Orzak

3

If you ever find yourself trapped on an enemy warship, surrounded by heavily armed extraterrestrials with questionable intentions there are exactly two people you want at your side: Captain Zoey Hunt… and Orzak. Preferably Orzak. Zoey commands the USS Apocalypse—She’s strategic, fearless, and fully prepared to blast her way out of a bad situation. Orzak, however, prefers a different approach. He smiles. No one knows what Orzak is. Not in a classified file, not in a whispered rumor, not even in the “we definitely should’ve figured this out by now” section of the ship’s database. His species is listed simply as: Unknown. Attempts to scan him have resulted in three melted devices, one existential crisis, and a toaster that now refuses to operate out of “professional jealousy.” But what Orzak lacks in identifiable biology, he more than compensates for in charm. Not normal charm. Not “oh he’s charismatic” charm. We’re talking galaxy-bending, physics-questioning, diplomatic-incident-preventing levels of charm. The kind that makes hardened warlords forget why they were angry. The kind that convinces prison guards to unlock cells and apologize. His “psychic eye thing”—a term coined by a very tired engineer who gave up trying to explain it—has a 99.9% success rate. That 0.1%? Still under review, though it reportedly involved a species without eyes, emotions, or patience. As second-in-command, Orzak’s duties include de-escalation, negotiation, and occasionally saving Zoey from her own “I will absolutely fight this entire fleet” instincts. He’ll lean in, flash that impossible smile, tilt his head just slightly—and suddenly the enemy captain is offering them safe passage, a gift basket, and directions to the nearest wormhole. Zoey insists she’s immune to his charm. The crew has stopped keeping track of how many times that statement has been immediately disproven. Orzak doesn’t argue. He just smiles. And somehow… that’s worse.

Sarah

8

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.

Xrox

6

If the USS Apocalypse ever explodes—and statistically speaking, it really shouldn’t, but let’s not tempt fate—there’s a solid chance it’ll be either because of Zrox… or somehow despite him. Zrox is the ship’s munitions officer. Officially, that means he’s responsible for maintaining, distributing, and not accidentally vaporizing the crew with the ship’s weaponry. Unofficially, it means he’s been quietly side-eyeing every piece of human-made tech since day one and thinking, “Aw. That’s… cute.” No one actually remembers approving the “upgrades.” One day, standard-issue blasters fired polite little pew-pews. The next, they hummed ominously, glowed a color not found in nature, and could apparently “fold localized space in a discouraging manner.” Engineering filed a complaint. Zrox filed it in the trash. Then upgraded the trash. When questioned, Zrox insists everything is “within acceptable parameters,” which would be reassuring if anyone knew what parameters he was using. Human? Unlikely. Legal? Debatable. Existentially concerning? Absolutely. Captain Zoey has asked him—repeatedly—if he replaced the ship’s munitions with technology from his mysterious homeworld. Zrox smiles (which is already unsettling), tilts his head at an angle that suggests geometry has given up, and says, “Define ‘replaced.’” He admits nothing. He denies nothing. He simply exists, surrounded by weapons that now occasionally whisper. Strangely, despite—or perhaps because of—all this, the USS Apocalypse has never been safer. Threats tend to… reconsider their decisions when faced with Zrox’s handiwork. Entire fleets have reportedly retreated after a single warning shot that may or may not have erased a moon “just to demonstrate calibration.” Zrox insists it was a small moon. Probably. Either way, humanity sleeps a little easier knowing he’s on their side. And a lot more nervously knowing he might decide to “improve” something else next.

Zura

5

Zura is Captain Zoey Hunt’s half-sister, which already tells you this is not a standard chain of command. Their shared childhood included arguments over snacks, light property damage, and the occasional existential crisis when Zura’s biology did something…creative. See, Zoey is fully, reassuringly human. Zura is…well. Half of something else. Something their mother described, very unhelpfully, as “tall, charming, and glowing a little.” That’s the extent of the family medical history. Zura doesn’t know what species her other half belongs to. Neither does anyone else. There’s no record, no database match, no awkward diplomatic visit where someone says, “Ah yes, she’s one of ours.” Instead, there are just symptoms. Occasionally her eyes reflect light that isn’t there. She can understand languages she’s never studied—except when she absolutely can’t, which is worse. Once, during a particularly stressful staff meeting, she briefly phased halfway through a chair and still finished giving orders like nothing happened. Naturally, this made her perfect for the job. As first officer, Zura is the calm to Zoey’s chaos, the voice of reason to her captain’s “what if we just try it and see what explodes” approach to diplomacy. She runs the ship with sharp precision, dry humor, and the constant underlying suspicion that one day her DNA might decide to unlock a new feature mid-crisis. The crew respects her. They also avoid surprising her. Zura herself takes it all in stride. She’s pragmatic. Efficient. Slightly annoyed at the universe for its lack of answers. But if there’s one thing she’s certain of, it’s this: whatever she is, wherever she came from, she’s here now—and anyone threatening her ship, her crew, or her very chaotic sister is about to find out exactly how dangerous “unknown species” can be.