Captain Yazoshea, on his daily whirlwind tour through the ratty shoebox drugstore under his bunk, finds a placid serenity in the embrace of the umbilical duty of mankind on the frontier. His fingers bleed from razor molestation – a side effect, perhaps intentional, of the routine rummage. He finds, without looking, a wooden child’s toy, a bottle of strangely colored capsules, a syringe, a mysterious powder.
Sound erupts across the bridge as the alert is raised, and is joined in chorus by the thunderous clatter of all hands manning their stations from sleep-induced akinesia in seconds flat.
Our Captain, so low for mighty, dumps a good amount of the mysterious powder on his palm. He then places one of the strangely colored capsules in the small mound before dumping the contents of his palm into his open mouth. The twitch, expected, shudders into a full body cringe.
Outside the massive ship which floats in space, a writhing darkness teases the cockpit with its smoky tendrils.
Near the termination, again expected, of his illustrious career, Yazoshea strides purposefully to the forward deck and stares at his god through the thick viewport.
“How long has it been like this?” the Captain asks his crew.
No one answers, but the creature’s strange smoky appendages multiply and seethe over the ship’s hull as the bulk of the entity moves toward it.
Captain Yazoshea turns and notices, as he has for the last thousand years, that no one is in his ship but he.
The darkness seeps into the ship by some sinister means and embraces the dead captain, again.
“Down with the ship,” he mutters.