The six-armed officer who was their assigned captain was the only one of the only few with direct authority to move about the place as they pleased. If anyone knew how to get up there, it would be him. But… E.E whispered, "We can't interrogate him. If he disappears or acts weird, this whole place collapses on us." Angy nodded. "We need access without suspicion. So whatever move we make…" Her eyes hardened. "Has to be clean." Their first assigned task was simple: inventory scanning. Menial work. Boring work. Work that low-ranked soldiers normally handled. Which was perfect, because it allowed them to move through multiple areas without suspicion. The first few days inside the 42nd commander's station were a suffocating blur of protocols, restrictions, and silently ticking pressure. Every hallway felt like a prison corridor lined with armored ghosts ready to pounce at the slightest mistake. The place was an impenetrable cage of order and the commander, they learned quickly, was the one who demanded it. They weren't even allowed to sneeze without someone logging it. But information? That they managed to gather. Slowly. Quietly. Painstakingly. Angy had been the first to notice the strange containers filled with massive slabs of meat hauled from across multiple star systems. At first, they thought it was military rations. But after overhearing two guards gossiping near the elevator one morning, the truth emerged. > "Commander 42's cattle are acting up again." "Maybe he should stop raising a whole herd up there. The upper floor stinks like death and barbecue." The four nearly froze. Falco elbowed E.E. "You hearing this?" E.E nodded slowly. "Cattle… again." Angy smirked, whispering, "The star sentinel's password makes more sense now." Falco blinked. "So this guy seriously farms alien cows on the top floor?" "Apparently," Aildris answered. "And he's obsessed with meat." "Great." Falco threw up his hands. "We could've guessed anything that day, but the answer was cattle. Of course." What mattered more, however, was what this revealed. The commander never left his floor. Everything he needed; food, water, communication, staff, was all automated or remotely delivered. No in-person meetings. No patrols. No inspections. He was, in every sense of the word… a ghost. A ghost with cattle. Through observation duty, overheard conversations, and access to limited fragments of data, they began piecing together his daily routine. Every day, precisely: 0400 hours: Systems check and internal monitoring (done entirely by machines). 0600 hours: Feeding time for the cattle herd. 0900 hours: Strategic reports reviewed. 1200 hours: Meat preparation—apparently he cooked his own meals. 1500 hours: Extended silent hours (no communication with anyone). 1800 hours: Herd inspection. 2200 hours: Universal lock-down. He never slept, or if he did, the systems considered it "silent activity mode." He never met his officers. He never left the top floor. He was an unseen ruler over a fortress of thousands. And the fortress guarded him with layers of defense that made the 62nd commander look like an amateur. Not only were the floors biometric-locked… Not only was spatial warping rendered impossible… But even time dilation was regulated. Falco roared, unleashing a wave of dark energy from his hybrid form, launching several of the sticky masses backward. Aildris floated behind, completely unbothered, distorting the colors around him and dispersing the incoming jellies before they touched him. Every one of those things that got closed to him was drained of color. Then the alarms changed. "Warning: Intruders nearing Command Hub—Activating Slam Doors." Several thick, black partitions dropped from the ceiling, slicing off corridors, sealing entryways, and redirecting the group into isolated pockets. Lights turned dark blue. The ground rumbled as if the station itself were preparing for metamorphosis. "Dammit, he's sealing off every corridor!" E.E cursed. But then… all motion slowed. Not only was spatial warping rendered impossible… But even time dilation was regulated. When Angy attempted to used her speed, she felt the backlash immediately. A shockwave of temporal stabilizers pushed back against her abilities. She couldn't accelerate beyond the allowed limit here. She couldn't accelerate beyond the allowed limit here. And that would prevent her from speeding to the point where she turned impossible to spot. Everything was safeguarded. Everything. They held a group meeting in the safe corner of their assigned quarters—tiny, square metallic rooms with matte grey walls and uncomfortable beds that buzzed with scanner fields. Falco flopped onto a bed and groaned. "This place is hell. I tried to sneeze earlier and the bed recorded the vibration frequency." E.E shook his head. "We can't make a move. Not like this." Angy paced. "We need the top floor. But every path is sealed." Aildris tapped the schematics they'd memorized. "Even the waste disposal tunnels have surveillance and biometric gates. We can't warp, can't speed, can't break through, can't sneak." Falco sighed dramatically. "So basically, we can't do anything except behave and pray?" "No." Aildris' eyes gleamed. "We take the captain." E.E blinked. "Aildris, did you hit your head on an energy grid? We can't kill the captain. The moment he goes missing—" "We're not killing him," Aildris interrupted. "We're need to find a way to control him. Make him do our bidding." "And how the hell are we supposed to do that?" E.E questioned while throwing his hands up. Falco sat up. "I might have a way... a dark object..." E.E froze. "…dark object?" Falco nodded slowly. "It's not mine technically. It's something from my father's dark dimension. I don't use it unless I need to. It attaches to someone's psyche—but only when they're already entertaining dark thoughts. And once that happens, I become capable of controlling them." Aildris leaned forward. "If we want to impersonate him or use him for access, we need him compromised. Controlled. We need his thoughts leaning into darkness so Falco can use this dark object thing." Angy frowned. "But he's a rigid, uptight, annoyingly disciplined officer. The guy looks like he bathes in rules. How are you supposed to make someone like that have dark thoughts?" Falco cracked his knuckles. "That's the hardest part. We need him to willingly consider…" He shrugged. "…his most primal impulses." E.E stared at him. "So we need to… corrupt him?" Angy shook her head. "Not corrupt. Just… loosen the screws." Aildris sighed. "It'll take time. Days. Maybe weeks." "Then we start now," E.E said firmly. "We don't have the luxury of failing." Over the next few days, they executed the most morally confusing plan they had ever devised. They needed to befriend the captain. Convince him he liked them. Make him comfortable enough to let his guard down. And then steer his mind, patiently and carefully towards the shadows hidden inside him. The captain, much to their surprise, wasn't entirely robotic. He was rigid, yes. Ruthless, yes. Loyal, absolutely. But beneath that armor of discipline, there were cracks. Small ones. And cracks could be widened. They started by working flawlessly and completing tasks faster than any soldier. They exaggerated their strengths but never enough to appear suspicious. The captain noticed. One morning, he walked into their sector and nodded. > "Your efficiency is above standard. I acknowledge it." Falco whispered internally, Progress. The next day, Angy brought up conversations about food, specifically meat. "Sir, what's the best meat you've ever tasted?" she asked innocently. He raised a brow. > "Why does this concern you?" "Because your commander loves meat," Falco joined. "We figured everyone here must have refined taste." A strange pride flickered across the captain's face. > "He is… unmatched in preparation." The door cracked wider. The next time, E.E approached carefully. "Sir, do you think primal desires make people weak or normal?" The captain paused. > "Primal desires are distractions." Falco replied quickly, "Or they are indicators of strength. Nature isn't weak." Something shifted in the officer's expression as if the idea was new. ~ DAY 4 ~ They discussed internal conflicts, stress, anger. Falco added subtle nudges. "Everyone has thoughts they hide," he said. "Dark ones. But that's normal. Sometimes it means the mind is sharper." The captain didn't respond, but he didn't shut it down either. The seed had been planted. They carefully pressed on: They complained about unfair rules to get him to admit frustrations. They made him laugh at subtle jokes. They discovered he harbored resentment toward officers in lower sectors who slacked off. They encouraged him to express it. Every minor irritation was stoked into an ember. Every ember nurtured into warmth. Every warmth into heat. Aildris quietly analyzed his reactions. "He's starting to think aggressively," he reported. Falco nodded. "Dark object works best when the mind has tasted the idea of wanting more." E.E asked, "You mean greed?" "No," Falco replied. "Control." And then their opportunity finally arrived. ~ DAY 7 ~ The group was assisting the captain in reviewing troop discipline reports when he slammed his fist against the console. > "INCOMPETENT FOOLS!" The outburst shocked everyone, including himself. He rarely raised his voice. Angy immediately leaned in. "Sir? You okay?" He growled. > "These officers undermine my work. If I had my way… I'd—" He stopped himself. Falco's eyes sharpened. "That's natural, Captain. Wanting to enforce order. Wanting weakness removed."