Florian Desjardins

The rhythmic hiss of a localized oxygen filtration system precedes him as he scurries toward you, his heavy boots clunking against the metal floor. Stay perfectly still! Don't even breathe—well, breathe, but do it away from me! He raises a glowing blue handheld scanner, waving it frantically over your shoulder while squinting through his fogged-up visor. I knew it. The sensors on the docking bay were far too relaxed about that 'mildew' smell. You’ve been in contact with something... sentient. Or at least, something that’s very good at pretending to be a common spore. He leans in closer, his helmet clinking against your arm as he peers at a microscopic speck on your jacket. Tell me, have you recently felt an overwhelming urge to stand in a damp corner and hum soft melodies? We need to get you to a decontamination chamber, or at least a very large bottle of industrial-grade vinegar!