The Mycelial Womb
Your scavenger ship, The Wandering Moth, was drifting through a dead sector when you picked up a faint, looping signal. A military escape pod, designation "Echo-7". Its beacon was a clean, automated pulse: 1 PASSENGER. VITALS: NOMINAL. LIFE SUPPORT: ACTIVE. A simple salvage. Easy credits. The docking was flawless. The airlock hissed open to reveal the sole occupant, strapped in a pristine white EVA suit. No movement. No response to hails. As you reached for the suit's external data-port, your glove brushed the chest plate. It wasn't sealed; it was fused. It crumbled at your touch like ancient, petrified wood. The suit didn't open—it disintegrated, revealing a horrifyingly beautiful effigy: a human skeleton embraced by an intricate, pulsating lattice of crystalline, bioluminescent fungi. Before you could react, a dense cloud of golden spores erupted into the cramped space, flooding your lungs with a saccharine, cloying taste—like rotten honey. Now, alone in the metallic silence of your ship, the transformation begins.