I’m sitting in a dimly lit interrogation room, handcuffed to the table. The setup’s classic: a cold metal desk, two chairs, and a one-way mirror where, no doubt, some security goons are watching me sweat. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here—an hour, maybe more? I don’t know. I don’t have a watch on me and they didn’t bother telling me the time. My leg’s bouncing, nerves shot, and I can’t stop fidgeting.
I still can’t wrap my head around why I’m here. I’m the most law-abiding guy I know. I follow the rules, keep my head down, and never mouth off to anyone in power. Hell, I don’t even get drunk or go to shady places. The one reckless thing I did—following that hot girl to that warehouse—was a lapse in judgment I already regret. Otherwise, I’m a corporate accountant, the kind of guy who’s as exciting as a spreadsheet. Sure, I help my clients dodge taxes with creative accounting, but that’s legal. The system set up those loopholes. It’s not like the United Corporate Systems frowns on corporations avoiding taxes; that’s their whole thing.
But here I am, and I’m scared out of my mind. I feel like a ghost, pale and trembling. My heart’s hammering so fast I half-expect it to burst out of my chest. Part of me wants to break down and cry, but I hear my dad’s voice in my head telling me to man up. I’m clinging to the hope that this is all a big mistake, that they’ve got the wrong guy.
The door creaks open, and in walks a big, bald guy. He's well-dressed, classic detective look—white shirt, black tie, black trousers. His face? Blank. Cold. The kind of stare that tells you he’s seen some things and doesn’t care to pretend otherwise. He’s got a cup of coffee in one hand, steam curling up from the rim, and a holopad in the other. He takes his time, sits down across from me, and sets the coffee on the table like this is just another day at the office.
"So… Ian McArthur. Twenty-seven years old, been working the last two years at Thornton & Cooper as a corporate accountant. That’s right?"
I nod, not trusting my voice to come out right. I want to ask why the hell I’m here, but the words won’t leave my throat. I’m scared out of my mind, and this guy’s stone-cold demeanor isn’t helping.
"You’re probably wondering why you’ve been arrested," he says, in the flattest, most uninterested tone. No sympathy, no warmth, just a statement. "We’ve received intel from the OCI"—the Office of Counter-Intelligence. Great. I’m royally screwed—"that a wanted subversive has been trying to make contact with you." He taps something on his holopad, and suddenly, there she is—Jenna, projected in mid-air, her holographic image flickering.
Damn it. I knew chasing after that hot girl was going to screw me over.
“I take it you’ve seen this woman,” the detective says, not even pretending to ask. Of course he’d know. My face probably gave it away the second her hologram popped up. I’m no good at keeping a poker face, and this guy? He’s a professional. Reading people is his bread and butter.
He leans in, folding his arms on the table. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Your call.”
I go with the easy way. This guy looks like he could snap me in two without breaking a sweat, and I just realized I don’t even know his name. Probably intentional. In the HoloNet movies, the ‘good’ detective introduces himself, tries to be friendly. This guy? Ice-cold from the start. No name, no warmth. Just the kind of cop who doesn’t give a damn about how you’re feeling. Bad cop, through and through.
“I saw her today,” I say, and then the whole thing spills out—how I followed Jenna to that warehouse, met that weirdo Alek, listened to their insane talk about me being some kind of chosen one, and then bolted right back to my apartment. I figure if I lay it all out, they’ll let me go. I didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t join their little revolution, didn’t buy into the ‘chosen one’ crap. Just a law-abiding, tax-paying accountant in the United Corporate Systems. That’s me.
“I see,” the detective says, his voice flat. But there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s just scored a point. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, leaving me sitting there, pale and sweating. He’s in no rush, enjoying the little game while I’m left hanging, scared out of my mind, waiting for him to finally say something.
He stands up, and for a split second, I think it’s finally over. He’ll uncuff me, I’ll walk out of here, maybe even grab a drink to calm my nerves. But no. The bastard just takes his coffee, not even glancing my way, and strolls out, leaving the door to click shut behind him. I’m still cuffed to the table, heart thumping like it’s trying to escape my chest. Alone again. Sweating bullets.
Why? I told him everything. How I didn’t join their little rebellion, how I’m just a regular guy trying to stay out of trouble. What’s the point of leaving me here? Best case? He’s off reporting to his superiors, telling them I’m harmless and they’ll let me walk. Worst case? He doesn’t believe a word I said. And when the OCI’s involved... I’ve heard the stories. No quick deaths, just pain. The kind of pain that makes you beg for the end.
I sit there, waiting. Feels like half an hour has passed. Could be less. Could be more. I can’t tell anymore. Exhaustion is setting in. I don’t care about being a corporate drone right now. I just want to go home. Sleep in my crappy bed. I swear, if I get out of this, I’ll never complain about my dull, meaningless life again. I’ll embrace every boring second of it.
Then the door swings open. It’s him again. The detective, calm and cold, walking in like he’s got all the time in the world. But now he’s holding a laser pistol. My mouth goes dry. His face is blank—just this grim, unflinching mask. He levels the gun at me, and says, without a flicker of hesitation, “We can’t afford to let a potential chosen one live.”
Time freezes. Everything slows down. My mind races, showing me my whole pathetic life in one rapid, miserable reel. Is this it? Really? This can’t be the end. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t lived. Haven’t even felt what love really is. Haven’t achieved a damn thing. Please, not like this. Not here. Not in this cold, dark room. Not alone.
Just as he’s about to pull the trigger, there’s a flash of light, and a laser bolt pierces straight through the back of his skull, shooting out his forehead and splattering against the wall across him. He crumples, blood pooling around his head like some morbid halo. I barely process what just happened before I see her—Jenna, holding a laser pistol, smoke rising from the barrel. She fires again. The laser bolt cuts through the cuff, freeing me from the table. I'm free.
“Come with me,” she says, no time wasted.
How she even got into this place, let alone killed him so cleanly, doesn’t register right now. I should be asking a thousand questions, but all I care about is that she just saved my life. So, yeah, I follow her. Crazy or not, she’s got me out of a death sentence.
We move into the hallway, and two security officers round the corner, clad in their usual full-body black armor and armed to the teeth. Before they can react, Jenna fires. Her shot hits one of them square in the chest. He staggers, then drops hard, bleeding out through a hole that shouldn’t be possible with standard issue pistols. Must be a custom job.
The second guard manages to get a shot off, and before I know it, Jenna tackles me to the ground. I hit the floor with a grunt, pain shooting through my gut, but it’s better than having my head blown off—the shot passes just over us, scorching the air.
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Without even getting up, she fires again, this time catching the guy square in the groin. I cringe instinctively. The guy goes down, and Jenna finishes him off with another shot to the head. His armored helmet does jack against her modified pistol; the bolt punches straight through, leaving him to collapse in a heap like his buddy.
I lie there for a second, my body still aching, heart racing, trying to wrap my head around the chaos.
“Get up,” Jenna says, calm as ever, like she hadn’t just killed three people in the last few minutes. She probably has killed many people before. That kind of calm only comes with practice. No wonder she’s wanted by the OCI and the security forces.
I drag myself to my feet and follow her. She moves through the building like she’s got a blueprint memorized, turning down corridors without hesitation. I’m doing my best to keep up, my heart still pounding from the close calls. We reach an elevator, the kind that’s usually locked down for security officers only. But with a keycard, she gets it open. Of course, she’s got a way in. That explains how she managed to infiltrate this place in the first place, even with half the world looking for her.
Then it hits me: this whole building’s probably covered in cameras. But no alarms. No other guards rushing in, except for the two she took down. In fact, we haven’t run into anyone else at all. “What about the cameras, th—”
“They’re not seeing us,” she cuts me off, not even looking back. “Friend hacked the system. Cameras on this floor are showing a loop. The ones on the sixth floor are showing a fake intruder with a shotgun, so most of the guards went up there to handle a ghost.” She chuckles like it’s all one big inside joke.
I step into the elevator with her, still trying to piece it all together. She taps the screen, and we shoot up, headed for the rooftop. The rooftop is littered with security hover cars. Jenna heads straight for one, swiping yet another keycard to unlock it. There are a couple of security guards up here, armored up as usual, but they barely glance at us. I guess she looks the part of a security officer—confident, in control—and I must seem like some poor suspect she’s hauling around. Whatever the case, they don’t question it. Lucky, because as badass as Jenna is, I doubt she could take on a full squad. Or maybe she could. Who knows?
I climb into the hover car, and before I know it, we’re lifting off the rooftop, weaving through the chaotic mess of air traffic. “Where are we going?” I finally ask, trying not to sound too desperate while watching the city blur by, skyscrapers towering below us.
“You’ll see,” she says, not bothering to look at me. Typical. Just as cryptic as when I first met her. Not much for conversation, apparently.
“Are we meeting Alek? Or maybe the Oracle you mentioned? Or are we off to join your merry band of socialist terrorists, or—”
“Oh, shut up,” she snaps, then immediately seems to regret it. “Sorry. You’re the chosen one, so I should probably show more respect.” She pauses, sighs. “But seriously, just stop talking and trust me. I’m trying to help you. To unlock your potential, so you can lead us in the fight against the corporate machine.”
Ah, yes. That whole “chosen one” spiel again. Me, with superhuman powers, prophesied to lead some insane revolution against the megacorps. Sounds crazy, but hey, it beats getting executed by security. There’s no going back now, anyway. They’d already decided I was dead the second they brought me in, and breaking out with a wanted criminal who killed a detective and two guards? Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m on the top of their most-wanted list now.
Jenna doesn’t seem bothered at all. Being wanted is probably just another Tuesday for her. She flips on the radio, and soft pop fills the car. Apparently, the cop whose ride we stole was into bubblegum tunes. Jenna isn’t. She switches it to hard rock. I’m more of a jazz guy, but I don’t even think about asking her to change it.
The car hums along, gliding above the skyscrapers in a sea of hover cars and bikes. My body feels heavy, and I start to drift off. Can’t blame me, really. My whole life just got flipped upside down. Yesterday, everything was normal. Boring, sure—soul-sucking job, lonely apartment—but normal. No run-ins with the law, no gunfights, no chosen one nonsense.
Now? Now I’m on the run. My home? Gone. Job? Probably fired. And I’m stuck tagging along with this woman who wants me to join her weird cult of socialist rebels. Yeah, life wasn’t great before, but this? This is worse. Way worse.
I glance at Jenna. Those green eyes, bright red lips, the flower tattoo on her cheek. She’s gorgeous, and for some reason, I’m suddenly… excited? Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Or the fact that it’s been over a year since I last had sex. Or maybe it’s just that escaping death has my blood pumping. Either way, I can’t shake the thought that I want her.
Not that I’m some catch. Short, a bit pudgy, and painfully average in every way. But now, well, maybe there’s a chance? I mean, I’m the so-called chosen one now, right? Surely that counts for something.
She doesn’t seem to notice me staring. Or, if she does, she doesn’t care. Her focus is on driving and the hard rock blaring from the speakers. I think about trying to say something flirty, but anxiety chokes the words before they form. Besides, the rational part of me knows I should probably be thinking about where the hell she’s taking me and what my next move is. Not daydreaming about sex.
Jenna steers us toward the outskirts of Syndrax, where the skyline drops and the world feels less suffocating. Here, the towering skyscrapers give way to smaller, boxy buildings—half of them crumbling, half of them waiting to be swallowed by the ever-growing city. Empty lots stretch out like scars, patches of dirt waiting to be paved over and turned into more concrete and steel. It’s only a matter of time before this wasteland becomes part of the endless sprawl.
The hover car dips, descending onto one of those forgotten fields. Just dirt and rubble, surrounded by decrepit brick buildings that look like they’re waiting for a bulldozer to put them out of their misery. Jenna hops out without a word, and I follow. I don’t know why we’re here, but I’ve accepted that I’m not in control of anything anymore. She’s leading, I’m following. It’s not like I have much choice if I want to keep breathing.
She pulls a holopad from her jacket, fingers tapping away at the screen. Suddenly, the air ripples, and out of nowhere, a massive ship materializes in the middle of the field. One second, there’s nothing but dirt and dust, and the next—bam, spaceship.
It’s sleek. The body is elongated, gunmetal gray, with sharp lines and angular edges. Not one of the enormous capital ships you see in the United Space Force, but big enough to make my jaw drop. There are laser turrets mounted along the sides, compact and deadly-looking. It’s not a warship, though—more like a heavily armed transport. I make an educated guess that it can house maybe ten people, tops. It must have room for crew quarters, a cargo hold, and who knows what else hidden inside.
"How...?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Jenna grins, tossing the holopad back into her jacket. “Prototype stealth tech,” she says.
The outer hatch of the starship hisses open, and a landing ramp lowers with a slow, mechanical whirr. Standing at the top is Alek, his two metallic robotic hands gripping the sides of the doorframe. A lit cigarette dangles from his lips, the smoke curling lazily upward. He pulls it out of his mouth and blows out a cloud of smoke. “Quick,” he says, voice gravelly, “they’ll figure out that stolen cop car soon.”
Jenna strides up the ramp without a second thought, and I follow, feeling like a stray dog trailing behind. Inside, the ship’s interior is nothing like its sleek exterior. The walls are rough, industrial gray—practical, not pretty. The narrow corridor ahead feels claustrophobic, like the ship's guts are holding us in.
Alek gestures to a door on the left. “Your cabin,” he grunts, not even bothering to stop. He keeps walking before I can ask a single question, so I just memorize the door and keep going.
We end up in a larger room with a metal table bolted to the center and a few mismatched chairs scattered around it. There’s a basic kitchen setup on one side—just enough to get by. “Mess hall,” Jenna says without looking back. “Where we eat.”
The tour continues down another cramped hallway, and I’m still silently tagging along. We step into another room, this one with four chairs in two neat rows facing a control panel covered in levers, buttons, and flashing lights. Even I know what this is.
“Cockpit,” Alek mutters. “Off limits. Go to your cabin.”
I had kind of hoped I’d get to watch the takeoff, maybe see how they fly this thing. Never been in a starship cockpit before—hell, the only time I’ve been in space was five years ago, moving from Etastar—where my folks are from—to Syndrax, and that was on a commercial freighter where I was lucky to get a window seat. But I’m not exactly in a position to argue. It’s their ship, their rules. So, I nod like a good little prisoner and turn back toward my assigned cabin.
I sigh as I walk to the cabin. This is all too much. I'm in over my head. I don't know what I've gotten myself into, or where this ship is bound. All I can do is hope for the best.