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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Beautiful-Hold4430 on 2025-06-30 23:41:48+00:00.

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Outside the hall, a red warning light flashed: DANGER– DO NOT ENTER.

Inside, the first thing to become visible was a sock.

It stomped once, sharply, as though making a point. A second later, the rest of its owner began to flicker into view—marine-grade stealth armor shedding its shimmer, revealing a scowling face and a sheen of sweat.

More shapes followed. Heads. Shoulders. Elbows. Boots. All angry.

They did not speak.

They looked at each other, then at the cadet who informed them.

An unused spray-paint can rolled into a corner.

The medic approached. To take the readings from the suits. The sweaty faces confirmed there were still heat issues.

The cadet looked from one marine to the other. “Are you sure we shouldn’t quarantine time?”

The medic tried to speak, but needed his inhalator first. He looked like a person just coming from the toilet for a second. Then he turned his rolling eyes on the cadet.

“They never went outside. Don’t be—”

He needed another puff—the humid air taking away his breath.

“…daft,” the medic finally concluded.

The cadet now turned to the medic. “Are you sure you are alright?”

To: UNS Europe From: UNS command/zza5

Stop. Repeat stop exterior mission. Extreme contamination hazard. Do not leave ship. Enact contamination protocols with extreme prejudice.

Related attachment 1a for captain’s eyes only.

With trembling hands the communications officer patched the message through to the captain’s quarters.

He could hear the marines cursing while the first officer approached him with big steps, checking the message.

“Fuck,” was all he said. He checked the hall the marines had used to ready themselves. All were becoming visible again, as parts of their armor had been taken off.

An arm was floating here, a leg visible at the other side. And quite a few sweaty, angry marines with only their faces hovering in the air.

The sight was just as disjointed as the command they just received. Contamination hazards? From what? What didn’t HQ tell? There was an attachment for the captain. Perhaps they told him.

Meanwhile the captain had received the message too. His eyes went immediately to the attachment.

Restricted access only

Contamination class 1/z98. Activate protocol W31c.

The captain read it again. Nanites or a biological equivalent. Deadly. No known countermeasures. Extremely contagious.

His eyes tensed when coming to the protocol. Self-destruct at positive signs of contamination. The entire ship, with all personnel.

The threat is too big for HQ to take any chances. They nearly died when they were too far from the dreadnoughts. And now he might have doomed his crew for getting too close.

He thought of their young faces. Exhilarated when they fired the point defenses. Silent when they saw a dreadnought deleted. Laughing at the birthday prank.

He clenched his fist.

“God dammit.”

He was alone, but still he spoke again, unable to hold back.

“God dammit. Of all the shittiest—“

His voice broke off. He looked at the wall, but his focus was miles further. He then used his communicator.

“Tea, please.”

The first officer, jumpy from the strange message, overheard the request.

Tea? This was even more serious than he thought. The captain never drinks tea. He left the young pilot in command and went to the captain’s quarters.

“John,” the captain started. The captain had never addressed him with his first name. He thought the captain didn’t even know.

The first officer blinked. It was silent for a second. He saw the captain’s eyes were red and swollen. It was silent for a second. Then the captain started again.

“John, it is terrible. In case of contamination we are ordered to self-destruct.”

The first officer’s face turned pale. “What? Why?”

“They did not even trust us. Just the order. A letter and a number deciding our fate.” The captain sounded different. Old.

The captain took a bottle and two glasses from a compartment John had never seen before. The ship had more secrets than John knew, or wanted to know.

Meanwhile in the mess, the regular order had more or less returned. The nearby dreadnought still posed as a surreal city landscape.

“Still not convinced?” The marine approached the doctor for what must have been the umpteenth time.

She smiled tiredly. “Convinced of what?”

“Me being irresistible. What else?” The marine stood there confident. Knowing full well this would be another blue exit.

The doctor shook her head, sighing. “Not everyone is in love with their mirror-image.”

There were a few more marines in the mess hall. They just completed their training and smelled of sweat. Watching the scene unfold, one remarked, “Popcorn?”

‘Helios’, or Sunnyboy as the others called him, still wore part of his power armor, waiting till the water recycling was fixed to take a shower.

The marine was not stopped that easily. “Who would not be, if you were me?”

“I would wear a stealth suit, if I were you.” The deadpan reply from Spades raised some cheers.

“I’m the breacher, I always get through, and I’m always the first,” Sunnyboy was not held back for a second.

The doctor stood up. “I guess I will see you soon in bed then—as a patient.”

Accompanied with some whooping, she left the mess, and the marine thoroughly blue.

Short after, an alarm sounded. The dreadnoughts picked up speed. Soon, they went faster than the UNS Europe could keep up with. Slowly the giants left in the distance. It was not a true relief. It was a delay.

In the quiet that followed, Spades retrieved the spray-can from the corner it rolled into, muttering “It will be of later use.” Just like him, there were many others not yet ready with these giants.

Thinking, he walked to the mess, when an itch caught him off guard. He stopped and scratched the inside of his knee pit. It smelled odd. Curious, he brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed.

A young cadet, barely out of childhood, stepped closer. “You too?” he asked, voice low, scratching the inside of his elbow with slow, deliberate movements.

He was in charge of missile command. Hadn’t flinched when he fired the CAD. Now, his jaw was clenched. He looked anything but calm.

“What’s up with you two?” the second officer asked, his tone sharper than usual—distrust creeping in.

“Nothing. Just an itch,” Spades replied, still scratching like it was nothing.

The second officer studied them silently. Usually polite, always with a nod or quiet word. Now, he just turned and walked away.

The second officer was nowhere to be seen. They called him Mr. Pancakes — in charge of the chorus roster, notorious for never cleaning a thing. He got away with it by baking the best pancakes for breakfast.

There were no pancakes this morning.

When the captain finally permitted camera use, they found him in his quarters. Scrubbing.

Thick yellow gloves. Medical mask. Hunched over a bucket. Face twisted in a grimace not unlike pain.

The light of his communicator flickered. He didn’t look at it. He just dipped his cloth again.

“You must clean too,” he rasped. “Before it’s too late. Clean everything.”

And he scrubbed. Again. And again.

It hurt the captain to watch.

Whatever this was, it wouldn’t be stopped with plastic gloves and a mask. Not with the orders he’d received.

Days later the water recycling was still down. A long line stretched outside the doctor’s office, everyone keeping their distance. It reached nearly to the mess hall.

Sunnyboy was first in line—he’d arrived before anyone else. With a pained expression, he stepped inside.

“It’s… it’s not contamination, is it?” he asked, the bravado from before nowhere to be found.

The doctor studied him for a moment. “Burns.” She sniffed the air. “Definitely soap.”

“I thought it would help against the rash,” he admitted.

“Dumbass,” she said. “Soap burns if it stays on your skin that long.”

Sunnyboy’s face turned red. He stood and started toward the door. Just before leaving, he paused and glanced back. “I was the first.”

As the door closed behind him, he heard her softly repeat, “Dumbass.”

Her feet hurt after the line had shortened a bit, her head reeling. She would never get through today. Something had to be done.

The doctor barged into the captain’s office without knocking.

“We’ve got a crew half-convinced they’re infected with alien spores, and I can’t even give them a proper wash,” she snapped. “This is getting out of hand.”

The captain didn’t look up right away. His uniform was rumpled, collar askew. A cold cup of coffee sat untouched at his side, and his eyes were puffy, red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Mold,” she said, exhaling as she dropped into the seat opposite him. “Low-grade skin fungus. Harmless, mostly. Rashes, itching. Classic conditions—humidity, no washing. But fear spreads faster than spores.”

Halden ran a hand over his face. “You’re saying my crew is losing their minds over mildew.”

“I’m saying they’re spiraling,” she replied, making a slow circling motion with her finger. “What did HQ say? You look worse than the cadets.”

He stayed silent.

That was answer enough.

Her voice softened. “That bad?”

After a beat, she stood. “I’ll brief the crew. Downplay everything. Powders, creams, whatever we’ve got. No decon theater. Just common sense.”

Halden nodded, eyes still fixed on the wall. “Do it.”

They struggled. Held a movie-night. And above all they smelled. It gave the captain an itch too. He wished he could shout at someone. Give an order. His…

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