You’re alone in the cold vacuum of space right? Well, mostly. It’s dark, and as Douglas Adams wrote, it’s really, really big; yet despite that realisation and all the terrifying possibilities this implies, space is also mostly empty, so I’m not generally scared of floating around in it.
After you get over how overwhelmingly far away you are from home and any semblance of safety and familiarity, get over the constant anxiety of wondering what’s going to go bump in the dark, then get used to the fact that things do go bump and creak and groan and clank and make many other noises in the dark, you acclimatise.
You even acclimatise to the stink and annoying habits of your fellow passengers and crewmates, and of the endless ennui of having flash-drives with terabytes of entertainment and literature which you have seen the best of a hundred times (the other 96% of which is total shite) and of having nothing to talk about because nothing ever happens. You get used to everything. You get into your own little routines, and you relax a bit.
Except for those fucking things.
So you’re in a tin can floating through the dark, quiet emptiness of space right? You sit back in the observatory and stare listlessly at the stars, listening to the silence; grateful for it in fact.
Suddenly you’re blinded by bright light glaring through the armoured glass, and there’s this almighty shriek which makes you jump out of your skin and frightens the ever loving shit out of you no matter how many times it’s happened before.
They band together see?
Drifting in the dark, using flecks of bioluminescence to lure tiny creatures into their tendrils; only when they get startled by the ship passing through their patch, they all light up and telepathically scream loud as fuck.
Know what else they do?
They cover the ship in that glow-shit, to attract predators.
I fucking hate space.