The neon glow of Neo-Veridia dripped like caustic acid onto the grimy streets of Sector 7, the slums that swallowed Silas whole. Starships sliced through the polluted sky, beacons of a progress that had bypassed him entirely. He’d never seen a star, not really. The artificial sky was always a hazy, orange smear. But he saw stars in his garden, in the glimmering phosphorescence of his cultivated horrors.
His garden was a refuge, a cramped, subterranean room carved out from beneath a crumbling hab-block. He’d rigged up scavenged hydroponics and UV lamps, creating a pale, sickly sun for his children. They weren’t flowers, not the kind you’d see in a synth-bouquet advertisement. His were survivors, the kind that thrived on deprivation, on toxic fumes and acidic rain. He’d never taken courses, never even finished school. He learned by feel, by watching how the weeds in the alleyways clung to life with a desperate, thorny grace.
And then there was Xantus. Silas had cultivated it himself, from a seed he’d found clinging to a discarded bio-waste container marked “Outer Rim: Biohazard.” He’d coaxed and tortured it into existence, a vibrant, pulsating purple vine that dripped shimmering, viscous sap. Raw, it was lethal. But when refined just so, with a complex mix of other slum-grown ingredients, it became a potent calmative. It muted the gnawing anxiety of existence without dulling the edge needed to survive. He called it 'Stillfire'.
He had a small, reliable clientele. Mostly hustlers, runners, and the occasional brawling fool who needed to keep his nerves steady while dodging laser fire. Enough to keep the ration bots at bay, and enough to pay the protection tax to the Crimson Scar gang. "Protection," of course, meant that they didn't beat him too often, and only sometimes pilfered his supplies.
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Life was a slow, draining ache. Silas was small, wiry, easily overlooked. The world was a hulking brute that enjoyed pushing him around.
Then one night, the acid rain outside was drowned out by the sounds of roaring engines and the crackle of energy weapons. The Crimson Scar were being challenged. The Iron Fangs, a rival gang known for their brutal efficiency, were making a play for Sector 7.
Silas huddled in his garden, the hum of the hydroponics a fragile counterpoint to the brutal symphony of war echoing above. When the dust settled, the Iron Fangs reigned supreme. They stormed into his sanctuary, their leader, a hulking woman with cybernetic implants glinting in the dim light.
"We know about the plants, Silas," she rasped, her voice laced with static. "Especially that purple s***. We need it. All of it."
He tried to protest, to explain the delicate process, the years of experimentation. But a fist silenced him, a force that felt like a hydraulic press against his ribs.
He was no longer paying for protection. He was working. A slave, tending his garden for the Iron Fangs. He refined Stillfire under their watchful eyes, knowing it would fuel their brutality.
Something hardened within Silas that day. Not hatred, not yet. Hatred was a luxury he couldn’t afford. It was a fire that consumed, and he needed to be cold, calculating, and patient.
He observed. He learned the Fangs’ routines, their weaknesses, their internal conflicts. He listened to their boasting, their insecurities. He saw the cracks beneath their chrome and leather.
His garden became a prison, but also his laboratory. He had Xantus, his creation, and he had time. Time to think, time to plan. The world might be big, and Silas might be small, but the smallest seed could bring down a giant tree. He nurtured his plants, but now he was also nurturing something else, something colder and infinitely more dangerous. He didn't hate the Iron Fangs, not exactly. He just knew they weren't his friends. And he knew that friends helped each other survive. The Iron Fangs clearly weren’t friends, so Silas would survive.