circle, arms flailing like a stage actor in the wrong genre.

This was not a man with a plan. This was a man who thrived in the lack of one.

He had the aura of a gothic, slightly deranged scientist who never quite got around to doing any science. Just chaos. Chaotic style.

“You know,” he said, pointing behind them with exaggerated patience, “you might wanna check your console.”

They turned.

The main screen now displayed a glowing red countdown.

3:34

3:33

3:32

“…What’s happening?” Quol muttered, typing frantically.

“Your ship’s about to go ka-boom,” the stranger offered helpfully. “Not the comedic kind, either. More the vaporize all evidence of your existence kind.”

Quol’s hands moved faster. Nothing worked.

“You did this!” Hallagor shouted, pointing at the intruder.

The stranger placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “Wow. Baseless accusations in a crisis. Classic deflection. Can we maybe not play the blame game while your ship’s about to reenact a star’s death spiral?”

“I’m ending this,” Hallagor snarled.

“Don’t break anything!” Quol warned as he kept flailing his—hands? Legs? Tentacles?—across the console.

A spark of energy flared from Hallagor’s forehead—a plasma bolt formed in an instant and launched across the room.

BOOM!!!

Smoke. Sparks. A small crater where the intruder stood.

Hallagor smirked. “That should shut the creep up.”

“Hey!” Quol shouted, still hammering the console. “What if he actually knew how to stop this? I said don’t break anything!”

“I broke someone, not something.”

“Same difference if we die in three minutes!”

But to their horror—and disappointment—the smoke began to clear. And through it…

“Creep? Me?” the stranger’s voice echoed—not through the smoke but from right beside Quol. “You’re the one who launched forehead-laser at a guy you just met. Where are your manners?”

Quol flinched and spun—too slow.

The human was already at a different location—at the other side of Quol, leaning over his shoulder like they were old drinking buddies at a dive bar. Reflex took over. Quol’s ‘arm’ lashed out, tentacle glowing with ice-blue light.

A jagged spike of frost exploded toward the intruder.

But he was gone. The shard slammed into the wall behind him, sending a web of frost cracking across the panel.

“Oh-ho!” came the voice again, this time from across the room. “Frost powers? That’s so original. What’s next—fireballs from your forehead? Oh, wait...”

A searing beam tore across the room. Hallagor didn’t disappoint.

The command deck erupted into chaos—ice carving through steel, fire melting control panels, sparks raining from the ceiling as the two pirates turned the place into a battlefield.

They wrecked everything.

Everything except the main console.

And yet, when the smoke cleared…

“Not a single hit,” the stranger said casually, now lounging upside-down on the ceiling as if gravity was optional. “You guys are giving me serious stormtrooper energy. Just with worse fashion sense. Are you cosplaying as Buggy the Clown and Megamind, or is that just… genetic misfortune?”

Hallagor and Quol spun in place.

And just like that—he was behind them.

One arm draped over each of their shoulders, grinning like he was about to suggest a bar crawl.

Neither could move.

Hallagor’s muscles locked from shock. Quol was already sweating plasma.

Then it clicked.

Quol’s voice trembled. “W-wait. Hallagor. We’re dead. We are so dead.”

Hallagor blinked. “What? What are you talking about?”

“The weird entrance…the running mouth…the incomprehensible jokes…the ship shutdown… the fact that we can’t hit him—” Quol’s breath caught in his throat. “He’s th–”

“Someone figured it out already?” the stranger interrupted, feigning surprise. “I am flattered.”

Quol shrieked and shoved away, collapsing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fear.

“No… No, no, no—he’s real. We’re dead. Hallagor—we’re so dead!”

The man in black stretched his arms. “Dang. Am I that popular? Was it the Vessa-9 incident? I knew I should’ve worn a mask. Rookie mistake.”

Hallagor remained frozen, utterly lost. “Quol, what are you talking about? He’s just one guy—”

“You don’t understand!” Quol’s voice cracked. “He’s… The Madman!”

A gun clicked.

Hallagor barely had time to register the barrel pressed against the side of his head.

“Bingo,” the stranger whispered.

POWWW!!

The gunshot echoed through the command deck like a church bell at a funeral.

“HALLAGOR!!!” Quol screamed, voice raw.

He hadn’t expected his crewmate to die that fast. They’d barely made it past breakfast together.

They’d only met the day before, thrown together for the mission, but they’d hit it off as buddies. Sure, they bickered and argued nonstop—but isn’t that how most long-lasting friendships start?

He didn’t expect the Madman to be this real.

“Shh,” the human cooed, grinning down at him. “Don’t wake him. He’s having a very long nap. Forecast says he’ll wake up… never.”

Quol crawled backwards, tentacles shaking, tears forming.

“P-please. It’s not what you think. I—I didn’t sign up for this. I had no choice—”

“No choice?” the Madman repeated, tilting his head. In a blink, he was right there, crouched over Quol like a demon perched on a gravestone.

“You’re a MurderHobo, aren’t’cha?” he said, tapping the gun’s barrel against Quol’s giant head like it was a toy. “You always had a choice.”

“W-we had to move the Elixirs,” Quol stammered, eyes wide. “If we didn’t get them delivered in time—”

“Let me guess. Your scary boss will ground you? Give you detention?” He twirled the gun like a baton, face lit up in a mockery of sympathy. “Jeff’s the least of your problems right now bob.”

“The Shadow Commander won’t just—”

“‘Shadow Commander?’” the Madman repeated, laughing. “What is he, a chuunibyou with a PulseCast channel? Does he do anime intros before board meetings?”

He sighed, as if bored. “Anyway. Not that it matters. Your ship was already set to blow before I got here. That plasma-core? Melting like a chocolate bar in a neutron storm. Had to disconnect it from the ship. It’s still gonna blow up though.”

Quol blinked. “Y-you set the timer?”

“I was going to give you fifteen minutes,” the Madman said, stretching his arms. “But then I remembered I didn’t care. So… four.”

“B-but how?” Quol asked, scared and confused.

“I sped it up. Rerouted the failsafe into the overdrive, inverted the coolant logic, and told the core it had something to prove.” the Madman shrugged. “Turns out ego detonates faster than heat.”

“But you’ll die too!” Quol screamed, hoping to reach some sliver of logic.

“Oh sweet summer selatrops,” the Madman grinned, eyes sparkling with unhinged joy. “This is a suicide attempt. I came here to die.”

Quol broke. “Please—please—I’ll do anything! Just don’t—”

“Let’s count down together, yeah?” He raised his head, glancing at the timer on the screen.

5…

Quol whimpered.

4…

He sobbed.

3… 2… 1—

…

Nothing.

Quol cracked open one eye. “I-it didn’t go off?”

“Nope,” said the Madman cheerfully, raising the gun again. “But your brains will.”

POWWW!!!