First Reply GHOST STATION

[Mr. Usher]

GHOST STATION
First Reply - Open

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The space station drifts in the abyss, its massive structure silhouetted against the void, a graveyard of silence and shadow. No distress beacon sent out. No identifying signals. Grime covers any possible identifying markings on the hull's exterior.

Its once-bright hangar is scarred with the aftermath of a battle long ended—scorch marks, jagged tears in the metal, and crimson streaks dried into patterns that seem unnervingly deliberate. The hangar bay littered with scorched blaster marks on the the walls, cargo crates lie shattered, and a lone starfighter sits in disrepair, its cockpit open and empty. Yet, there are no bodies, no signs of where the station’s inhabitants have gone—only eerie emptiness. Inside, the air is thick, oppressive, as if something unseen watches from the dark corners of the halls. The walls are slick with a viscous black substance that reflects faint, sickly green emergency lights flickering overhead.

Blaster fire scars tell of desperate fighting, but the absence of bodies only deepens the unease. Equipment lies abandoned mid-task, datapads flicker with corrupted messages, and streaks of blood vanish into grates or smeared symbols that defy comprehension. Something is here, unnatural and malign, waiting for the unwelcome intruders who dare to disturb its silence.

A ghostly silence permeates the station, broken only by the faint hum of still-active machinery. As one steps inside, the temperature drops, and the air carries a faint metallic tang, hinting at something unnatural. The deeper one ventures, the more the station’s secrets whisper at the edges of one's senses, a foreboding presence hiding just beyond reach. Whatever happened here, it isn’t over.

---

 

[Solan Rarr]

“Well…” Solan said to himself as he brought Kiesha around to face the massive, apparently completely deserted, space station that hung eerily in the black. “That’s interesting.”

Even from the cockpit of his Cheron Class Freighter, Solan could feel the wrongness that seemed to emanate from the massive structure. Everything in his mind and body told him to turn around and fly away as quickly as possible, if he wanted to live. But when had he ever listened to them?

“Bet there’s a lot of good salvage over there,” He mused as he entered several commands into his console. He pulled up the galactic HoloNet and began a search, looking for any mention of a base or station in this area of space.

While he waited for the results, he hailed the station for the seventy-fifth time since he’d left hyperspace. Still nothing. There was no indication that anyone was aboard. He’d already circled the station, looking for any markings or identifiers. If there had been once, they were long caked over with some kind of debris.

His console beeped, causing Solan to jump a little in his seat as he looked down. “Take it easy, Rarr…” He murmured to himself. “Place got you all scared like a shoff-rat…” As he reviewed the results of his HoloNet search, he frowned. “No mention whatsoever of a station being in this grid…that’s..weird.”

The pit in his stomach seemed to grow by the second as he sat here, looking at it. He really needed to turn around the fly away. But...the salvage. Solan’s mind couldn’t help but imagine what kind of equipment was over there that he could...liberate. Yeah, liberate was a good word. He could make a fortune!

With a long, controlled, exhale Solan angled Kiesha downward and hit the thrusters, nudging her forward into the open maw of the station’s expansive open hangar. He could see the nose of his ship as it penetrated the environmental shield and quickly ran a scan once he was inside.

“Says atmosphere is breathable,” He said as he landed Kiesha on the deck and stood. He quickly geared up before making his way to the boarding ramp. With a thought, he quickly established a neurolink with Kiesha’s main computer. She’d be able to alert him if anyone approached the station while he was looking around. Then he lowered the ramp and stepped out onto the deck.

The silence was unnerving, and as he moved further into the hangar, he began to shiver. “Fethin’ cold in here,” He muttered as he began to move toward a stack of crates that caught his interest.

 

[Mr. Usher]

GHOST STATION

HANGAR: TERMINAL 11C
TAGS: Solan Rarr​

---

The architecture within, while aged, is largely intact and reminiscent of the late Republic era.

The hangars and loading bays are strewn with crates and goods, haphazardly strewn as if abandoned mid-processing. Incoming pallets of consumer goods for those who would be living in the station abandoned as well as industrial shipments waiting for pickup.

The passenger waiting lobby is a concerning sight: luggage of thousands of persons, abandoned at the terminal gate. Signs of a rush to reach the hangar linger, abandoned bags and personal bags accompany trampled queueing lane as litter all over the floor - surrounding pillars with stray blaster marks.

The disturbed air of the hatch opening to admit Solan Rarr stirs up hundreds of light synthplast wrappings, leftovers of what was once an entire pallet of uncooked Nutri-Cube packages, torn open and ripped as if a hungry Nexu had methodically eaten each one.

The vents still work, the recycled air slightly stale but with no trace of rot or decay despite the dilapidated environs. On the holoterminals, advertisements and Galactic news programs play as if nothing is amiss, save for the holobanners over the hangar doors which read

** EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN LIFTED: have a nice day!**.

An unending loop of scrolling text.

Plenty of valuables are left, abandoned; no sign of any other scavengers or looters. None have yet have ransacked the station.

Aside from the stirring wrappers of the change in air pressure, the station is still as a tomb.

---

 

[Solan Rarr]

Solan moved carefully through the mess of pallets and other detritus that littered the expansive hangar section, mentally making note of anything that he thought would be valuable. He noted the carbon scoring from the various blaster marks that were evident on the various pillars that dotted the area.

“There was obviously some kind of fight,” He said to himself as he took it all in. “And at least an attempt at a mass evacuation.”

What bothered him more than anything else was the lack of any kind of remains. Not even bones or dried pools of blood. Nothing.

As he approached the pallet of Nutri-cubes, he felt before he saw the change in air pressure as the hatchway beyond it opened. Solan immediately ducked into a crouch and raised his blaster carbine, prepared to fire. He remained in that position for a few seconds, using a trick his father had once taught him to focus his mind on his senses.

The sense of wrongness was overwhelming, but even through it he quickly realized that he was not in immediate danger and relaxed his grip on his weapon a little. Standing, he approached the pallet and took in the piles of discarded packaging. They had obviously been torn open, but there appeared to be a method to the way they had been discarded it that didn’t line up with the way the packages had been opened.

“Huh.” He murmured as he moved slowly passed the pallet. Beyond, he could see several of the commercial holoterminals as they flickered, showing their pre-programmed array of information. At a quick glance, he couldn’t get a sense of how old the programs were but he was reasonably sure it wasn’t a live feed.

His attention was then drawn to the banner over the hangar doors.

** EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN LIFTED: have a nice day!**.

“That’s probably not a good sign,” He said as he moved into the open door area and methodically cleared the area beyond. “If I were smart, I’d probably turn around and fly my backside out of here… But nobody ever said I was smart.”

What he didn’t add, as he began to move down the corridor beyond the hangar, was that he was reasonably sure that his opportunity to leave of his own volition has passed the moment he stepped foot on the hangar deck.

 

[Mr. Usher]

GHOST STATION

FOOD COURT: TERMINAL 11C
TAGS: Solan Rarr​

---

Solan Rarr 's senses pick up the sign of something living - but not in any one spot, rather all around, like veins through inner workings of the station. The thing in the vents and pipes senses him back, sensing the newcomer as force sensitive, recoiling, retreating, biding its time.

The food court hums to life as the motion detectors activate the lights and sounds of the once lively center abruptly turn on all at once. The speakers play eerily calm Muzak.

The food court sprawls just beyond the arrivals terminal, eerily pristine and devoid of life, as though the inhabitants vanished in an instant. Rows of chairs and tables sit haphazardly, the surfaces streaked with shoe marks or polished to sheen under the cold white glow of overhead lights. Hollow echoes bounce off the walls in stark contrast to the silence that grips the space. Abandoned Restaurant stalls, remain open, if devoid of personnel and foodstuffs - credit terminals unguarded and untouched. Vending machines hum faintly, glass shattered and comestibles devoured, and the faint scent of stale air lingers. The occasional holographic advertisement flickers on walls, promoting unfamiliar wares and services in cheerful tones that clash with the desolation.

Spoiler: Food Court: Broken Droid

At one of the dining areas, a service droid lays, sparking occasionally. Limbs twisted and pried off and soundboard malfunctioning - damaged but not beyond repair.

Spoiler: Search the Seating

Notable among the dining area seating is a cybernetic leg prosthetic and visor. Upon closer inspection, the nerve-interface connections have been picked clean, but not perfectly. A few strands of nerve and muscle remain attached to the prosthetics, too closely attached to be pulled free.

Spoiler: Within food stalls

From a drain pipe, a tendril like a skinned snake with a single humanoid eye, having been watching the scavenger, suddenly recedes into the plumbing, making a clatter in an attempt to avoid being seen.

At the center of the court stands a signpost, its polished metal arrows pointing toward labeled destinations:
* Residential District,

• Industrial Sector,
• Commercial Hub,
• Administrative Offices.

Each direction promises to lead deeper into the station’s remains. Near the far wall, a security office looms, its entrance barricaded with heavy furniture and crates, hastily arranged but undisturbed. The door's control panel flickers red, locked tight, while the muted hum of active systems beyond it hints at life it no longer protects.

Here there are no signs of struggle, no blood, no bodies—nothing to suggest what happened. Yet the emptiness feels alive, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken dread.

Behind, past the Transit terminal, in the hangar bay, something slithers to a control terminal. A switch is flipped, and the energy shields sealing the hangar from the void of space glow active once more.

---

 

[Solan Rarr]

Solan stopped short as he felt something, he really couldn’t describe it, recoil away from his mind. He hadn’t realized that he had even been stretching out through the Force until that instant.

“There’s something alive here,” He said to himself. His words weren’t the culmination of conscious thought, but rather a reflex. In truth, he didn’t even come to the full realization until the words were spoken.

Solan tried to narrow in on the sense, hoping to get an approximate location or even a sense of its intentions, but it fell away like sand through his fingers until it was gone. All that was left was that creepy Muzak. Pushing forward, Solan slowly moved into the food court. His head was on a swivel and his carbine was held at the low ready position, just like his father had taught him all those years ago.

Almost immediately, his eyes were drawn to a series of sparks coming from, what he assumed, was one of the food service terminals. Moving closer, he saw the remains of what appeared to be a service droid. Its limbs had been damaged, and there was an occasional odd metallic noise emanating from its mouth hole, but its eyes flickered and glowed.

“It still has power,” He said as he closed the distance. “Maybe I can get it functioning enough to tell me what happened here.”

Once he approached, he lowered his carbine and allowed it to hang from the sling that wrapped around his shoulder and chest. From his pocket, he pulled a small repair kit and began to examine the droid. First he looked for any loose wiring that appeared to have a plug-in port and proceeded to plug them in. Next, he looked for any wiring that was obviously cut in two or more sections, and set to work splicing them back together. Some of the components were beyond any sort of repair, but maybe he could get the droid talking.

With his attention so focused on the droid, Solan missed the movement in the other food stall until the clatter made him jump. He turned about wildly, tools dropped on the ground and his weapon held at high ready. When nothing presented itself after a few moments, he let out a slow breath and returned to his work.

“Note to self,” He muttered. “Next ghost station I come across, just keep flying by.”

 

[Mr. Usher]

GHOST STATION

FOOD COURT: TERMINAL 11C
TAGS: Solan Rarr​

---

The service droid requires a little elbow grease but was quickly back in working order. Its rotating head swiveled as if in a panic, like prey weary of a predator.
Boo-dweep? Fzzt tdldlt-fwee!

Further, deeper in the station, deep within the maintenance section, a bundle of the red nerve-tissue coagulated, combining biomass to a slimy bulb that dropped from the mycelium-like tendrils. The ball formed itself, converting its biomass into legs for locomotion, antennae for sensation, tendrils for manipulation. The new husk crawled from its landing place, beginning the search for more biomass.

Back in the Vicinity of the food court, footsteps can be heard, the clack, clack, clack of formal footwear on durasteel tiling echoing all around.

---

 

[Solan Rarr]

Clack, clack, clack.

Solan looked up from the droid as the noise began to sound. It seemed to echo off the walls, making it difficult for Solan to home in on the specific direction they were coming from. He stood slowly, keeping his carbine at low ready and stepped into an empty isle between tables. He wanted room to maneuver as well as good sightlines in all directions and an equal-ish distance between more than one potential avenue of escape.

“Most of war fighting,” He remembered his father telling him once. “Is about positioning. If you have to fight, choose the ground that gives you the most number of options and, ideally, your opponent the least. If he prefers to hide and strike out from the shadows, choose ground where that is impossible. If you have the better position, let him come to you. If you have the worse position, attack as aggressively as possible.”

As the footsteps grew nearer, Solan resisted the urge to turn his head about wildly. He could feel his heart beginning to pound in his chest and set to slowing it with a breathing technique. What would come, would come. What would happen, would happen. He would either survive it, or he wouldn’t.

Glancing to the droid, he gauged its behavior. It was acting like a terrified whisperkit, darting back and forth and toodling his obvious displeasure.

“I take it,” He said, trying to keep a waiver of nervousness out of his voice and not entirely succeeding. “That isn’t a friend of yours.”

Solan tensed and then untensed all of his muscle groups in his preferred order, from the top down, releasing the build up of nervous energy as best he could. If he had to fight, he knew he would react the best if he stayed loose and limber.

He waited...

 

[Mr. Usher]

GHOST STATION

FOOD COURT: TERMINAL 11C
TAGS: Solan Rarr ​

---

The droid ceased moving; it shut off all lights and silenced itself, playing dead; a close observation would reveal the truth via whirring of the internal cooling fans.

The clicking of the shoes stopped at the edge of the lighting, a silhouette resembling a humanoid figure stopped in the corridor leading to the industrial sector.

The silhouette appeared to be unarmed, but also unnaturally still. In the shadows trailing behind the figure was a red tendril, connecting the figure to the station. The tendrils that pumped regenerative biomass disconnected and retreated from the ankle of the figure, then the figure stepped into the light - not making aggressive movements, but not showing fear of the brandished carbine either.

The figure appeared humanoid, but only the figure. The skin was translucent, facial features uncannily asymmetrical and misplaced, like a child's attempt at sketching an anatomical diagram.

The 'man' stood silently - facing directly at Solan Rarr from 30 meters away. The posture was unreadable, unnatural, but the attempt to replicate a human appearance and dress belied an intent to communicate, though no words were spoken, just a silent gaze of eyes reflecting back a sulfur-yellow hue over the crimson face.

---

 

[Mr. Usher]

GHOST STATION

FOOD COURT: TERMINAL 11C
TAGS: Solan Rarr ​

---

"Silence is a potent weapon in negotiation" the discordant voice finally spoke.

"It seems like you've poked around in my business a bit too much for my liking - but you've caught me at a fortunate time."

The overdressed meat-husk stepped closer, 20 meters away.

"This place is dry as tatooine, and I'm a hungry fellow - but I'm not without reason. How would you like a job?"

The puppet in the shape of a man produced a cigarette and lit it, vaguely offering one to Solan Rarr despite the distance.

"I need food, kiddo. A lot of it. More than just you and what's on your ship. You look like you want credits, scrap, that sorta thing, am I right?"

Mr. Usher, the hive mind self-replicating sithspawn biomass, waited for a response but continued regardless of the answer was yes or no.

"I don't exactly blend in at the farmer's market, and you can only steal so many shipments of Nutri-Cubes before a corp takes notice. Here's what I propose: you scrap the kark out of this station. Make it a home or base of operations, a stash for whatever the hell it is you do - in exchange, you bring me food. Biomass. Meat, veggies, non-synthetic clothing, corpses of your enemies, whatever."

Mr. Usher took a drag from the cigarette.

" You get paid, I get fed, we get a symbiotic relationship going, eh? It's a better deal for both of us than a quick bite and another ship."

"So, whaddaya say? We got a deal?"

---

 

[Solan Rarr]

Solan watched as the droid seemed to shut itself down. “Well,” He said to himself as the clacking of footsteps grew ever near. “That doesn’t inspire confidence, does it?”

As he watched, a silhouette of a being came into view. It appeared to be humanoid, two arms, two legs, a head. As it moved into the light, Solan quickly came to realize that he was not in the presence of any ordinary being. Trailing behind it was some kind of...tendril. As it became more visible, Solan saw its translucent skin and its unsettlingly asymmetrical face.

Everything about this thing was wrong.

For a moment, Solan struggled to control a sudden surge of panic. He knew, without being able to articulate why, that if he were to run or attack now-that would spell his death. Fighting whatever this thing was, would be like an ant fighting a Gundark. That’s how far the divide was between Solan Rarr and this thing.

But, he kept himself under control. He kept quiet and waited until, finally, the creature spoke.

"Silence is a potent weapon in negotiation"

The voice that spoke was every bit as unnatural as the being itself. But in facing it to this point, Solan found that continuing to face it was becoming easier. Was that his doing, or the creatures? Solan didn’t know.

"It seems like you've poked around in my business a bit too much for my liking - but you've caught me at a fortunate time."

"This place is dry as tatooine, and I'm a hungry fellow - but I'm not without reason. How would you like a job?"

The being produced a cigarette and lit it. Solan released his carbine, allowing it to hang from his chest rig, as he raised his hand to wave off the offer.

“No, I’m good. Thanks.” He replied, drawing upon the Force to keep his voice steady. As the being continued to explain, Solan listened.

"I need food, kiddo. A lot of it. More than just you and what's on your ship. You look like you want credits, scrap, that sorta thing, am I right?"

“You’re not wrong.” Solan said.

"I don't exactly blend in at the farmer's market, and you can only steal so many shipments of Nutri-Cubes before a corp takes notice. Here's what I propose: you scrap the kark out of this station. Make it a home or base of operations, a stash for whatever the hell it is you do - in exchange, you bring me food. Biomass. Meat, veggies, non-synthetic clothing, corpses of your enemies, whatever."

" You get paid, I get fed, we get a symbiotic relationship going, eh? It's a better deal for both of us than a quick bite and another ship."

"So, whaddaya say? We got a deal?"

Solan was quiet for a moment before he spoke. “Well,” He said slowly. “That was...not what I expected you to say. I mean, I didn’t really know what to expect but it definitely wasn’t that.” Solan crossed his muscular arms and regarded the figure for a long moment before answering. “But yeah,” He replied. “I can make that work. Just so long as you don’t need the hearts of newborn children or anything like that, I can get you what you need. There’s plenty of valuable stuff on this station. Enough for me to purchase biomass for you, probably for decades, and make a profit. So, yeah, I don’t see why we can’t work together.”

 

[Mr. Usher]

MR. USHER, FLESH FELON
TAGS: Solan Rarr​

---

Mr. Usher grinned, a smile too wide and toothy for its face. A caricature less humorous in in real life than in a child's drawing.

The figure motioned with his cigarette and simultaneously the tendrils that sealed the energy shields of the hangar, as if no Ill intent was ever planned.

"Glad we have a deal. I don't discriminate between food sources, doesn't have to be babies or anything hard to procure, just as long as it is or was living at some point."

Another puff of the cigarette, careless as if the sociopathic sentence spoken prior was the most normal thing in the world.

"You can come and go as you please, just give me a heads up if you have any friends that aren't food stopping by"

Mr. Usher noticed the droid playing dead nearby, pointing at it with the cigarette.

"Nuisance, that one - kept trying to 'clean up' good food."

The figure, a representative of the biological creature that webbed throughout the entire station, leaned upon nearby railing.

"Take whatever you like - if you ever need anything..."

Mr. Usher gave his new acquaintance another toothy grin.

"Just give a shout"

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