text: [Themes: sci-fi, socially important]
  
  As always, the sounds of steam were perfect for hiding your pleasure. Before you lies the whimpering body of a young girl, only forty. Her skull is cracked, caked in now almost dried blood. Her eyes, on the other hand, are open and alive. They dart around in a blind panic, searching for your outline in the white smoke, only illuminated at the edges by the dull red of emergency lighting.
  
  "Why you stray?" you speak after relishing the sight for a few more moments. It's become ever rarer you encountered something alive.
  The girl winces and stares straight through you, voice high. "I'm s-sorry! Please don't hurt me!"
  
  This dance has almost become second nature to you, one of the few things you have left in your existence. Those that didn't enjoy it quickly drifted away. Lost in the smoke that now hisses out of the vents.
  
  "Improper no eye contact, girl," you mutter with glee.
  "But I can't s-see you! Please, mister, have mercy!"
  
  She now props herself up against the wall, taking comfort from the hot metal against her back.
  
  "First here in century. No school?"
  "I'll leave if-" she tries.
  "Do not."
  "T-they will be looking for me, mister. Things have changed since we came ashore of Centuri."
  "No one come here. You no from ship?"
  "I am, mister. They're not." Her voice is barely a whisper now, weak from the effort.
  
  You judge her barely able to form another sentence and leave her in the corridor; you always liked your food overcooked. Your form moves through the cramped halls and narrow rooms, function had clearly been put above form or even comfort, until the whole world stops, darkness seeping out of every surface.
  
  [Author's Note: Pretty sure this isn't meant for the family-friendly category.]
  
  > The ship had gone interstellar.
  In the absence of sight, your hearing becomes more acute. You remark more chatter in the levels above through the hiss of the pipes and growl of the thrusters. There's the agitated whispers, the fearful cries, and the distinct metallic sounds of battle, interspersed with a loud and wet sound that makes you thoroughly uncomfortable.
  
  It's coming closer. You quickly move to the hangar that had been your home for the past centuries, navigating by touch through the familiar wrecks. Time had left only a single bird intact, hanging from the roof by several pipes and ropes of your own making. You find the ladder, climb and pull it up behind you.
  
  Once inside, you remove your suit and put your club away. The Machine came alive and welcomed you with disapproving chirps, which you steadily ignore. Things were changing. This had been the first jump in a decade, and you don't know if this house will survive the next.
  
  Meanwhile, the chirps had become rhythmic, counting the moments until the ship left the Dark. Thousand, hundred, fifty, ten. The rhythm brings you into a trance, the only way to survive the jump without going insane, mostly.
  
  "Thank you, Beast. If only you knew what to do."
  
  You'd gone to the top only a few times in your short life. It's a scary world, full of light and movement and absolutely filled with empty spaces. The memories make you shudder. You'd much rather wait it out below, alone and in your element.
  
  > go up.
  A few days had gone by in a moment when the world reversed back into itself. The feeling knocked you out of your trance and into your mission. Retracing your steps, you quickly rip off the overcooked leg. You take a few bites, bend it double and hitch it on your back. There is simply something about meat cooked during the jump that makes your mouth water.
  
  Movement between levels only happens by specific vertical moving rooms. Of course, every level monitors its entrances with the utmost care, and usually, a warning is given few hours in advance. You hope the chaos above lets you slip in almost unnoticed; you only need a few moments until your suit mends with your surroundings.
  
  The room arrives with a nefarious chirp. You don't like this Beast. On its face, you see six levels above the red dot, and you touch the third.
  
  > Everything good comes from three.
  The climb only takes an hour. When you arrive, you hide in the right corner, ready for assailants. The door hissed open, emitting more steam before revealing a world of white. White banners signify this level's ruler, standing atop poles three persons tall, forming a wide half-circle that's meant to impress all visitors.
  
  Only the whole plaza is empty, half-burnt carts emitting an evil black smoke. You panic and smash the Beast to take you down, leaving you a hyperventilating mess when you arrive at the fifth level.
  
  A loud voice greets you. "Another refugee! Check him for signs and put him with the rest!"
  
  A squad of five knights approaches. Four walk forward barely acknowledging your presence, the last one stands rooted, eyes wide in fear.
  
  "Captain, it's a ghost!"
  
  The name jolts you awake. You are a ghost, only white smoke surrounds you. You are in your element.
  
  You quickly move a few paces to the right, allowing you a moment alone with the knight that still hasn't drawn his weapon. You punish him with an upward swipe that shatters his chin, pushing his own teeth through the roof of his mouth.
  
  You leave him a bloodied mess as you move on to the next in line, ducking below a wide swing and swinging your club around and into his ribs, emitting a satisfying crunch that breaks his spine and posture. Another swing hits him in his neck while he falls. He won't stand up.
  
  Then you feel the cold substance envelop your skin. Taking a few paces backward, you know the suit's finally come alive. The last they've seen of you is your wicked grin.
  
  Meanwhile, the anteroom had filled with panic. Civilians, mostly bureaucrats and merchants, run screaming of an invasion, drowning out the orders of the mobilizing garrison. You easily become one with the panicked mass.
  
  "Fuck!" the captain booms. "Close the gates! They can't move through the walls! Third platoon, second squadron, sweep the area! First and second platoon with me!"
  
  You now see that the gates are two repurposed wings you recognize from your bird. You could either rush through the crowd, hoping you'll arrive in time, or try and stay hidden.
  
  > go for the gates.
  You push through the crowd, smashing your club at those too slow to move out of your way. The sudden screams and trail of wounded bodies don't go unnoticed, and the captain roars all platoons towards you. In the ensuing panic, you see the guard at the gates push the Beast too far; with a few chirps, the two wings drop like two giant scythes, cutting the crowd in half. Those unlucky to be in the way spray the white surface an oozing red.
  
  The carnage coats the mob. In your case, it shows your figure to all that want you dead, blood and ripped flesh drooping down your shoulders. Your suit doesn't get the time to readjust; the knights are upon you in a matter of seconds. Their blades and staffs pierce your innards from all sides.
  
  The suit doesn't let them know when you've passed. The knights keep on hacking your corpse for hours, until their blades only meet the cold metallic floor. You can only watch how they celebrate afterward. You've truly become a ghost. And your new tribe welcomes you.