Wrote a Star Citizen Noir Story – Looking for TEST Readers!

[AstroSam]

Hello dear TESTies, it's been a while (throat clearing....years) since I've been here.

In the beginning TEST was my main org, then I made myself known as a German Youtuber, started my own org...then gave it all up again because of a toxic atmosphere and now happily run a mini-org, just 40 people, but everyone is super-nice and we all have fun together with SC.
After giving up my YouTube career and my interim self-employment, I now have more free time again, yay! And here, among other things, I've started to return to my old hobby of creative writing.

Over the last few weeks, I've come up with a fan fiction noir story set in the Star Citizen universe. Planned as a trilogy, I have finished writing the first volume (two dear German Org members are currently proofreading the text).

The fact is that most of the SC community is English-speaking, so of course I will translate the story from German, my native language, into English (by AI foremost). But of course it's clear that no AI - at least not yet, I don't think - can actually manage such a translation adequately.

Hence my question: would any of you be interested in "beta-reading" the story/book and giving me hints as to where the English translation may be linguistically incorrect and/or in need of improvement?

It would really be a great help to get support from native speakers - and maybe you'd also enjoy reading the story. In any case, I would be very happy!

Cheers!
SAM

 

[Blind Owl]

Sam!! Welcome back ol' friend!

 

[NaffNaffBobFace]

I remember you! Welcome back!

You and Mitch made a huge tune previously, Testies check this out:

Horizons, by AstroSam & Mitch van Hayden

3 track album

mitchvanhayden.bandcamp.com

We've had writers post their stories here before so don't be shy, it's all good

 

[AstroSam]

Hey, thank you very much, you two! And I'm very happy that you still remember me . (what happened to all the smilies here - they are all gone to me?)

Okay, I'm happy to post the story here. Whenever a section is finished. And I am looking very forward to your feedback and corrections where necessary.

 

[AstroSam]

I remember you! Welcome back!

You and Mitch made a huge tune previously, Testies check this out:

Horizons, by AstroSam & Mitch van Hayden

3 track album

mitchvanhayden.bandcamp.com

We've had writers post their stories here before so don't be shy, it's all good

Oh, by the way, I created even more music last year. Mostly trance, some with vocals (AI), most instrumental, some more melodic, some harder. If you like this kind of electronic music, have a listen:

AstroSam

Hey there, my name is AstroSam and I'm actually a YouTube creator, especially for the game development of Star Citizen. Tough, everything in German language. But musically, I'm more keen to English language. =)) Musically I'm already quite oldschool, having taken my first steps in composition in...

music.youtube.com

or on Spotify

https://open.spotify.com/intl-de/artist/3W8ixRETglkQRlaSw2jApp

 

[BUTUZ]

Yes i remember Astrosam welcome back!!

 

[AstroSam]

Okay, here we go:

The Thorne Trilogy


Book 1: The Law of the Jungle

A Star Citizen Noir Story
Written by Kai "AstroSam" Bach




Chapter 1
Dust and Shadows​

TRANSMISSION LOG: UEE OUTPOST A-17 / NEXUS IV]
[LOCATION:] Reis, Lago
[DATE:] 2948-11-15 SET
[STATUS:] Unregulated civilian zone. Security status unstable.

They say Reis—the only landing zone on Lago—is a place to die.
But that’s not true.
Dying needs silence.
And Reis screams.

It screams from every rusted shack, from every welded-shut living container resting on three meters of gravel like it were a foundation.
It screams through the roar of Caterpillar engines lifting dust off the streets—but never lifting hope.
It screams when kids with bloodshot eyes beg between shifts, and no one can tell if they’re still pleading or already emptying your pockets for some gang.

Reis is dust—like the whole damned planet.
Not the good kind. Not the fine layer that settles on memories.
The rough kind. The kind that eats your lungs and never leaves. Say hello to lung cancer.

I was en route from the Ellis system to Nexus—specifically, Lago.
Officially? To assess the security status of the southern outskirts of the landing zone.
Lago... that rotten piece of Nexus IV.
A symbol of everything festering in this system. Which is saying something.
No one in their right mind sets foot here voluntarily.
Then again—I've never been in my right mind.

Lago used to be home.
Might still be—depending on how you define “home.”
I grew up on a junkyard.
Not the kind with greasy parts and broken ships—though we had that too.
Ours was a front. A drug den with rusted fences.
My old man called it a business.
The Sang Gestas called it neutral ground.
I called it hell. Back then. Before I ran.

But as they say: seen one junkyard, seen ’em all.
And Nexus?
Nexus is the junkyard of the ’verse. You want filth? You’ll find it here.
Sang Gestas. Hathor—sure, officially a mining company, but let’s not kid ourselves. They’re a cartel with helmets.
The UEE? Not much better.
They just steal more politely. And pay on time.
Everything in Nexus robs you.
Tubs Garson once put it perfectly: All roads lead to Nexus—and you'll probably get robbed on all of them.

Still, here I was. Back in the heat, the dust, the grime.
All for the UEE.
Officially here to “assess regional security.”
My real assignment?
Track down old contacts. Re-activate dormant informants—especially in the outlying sectors where the Gestas had sunk in their claws.
Also: dig into my past. Find names. People. Weak spots the UEE could use to place their infiltrators.
And while I was at it—gather intel on the Red God cult.

But the truth?
I just needed out of that damn office.
Back into the mire.

Back to remind myself why I hate this forsaken dump so much.

✧ ✧ ✧​

My transport was already waiting when I stepped off the shuttle.
A decommissioned Greycat ROC—once built for mining, now just a rolling joke on wheels.
The mining arm was gone.
In its place, someone had welded a half-rusted cargo box to the rear frame—two seats inside, chains to hold on.
Comfort wasn’t a category out here. Survival was the only metric.

The suspension groaned as I climbed in.
The cushions had long since disintegrated into dust.
Diesel fumes wrestled with the stench of old sweat—and lost.
Someone had tried to cover the windows with reflective foil—probably for privacy.
Now it was just a patchwork of bubbles and cracks.

The driver said nothing. Just nodded.
Then the engine coughed to life—sounding more like a threat than a machine.
And off we lurched.
The road wasn’t uneven—it was offended.
The ROC shook like a dog after a bath and dragged itself across the worn paths toward the admin sector.

In the distance, a Drake Corsair lifted off—elegant, like a blade slicing through dust.
Two kids stood on a wrecked rooftop, watching it climb,
as if watching alone might be enough to escape this place.

It wasn’t.

✧ ✧ ✧​

Two checkpoints—each loaded with the full sensory program: biometric, neural, paranoid—and we finally reached the main module of the UEE outpost.

I pressed the access terminal.
The door hissed. Then the building gave a coughing sound, like it was complaining about the dust outside.
Beyond it: artificial coolness.
The air smelled of disinfectant, stale office coffee, and that faint tinge of ion weld—like someone had barbecued a circuit board.
Welcome to the Lago office of the UEE.

The contrast hit me like walking into a wall.
Outside: dust, shimmering heat, a sky full of sand.
Inside: scrubbed floors, a faint whistle in the air, nothing personal.
The chill of the climate system hit like a slap—like drinking ice water too fast and feeling your synapses scream in protest.

As my nerve endings adapted to bureaucratic air, I forced myself step by step deeper into the building.

And there he was:
Cesar Moreau. UEE soldier. Liaison officer for Lago.
He looked like the anti-Reis—so polished he could’ve been clipped straight from a propaganda reel.

Thin. Pale.
Uniform buttoned to the last.
Hair like lacquered wire—painfully combed, but not quite rinsed right.
We knew each other—barely.
Green, Ellis system.
He was a cadet. I needed access clearance for something sensitive. My paperwork was… let’s say, incomplete.
Moreau insisted on every goddamn checksum.
I was annoyed. He was proud.
We didn’t part on the best terms—but no blood was spilled.
I’m still a little proud of that.

When he raised his hand, it was at the precisely prescribed angle.
Some academy manual would’ve nodded in approval.

“Advisor Jacob Nathaniel Thorne, UEE Special Status, assigned to Sector Stabilization Operation 094-B on Lago. You are registered for the transfer of operational materials and protocol enforcement for outzone contact procedures.”

His voice sounded rehearsed. Probably was.
I stopped, dropped my bag, looked him up and down.
“Cesar, are you going to follow me waving a flag, or do I get a reading of my vitals too?”
He blinked—clearly thrown off, but trying to maintain posture.

“It’s… part of the official welcome protocol. I—”

“I know where I come from. I know why I’m here. And if you call me Jacob again, I’ll file a complaint. Internal Oversight, Division C-9. And trust me—they read everything.”

A twitch in his facial muscles. He dropped his voice slightly.
“Understood...”
“JC.”
“Understood… JC.”

I nodded—almost indulgently.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

✧ ✧ ✧​

He led me deeper into the belly of the station.
Concrete walls. Exposed pipes. Flickering lights.
Someone had nailed a UEE banner to the wall—stained, like a mechanic had used it as a rag.

A technician in an orange jumpsuit crossed our path without looking.
Somewhere down a side corridor, a faulty coolant line was screeching like a wounded animal.
Someone muttered into a headset in the background.
The next door stuck.
Moreau didn’t flinch. Habit.

“What do you know about the situation on the ground?”

“Not much. Officially: reconstruction zone. Unofficially: a settlement in freefall wearing a legal fig leaf. Behind every other warehouse, there’s probably a queue of three gangs.
Advocacy wants clean numbers, the military wants quiet, and the colonial office wants a heroic report.
Your assignment includes—”
“—Stabilizing the southern outskirts, reactivating informant channels, and assessing conditions after the incident at Meltwater Point.
Yes, Moreau. I can read.”

He tried to smile.
Didn’t quite manage it.

✧ ✧ ✧​

I left Moreau standing right where he was—
caught between posture and helplessness, between daddy issues and regulation quotes.
He wasn’t going to stop me with his protocols and procedures.
Not today.
Not here.

The concrete corridor swallowed the sounds from outside.
Inside, it was cool. Artificial. Sterile.
But also dead.
Cold wasn’t a state here.
It was camouflage.

What I was really here for?
Not what was on the pad.
Not “Sector Three: South Zone Situation Report.”
Not “Reactivation of Compromised Networks.”
I was on Lago because one name had resurfaced:

Kara.

The first time I saw it was in a wrecked databank on Cathcart—
right next to my father’s.
Victor. That bastard.
Couldn’t believe I was back here.

Nexus IV.

After all those years. After fleeing with a stolen Cutter.
Victor had always denied my mother.
Like she never existed.
No name. No photo. No word.
But there it was:

Thorne. Kara. Jacob.

No details. No context.
Just those damned names.
I still remember staring at the screen, heart lodged in my throat.
I had a mother.
Maybe.

Kara.

And after that, the thought never let go.
I had to find her.

But everything led to nothing.
Cathcart stayed silent.
Then came Ellis.
Then the UEE.
Then years of waiting.

And suddenly—
buried deep in some UEE data archive, during a side assignment—
the name showed up again.

Not searched. Not expected.
Just… there.

I smashed the print-screen key.
The analyst beside me gave me a look.
Didn’t say a word.
Maybe he knew.

Kara.

Buried between lines of code.
And then—

Nexus IV.

My birthplace.
My pit.

Maybe it was coincidence.
Just the name of some forgotten colonist no one remembered.
Maybe it was data trash—dust in a world made of dust.

But maybe…
it was her.

And if there was even the smallest chance—
I’d tear this jungle apart, piece by piece, until I found her.

 

[AstroSam]

Yes i remember Astrosam welcome back!!

Thank youuu, dear BUTUZ!!

 

[AstroSam]

Jungle​

But before I could start searching, I had to function.
I had an assignment.
A title.
An access code.

And if I wanted to get anywhere—to Kara, to the module, to the truth—
I had to deliver what they expected of me.
At least on paper.

I sat down for an hour at one of the desk cubicles,
while a sergeant with a voice stuck in standby mode read me the deployment logs from the past two weeks.

I nodded.
I commented.
I asked seemingly stupid questions.

They thought I was arrogant.

Perfect.

Arrogant people don’t get challenged.
They get left alone—until they crash.

✧ ✧ ✧
​

When I stepped out of the UEE admin module, it was afternoon.
The dust hung heavy in the air—red, hot, electrically charged.

The sky above Lago wasn’t really a sky.
More like a glowing sheet of diffuse light, saturated with particulates and sand.
There were no shadows.
Just dull transitions.
The buggy was gone—but I wanted to walk anyway.

Off the concrete.
Into the organic filth of the city.
Where even the sun only glanced, and only when it had to.

The alleys of Lago were tight, uneven, held together by corrugated metal, plastic tarps, and improvised hope.
Ship parts jutted out from the walls, cables twisted through the air like roots.
I passed something that could’ve been a bar—
three containers welded into one, the door a retooled cargo hatch.

Voices came from inside. Laughter. Something resembling music—if pain could be called music.

A child crouched at the curb, peeling what might once have been an apple.
Beside them, a woman was cooking what might once have been rice.

The smells changed by the minute: fried grease, hot plastic, ash, solvent, old blood.
Somewhere, a loudspeaker screeched.
A brittle advertisement buzzed out:
“Porto-Chop – the protein of the street!”

I wasn’t hungry. Just thirsty.
My throat burned.
The dust tasted metallic, like someone had wrung out a battery.
At the next corner stood a drink vendor—not official.
Just a sliced-open container with a few cans, some cheap water, and two dusty cooling units.

I pointed to a bottle whose label had long peeled away.
The vendor—bald, with skin like old leather—tapped silently on a price display.
I paid—in stims.
No questions. No receipt.

The cap cracked open. I downed the whole thing in one go. Lukewarm. Chlorinated. But it washed the dust down.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and kept walking.
Slowly. But not aimlessly. I knew Lago. Not well. Not anymore. But my body remembered.

Among the passersby, I spotted two Tevarin—
one of them older, with dark plates across his brow that shimmered in the light.
He didn’t look at me.
But he saw me.

Tevarin always gave me chills. I never knew why. Maybe it was the stillness. Or the way their eyes passed through you—like you were just dust.

A ship lifted off somewhere to the south.
The rumble crawled up through the ground, like the planet itself was growling.
A place where anything was possible.
Except innocence.

And a place where you could find things that didn’t exist in any official database.
Rumors, spreading like fungal spores.
Stories whispered in back rooms.
Myths no one believed—until they got someone killed.
False information was cheap.
You got it on every street corner—
in passing, between flatbread, dust, and street noise.

But truth?
Truth had a price.
Not in UEC.
Not in numbers.
In debts. In promises.
In things you couldn’t take back.

I was here to find a truth like that.

Not just any truth.
One tied to a name I could never shake:

Kara.

And to a place I’d left, swearing never to return:

Nexus IV.

There was someone who collected truths like that.
Didn’t offer them—
hoarded them.

Like others hoarded weapons.
Or poison.

I knew him.
Knew him well enough to know I wouldn’t find him.

Not with words.
Not with plans.
He found you.
If he wanted to.

And if he did,
it usually meant one of two things:
you had something he needed.
Or you already knew too much.

Suddenly, I stopped.
Not because I meant to.
But because I felt it.

The gaze.

That shift in the air—
when someone’s been watching you longer than you’ve noticed them.
I didn’t turn.
Didn’t have to.
“You were never good at sneaking, kid. And worse at keeping quiet.”
The voice came from my left—
from the shadow of a cloth-covered passage between two generator huts.

Low.
Quiet.

Unmistakable.

Drex Valon.

 

[AstroSam]

The Boot Man​

I didn’t hear his footsteps.
But I knew he was moving.

The way the sounds around me suddenly went dull.
The way the shadow grew heavier—without the light changing.

And then, from the corner of my eye—
the edges of his boots. Clean. Far too clean for a place this filthy.

Then he was there.

In a blink, his left arm lifted—a short twitch, like a muscle reflex that doesn’t ask, just acts.
The blade appeared. Small. Unremarkable.
But fast.
Too fast.

The edge touched my throat.
Not deep. Not even a scratch.
Just the cold pressure of a decision that no longer belonged to me.

Drex could kill without you noticing.
And this wasn’t his first test.

“You were never the fastest, kid. And I’m afraid you’re still a Thorshu: slow, clumsy shell, always half a step behind.”
My thoughts raced.
Sure, Drex sounded amused—
but I couldn’t afford to be fooled.
I forced my lungs to stay steady. Not too shallow. Not too fast. Forced my eyes to stay on his brow.

Not the blade.
Not the blade.
Not the—
“Nice boots, Drex.”

My words came out dry.
Not fake.
Not honest.
Somewhere in between—right where they needed to be.

Silence.

His grip didn’t tighten.
But it didn’t loosen, either.

That was the worst part.

He looked me in the eyes.
And for a heartbeat too long, the blade stayed where it was.
Not because he was uncertain.
Because he wanted to see that moment—
that flicker of thought too many.

Then he pulled the blade back.
No words.
Just the soft, wooden clink of steel on steel—
the sound of someone deciding not to kill you.
He stepped back. Light hit his forehead—not gently, not hesitantly.
Hard.
Judging.
A look like a verdict.
And I’d come within one footnote of being nothing but body #17 in some sealed back corridor of Lago.

He shook his head—
not slowly, not with pity.
Like a teacher who knows his student only passed the exam
because death got bored today.

“You were ready. I saw it. Hand on your weapon. Smart.”

“And you provoked it. If you’d hesitated—would’ve been your last reflex.”

“And if you were anyone else—I’d have left you there. Warm. Bloody. Educational.”
No anger in his voice.
Just memory.
Slowly—barely—
I let my hand slide off the grip of the Coda. I hadn’t forgotten it. I’d just… waited.

He saw it. Of course he did.
He said nothing.
No comment. No glance.
Just the knowledge that he’d seen—
and logged it.
For later.
Forever.
“And thanks—appreciate you noticing the boots. You know what they say: shiny boots, shiny business.”
Then he reached into his cloak. Slowly—like someone giving you time to back out.
Because what he was about to hand over—
you couldn’t undo.

He pulled out a piece of foil-paper. Rolled tight. About the size of a stim.
Whatever was on it—he could have sent it to my mobi.
But this was Drex.
He never transmitted anything that could be traced.
He held it in front of my face—like bait that already knew the fish was coming.

I gave myself a breath.
Not too long—Drex hated hesitation.
Not too fast—would’ve looked like begging.
I took it. Calm. Precise.

The paper crackled softly as I unrolled it.
But what my eyes saw—my mind refused to accept at first.
I frowned.
“Coordinates?”

“Maybe. A whisper that doesn’t want to be found.”

“And it’s supposed to lead to Kara?”

“Maybe.
Maybe just to what you want to see in her.”

“You’re not going to tell me where you got this?”

Our eyes locked—mine suspicious, his with that look like I’d just asked whether water was wet.

“If you’re asking that, you’ve learned nothing. You haven’t earned it yet.”

My gaze drifted back to the coordinates. This time, I held the strip up to his face.

“Seriously, Drex—this is it? No code, no context? What am I supposed to do with this, play Kendoku?”

Drex’s face stayed unreadable.

“You asked for a lead. Not a treasure map with a big red X.”

Something in me flared.
I almost pressed further.
Where, from whom, why—
and what in the name of the cursed Vanduul was I supposed to do with this?!

But I let it go.
Drex was the kind of man where every answer had a price—
and maybe every question already cost too much.

Silence settled between us. Then Drex stepped back. Two steps. One to the side. And the dark swallowed him.
No sound.
No parting glance.
Just one sentence, hanging in the air like burned oxygen:
“Some doors, JC...
...only open once you already know what's behind them.”

I stood still.
With the weight of a message that weighed nothing—
and the feeling it would cost more than I could ever afford to pay.

✧ ✧ ✧​

The day was fading—
as if it had seen enough.

Back to the UEE bunker?
Eight-man cell. Rusted lockers. Sweat-stained air and moldy showers—
no, thanks.

I bought a grilled rat at the market. Still warm. Plenty of fat. Not much meat.
Then I made my way out—
away from the center, to where no one asked questions anymore,
because no one was left who expected answers.

Sector 9. Reis’ ghost district. Once meant to be the future—decades ago.
Modular housing, thrown up in a rush, never occupied.
Glass cracked by wind. Concrete ashamed of itself. Deserted enough to be forgotten.
And I found what I was looking for.

Three floors above the noise, in a half-collapsed apartment block. Built for families. Now as empty as the memory of them.
I climbed in through a shattered window, took the stairs. The ceiling in the living room sagged—but it held. The floor was slanted—but dry. That was enough for me.

I sat on an old cable spool, pulled the folded note from my jacket. It was light. Too light. But we’d already been over that.

I took out my light tool. A Moth. Not official issue—just a warped teardrop lamp that had seen more junkyard hands than I had memories. I turned it on and cycled the modes:
Glow—for subtle night lighting.
Pulse—to disorient opponents.
Ghost—for short-range motion detection.
Lowlife—a power-saving mode I wasn’t sure actually saved anything.
Torch—a candle simulation from old Earth. I didn’t even know what candles were.
But the light was nice.
Almost homey.

Then: Scan.
Which was, more or less, UV.
The room flushed with spectral blue.
Grime glowed. Smears pulsed.

A new world—diseased, silent, cracked open by light.

I held the paper up.

No. Nothing.
Wait—
there.

Something.
Ink, maybe—blooming in the heat of flickering fire.

First lines.
Then curves.

And then—

Kara.

I leaned in.

Was that it?

My eyes locked to the paper.
The Moth flickered.
I turned the sheet slightly, carefully—like the wrong angle could erase everything.

Dust lifted.

A new line emerged.

V…

My heart thumped too loud.

i – d – r – a – l

Not coincidence.
Not a smudge.
A name that resisted.

One that wasn’t written—
but hidden.

I sat there. The paper in my hand. Fingers trembling, just a little.
“Kara Vidral,” I whispered.

No voice.
No echo.
Just me, the light, and the name that could change everything.

Drex had given me more than he said.
No bluff.
No game.
Just silence—
at the right time,
in the right place.

And now the secret was open. And the trail… real.
I remembered what Drex had told me:
Some doors, JC... only open once you already know what’s behind them.

What was he trying to tell me?

Or better:
what was he warning me about?

The coordinates.
The name.

Was Kara Vidral the name of my mother?
I hoped so.
But then again—
why not “Thorne”?

It would’ve helped—
if Drex had just told me where these leads came from.

But he was always like that. Said only what had to be said. Not a letter more.
I’d known him forever. He’d taken me in—half-starved, barely human. Why—what he saw in me—I don’t know. But one thing I do know:

Without him, I’d be dead.
And not the man I’ve become.
Despite what you might call our close connection—
Drex remained a stranger to me. The longer we were apart, the more certain I became:
He had ties to the Red God cult.
No proof. Just a gut feeling. Not directly. He was too rooted for that. Too much man of the earth. But maybe—he’d seen something. Something bigger than the usual Gestas filth in Lago.
Something coming closer. Maybe Kara Vidral was exactly that:
his way of saying—
If you want to trace your past… start here.

And it made sense.
If there was anything in this hole that still moved—
something the UEE didn’t know about—
something with power, with vision—
then it had to be either Sang Gestas,
or the shadow that reflects in red.

Reis. Lago. The whole system—
it belonged to no one.
And if it did, then to Hathor with their drilling licenses—
or to whatever lurked in the color red.
I folded the paper and entered the numbers into my mobi.
And suddenly—
I didn’t know who Kara was anymore.
The hope that she was my mother—
it faded.

But it didn’t die.
It was my only lead.

But a lead—
to where?

My gut told me this was bigger than I’d ever be able to imagine. But I didn’t listen to my gut.

If I did—
I’d have filed my report already.
And caught the next shuttle back to Ellis.

 

[AstroSam]

The Guardian​

I left the ghost district after a night without sleep and hours of staring into nothing.

The sun was already high, and the dust in the air dragged the light through the alleys like thin sludge—
slow, warm, rancid.

Like the breath of an animal that had lain too long in the heat.

The distant rumble of a drive section vibrated through the ground plates—not loud, but deep. Like the purr of a patient predator.

Between it all, the intermittent hiss of hydraulic valves—
almost rhythmic, like the final breath of a machine long forgotten.

Somewhere, a freighter unloaded. Or lifted off. Hard to tell on Lago. Both sounded the same:
heavy, tired, final.

I found myself back in the local business district—
if “business” even applied in this impoverished corner of Reis.
The streets south of the main trade corridor began to shift—
not in obvious ways, but the change was there. Felt more than seen.
The grates were thicker. The cameras older—
many dead, or scratched from the inside.
Some facades still bore remnants of old UEE campaigns:

Order breeds trust.

The slogan was blackened with soot, the emblem half-torn, the background covered in graffiti—
symbols I couldn’t read, but understood.

The farther I went, the more the architecture lost its shape. Buildings that once served as admin offices or storage facilities were now boarded up with scrap steel, balconies welded from leftover cargo containers, surrounded by makeshift generators humming with a tone that felt less mechanical than animal.

No one here planned for a future.
Here, you survived in increments. From sun cycle to sun cycle.

At an overflowing waste transmitter, a woman squatted with a newborn in her arms—
drinking from a filthy hydration pouch.
She stared at me.
No expression.
No expectation.

I had no credits to offer her.
Just a glance—
one I regretted the moment I gave it.
Not out of guilt.
But out of helplessness.

✧ ✧ ✧
​

The coordinates from Drex led me toward the old loading station on the southern edge of the freight district.

The area lay half in shadow beneath the remains of a supply scaffold—
now overgrown with black Veltrax moss, a parasitic plant that settled into cracks and slowly but relentlessly eroded the structures beneath.

The buildings weren’t much more than stacked layers of concrete, angled like a labyrinth dreamed up by an architect on stims.

Maintenance lifts clung to the façade like rusted blood vessels—
creaking, brittle, ready to give out.

I pulled out my mobiGlas and ran a passive scan. No signals but my own. No pings. No movement.
Which meant nothing. The Gestas knew how to hide. Or how to set a trap.

Ahead: a door, half-open—
as if it hadn’t decided whether to let me in or warn me off.

No sound from inside. No light. No sign this was a meeting point—
or a grave.

I paused with my hand on the door. Listened.

No voices. No whispers. Just my own breath, dry in my throat.

I pushed the door open. Slowly. Just a crack.

Movement.

Barely visible. A shadow in the corner—
a faint footstep.

Then it happened fast:
A small, wiry figure shot from the half-dark of the room,
faster than I could react.
A grip.
A kick.
Precise.
Trained.

I was slammed backward—
hit the wall beside the door. The impact jolted my shoulder, knocked my balance. Before I fully registered what was happening,
I was on the ground. The attacker’s forearm pressed against my throat, knee pinning my right thigh.

Damn.
Fast.
Good.
Calculating.

I drove my left elbow upward—
felt it hit something soft. Ribs, maybe the spleen.

A hiss. No scream. The pressure eased—
just enough. I rolled sideways, came up to one knee, then upright. The attacker moved to follow—
but I was quicker.

Dodged. Grabbed their arm. Swung them hard into the wall.

A dull thud.
A crack.
Then silence.

He went down. Dead weight.

I stood over the stranger, my pulse echoing in my fingertips.

The fight had lasted maybe thirty seconds—
but it was enough to throw me off center.

What made me think I could just walk in here, like this place belonged to me? Since when had I gotten so careless?
Was it the badge on my mobiGlas? The inertia of the uniform? Or the quiet arrogance that creeps in when you’ve worked too long for the side that thinks order is a law of nature?
I exhaled sharply.

Stupid, JC.
Stupid like a rookie on ceremonial leave.

If the kid had been a Kopion, I’d be a blood smear and a meat scrap by now—
somewhere between drainage grate and floor dust. Nothing anyone would miss.

I looked up. Scanned my surroundings.
The street was empty—
but not dead.

For one breath, I closed my eyes. Listened.
Nothing.

Or…?

A flicker at the edge of my vision. A movement.
Or a thought. A shadow that lingered a moment too long before dissolving.

I opened my eyes.

Was that Drex?

Was he there—
watching me get taken apart like some second-rate thug?

If he was, he wouldn’t ask questions next time.

He’d deliver a verdict.

Or maybe—
maybe this was exactly what needed to happen.

To wake me up again.

✧ ✧ ✧​

I shook my head.
Slowly.
Took a deep breath.

The air tasted of soot, rust, and Hadanite dust—
fine, dry, poisonous.

It clung to my throat like a thin film,
a reminder that everything here was toxic.

Even thoughts.

Get it together, JC.

I stepped over the limp body, pushed the door open further, and disappeared into the darkness behind it—
with the decision that this time, I wanted to be the hunter.
The next door gave way easily. No creak. It opened like something that had never truly been closed—
just long enough forgotten to feel dangerous.

I stepped into a storage hall. Cool inside.
Not cold, exactly—
more like air no one had breathed in years, but that no one had refreshed either.

The room was large, rectangular, with a ceiling lower than expected. Dim light strips flickered overhead, probably motion-activated, dangling above outdated supply modules.

Some were pried open, others still wired with rusted, improvised cabling. So yes—power was still running. Just enough to delay the inevitable. Along the walls leaned pallet frames, some broken, some bare. Others—still stacked with crates. Untouched for months. Or years. Silence blanketed everything. Like the dust on every surface. But it wasn’t peaceful silence.
It was the kind that sharpens. The kind that slips between things, that turns shadows into threats and sounds into decisions.

I moved quietly.
Step by step.
No rush.

I didn’t even know why I was sneaking through the place—
judging by the dust on the floor, no one had been here in ages.

Maybe I was sneaking because the place demanded it.

Between two rows of stacked containers, a narrow passage led to a smaller storage room—
roughly barricaded with corrugated metal and torn insulation, as if someone preferred forgetting it existed to ever going inside.

It was lit—
but not by electricity.

It was the fading glow of a day that had forgotten how late it was.

I stopped.
Not because of instinct.
Because of a mistake. One that arrived late—
like a warning that forgets to ring until the damage is done.

What was that guy guarding, anyway?

I turned. Looked back toward the entrance corridor. I’d left every door open behind me.
Unsecured.

Closed my eyes.

Smart, JC?

Not even close.

The attacker would still be lying there. Unconscious. Maybe dead by now.
I’d taken him down—
on reflex. No questions asked.

And now?

He was useless.
Or I was.

I clenched my jaw, ran my fingers over my forehead.
Not sweat.
Anger. At myself.

Since when had I gotten so sloppy?
I should’ve tied him up.
Interrogated him.
Anything.

Instead, I’d floored him like some muscle-head on autopilot.
Maybe it was the jump tunnel. Those damn transitions always fog the brain. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep.

Or both.

I slipped back. Through the open door. Knelt beside him.
Still alive. Shallow breath, but steady.

Good.

I grabbed him by the collar, dragged him into the hall.
Not gently.
He’d survive—
or not.

But I needed answers.
And this time, I’d get them.

He was heavier than he looked.
I gritted my teeth, hauled him into the smaller room, dropped him by the wall and sat down a few feet away—
just outside the light, but close enough to keep control.

Now what?

I had no rope. No way to tie him. Only weapons. Only tools for killing. How fitting.

I pulled a stim from my jacket.
Lit it.

The first draw burned.
Sharp.
Sweet.

With that synthetic whisper of calm they all promised.
I waited.

And sure enough—
he started coughing.

A wet, rattling sound.
Not violent.
But he was awake.

His head moved, searching for balance.
His eyes opened—
first to the light, then to me.
I grinned.

“Water?”
I looked around, checked my chest pocket.
“Huh. Guess not.”

I pulled out my flask, unscrewed the cap with a metallic click, took a sniff.
“Radegast. Mmm.”
“I’d offer you some, but… sorry, brother—whiskey’s closer to me than your consciousness. Cheers.”

I took a sip.
Let it burn on my tongue.

He didn’t react.
Not yet.
“Alright then. That wasn’t exactly the warmest welcome out there—so let’s try again from the top.”

I leaned forward, my tone easy.
Almost cheerful.
“Name’s Ulrich. Ulrich from the UEE. And you are?”

He blinked.
And in that blink, I knew he knew I was full of shit.

His eyes narrowed.
Measured.

Then:
“Karl.
Resident asshole.”

I nodded, approving.

“Alright, this won’t be easy with you, I see. But hey—
I won the fight, didn’t I? Let me have a prize. Just one answer. What were you guarding here?”

I made a show of looking around.

“Place is emptier than my stomach.”

He snorted.

“Then go buy yourself a grilled rat—
and fuck off.”

My hand twitched.
Not intention.
Reflex.

The punch hit him in the cheek.
Not hard.
But clear.
He spat to the side.

“Sorry,” I said quietly. “Didn’t mean that. Really. Stay with me, yeah? I don’t like hitting people. But that was... well, a reflex. You know the kind.”

I lit another stim.
Exhaled.

“So let’s be friends. And tell me...”
I slid the folded note from my pocket. Unfolded it slowly. There was dried blood on the paper—
could’ve been his. Could’ve been mine.

“Apologies for the mess. Recognize these coordinates?”

A flicker.
Just a twitch.
A blink that lasted too long.
But I saw it.

“Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

His lips clamped shut. Jaw muscles twitching.

“You’ll get nothing from me, you jackboot fuck.”

I smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. Heard that before. But I’ve got another question for you. Maybe you’ll like this one better.”

I held the note higher.

“These coordinates mean something to you—I can see that. But what do I find there? A brothel? Pretty girls and a cozy spot to shake the dust off?”

I leaned closer.
“Or maybe... Kara Vidral?
The local madam?
Who is she?”

His face changed.
A flicker.
Panic.
Not much—
but real.

His pupils began to twitch. Sweat now gleaming across his brow.
I opened my mouth—
ready to press harder—

But it was already too late.
A click.
A crunch.
A choking sound.
I lunged for him.
Grabbed his head—
But there was nothing to be done.

He convulsed.
Spat.

Red foam bled from the corners of his mouth—
like someone had poured paint into his lungs.

Not blood.
Not poison.
Something symbolic.

Red.

Too red.

Red God.

He collapsed.
Silent.
Still.
Final.

I knelt there. The note drooping from my fingers. Suddenly heavier.
Like an invitation—
but to what?

I let my gaze sweep the room one last time. As if the dead man might still offer something—
a gesture,
a reaction,
a clue I’d missed.

But nothing came.
Not in the room.
Not in me.

For a moment, there was only the rustle of my jacket as I slipped the paper back inside—
and the soft hiss of the stim slowly dying out.
I wasn’t sure if I’d put it out—
or simply forgotten it.

I left the hall without hurry. Pulled the door closed behind me—
left it as I’d found it:

Half-open.
Half-statement.

A silent place.
A silent guardian.

Both now finished.

✧ ✧ ✧
​

The way back led me through the same alleys, the same dusty topography of hopelessness—
but this time, everything felt heavier.

Not because anything had changed. But because I was carrying something.
Not guilt—
not exactly.
But weight.

The woman with the infant was gone. The waste transmitter still stood—
overflowing, rancid, steaming.

As if it had never sheltered anyone.

A boy passed me, carrying a sack on his back—
too light to be food, too heavy to be dreams.

He didn’t look at me.
I breathed shallow through my nose, tasting the dust again—
settled in the cracks of buildings and people alike.

A bitter film coated my tongue.

Not from the dust. From the thought:

Kara Vidral.
A name that killed.

What in hell’s name made her so dangerous—
that someone would rather drown in red foam than speak of her?

 

[AstroSam]

The Hunter​

I turned a corner, passed what barely qualified as a market—
three vendors pretending there was still such a thing as economy here.

In the distance: the UEE banner.
Faded.
But still there.

The closer I got, the heavier my steps became.
What was I going to tell Moreau? And more importantly—
what would I leave out?

I needed something—
for the report,
for the file,
for the system.

By the time I reached the Territorial Oversight Station, I still didn’t have a clear answer.
The building lay in Lago’s flat fog-sunlight like a poorly repainted ruin. Two security cams rotated mechanically—
but in the wrong directions.

The airlock opened without scanning me. I’d already gone through that routine yesterday.
Or was it the day before?

Time in Reis...
didn’t mean anything anymore.

✧ ✧ ✧​

I stepped inside.

It was the same as before—
too cold, too empty, too artificial.

Two clerks sat in the same spots as last time. Only one looked up. The other... wasn’t Moreau.
Black-gray uniform. Polished boots—too polished for someone who actually marched. He glanced at my name, then sent me forward—
to Command.

My stomach clenched.
I followed the directions, passed through sterile corridors, and soon stood in front of a glass-walled office.

I straightened my jacket, adjusted my posture—
not something I usually did—
placed my hand on the door window, and knocked.

His gaze was already on me. As if he’d known the exact minute I’d arrive.
Expression: neutral.
Mouth: shut.
No greeting.
No smile.

Only the eyes moved.
Emerald green.
Unusually clear.
Unusually cold.

Commander Rho.

I hadn’t expected to see him here. Maybe I’d hoped I wouldn’t.
He sat at his desk like a shadow the light had avoided for too long. When I entered, there was no greeting. No gesture. Just a stare that already knew too much.

Then—
nothing.

No further interest.
For minutes, he wrote notes. Only his hand moved. Everything else remained still.

Flawless. Like his appearance.

His uniform:
no dust.
No loose threads.
The insignia:
not pinned on—
engraved.

I drew a loud breath when I finally heard his voice—
whether from relief or concern, I couldn’t tell.

“Advisor Thorne,” he said, now looking directly at me. His voice was calm. Unremarkable. Almost polite—
if it hadn’t been so empty.

I stood at ease, keeping distance.
“Commander Rho. You asked to see me?”

He studied me for a breath.

“Lieutenant Moreau is currently unavailable. I’m filling in.”

I stayed silent. But inside, something tightened. A senior officer, stepping in for a logistics liaison? A glorified errand boy?

No.
Something was wrong here.

And honestly…
I didn’t want to know what.

Rho stepped aside and nodded slightly toward an adjacent room.
A meeting room.
Sparse. Tidy.
I followed.

The room was small. Functional. Characterless. The kind of place where conversations weren’t held—
they were ended.

Rho walked in first, had the door lock behind us automatically,
never turning around. Then he faced me, motioned toward one of the chairs.

No words.

Only the expectation of a man who never said anything he hadn’t calculated.

I remained standing.
So did he.

Two bodies in the room—
but only one owned it.

On the far wall, a hologram came to life. The map of Reis—flat, pulsating. No warmth. Only coordinates. A single red point blinked at the southern edge. I recognized it immediately. And I knew: I wasn’t the only one who’d seen it.

Rho said nothing.
Not yet.

He let the light dance. Let me stare. Let the meaning dig into me—
until I felt it like a hand at my throat.

Then:

“What did you find, Advisor Thorne?”

I fell back into parade rest, slowly folding my hands behind my back.

“The situation is... as expected,” I began. “Unclear. Calm on the surface, but unstable beneath. There’s movement—but no direction.”

I knew it was the opposite of the data-driven answer he wanted.
Maybe that’s why I gave it.

Rho said nothing. So I added, evenly:
“That’s all I can report at this early stage, Sir. Stabilization efforts are underway.”

Again, silence.

But something shifted.

Not in his face.
Not in his posture.

In the temperature of the room.

“Stagnation, Mr. Thorne, is a state. Not a finding.”

His voice remained soft. Almost gentle.

“And I was under the impression you weren’t sent here to collect dusty poetry.”

He stepped closer, noiselessly.

“But perhaps... I was mistaken.”
He let the sentence hang in the air—like a knife without a target.
Then he smiled—
or something that, in his world, passed for one.

“You know, I recall a man on Nexus IV. Been under quiet state observation for years. Scrap dealer. Bit of a recluse. Off the record, of course—archives are full of gaps. But sometimes, certain names surface. When you dig deep enough.”

He didn’t look me in the eye—
but just beside it. Like a surgeon deciding where to cut.

“You share the surname. Coincidence? Possibly. But if you were to be relieved of duty, I’m sure there’d be a place for you. Physically, you seem resilient.”

I didn’t respond. Not because I didn’t want to—
but because I knew any answer would sound like a confession.

Rho took his time, turning back to the hologram.

“And your contact?”

The question came casually—
as if that threat moments ago had never happened.

“The man in the freight hall. I assume more than just a misunderstanding?”

I flinched—internally.
Then shrugged, masking it.

“Sir, he tried to kill me. Self-defense under operational mandate. I have no regrets.”

“Death by self-defense? Well... these things happen.”
A short pause.
“Especially when one operates off-record.”

He let the phrase wither.
Then added:
“Did you find anything else? Anything... noteworthy?”

I knew what this was:
an interrogation without a table.

“Nothing relevant to the report.”

He looked at me again. This time directly.

“But perhaps... relevant to me.”

He rotated the hologram again.

“You met a broker today. Drex Valon. A rare name—
and never accidental.”

Pause.

“How did you come into contact?”

I took a slow breath.

“Sir, Drex finds me. Not the other way around. If he wants to talk, he talks. If not, even a UEE sat-net won’t help.”

Rho said nothing for a moment.

Then:
“Interesting.”

It didn’t sound impressed.
More like profile calibration.

I added, as evenly as I could:

“You’re looking for him? Good luck. He’s loyal. Just not to everyone.”

“Loyalty,” Rho said, “is a volatile commodity. But efficiency—
efficiency can be measured.”

His fingers twitched across the interface. The hologram responded immediately, zooming in on the coordinates.

The point pulsed brighter.

“You received an intel item. Not digitally. No network.”

I said nothing.

He pushed the hologram aside, tapped the panel. The red point reappeared. Bright. Clear.

“Coordinates, aren’t they?”

His voice was low.

“Handwritten. Irregular. No official transmission.”

Pause.

“That gets noticed.”

I remained silent. Because anything I said now would be too much.

“There was a name, I believe. Kara... Vidral?”

He didn’t speak it as a question—
but as an invitation to deny.

I raised my chin. Just a little.

“Means nothing to me.”

“But apparently meant enough to the man in the hall to die for. Internal hemorrhagic event—
most likely a sealed toxin capsule in the tooth. Not pleasant. But effective.”

He turned toward the door. Like someone ending a conversation.
Then stopped—
his back to me—
and still, every word was clearly for me:

“Most people think fear is a feeling. I don’t. Fear is a structure. It forms when a person realizes the system sees them—
but doesn’t need them.”

He turned his head slightly. His gaze hit me like glass under voltage.

“You work for such a system, Mr. Thorne. Don’t forget that.
And don’t confuse your assignment here in Reis with an invitation for self-actualization.”

He didn’t say goodbye. He just left the room—
as if I had already walked out.

And maybe…
I had.

Only my body hadn’t realized it yet.

✧ ✧ ✧
​

The door slid shut behind me without a sound. No click. No locking noise. But I knew I was trapped—
just on the outside this time.

I stood for a moment beneath the canopy of the UEE security building. The air had grown heavier, denser. It felt like Rho’s gaze was still on me—
as weighty as a god’s judgment.

I took a breath, as if I could inhale the pressure away, pulled my shoulders up, and took the first steps:
away from the UEE.
Back toward Reis.

I could’ve done without both.
If it weren’t for the name Kara…

But that didn’t matter now. I was here. And no thought experiment would change that in this moment.

As I walked, I shook my head like a wet dog.
Reflex.
As if I could shake off the pressure weighing me down. But the thoughts returned. The worries. The questions.

Why was I here? And what for?
Not the official version—I knew that one by heart:
Security analysis.
Survey the Gestas zones.
Prep for infiltration.
Maybe stir up a few cultists who worshipped the Red God by breathing holy coals at his image.

That was my mission. More or less.

But my real objective?

Kara.

Find my mother.

Who now… maybe isn’t.

Drex, who gave me the note.

With the coordinates.

Coordinates that led to nothing but dust—
and a guardian.

But if Rho already knew all of that? If he had the coordinates,
Drex,
me…

Why the show?
Why send me on a scavenger hunt?

I walked through the thinning streets of Reis, the light of dusk caught in the folds of rusted rooftops, crawling between facades whose paint had peeled away long before hope did.
Nothing reflected—everything absorbed.

The dust in the air glowed coppery, as if someone had scorched the sky. Windows gave back no light, but hung blind in their frames—
like eyes that had seen too much.

Farther in, at the dense heart of the city, life pulsed:
booming bass,
clattering metal.

A woman’s laugh drifted across the rooftops—
foreign, almost absurd in this urban organism
too tired to rebel,
too alive to die.

My thoughts began to gnaw at me, my mind spun shadows from irritation.
I looked around. Not obvious. Just… cautious.

A street kid darted through the alley, pushing a cart full of dented containers. On a balcony, a woman hung laundry—
too many red garments.
An old man spat into the dust.
All normal.
Too normal.

Maybe no one was watching. Maybe everyone was.
I walked faster. Step by step.

A cat leapt from a narrow crevice, crossed a gap in the metal floor. Its eyes flashed for a second before disappearing into the dark. I wondered if it worked for Rho. Or someone else.

Had it been Drex who sold me out to the UEE?
Or was Drex just another echo of a larger plan?

And what if Rho had known him longer than I had?

A merchant called out to me, tried to sell me a vibrating pocket knife. I shook my head and kept walking.

A second man looked at me too long. Or maybe I imagined it. I felt my hand drift closer to my holster than necessary.

Everything here began to flicker.
Not the lights—
the meaning.

I came here thinking I could uncover something. But what if this wasn’t my mission—
but my test?

I drew a slow breath through my nose.
Not from fear.
Not yet.

But because I realized I had to move faster.
Think faster.
Disappear faster.

Back to the old plan:
Activate contacts. Secure routes.
Track the name Kara Vidral.

And get out—
before I became just another red dot on someone else's map.





_________________________________________________________________________

END OF CHAPTER I - CHAPTER II WILL FOLLOW SOON!

 

[NaffNaffBobFace]

I'll read once I'm back from work tonight, opening few lines of dust is really setting the scene for me though

Trance is definitely Nubian I'll be checking those out while working

 

[NaffNaffBobFace]

That's very cool and certainly atmospheric.

There where a few descriptions which were so alien to me, like the waste transmitter, which lost me... maybe it's a linen entity in SC and I don't play the game enough for it to be familiar, maybe the name of the structure so alien and to its culture as to be totally foreign, something other than the dust and decay to remind you you're on another world away from what you know...?

 

[AstroSam]

That's very cool and certainly atmospheric.

There where a few descriptions which were so alien to me, like the waste transmitter, which lost me... maybe it's a linen entity in SC and I don't play the game enough for it to be familiar, maybe the name of the structure so alien and to its culture as to be totally foreign, something other than the dust and decay to remind you you're on another world away from what you know...?

This is EXACTLY the kind of feedback I need - THANK YOU SO MUCH!

The waste transponder was such an invention of mine, but I don't want the reader to stumble over it. I changed it to a waste compactor, if that's ok?

If you stumble across more terms or phrases that are rather atypical, please let me know!

 

[AstroSam]

I am currently preparing chapter 2. The German proofreading of my German Org mate is finished. Now I'll let the translation run and then post again in sections.

I must admit to being a little disappointed at how few people interested in reading there seem to be.

 

[NaffNaffBobFace]

I am currently preparing chapter 2. The German proofreading of my German Org mate is finished. Now I'll let the translation run and then post again in sections.

I must admit to being a little disappointed at how few people interested in reading there seem to be.

Be not disappointed, footfall drops between patches the wordy lovers will be back at some point

 

[AstroSam]

Chapter 2

The Whisperer​

When I reached the hall, nothing had changed—
at least, not at first glance. The rust was still there. The peeling paint. The sharp scent of machine oil, dust, and cheap antifreeze.

But then I saw it.
Or rather—I didn’t.

The body was gone.
No blood. No trace of foam. Not even a smear on the floor. Only a compressed patch in the dust where he’d been lying.

As if someone had erased the scene.
Carefully.
Systematically.

I pulled out my mobiGlas and ran a quick particle scan.
No residue. No biological traces. No toxins.
No anomalies.

That could only mean one thing:
Someone had wanted me to find nothing.

I circled the area, scanning for details.
No boot prints but my own. No nearby cameras. Just the flickering light above.

Had it always been flickering?

I moved deeper into the hall. Slower. More alert.

Still empty. Almost meditative in its innocence—
as if nothing had ever happened.
That was what truly unnerved me.

I reached the center of the space and turned a full circle.
Nothing.
No clues. No corpse. No progress.
Just me.

And that damned note.

I pulled it out again.
Kara Vidral.
The coordinates.
I knew them by heart by now—
and still I stared, as if a second look might change them.

And maybe…
maybe something had.

The grid looked old. The formatting... inconsistent.
Latitude. Longitude. Elevation. Minutes, seconds—

What was I missing?

I’d leaned too heavily on Drex. On his intel. On our shared past. I’d assumed trust would carry me. My name. My history.

But this—
this wasn’t my world anymore.

It was his. Always had been.

And I’d moved through it like a tourist.

I cursed—
not at Drex.
Not at Rho.
At myself. For being complacent. For trusting protocols. For mistaking routine for insight.

I should’ve pressed harder. Should’ve squeezed more out of Drex before he disappeared into the shadows.

Now I was alone.
Holding a coordinate that led to an empty room—
and a corpse that vanished before it could speak.

Or maybe…

Maybe I’d used the wrong key.

I looked at the note again, for the hundredth time.
That’s when I saw it—
those numbers didn’t match any UEE standard grid.

The structure was wrong. Or outdated.
Maybe this wasn’t a coordinate in the usual sense. Maybe it was a relic. A leftover from a different time.

My eyes caught the last line again.
The numbers now felt stranger than ever.

And then I knew what I had to do.

There was someone—
someone who worked with old patterns, with forgotten maps.
A relic himself.

K’ray.

A name I hadn’t thought of in years.
A Tevarin. Merchant. Informant. Survivor.

K’ray wasn’t trustworthy. But unlike Drex, at least with him, you knew that going in. And in a place like Nexus, honesty about your dishonesty was worth more than clean water.

I folded the note.
Raised my collar.
And left the hall with one last glance over my shoulder.

✧ ✧ ✧​

The Market of Reis had no name.
It was just there—
grown like a tumor of corrugated metal, makeshift roofs, and the sheer necessity to survive.

The heat hung heavy in the alleys, pooling between tensioned tarps, shimmering over puddles of brackish water where the glow of adscreens fractured like light through broken glass.

"Smell that?" my father once said.
"When sweat, oil, and fried false-worm mix—then you know you’re still alive."
I’d laughed back then.
Now I knew he was right.
Life didn’t smell like purity.
It smelled like struggle.

I blended into the crowd. No destination. Just movement.

The narrow ways were crammed. Shoulders brushing as they passed, skin on skin, breath on fabric. Voices layered over each other in at least five languages.

The Tevarin didn’t seem out of place here.
They were part of Reis.
Not fringe, not center—just thread in the weave.
Quieter bodies. Calmer motions. Yet each of them carried a space around themselves—
one no one dared to violate.
Not out of fear.
Out of respect.
Or guilt.

I drifted deeper. Between calls, offers, and filthy jokes, there was a faint pulse—
maybe music.
Maybe just the rhythmic clatter of a generator, mistaken by someone for a beat.

A girl tried to sell me dried eggshells—calcium substitute for less than half a credit. Two kids chased a three-legged dog, shrieking, laughing, stumbling.

Then: a shove. A bump from the left.
I felt the motion under my coat—too quick, too clean.
My hand moved on instinct.
A small, dirty arm—barely the size of a handheld scanner.
A child.
It hissed, broke free, and vanished into the crowd before I could even curse.

The smells shifted in waves:
roasted quasi-grazer fat, sweet-sour Maroc eggs, charred false-worm—
breaded rat tails in some spiced paste. Between them, fermenting fruit—split open, left in the sun, surrounded by flies that couldn’t decide whether they were still alive or already fermenting with the pulp.

But my thoughts were back on K’ray.

His stall never had a sign. Never a fixed location.
He was there when you needed him—
and invisible when you searched.

That connected him to Drex.

I passed a teahouse—four supply containers riveted together under a drooping tarp. Beneath it, the low murmur of two old men—one human, one not.

A flicker from golden eyes caught mine.
No nod.
No word.
But the message was clear.
One more block. Then left.

I didn’t know how I knew.
But sometimes, in Reis, you feel the way before you understand it.

So I followed.

✧ ✧ ✧​

The passage between the market stalls narrowed into a kind of hollow path—stacked crates and toppled supply containers forming crude walls.
Voices faded. The light turned murky.
Between two dust-caked stands, a corridor opened—no more than a fissure in the bowels of Reis.
Crates piled into walls, beneath me a sediment of plastic waste and food wrappers, and above, a canopy of stitched-together tarps. A fan spun lazily overhead, like it might forget at any moment why it was still moving.

K’ray sat atop an old cooling module from a decommissioned ship, draped in a rug that might once have had color.

The Tevarin was tall—maybe seven feet—and so lean his shadow vanished between the stacked crates.
His skin was the dull black of obsidian, interrupted by faintly shimmering segments that rose and fell with each breath.
Armor plates covered his body, like a living poem made from scars and memory.
Where a human’s nose would be, there was only a bony ridge—smooth and lifeless, like a compass carved from stone.
His almond-shaped eyes were amber, vertical-slit pupils—
and they didn’t see me.
They looked through me.

I stopped.
Because I knew I was being watched—not just by him.

“Jacob Thorne,” he said. My name spoken like a file being accessed, long archived. His voice barely more than a whisper in the throat—alien in cadence and timbre, as if a shadow had learned how to speak.

I swallowed the irritation at “Jacob” and stepped closer.

“Greetings, honored K’ray. I was hoping you’d forgotten me.”

A sound—not a laugh, not a snort. More like an echo that hadn’t realized it left his chest.

“I forget many.
But not the ones whose footsteps sound like debts.”

“I owe you nothing. Not you. But I have questions.”

“Questions…”
He let the word hang—testing it, perhaps, to see if it held weight.
“…are expensive.”

“I pay in memories,” I said and bowed slightly, without breaking eye contact.

His pupils tightened. Then a faint nod—or something that felt like one.

“You sound like your father.”

I said nothing. Because that was the only respect I still owed him.

A silence formed—charged, not awkward.
Like a conversation that didn’t need words.

I was the one to break it. With thumb and ring finger, I drew the folded paper from my chest pocket.

“I’m looking for this place.”

I held up the folio sheet, laid it on the makeshift table, smoothed it out. I realized my mistake too late.

K’ray didn’t move.
But the air shifted. Not tangibly—but undeniably.

Something had been disturbed.
Not K’ray himself.
Something older than him.

I remembered.
My father once said:
“With a Tevarin, it’s not about what you ask. It’s about when. And how. If you push him—your cause is already lost.”

That line echoed in my skull now.
Back then, I’d laughed.
Now I understood. Not fully.
But enough to know I’d done it wrong.

I retrieved the paper. Folded it again—slowly.
This time I placed it to the side, not in the center.
An offering. Not a command.

“My apologies. I forgot that patience speaks louder to you than curiosity.”

K’ray didn’t move.
Just stared through me again.

Then—
a soft, guttural sound. Not approval, not disapproval.
Just recognition.

He took the paper. Gently, like it might breathe.
And studied it in silence.

“Coordinates,” he murmured.
“Old. Crude. Unclean.”

I waited.
Silent—not out of pride, but understanding.The next move wasn’t mine.

K’ray looked up. His eyes rested on me—measuring. Weighing.

“You carry a debt,” he said.
His voice was heavy, as if it bore my guilt in its tone—just to hand it to me in words.

I wanted to argue. But I paused. Because I knew he wasn’t talking about money.

“You mean my father.”

“I mean what lives on through you.”

He tilted his head, like a bird deciding whether the thing before it was food—or threat.

“He took. A lot.
I don’t ask for repayment. I ask for balance.”

I nodded. Slowly.
Because in that gesture was more truth than words could carry.

I wanted to ask how to restore that balance.
But didn’t. Because something in his eyes said the question was already asked.

K’ray extended a hand—clawed fingers barely shifting.

“Your arm,” he said.

I glanced at the claws, then into his eyes.
There was no anger. No threat. Only expectation.

So I offered him my forearm.

The horn of his fingers felt cold. Dry.

He leaned in, pulled up my sleeve. His eyes scanned my skin like he was studying an overcooked earthworm under noonlight.

Then—
a scratch.
Quick. Precise.
A cut from one claw.

I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t wince.
But the sting was instant.
Not deep. But… wrong.
Like something happened under the skin.

“That the price?” I asked quietly.

“No,” said K’ray.
“That’s the reminder.”

I stared at him.
The spot on my arm throbbed dully.
The claws weren’t dirty. But something had clung to them. Something… active.

“What did you put in me?”

“A question with teeth,” he said.
“If you answer it before it bites—it stays quiet. If not… it’ll eat you.”

“You want information.”

He nodded.

“Whatever you find at these coordinates—
you bring it to me. Everything. Thoughts. Names. Traces. You will be the vessel. Not just the finder.”

I exhaled. Slowly.

“And if I lie?”

K’ray’s eyes narrowed.

“You won’t lie.”

I looked at the wound.
No more blood. Just a swollen line.

“And if I die before I return?”

He gave a faint shrug.

“Then your debt was deeper than expected.”

I wanted to hate him. But I only hated myself—
for the part of me that had accepted the deal. Without contract. Without word.

I slid the paper back to me, brushed a thumb over the edges, and pulled my sleeve down with the other.

“These numbers,” I said. “Lat, long, elevation. Then… minutes. Seconds. Millimeter precision.”
I looked up.
“But something’s off.”

K’ray was silent for a moment, weighing how much I deserved to understand.
Then:

“The minutes and seconds are what you think—
and they’re not. They don’t just tell you where to stand—
but when.”

He turned the paper slightly, held it against the light like an old coin.

“A time window,” he said. “Every thirty-nine hours. Two minutes long.”

I whistled softly. Not for effect. Just for me.

“Damn,” I muttered. “That’s good.”

K’ray didn’t react.
Maybe that was his version of satisfaction.

“Location and timing of a relay,” he said.
“Very old. Hathor? Maybe. Red God? Possibly.
Time is what you’re chasing.”

“And what does this relay transmit?” I asked—to no one in particular. But K’ray’s eyes locked on mine. Amber. Predatory.

“That depends on what you want to hear.”
A pause.
“Or… what you fear.”

I looked at the paper again.
Same coordinates. But now they felt… deeper. Like a shadow behind a door slightly ajar.

I swallowed dry, about to offer thanks—
but K’ray wasn’t done.

“You’ll need a decrypt module. And you must go alone. In silence. No net. No feedback. Just you… and the whisper.”

I looked at my scratched skin. Still burning faintly.

“That’s it?”

A final, shallow growl.

“Maybe that’s all you need. Maybe it’s just the first stone to fall. I will wait… for your whisper.”

He turned away.

The conversation was over.

 

[AstroSam]

The Relais​

I walked slowly.
The heat still hung thick in the streets, but something had shifted.
In the world—or in me.

The cut on my arm throbbed, not painful, more like a rhythm—
as if my body were trying to remind me of something I wasn’t supposed to forget.

K’ray hadn’t said much.
But what he had said carried weight.

The coordinates, he claimed, were old—not geologically, but culturally.
Tied to a route that only revealed itself at certain times.
Thirty-nine hours concealed.
Two minutes open.

I pulled the sleeve down over the wound.
The fabric scratched, like it wanted to remind me:
You belong to someone now.
Or… something.

I headed back toward the old cargo hall.
The market was already fading behind me.
The streets were thinning.
Just the occasional voice, brittle as wind-wrecked cloth.

Between two containers, a man sat on an overturned barrel, counting stim butts.
His lips moved silently.
His eyes locked onto me—
but I kept walking.

The coordinates, then. A kind of key.
If K’ray was right, the place they marked hadn’t just been hidden.
It had been erased.
Deliberately.

And whatever remained there…
only showed itself every thirty-nine hours—
for exactly two minutes.
After that: silence again.

A signal, K’ray had said.
Not loud. Not official. No ping. No beacon. More like a whisper inside the electromagnetic static. And I needed an ear to hear it. A decrypt module. Not civilian. Not registered. And definitely not affordable.

I leaned against a dead power conduit, staring up at a rusted water tower that vanished into the dusk like a relic too ashamed to touch the sky. Two minutes. Every thirty-nine hours. If I missed the timing, I’d have to wait again.
Nearly two days.

And by then?
I’d be dead.

Then your debt was greater than expected.

I ran through my options. My contacts were unreliable. Black market dealers like Nari Cresh or the scum from Pad 12 would ask more than I was willing to pay—
in UEC or blood.

Then the ground vibrated. Not violently—just enough to notice. As if the planet had briefly shifted alignment.

I looked up.

A rumble sliced through the muggy air—
distinct enough that I could taste the name before I even thought it.

Drake.
A Herald.

One of those flying data cannons, built like a caffeine rush with engines louder than a launch field full of Caterpillars. And yet—fast. Unbelievably fast.

I stepped from the shadow just in time to see its silhouette overhead—
short, squat, dirty.

It came in low. No transponder. No announced approach.

A data runner in a hurry—
or in fear.
Or both.

I moved. No time for doubt. Herald pilots didn’t stay long. They were loners. Paranoids. Pros. And they only landed where they knew they could take off again.

I crossed the old supply bridge and slipped onto one of the narrow ramps toward East Loading. Where space was plenty—
but rules weren’t.

The roar grew louder. The Herald’s engines screamed like an angry god. It was almost down—landing struts hissing out, the only thing holding its mass above the ground. A few scattered dockhands ducked instinctively, like someone had dropped a bomb.

I got lucky.
The Herald landed crooked—no line of sight to central surveillance. The pilot stepped out. Small. Wiry. Quick stride.
Didn’t look sideways. A mobiGlas on one wrist, helmet half open.

Probably heading to a dealer. An informant. A toilet.

I counted. Three minutes. Max. Then he’d be back. I slipped between two supply crates that smelled of hydraulic oil and warm insulation.

More luck—
The pilot hadn’t locked the ship.

The interior was an oven—flashing converters and buzzing load lamps pulsing like nerves. I knew the layout. Just above the core distributor, behind the primary routing array—
that’s where the prize lived.

The decryptor. Half the size of my forearm. Four times more valuable than my life. I reached. The connectors twitched free.

The fuse?
Old.
Maybe even manually disabled.

Lucky.
Or someone had just been tired.

I stuffed the module under my jacket, sealed the panel, and backed out of the ship—
before the pilot returned.

By the time the Herald roared off again, I was already three blocks away. A screaming inferno. And no one noticed its heart was missing a beat.

✧ ✧ ✧​

The Hall was dark. Still. Nothing had changed.
I slowly pushed the door shut behind me, feeling my way along the walls to one of the rear corners—
a spot where I could see anyone entering…but no one would find me easily.

K’ray had spoken of a time window.
Two minutes.
Every thirty-nine hours.
Maybe I was early.
Maybe too late.
Maybe this was all a damn mistake.

I sat down between two cargo crates, pulled the hood low over my face, and closed my eyes. Just for a moment. The floor was warm, dusty. My heartbeat pulsed in the wounded arm—
a faint countdown under the skin.
I drifted off.

A faint whine pulled me out of half-sleep. At first, I thought it was my mobiGlas.
Then I heard it again—
Not a device. An impulse. Electromagnetic. Repeating. Precise.

I snapped awake, jumped to my feet, scanned the hall.
Nothing. No movement. No lights. But the sound again—
barely audible, like tinnitus rising from the guts of the concrete.

I ran—
rushed, almost blind, hands on the wall.
There. A seam.
It sounded different.
I knocked. Listened. Felt a faint ridge.
A maintenance hatch.
Sealed. Rusted. But not old enough to be forgotten.
I braced myself against it.
Nothing.
Again—this time I kicked.
The latch snapped. The door gave way.

A tunnel.
Narrow. Barely tall enough to stand. Lined with crumbling insulation.
I ran.

The sound grew louder. More rhythmic. Like the slow awakening of a machine that had forgotten it could still function.

At the end:
a terminal. Crusted. Sunken into a wall full of ancient Hathor relays—
probably Cold War tech from before the Nexus system collapsed into anarchy in 2672. Maybe older.

A light blinked. No screen—
a prism of frequencies dancing like nervous light.

I yanked the decrypt module from my coat. Hit the activator.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
“Come on!”
I shook the module.
Checked the ports. Then I saw the power coupling on the wall.
Power—yes.
But… no adapter.

“No…!!”

I searched my pockets. Nothing but standard cables. Too weak. Too incompatible. The prism flickered—faster now.
Like a heartbeat under stress. I slammed the sync button—
an impulse, a vibration—
still no access.

Two minutes, K’ray had said. And I was either in it, out of it—
or somewhere in hell, without knowing how deep it went. The light blinked once—
then went dark.

“NO!!”

I hit the terminal. The wall. Myself. Eyes shut.
Breath ragged—

And then I heard it. A voice.
Calm. Precise.
Too close.

“Excuse me,” it said.
“But I’d like my decryptor back.”

I spun—
A shadow. A flicker.
Then a blow.
No pain.
Just light.

Then:
Darkness.

 

[AstroSam]

The Datarunner​

The world came back like a punch to the gut—
too sudden to block. First the dull pounding behind my forehead, then the burn in my neck, finally the pull in my shoulders.

I was on the ground. Bound. Wrist to wrist—
zip ties, from the feel of it. Old-school. But effective.

Behind me: a table. Not cheap steel, but an old half-collapsed terminal desk—
the kind you find in decommissioned mining stations. Half as old as the planet, twice as stubborn.

Across from me sat someone in full flight gear. Half-turned, fingers tapping at a terminal. What threw me off: they still wore their helmet.

Not tall—maybe a head shorter than me.
Hard to tell sitting down. Lean body. Tense. Not twitchy like a terrier, but... focused. Like someone trying to understand something. Or decode it.

A quick glance to the side confirmed it—
my decryptor. Hooked up cleanly to the console. Neatly routed cables. Whoever this was, they knew what they were doing.

I tried to straighten up. My shoulders immediately protested. So I just rolled my neck, slow and careful—
watching them from the corner of my eye.

“Awake?” they asked, without looking up. “Excellent.”

Then they turned to me fully.
Leaned back in the chair like they were waiting on the check at some portside bar.

“Tell me—did you really think a Datarunner wouldn’t have backups and vidcams installed? I mean, I’ve seen my share of naive idiots, but you—you’re their king.”

I grimaced.
My tongue felt like parchment.

“Pleasure’s mine. Got any Radegast on you? Or a stim?
Just wondering—’cause, you know... basic hospitality.”

They snorted. Not a laugh. Just a sound—somewhere between exasperation and amusement. Then they held up the decryptor like a piece of burnt toast.

“I could’ve just left you here. Really. Would’ve made more sense. Time is money, and you’re neither. But...”
They leaned in, elbows on the table.

“...I’m curious. Occupational hazard.”

“Welcome to the club,” I muttered.

Silence.
The helmet stayed on. That bothered me.
Were they smiling? Narrowing their eyes? All I saw was my own warped reflection in the visor.

“What I don’t get is—what were you looking for at this terminal?” They tapped the casing. “This thing’s older than Lago itself.
It’s been sending one single landing authorization.
Over and over.
Forever.
Like someone forgot to turn it off.”

I blinked. Something in me collapsed, like the last beam in a rotting house giving out. I tried again to sit up.

“Wait—what?”

They nodded.

“Same signal, every time. No payload. No encryption. No recipient. Just... a ping. A trigger. Utterly meaningless.”

I cursed. Loudly.

“May the Vanduul get eaten alive by Kopions... fuck!”

They scooted closer. Chair squeaking. Leaned in—
like a mechanic wondering why the engine just coughed blood.

I exhaled slowly. Looked where I guessed their eyes might be.

“Okay. Listen. I’m sorry. Really. I messed up. I’ve got thirty-nine hours to figure out what this terminal’s hiding, or I’m dead. I don’t know what I’m looking for. But something has to be here.”

I nodded toward my breast pocket.

“There’s a note. Coordinates. Grab it.”

They didn’t move right away. Still. Measuring. Then carefully, they reached over, pulled the folded paper, unfolded it—
studied the numbers like they could read images in them.

“Hm. Interesting… very interesting.”

Then:

“What did you hope to find?”

I shrugged—
as best I could.

“No idea. I’m here on UEE contract. Officially, just assessing regional security. Then a contact gave me those coordinates. Later I found out—it’s geodata plus a time window.”

The pilot didn’t react. But something in their posture shifted—
like a thought had just landed, and it was building roots.

“Geodata... time window... That’s... intriguing.”

The Datarunner stood. Paced a few steps. Not restless. Calculating. Each movement exact—
like buying time for thought.

Then they turned to me.

“I believe you.”

Pause.

“But I don’t believe your informant.”

I gave a dry laugh, cracked as this dusty room. Then I let my head thud against the metal behind me.
Once. Twice. A third time. Each hit a little louder.

“What are you doing?”

The voice came filtered through the helmet—
distorted, but clearly annoyed.

“What’s it look like? Standard emergency code, isn’t it? Banging my skull three times for rescue?”

“You’re damaging your cerebellum.”

“Then we’ve got something in common.”

Silence.
They went back to the terminal, sat again—
not looking at me. Fingers skimming across the console like familiar skin. Then a tilt of the head. Just slightly in my direction.

“What’s in it for me if I help?”

I laughed—bitter. Almost surprised.

“Seriously? You doing a K’ray impression now? Go ahead. Cut me open, lace me with poison, sit back and wait for the fun.
That’s pretty much all I’ve got left to offer.”

No reaction.
Just a quiet exhale behind the helmet.

“I work for the UEE,” I sighed, resting my cheek on the table.
“My monthly pay could move you to tears.”

A quiet snort.

“More like… mild amusement.”

I tilted my head toward the visor, where the dim terminal light fractured.

“Fine. Let’s settle on: not even worth a respectful nod.”

This time, silence lasted longer.

Then:

“Maybe...respect for risking so much for so little.”

The words hit unexpectedly. Not hard. Not mocking. Just... lodged there. Behind the ribs.

I blinked. Exhaled.

“Point to you,” I murmured. “Can you untie me now?”

“No.”

“Of course not,” I sighed. Leaned back. Stared at the ceiling. Dust hung in the beam cracks—
moved slightly, like proof that even here, there was still motion.

“All right.” I lifted my head again, wrists still tied. “What now?”

The Datarunner stood—
slowly. With that kind of motion that doesn’t waste effort.

They walked around the table—
no glance in my direction. Or maybe especially because of that.

“I’ll make some inquiries,” they said. “And you’ll stay here.”

“You’re joking.”

“Very dry humor.”

“Hey—wait, you’re not actually—”

But they were already at the door. Head tilted slightly, as if listening to a frequency only they could hear.

Then they raised a hand—
not a wave. More like a silent command. Pressed a button on the wall.

The light went out.

Left behind: the hum of old machines, my pulse in my temple—
and the creeping realization that this whole damn assignment might’ve just been the prologue to a story I never wanted to be part of.

✧ ✧ ✧​

I drifted off. Maybe for seconds. Maybe longer.
The room had no windows, no ticking clock, no sense of time. Just darkness, dust in my nose, and the feeling that my body was growing heavier the longer I stayed strapped down.

Then the light came on. It wasn’t harsh, but it felt like someone had pierced my skull with a blade. My neck throbbed like I’d spent the night sleeping on concrete.

The door closed. Quiet. Padded. The Datarunner was back. No words. No glance. Just a focused stride, like they already knew what my next thought was going to sound like. They sat down, crossed their legs, rested their fingertips on the chair’s edge—and stared at me. For minutes, maybe. Or it just felt that way.

“You remember what you promised K’ray as payment?” they asked at last.

I blinked. My throat was dry.
“My life?”

“Among other things.” The helmet muffled the voice, but not the chill behind it. “You seem reckless. So let me be polite and very clear: don’t play games with me. However I look at it, you don’t have a single card worth bluffing with.”

I said nothing. Just nodded. They were right. No more performance. No more cool lines. Just options—and fewer by the hour.

Maybe it was time to admit that.

I raised my head. Looked at them—at where I imagined their face to be.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “It’s… hard to say this. But: I’m sorry. I could use your help. Honestly. I just… don’t see how I could ever pay you.”

They didn’t answer right away. Then they lifted the paper—the coordinates rustled in their gloved hand.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Thorne… Jacob.”

I flinched. Didn’t reply. They held the note lightly in the air, like prey. Or an offer.
“This is payment enough. I’m interested in the destination—and everything tied to it.”

I leaned back slightly, as far as the restraints would let me.

“Yeah. I’ve heard someone say that today.”

“K’ray,” the Datarunner replied. “I know.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How? Did you talk to him?”

“Not a chance,” they said flatly. “I’d never go near that venomous crow. No, Mr. Thorne—I'm a Datarunner. That means I deal in information. I find it. Intercept it. Reconstruct it.”

They leaned forward.

“And in your case... let’s just say there are some very interesting fragments—if you know where to look. Tell me… do you happen to know a certain Commander Rho?”

I let my head sink against the table. Not hard. But deliberate.

“Oh, not this again.”

“Yes. This again.”

They stood up. Moved around the table. This time… it didn’t feel like a threat. More like the scene before a fragile truce.

“What I’m saying, Mr. Thorne: you’ve got very few friends here.” A pause. Then they leaned against the edge of the table, just slightly closer. “To be precise: you can’t trust anyone. Not the UEE. Not your past. Not even your mission.”

I raised my head. They tilted theirs just a bit.

“That makes me the closest friend you’ve got.”

I stared at them. Seconds ticked by. Maybe more. Then they raised their hands to the helmet. A subtle twist—hissing pressure released. The helmet came off. The face beneath wasn’t soft, wasn’t harsh—just drawn in clean, deliberate lines, like someone had trimmed away anything unnecessary. High cheekbones, a narrow chin. Lips relaxed, not smiling. Eyes that shimmered a shade of jade—too clear to be warm, too sharp to ignore. Watchful. The hair was dark, straight, just brushing her shoulders. A few damp strands clung to her temples. Nothing about her felt accidental. Nothing was out of place.

The Datarunner was a woman. Young—but not naïve. More like someone who’d had to grow up too early, too often, until “early” stopped meaning anything. I blinked. Reflex. Too late, again.

“My name is Solin Korr,” she said calmly.

Then the faintest twitch of an eyebrow. No smile. No anger.
Just the quiet precision of someone who sharpens air with her presence.

“And I think we’d better start looking out for each other.”

✧ ✧ ✧​

Solin placed a chair behind me without a word, crouched beside me, and studied me with a gaze that held no comfort—only assessment. Then she cut the plastic binds at my wrists.
“Sit,” she said curtly, motioning to the chair.
Even if I’d wanted to move fast, my body wasn’t having it. My shoulders ached from sitting too long, my joints were numb. Carefully, I pushed myself up and sank into the seat. Solin ignored me and began navigating her mobiGlas—focused, precise, like an operator on a mission.

The minutes stretched. Slowly, I came back to life. And with life came impatience.
“Listen, Miss… I mean, Solin, I—”
She raised a finger. No expression. No glance. Just a silent signal: be quiet.
I shut up. For now.

But restlessness doesn’t sit still.
“Solin, I don’t have much time before—”
“Indeed, Mr. Thorne.” She snapped her mobiGlas shut and stood. “We have to go. Follow me.”
“But—”
“Now, Mr. Thorne.”

I blinked—more surprised than I cared to admit. Still, I got up, shook the stiffness from my limbs, and followed. She was already at the door, hand on the panel, impatient.
“Solin…”
“Mr. Thorne, can we agree—for now—that I speak, and you follow?”
“Can we agree that you call me JC?”
She turned slightly, one brow raised. A moment’s hesitation, then a nod. “As you wish… JC.”
I sighed. And followed her out into the hall.

The second we stepped into open space, she started running—fast, silent, with purpose toward the main gate.
“What’s going on?” I called. “Why are we running?”
“Remember when I said you had few friends?”
“What’s that got to do—”
“Well…” Her voice turned colder. “…right now, a lot of them are heading here.”

Adrenaline hit me like a cold shock. I snapped awake. Picked up the pace—too late.
A shot rang out. The wall beside the gate exploded into a cloud of dust and fragments. Not a laser rifle—this was ballistic. I knew the sound. A Coda, maybe. Or an old LH86. Good. Better that than a Lightning Bolt.

I yanked Solin back just before she stepped into the line of fire. She stumbled, annoyed, but I was already in my element.
“You armed?”
“Of course,” she snapped—and fired her Arclight into the shadows.

“Listen, sweetheart—”
The barrel of her pistol was suddenly between my legs. Close. Very close.
“Call me ‘sweetheart’ one more time, Mr. Thorne, and you’ll be two friends short.”
I raised both hands. “All right. Won’t happen again. Gross. Sincerely—my apologies.”

More rounds slammed into the doorway. I ducked, peeking around the edge.
“Here’s the deal: they’re using Coda or LH86—good up to 30 meters, maybe 100 for the Coda with a night scope. And probably an Emod stabilizer. If we stay and return fire, we’re dead in two minutes.”

She didn’t answer right away.
“Our shot is movement,” I continued. “I shoot, you run—left, toward the market alley. I’ll cover and follow.”
Another pause. Then another round hit—close.
“Fine,” she said.

I nodded. Deep breath. One more peek around the corner.
“I shoot—now! Go!”
I fired. The muzzle flash lit the wall. Solin sprinted—fast, damn fast. I fired again, pushed off, chased after her. Rounds hissed past us, slicing air and shadow.

No civilians at this hour. Just shadows, smells, chaos—perfect.
Solin darted between crates, tarps, metal scaffolding. I was right behind.

Then—a thud. Solin fell.
An attacker. Then two. One jumped from cover, tackled her. Another grabbed her arm. A third aimed at her head.

But she was quick—quicker than I’d thought. She ducked, swept one’s legs out, elbowed another in the jaw.
Then a fourth—bigger. Stronger. Slammed into her.
Solin went down hard. She fought like a feral cat.

I was there in the next breath. No plan. Just instinct.
The first didn’t see me coming—I slammed my shoulder into his throat, threw him off, hurled him into a vendor stall.
The second drew a knife—I blocked with my arm, kicked his knee, heard it crack. He screamed, collapsed.

I yanked Solin up. The third came from behind—I turned, low, gut punch, uppercut. He dropped.
Then the fourth—he grabbed me by the jacket, yanked me back. I grabbed him too—he was strong.
We grappled, crashing through crates.
He punched my side—air rushed from my lungs. Pain stabbed through me. I clenched my teeth, headbutted him. Blood sprayed.

He roared. I rolled, grabbed a metal rod—swung. Once. Twice.
He collapsed.

Silence.
I gasped. My heart pounded. Sweat stung my eyes. But I stood.

Solin rose too. Weapon in hand. Clothes torn. Hair wild. A scratch down her cheek.
Breathing hard—but she smiled.
A real smile.

“Well… you can fight,” she said softly. “JC.”
I just nodded. Rubbed my shoulder. Wiped blood from my brow.
“Gift’s on the house,” I said. “Come on—let’s move before… my friends wonder where these four went.”

She nodded and took off. I gave the area a last look and followed—
Not knowing where we were going. Or why.