Youri turned to them, voice low."Keep quiet. They're probably still on the ship."
The guys slipped inside the emergency cockpit just before the door hissed shut behind them. Three more guards passed by moments later, drawn by faint voices — but found nothing. The pilots had made it inside at the last possible second.
The space was cramped. With Youri, there were ten other crew members inside — including the head chef, Anita, and her kitchen team: Blair, Luna, and Yuna.
Anita, in her mid-thirties, had striking white hair tied back in a loose braid and deep brown eyes that always seemed to be studying whoever she was speaking to. She had the kind of calm that could still a storm and a quiet authority that made people listen. Her face carried the faint lines of years spent both smiling and worrying over others.
As the head chef of the Tartarusios, Anita was more than just a cook. She was the soul of the ship — the one who made it feel like home. Her galley wasn't just a place to eat; it was a place where the hum of engines faded beneath laughter and the scent of spices. A place where stories were shared and tired shoulders found comfort.
She had a sharp tongue when needed — especially if someone stepped into her galley without washing their hands — but her scolding always came with a wink or a soft chuckle. Beneath the no-nonsense attitude was kindness, steady and ever-present.
Blair, in her late twenties, was her quiet shadow. Straight black hair framed a pale face and eyes as dark as the void outside the hull. There was a stillness to her — the kind that made people lower their voices in her presence, not out of fear, but respect.
Unlike Anita's warmth, Blair's calm had a colder edge — not unkind, just precise. She spoke rarely, and when she did, her words were few, often just enough. She expressed herself with her hands — steady, graceful, deliberate. In the chaos of a ship at war, Blair was a fixed point.
Luna and Yuna, both nineteen, were the youngest in the crew. Twin sisters — younger siblings to Chris — they carried the same shimmering brown hair, like polished copper under galley lights. But it was their eyes that set them apart: Luna's bright, vivid blue like a summer sky; Yuna's deep black, still and unreadable.
Luna was the heartbeat of the kitchen. Always moving, always humming old Baraken tunes as she stirred soup or teased guards about their rations. She brought laughter where it didn't belong and made it feel like it did. Even the most hardened soldiers cracked a smile when Luna was around.
Yuna, by contrast, was the anchor. Quieter, more reserved, she worked with slow precision — organizing ingredients, cleaning tools, making sure everything was in its place. When Luna spoke for them both, Yuna simply nodded, a faint smile playing at her lips. She didn't need words. Her calm, grounding presence spoke volumes.
But the kitchen staff weren't alone. Huddled with them were members of the medical team — led by the ship's main doctor, Tyler.
In his early forties, Tyler had the weary grace of someone who had seen too much — but refused to let it harden him. His slightly curled brown hair never quite stayed down, and his sharp green eyes missed nothing.
There were shadows beneath those eyes — not just from lack of sleep, but from carrying the weight of every life aboard the Tartarusios. He wasn't a soldier, but he'd stitched up more battlefield wounds than most medics back on Baraka ever would. Gunshots, radiation burns, frostbite, panic attacks — he'd treated it all.
His scarred but steady hands moved with a confidence born of necessity. When alarms rang and chaos flooded the medbay, Tyler never shouted. His calm was command enough. Yet beneath it, he hid a dry humor: a quiet joke while closing a wound, a muttered complaint about "cutting-edge tech falling apart like junk," a smirk during routine checkups.
The crew didn't just trust Tyler because he was good — they trusted him because he treated them like people, not patients.
With him were four nurses: Maria, Selena, Zara, and Nova.
Maria and Selena, the youngest, were a pair of opposites that worked like one mind.
Maria was fire — a redhead with blazing blue eyes and a voice that cut through noise like a siren. She moved fast, talked faster, and always seemed to know what Tyler needed before he asked. There was a stubborn streak in her, fierce and unyielding — the kind that told the dying to hang on, and they did.
Selena, on the other hand, was water — still, deep, and soothing. Blonde hair fell neatly to her shoulders, and her black eyes had a quiet depth that made people feel safe. She rarely spoke, but when she did, it was with a gentleness that calmed even the worst panic.
Together, they were chaos and calm. In the medbay, Maria barked orders while Selena handed tools. Maria patched wounds; Selena checked vitals and whispered comfort. Off duty, they were always together — Maria laughing, Selena listening with that quiet smile.
Zara was older — the ship's first nurse and its anchor during the darkest hours. In her late thirties, she moved like someone who had been through too many emergencies to be easily rattled.
Her black hair, streaked with gray, was usually tied back in a tight braid. Her green eyes still cut sharp through panic and excuses. She didn't shout, didn't flinch — she just acted. Her presence alone could calm a bleeding soldier or a panicked recruit.
She had seen the worst the void had to offer — and stood her ground. Her husband, Nolan, the ship's chief engineer, was the only one who could make her laugh like time hadn't touched her. Their bond wasn't loud, but it was unbreakable — forged in fire and space.
And then there was Nova.
Nova wasn't a nurse in the traditional sense — she was something else. Something sharper.
Her hair, an electric blue that shimmered faintly in the medbay lights, marked her immediately. Her eyes — solid black, like the space between stars — gave little away.
In her late twenties, she was Tyler's protégé, though calling her that felt like an understatement. She absorbed knowledge like fire took oxygen — quickly, hungrily.
Her hands moved with eerie precision, her voice calm and certain, never loud but always heard. She rarely smiled, rarely joked — but beneath the stillness was someone deeply human. Loyal. Determined. Fierce.
People respected her. Some even feared her — for her cold exterior, her silence, her piercing gaze. But those who worked beside her knew better: Nova was driven not by ego, but by a relentless need to earn her place — to prove herself to the man who had taught her everything.
Lastly, not counting Tyler or Youri, there were the final two men: Quin and Daniel, both from engineering.
Quin was new — tall, charming, and still rough around the edges. His blond hair was always messy from crawling through vents and engine shafts. His green eyes gleamed with curiosity and just a hint of rebellion.
He had a natural knack for machines — but the void didn't care about talent.
Daniel, the more seasoned of the two, was quiet, methodical. A little shorter, with always-singed black hair and calm brown eyes, he'd been working engines since he was fifteen.
He didn't talk much — didn't need to. He felt the ship. Knew its rhythm, its heartbeat.
They spent most of their lives in the engine corridor, surrounded by humming plasma coils and the scent of warm metal. Quin cracked jokes while patching coolant lines; Daniel grunted and passed him tools before he even asked.
It wasn't glamorous — but it was theirs.