In the void of space, the visitors drift like a forgotten thought. The ship, a lifeless hunk of metal, floats toward the edge of reality—a black hole that twists space like a crumpled napkin.
The crew sits in eerie silence, every system dead except for life support, which hums faintly like an old refrigerator. Panic should grip them. Logic dictates action. But instead, there’s stillness. And Charamaynne, legs crossed, sits sipping tea, calm as a monk on a mountaintop.
The black hole spins ahead, a cosmic drain pulling time, light, and sense itself into its maw. Stars bend around it like circus mirrors, stretching into ribbons of absurdity. The crew feels the pull in their bones, not like gravity but like the universe itself is sighing, tired of holding them up. They exchange nervous glances. Panic simmers beneath the surface, bubbling like a pot about to boil. But no one dares to disturb Charamaynne.
The walls of the ship start to bend slightly, as if made of taffy. A pen floats by, its length stretching into a noodle before snapping back. Time starts to behave strangely. Minutes smear into hours, or maybe seconds; no one can tell anymore.
As the ship drifts closer to the event horizon, the black hole itself seems to blink, almost bored. A subtle ripple washes over the ship, as if the cosmos has decided this ship is too insignificant to bother with. The black hole shrugs, its gravity loosening. The ship wobbles, sways like a leaf caught in an indecisive breeze, and then—it floats free. No fanfare, no dramatic escape, just a quiet drift away from doom.
The crew sits in stunned silence. Reality snaps back into focus. The stars are stars again, the ship stops its surreal warping, and time feels less like taffy and more like, well, time.
Charamaynne takes another sip of tea. It’s still warm.