The science wing of the ship hummed with sterile precision, the overhead lights casting a cold, clinical glow over rows of consoles, sealed containment chambers, and translucent screens filled with ever-evolving data. Deep within Lab 4C, Lieutenant Commander Lucas “Markiplier” Hall Angel stood at the main terminal, eyes locked on the rapidly shifting digital display. Numbers, glyphs, and pulses of energy flowed across the screen—behavioral readings from the cube, their most enigmatic artifact.

For the past six hours, Lucas had been immersed in observation, running quantum stability tests, recalibrating magnetic containment fields, and cross-referencing spectral data from the cube’s latest energy output. No one fully understood what it was—an alien construct, perhaps, or a fragment of an ancient intelligence—but it had chosen now to shift. To change. That meant no breaks, no distractions, and certainly no errors.

Only when the cube settled back into its inert, glass-like form did Lucas finally exhale. He took a step back, stretching his stiff neck with a low grunt. His black lab coat was smudged near the cuff, and the edges of his cyber-interface gloves glowed faintly from extended use. The cube was quiet now, for the moment. And that meant he could rest.

He tapped the console to secure the lab, encrypted the logs with his bio-signature, and slipped out of the science wing, the sliding doors whispering shut behind him. The corridors felt almost alien after so long in the lab. He passed by a junior crew member who offered a quick salute, and Lucas returned it with a tired smile. His thoughts were still half in the lab—still chasing patterns, probabilities, and what-if theories—but his body craved food, warmth, and human presence.

By the time he reached the mess hall, the shift change crowd had mostly filtered in. The usual cacophony greeted him: laughter, the scrape of boots, cups clinking, and the comforting rhythm of ordinary life. He grabbed a tray, half-listening to the options. Something involving curry, he thought, though he barely registered the taste anymore. It wasn’t about flavor—it was about grounding.

Lucas took his seat near a viewport, where the stars beyond drifted in perfect silence. He stared for a moment, letting his thoughts untangle as the hot food warmed his hands. Around him, crew members talked about training drills, someone’s birthday, even the latest betting pool on whether the cube would “grow legs and walk off” next week. He chuckled softly to himself. Humor kept the tension at bay.

As he ate, Lucas finally allowed himself a breath. A real one. The kind that came when the day’s pressure eased just enough to let his mind settle. The mysteries of the cube could wait. For now, he was just another officer grabbing dinner, watching the stars, and reminding himself that even amid the vast unknowns, moments like this—quiet, human moments—still mattered.

Lieutenant Commander Lucas “Markiplier” Hall Angel
Chief Science Officer
USS Memorial