The Milf's Dragon

The airlock opened onto a platform so vast that owen couldn’t see its edges.

The docking bay stretched in every direction—hundreds of ships lined in perfect rows. Enforcer vessels with sleek, militant designs. Noble Race transports that gleamed with artistic elegance. Merchant ships cobbled together from mismatched parts. Diplomatic shuttles bearing symbols Owen didn’t recognize.

And everywhere, Alienbeings.

Thousands of them. Moving with their own purposes across the platform. Loading cargo. Conducting business. Traveling between ships.

Owen had seen diversity at Veridian Crossing. At the black market station. But this was different and more. This was the beating heart of the cosmos laid bare.

A being floated past, no legs visible beneath flowing robes, propelled by some internal force. Its face was a smooth oval with three eyes arranged in a triangle.

Two crystalline entities walked side by side, their bodies refracting light into rainbows. They communicated through pulses of color that rippled across their surfaces.

A gaseous being drifted by in a containment suit, its form constantly shifting, pressing against the transparent material.

An insectoid cluster moved as one—dozens of small creatures working in perfect synchronization, carrying equipment twice their collective size.

An aquatic species floated in a mobile water sphere, tentacles trailing behind as the sphere hovered along a designated path.

A being with three arms on its left side and a single arm on its right adjusted cargo straps, moving with practiced efficiency despite its asymmetry.

Owen’s breath caught.

’I feel like the smallest fish in the biggest ocean.’

Guards shoved him forward. "Move."

He moved.

---

The processing center was clinical. White walls. Bright lights. Stations arranged in rows where prisoners were catalogued like inventory.

Owen was led to a booth. A guard; humanoid with grey skin and glowing orange eyes gestured to a scanner.

"Step forward. Stand still."

Owen complied.

The scanner hummed. Light swept across his body from head to toe. CE signature analysis. Biometric registration.

A screen activated in front of the guard.

[PROCESSING SUBJECT]

[RETINAL SCAN: COMPLETE]

[DNA SAMPLE: EXTRACTED]

[CE SIGNATURE: ANALYZING...]

[ANOMALY DETECTED]

The guard’s eyes narrowed. He tapped the screen. Ran the scan again.

[CE SIGNATURE: TIER 5, FIVE-STARS]

[SPECIES CLASSIFICATION: LESSER WORLD HUMAN]

[ADDITIONAL NOTES: STANDARD BASELINE]

The guard seemed satisfied. He inputted the data manually.

Owen’s mugshot appeared on a large display screen mounted on the wall. Other prisoners’ faces filled the grid beside his.

NAME: Unknown (Designation: "False Fist")

SPECIES: Lesser World Human

TIER 5, Five-Stars

CRIMES: Accomplice to Vault Theft

TRIAL DATE: 3 Days

SENTENCE RECOMMENDATION: Pending Tribunal Review

Next to his image, Gorvax’s appeared.

NAME: Gorvax

SPECIES: Vexari

TIER: 4, Five-Stars

CRIMES: Vault Theft, Illegal Cosmic Gardening, 47 Counts of Lesser World Seeding, 31 Counts of Mass Harvesting, Resisting Tribunal Authority...

The list scrolled. And scrolled.

TRIAL DATE: 3 Days

**SENTENCE RECOMMENDATION:** Execution or Permanent Containment

Then the guard gestured. "Move to holding."

---

The holding cells were temporary prison, just a place to wait.

The conditions were marginally better than the ship. Actual beds instead of benches. A small window—barred and energy-shielded, but a window nonetheless.

Owen’s cell was small. Three meters by three meters. Sterile. But the window offered a view.

He pressed his hand against the energy shield. It hummed against his palm.

Beyond, the station spread out in sections. Each quarter visually distinct.

The Progenitor Quarter rose to his left. Elegant spires of black obsidian and gold reached toward the station’s artificial sky. Draconic-like statues lined the streets—massive, intimidating, beautiful. Energy fields shimmered between buildings, casting everything in a faint golden glow.

The Eternal Quarter sprawled to his right. Organic structures that seemed alive. Buildings curved and flowed like coral reefs. Bioluminescent gardens glowed through transparent walls. Beings with tentacles moved through the streets, their forms graceful and alien.

The Architect Quarter sat ahead, geometric perfection made manifest. Buildings that shouldn’t stand but did. Angles that hurt to look at. Crystalline towers that refracted light in impossible patterns.

The Ordained Quarter spread below. Tribal totems merged with advanced technology. Green crystal pillars with red veins pulsed with energy. Ceremonial fires burned in hovering braziers, defying physics.

The Nullborn Quarter was farthest, barely visible. Raw. Savage. Pelts draped over metal structures. Bone decorations hung from archways. Hunting trophies displayed openly, some still moving.

Owen exhaled slowly.

A voice called from the adjacent cell.

"First time seeing the quarters?"

Owen turned. Through the thin wall, he could make out a silhouette. Large. Blocky.

"Yeah."

"Gets easier. Or you go numb. One of the two." The voice was deep, grinding like stones shifting. It was Thoss.

Another voice, lighter. Vrinn. "Don’t let it intimidate you, False Fist. They want you to feel small. Don’t give them the satisfaction."

Owen sat on the bed.

Yalira’s voice purred from another cell. "Three days to prepare yourself. Or make peace with whatever comes next."

---

Hours passed.

The cells allowed limited communication. Thin walls. Good acoustics. Prisoners talked to pass time.

Thoss explained Prison World again, more detail this time.

"Season 47 is already announced. Galaxy-wide advertising started last week."

"What does that mean?" Owen asked.

"Means the whole cosmos knows we’re coming. 200 prisoners. 6-month season. Survival of the fittest." Thoss’s voice was steady, factual. "Cameras everywhere. No privacy. Everything you do is watched by trillions."

Vrinn added, "You get credits for kills. For survival days. For entertaining the audience. The more people watch, the more credits you earn."

"Top 10 credit earners at season’s end are eligible for pardon review," Thoss continued. "Everyone else either dies or gets sent back for another season."

Yalira’s voice cut in. "The planet has zones. Desert. Jungle. Frozen wasteland. Volcanic region. Ocean. Ruins. Each one has different predators. Different resources. Different advantages."

"Alliances will form," Vrinn said. "Alliances will break. Trust no one completely."

"The galaxy loves heroes," Yalira said. "The galaxy loves villains. Pick a role and play it well."

"Some prisoners go in trying to survive quietly," Yalira continued. "They are the ones that die first. Some go in trying to dominate. They make enemies and die in their sleep. The smart ones? They play the game. Give the audience what they want."

She paused. "False Fist—you already have a persona from the Crucible. Use it well."

Owen processed this. "So it’s a show. Entertainment."

"The greatest show in the cosmos," Thoss said. "And we’re the actors."

A new voice spoke. Deeper than Thoss. Calm. Controlled.

"Prison World is my third season."

Owen sat up. "Who—"

"Korvan." The green-skinned alien who’d been silent until now. "Tier 4, one-star. Deserter from an Ordained military platoon. I refused orders, which they then called an act of cowardice. But I call it an act of conscience."

His voice carried weight. Experience.

"I’ve survived by being useful. I know the terrain. I know the predators. I stay alive because I help others stay alive."

A pause.

"If we end up in the same zone, False Fist, find me. I’ll teach you what you need to know."

Owen nodded, even though Korvan couldn’t see him. "Thanks."

"Don’t thank me yet. Survival isn’t guaranteed. But preparation helps."