The Tales of the Legendary Mimic : Momo

What's in there: FIGHT OR FLIGHT

In a section room filled with broken gadgets, a trio quested to salvage a few with use. 

“Hey, Sarah, what do you think about the hero guy?” Henrik teased, leaning over her shoulder.

“Do I have to shove this drive in your mouth to make you quiet down?” Sarah shot back without looking up.

She sat cross‑legged on the floor in front of a secure console, picking up a drive to manually disable the security base code. Layers of encryption folded and unfolded on the screen, fighting her every step of the way.

Henrik snorted, unfazed. “Touchy.”

“Annoying,” she muttered.

Rios, a few meters away, knelt in front of a power box mounted low on the wall, its casing half‑melted, cables exposed. A pale panel on the side pulsed faintly with stored solar charge.

"Rios remembered that slot box we saw on our way here, yes? Why not get a few snacks before getting everything going ei? 

“well i dont know.... shouldn't we get this over with, then fun, that's soldier discipline,” Rios called, screwdriver between his teeth as he adjusted a connector. “We might need this box to improve the grid. It looks like a top priority. The way it’s rigged… this whole sector could be rerouting power through it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Henrik said, waving him off as he straightened. “Snacks first. Power problems later.”

He grabbed Rios by the collar and tugged him upright.

“Henrik!” Rios protested, trying not to drop his tools. “At least let me—”

“QUIT MAKING NOISE,” Sarah snapped, eyes still on the code. “Get on with whatever, but be back before I am done cracking?”

“yes ma'am,” Henrik and Rios saluted hurriedly before running off.

Their footsteps and bickering faded down the corridor, accompanied by Sarah’s distant warnings and annoyed grumbling about children in grown bodies and how they’d better be back on time.

They followed the faded signs toward the break room. The “snack hub,” as Henrik called it, was tucked deeper in the facility than it had any right to be.

When they finally reached it, the place was half‑lit and dusty. Old dispensers lined the wall, their glass fronts fogged with age. A few still flickered with standby power.

Henrik’s eyes lit up. “Jackpot.”

He moved straight to the nearest machine, tapping the panel, then slapping the side. “Come on, don’t be shy…”

Rios hung back, sweeping his flashlight slowly across the ceiling and corners. The hairs on his neck prickled.

“Do you hear that?” he murmured.

Henrik didn’t answer. He was too focused on coaxing stale snacks out of decade‑old tech.

Rios tilted his head. There it was again—a faint, wet slithering, just at the edge of hearing. Not pipes. Not loose cables.

Living.

He raised his flashlight.

The beam crawled up the wall and across the ceiling, then stopped.

A long, webbed intestinal mass clung there, thick as an anaconda, pulsing faintly as if breathing. Its surface shivered like wet flesh.

Rios’ blood ran cold.

“Henrik,” he whispered. “We gotta go... something is here.”

He slowly shifted his aim, bringing his rifle up toward the ceiling, but,

Too slow.

The thing uncoiled with terrifying speed.

By the time Henrik finally got the snack dispenser to cough up a few packs and turned around, Rios was gone.

“Rios?” Henrik frowned, looking around. “Quit messing with me, man.”

Silence.

The door to a lower access corridor stood half‑open, a faint draft whispering through.

“Rios?” he called again, stepping out of the break room.

He followed the scuffed floor panels and dusty footprints down a short flight of stairs. The air grew cooler, damper. The emergency lights down here were dim, washing everything in a sickly red.

Henrik swallowed.

He turned a corner and found a door slightly ajar, marked with a peeling hazard symbol.

“Rios, if you’re hiding in here—this ain't cool, you hear me...!!” he muttered, pushing it open.

The room beyond was wrong.

Translucent shapes hung from the ceiling and walls, like grotesque, oversized cocoons. Some pulsed faintly. Others were still.

Henrik stepped inside, eyes wide, breath fogging the thin film of organic slime coating the air vents.

“What the…”

He edged toward the nearest cocoon, reaching out with the tip of his rifle to poke it.

The membrane shuddered.

Then it split open, tendrils whipping out with predatory precision. They wrapped around his torso, arms, and neck, yanking him off his feet before he could scream. The cocoon swallowed him whole in a matter of seconds.

Silence returned.

Soon, Henrik hung among the others—one more shape suspended in the dim, pulsing dark.

And he wasn’t alone.

More cocoons lined the chamber, each with a shadowy figure sealed inside. Every missing step of every unlucky victim that had come before them… and now members of their own.

One by one, across the facility, more people vanished.

A tentacle slips silently from a ceiling vent.

A shadow drops down behind an isolated soldier.

A thin, glistening coil wrapping around a leg, a waist, a throat.

No one noticed.

Not yet.

By the time it was done, almost all of the other teams had been taken—swallowed into cocoons in hidden rooms and forgotten shafts.

All except Max’s team, Captain Jane, and Sir Lorne.

Later, Sarah finally pried herself away from the vault console, irritation growing into unease. Henrik and Rios should have been back.

She found Captain Jane near the admin section, where damaged crates and equipment were stacked for cataloging.

“Captain,” Sarah said, stepping up quickly. “Henrik and Rios were supposed to be back ages ago. I went to check the break room and the nearby corridors. Not sure, what's wrong....”

Hmm, wait, let me call their frequency,....hey, hello henrik do you copyh..HENRIK, do you copy, affirm now?"

Upset by the lack of response, Jane’s jaw tightened. “You’re sure you checked the obvious routes?”

“Yes,” Sarah answered, "it made me feel like I was being watched earlier, though, as a top predator hid in there."

"Come to think of it, there have indeed been signs of people coming in, but except for tracks left by our own scouts, i didnt find any other. unless, theres more info, we can't be sure.

 “You forgot the banshee,” Lorne reminded softly. “Here area is an adaptable.  During the fight with it, it could have fled deeper into this space. Even if we’d followed, there are enough compartments and sub‑levels that it could have disappeared without a trace.”

“I thought of that,” Jane said. “And that’s what bothers me.”

Lorne arched a brow. “Hmm, I was hoping we didn't get to battle today anymore…sigh*....alas, we know where these scars are from.” he gestured at the walls.

“These scars weren’t made by a predator,” Jane, after studying keenly, frowned and said, “They look like struggle marks; they were probably made by victims. We’ve been seeing signs of previous expeditions everywhere—notes, damaged gear, partial logs—but every clue points one way. Whatever’s doing this ends them before they can push back or escape. No real struggle, no counterdamage. pretty clean if you ask me.”

Lorne’s expression darkened as he followed her reasoning. “Let's hope it's left or at least it's the banshee playing weird...”

“Hopefully.” Jane’s eyes swept the corridor. “unfortunately i am already too sure Something’s here that doesn’t want to be found. And it’s keen careful.”

"If we don't act quickly enough, we might just be part of another failed crew on the record tab back at home....we have two choices, abandon this mission or risk our lives .. I won'tt force anyone..."

Fight or run.