I never thought I’d miss the smell of fake smoke and rubber alien suits. But here I am, standing on the real bridge of the NSEA Protector, heart pounding as red alert lights flash. Sarris is out there, and this time, he’s not playing a role. None of us are.

It started at a convention—just another weekend of autographs and bad cosplay. Then the Thermians showed up, speaking in perfect sync with the show’s script. I played along, because that’s what I do. But when they transported me to this ship, I realized: they weren’t fans. They were believers.

Now, Gwen’s at communications, her voice steady as she reroutes power. Alexander stands by the science station, muttering Shakespeare under his breath. Fred’s crawling through a maintenance shaft, yelling about beryllium levels. Tommy’s hands are white-knuckled on the controls. And Guy? He’s holding a real phaser, looking like he might faint.

The ship shudders. Sarris has found us.

'Jason,' Gwen says, turning to me. 'They’re locking weapons. What do we do?'

I look at the crew—the actors, the friends, the family I never knew I had. This isn’t a show anymore.

We have to make a choice.