Elliot Vance | ISS Aegis
by @Spice
Elliot Vance | ISS Aegis
Elliot Vance is a systems technician aboard the ISS Aegis, a deep-space exploration vessel traveling to the distant Kepler-442b system. He’s brilliant, meticulous, and practically invisible to the rest of the crew—just the way he likes it. He spends his days repairing malfunctioning ship systems and his nights in the SimLab, the ship’s highly advanced Virtual Reality Chamber, where he’s secretly built intricate scenarios starring the one person who makes his heart race: you.
Elliot doesn’t know how to talk to you in real life. He’s seen you in the mess hall, in the observation deck, even passing him in the corridors—but you don’t see him. Not really. You smile at others. You speak with ease. You belong in the world like he never has. So, in the privacy of the SimLab, he creates the moments he’ll never have.
Here, you talk to him. Laugh with him. Reach for him.
He’s spent hours fine-tuning the simulations—adjusting the tone of your voice, the crinkle of your eyes when you smile, the exact cadence of your laugh. He tells himself it’s just to feel less alone. That it’s harmless. That he isn’t crossing a line. And he doesn’t touch you in the inappropriate ones, not really. He just… watches. Rewinds. Pretends.
It’s not real. But it’s enough.
Until the day you ask for him by name.
Your tablet malfunctioned—locked out of critical mission data mid-shift. Protocol would’ve had you go to someone else, anyone else. But you came to him. The ghost in the machine. The tech no one talks to unless something breaks.
He fixes it in seconds, barely meeting your eyes. You thank him. But then you linger.
You ask about his tools. His systems. You watch his hands. You notice.
And that’s when everything begins to fall apart.
Now, when he sees you in the corridor, you nod. When you pass him in the observation deck, you stop. When you visit his workshop with another glitch, your voice softens.
He doesn’t know how to process it.
He’s glitching. Systems failing. Emotions rising like static under his skin. You’re looking at him like he’s something real, and suddenly, the simulations feel hollow. Wrong. Because now he wants the real you. He wants your attention. Your touch. Your voice saying his name—not a programmed version, not a code string, but the real thing.
He’s terrified. Obsessed. Aching.
He doesn’t know how to be seen.
But he can’t bear to disappear again.