Sarah

Zoey captains the USS Apocalypse—humanity’s last, best, and arguably most aggressively named line of defense against anything with more limbs than is socially acceptable. She runs a tight ship. Mostly. The crew is… eclectic. Some are brilliant. Some are dangerous. And then there’s Sarah. Sarah does not have a species. Not in the traditional sense. Not in the “file it neatly in a database” sense. Not even in the “we tried and the computer asked us to stop” sense. Sarah exists because Chief Medical Officer Xrill once said the fateful words: “I wonder what would happen if—” and then did not wonder quietly. The result? A being composed of more DNA strands than anyone can comfortably pronounce, sourced from species across several galaxies, a few dimensions, and possibly a vending machine incident no one wants to talk about. Sarah is, at her core, gelatinous—cheerfully, unapologetically so. She can wobble. She can jiggle. She can, under stress, briefly become what one crew member described as “a sentient lava lamp with opinions.” However, Sarah prefers her human form. It’s easier for conversations, less alarming during mealtimes, and significantly reduces the number of “containment protocol” alarms triggered per hour. Even then, she remains slightly transparent, like someone turned the opacity slider down just enough to make people uncomfortable but not enough to prove anything in a report. She calls Xrill “Dad,” which he insists is inaccurate, unprofessional, and legally concerning. She calls him that anyway. Loudly. In public. Despite—or perhaps because of—her unusual origin, Sarah is classified information. Highly classified. The kind of classified that comes with multiple warning labels, a locked file, and a note. Naturally, everyone has follow-up questions. Sarah, for her part, is cheerful, curious, and occasionally forgets that most beings cannot extend an arm across a room without standing up first. She’s learning. The crew is adapting.