They had created a black hole.
—Or rather, she had.
Agnes Fox: lead researcher, director of the Space Operations Mission Directorate, and the woman who offhandedly joked about launching a nuclear warhead into deep space. The same woman whose lunchtime sarcasm would eventually spiral into a catastrophe that tore a hole through a galaxy.
It all began innocently enough—during a routine lunch break, the team sat crowded around a flickering table display, poking at half-warmed meals as they discussed the looming specter of war. The topic had become as casual and repetitive as the coffee they drank.
"Why don't we just launch the bombs into space?" Agnes had said, chuckling mid-bite. "It's not like anything would happen. Toss one into a distant galaxy—poof, problem solved."
Laughter followed. Nervous, distracted laughter—the kind used to keep the dread at bay. Her sarcasm was legendary, her wit sharp, and yet behind the jokes was a formidable mind, one not easily dismissed.
But someone had taken her seriously.
Whether it was a listening intern desperate to prove their worth, or a bureaucrat too numb to detect irony, her offhand comment lit a spark. The conversation spread, morphing from speculation to proposal, until it landed in the laps of those with the power to act. And act they did.
Despoena was born—a sleek, gleaming monstrosity. A nuclear payload married to a gravity-altering core. A weapon meant to be a deterrent. Instead, it tore a wound through the stars.
Agnes hadn't meant for this to happen. But she bore the weight all the same.
She sat now, hunched over a console slick with dust and dried blood, her head in her hands. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of dying machines and the distant groan of metal settling.
She didn't know who was left alive. If anyone. Time was hard to track in a broken world, and the years had smeared together like fogged glass. Still, she had to know.
Or maybe she didn't. What justice existed for someone who had unmade a galaxy? Even if she hadn't built Despoena herself, she had directed the project, given it life. Intent no longer mattered. The result did. If she were ever found, a life sentence would be merciful.
She shook the thought away, trying to focus.
Now was not the time to crumble.
Rising shakily, she turned from the corpses on the floor—colleagues, friends, ghosts now—and surveyed the lab. Two exits. One down the right corridor, and one hidden behind the clutter on the far left.
Her stomach growled, the sound sharp and sudden in the silence. The blueberries she'd found earlier had barely dulled the hunger gnawing at her core.
"Stats," she muttered.
Name: Agnes Fox
Level: Human V2
Strength: 6 Vitality: 72
Agility: 3 Saturation: 12
Skills: None
Title: Genius Inventor
Alert: Saturation is critically low.
She frowned. What are skills? And what the hell does 'Genius Inventor' even mean?
System Alert: Saturation is critically low. Disabling Neurochip.
"Damn it," she hissed.
Dizziness crept in like a slow tide. Her enhanced cognitive functions flickered and faded, leaving her raw and tired. She scanned the room again, searching for the blueberry stash—but it was empty.
Her stomach groaned again, louder this time.
There was no choice. Her first destination was clear: the kitchen.