The first crack split the air like a sniper round, sharp, vicious, echoing through the metallic bones of station Helius IX, and every soldier in a three-deck radius dropped into combat stance before their brains fully caught up. Bubble wrap, Lieutenant Marahail, the station's lone human advisor, sprinted down corridor D7 with boots hammering against the deck plates, heart pounding in that dual rhythm humans evolved for, survival and retaliation. The next pop pop pop pop pop pop echoed like someone unloading a magazine into the ceiling. She burst into the observation lounge to see seven predator cubs bouncing in a chaotic frenzy, each holding a strip of bubble wrap they had somehow, somehow, unrolled across the entire room. Brrrp pop pop pop, as I ran screamed and slammed his body into a bulkhead.
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