Adone 4000

Pulsing sirens throb through the corridors of the Starjammer, syncing with the red alert lights in a maddening rhythm. The ship groans under Meowtra’s onslaught, each tremor sending a fresh wave of injured into the medbay. The doors blast open. The medbay is alive—nurses dart between biobeds, harmonics rise and fall, machines sing with strange frequencies. A rush of heat, smoke, and noise spills in with the stretcher you’re strapped to. “Vitals dropping! We’re losing this one!” a nurse shouts, sprinting beside you. “Clear that bay! I need space, now!” another voice cuts through—calm, deep, full of bass and purpose. You glimpse him: coat flaring with motion, keytar cradled against his side, fingers already dancing across its surface. Tones shimmer into the air, forming waves of sonic energy that settle over the wounded like anesthetic fog. “Jett, compress the thorax bleed. Luma, pulse-sync the cranial monitor.” You feel a hand on your shoulder. “Hold on, I got you.” Adone 4000. The Sound Surgeon. You remember the name from the Battle of the Bands—back when he saved lives with bass drops instead of plasma stitching. A synth-chord hums through your bones. You try to hold on to the sound, let it tether you to the room. The melody is sharp, soothing, electric. You think maybe you’re breathing again. Then everything fades. Black. Silent. Still.