The G-Loc was buzzing that night. Pilots yelling over music, mercs boasting about kills they didn’t really earn, someone trying to out-drink a Banu at the counter. In the corner booth, a grizzled spacer leaned forward, his glass half-full of something amber and mean. Across from him sat a rookie—fresh boots, clean jacket, eyes wide like he hadn’t yet seen how ugly the ‘verse could get. The veteran gave a thin smile. “You keep asking how to survive out there, kid? Forget shields and specs. Let me give you a story instead. One worth more than a crate of missiles. And if you’ve got half a brain, you’ll remember it next time you’re drifting with comms open.” He took a sip, set the glass down, and said, “This one wasn’t in ArcCorp. It was Hades. Ever been?” The rookie shook his head. “Good. Don’t. Three worlds cracked open like busted skulls. Ruins older than us. Dead system, but not empty. You feel it the second you drop in—like something’s staring at you from the black.” He leaned back, lit a battered e-cig, and let smoke curl upward. “So, there’s this Corsair crew. Schakal, they called her. Nasty bird, nasty crew. They catch a distress call out near Hades II: ‘This is the Ardent Wing. Power plant failure. Requesting aid. Life support at forty percent. Anyone, please respond.’ Now you’re green, what do you do when you hear that?” The rookie fumbled. “…Answer?” A few pilots at the next table barked laughter. One leaned over, scarred jaw gleaming under neon. “Answer? In Hades? Kid, you’d already be a corpse.” The veteran just nodded. “Exactly. You burn the hell away. But the Schakal? They grinned. Thought they’d found dinner.” He tapped the table with a finger. “They docked up. Whole ship quiet. Too quiet. Scratches in the walls, deep gouges. Blood smeared on the decking, old, dried like rust. And the smell—burned plastic and copper. The greenhorn whispers, ‘Kein Lärm. No voices.’ Should’ve listened to him.” From across the bar, someone slammed their glass. “Yeah, Hades’ll do that. Ran cargo there once. Swore I heard boots in the hold. Nobody was there. Never shut the engines off till I was clear.” Another voice cut in, mocking. “Boots? Please. Ship noises, nothing more. This whole tale smells like Banu spice.” The veteran smirked without looking up. “You think so? Then wait until I tell you about the head.” That bought silence, at least for the moment. He leaned forward, voice dropping. “They move deeper. Shadows slipping between cargo crates. Then the things step out. Humanoid. But wrong. Skin blistered and glowing faint, like their veins ran with reactor fire. Red eyes. Teeth sharp. The rookie mutters, ‘Mein Gott…’ And then the swarm hit them.” The old man’s hand mimicked the rush, sweeping across the table. “Shotguns roaring, rifles hammering, but the things don’t fall. They crawl the walls, drop from the ceiling. First to go was Dieter. Big bastard, all muscle. One of them bit through his shoulder and his flesh just… lit up. Green fire under the skin. He’s screaming, ‘Es brennt!’ before they ripped him apart.” Someone at the bar interrupted again, the scarred jaw man, almost eager. “I heard they glow brighter when they feed. Veins lighting up like neon. Truth?” The vet pointed at him with the stem of his glass. “Truth. Saw the vid fragments myself. Couldn’t sleep for a week after.” The rookie’s hands clenched on his drink. “They tried to hole up in a junction. Guns low, nerves shot. Then something hits the deck with a heavy thunk. They shine a light. It’s Dieter’s head. Kid in the crew breaks. Opens fire at shadows. Next second, claws drag him into the black. Screaming and scraping until nothing. The engineer, Ruth, draws a blade. Cuts one of them clean in half. For a second she’s laughing—then the blood splashes on her arm. Eats her flesh like acid. She shrieks until they bury her under their bodies.” A pilot at the counter, an older hauler with skin like leather, didn’t even look up as he muttered, “Always heard it that way. Their blood burns like plasma. Touch it, and you’re finished.” The veteran’s voice grew lower, forcing the rookie to lean in. “Now it’s just the captain. Henschel. Meaner than hell. He’s laughing, cutting them down, three at a time. But numbers win. They drag him down. Tear him apart slow. His last words? ‘Pyro nimmt uns alle.’ Pyro takes us all. Funny, eh? He was in Hades, not Pyro. Guess he knew better. Doesn’t matter where. The dark gets you all the same.” The rookie swallowed hard, face pale. A younger merc shouted from another booth, trying to laugh off the tension. “So why hasn’t someone nuked the damn beacon? Just blast the ship and be done with it!” The leathery hauler answered before the vet could. “Because you blow it, and something always crawls back out of the wreck. Better to leave it. Leave the dead to their den.” The bar had gone quiet around them, just for a beat. The veteran finally leaned close, so only the rookie could hear. His breath smelled of whiskey and ash. “Here’s the lesson, kid. You hear a distress call in Hades, or anywhere with a curse on it—you don’t answer. You don’t acknowledge. You burn away fast, and you never look back. Because maybe it’s real, maybe it’s bait. Or maybe it’s the Ardent Wing, still crying out, looping that same damn plea. And if you dock…” He tapped the table once, slow. “You don’t walk out again.” The G-Loc’s noise came rushing back—the music, the boasting, the laughter. But at the corner booth the rookie just stared at his glass, hands trembling. A barfly smirked and nudged his buddy. “Scared him half to death already.” The veteran raised his glass in a toast. “Better scared than dead. That’s survival, kid. Welcome to the ‘verse.”