It had been four weeks since Banedog’s Backyard, the notorious outlaw haven and trade hub, had reappeared after its chaotic FTL jump, now situated 100,000 kilometers away from its previous coordinates. The outlaws who called Banedog’s Backyard home weren’t strangers to destruction, but this was different. The jump had ripped through several of the station’s inhabited districts, leaving entire sectors in ruin and thousands of dead. The once bustling streets of the Habited Districts were now a mix of rubble, half-repaired buildings, and the smell of death lingering in the air. Bodies of the unfortunate who hadn't made it through the jump were stacked and loaded into Recycler Vats for processing, their flesh and bones to be broken down and repurposed. Every material had value here, and even in death, the station made sure to extract something useful.
The surviving outlaws, scavengers, and freelancers who called the station home had little time to mourn. All around the station, laborers and scavengers were working to restore what was lost. Rusted exoskeletons clanked as they hauled large beams into place or lifted tons of debris out of collapsed corridors. The rumbling noise of power drills and welding torches filled the air, a constant hum of rebuilding amidst the destruction while patching up the critical infrastructure that kept the station’s life-support systems barely functional. The station itself was a crude bond of neon lights and reinforced steel, reflecting the very nature of the people who lived there—survivors, criminals, and opportunists.
The sound of sparking welders and heavy machinery echoed through the once-bustling sectors. Scrapwork drones hovered over the broken streets, repairing damaged infrastructure with their long, mechanical arms. Holo-ads, flickering and incomplete, still advertised illicit substances, black-market weaponry, and body-mod surgeries to a station that had seen better days. The neon lights of Banedog’s infamous bars and clubs had dimmed, the crowds thinner but just as desperate, struggling to forget the horrors of the FTL jump in the only way they knew how—through vice and indulgence. The Market District, normally filled with raucous traders and smugglers haggling over contraband, was quieter now. Vendors still hawked stolen tech, rare implants, and bootleg pharmaceuticals, but the foot traffic was reduced. There was a heavy smell in the air—dust, decay, and burned-out circuits mixed with the usual stench of sweat and alcohol. But still, what had once been a den of illicit activity, vice, and black-market deals now mostly resembled an industrial graveyard. But the work didn’t stop. Leith, a wiry man with half his face replaced by cheap cybernetics, stood at the edge of a collapsed hangar bay, barking orders to a group of workers.
“Get that conduit fixed, or the next pressurization cycle’s gonna blow this place wide open,” Leith growled, his voice crackling through the comms unit embedded in his throat.
Another female mechanic, her left arm entirely mechanical, grunted as she hauled a thick cable into position.
“This station’s a goddamn tomb. I still don’t get why we’re fixing it up.”
Leith glanced at her, the red glow of his augmented eye flickering.
“Because there ain’t no other place like Banedog’s Backyard. If you want to leave and see if the UGTR or the Alliance has a job for you, be my guest. This is the only place where someone like you can make credits and live another day.”
The mechanic snorted and continued her work, welding the damaged section of the conduit. Around them, teams of scavengers sifted through debris, salvaging what little could be reused, while holo-banners flickered in the background, glitching, and advertising long-dead entertainment venues and services. The neon lights that had once lit the dark corners of the station were dimmed, casting an eerie glow over the massive structure.
Workers hauled scrap metal from the wreckage, others patched up holes in the walls, and children ran through the streets, dodging the heavy machinery that buzzed and clanged all around. In the collapsed building were crowds of scavengers. It was brutal, hard labor, and now and then, they’d stumble upon a body—the remains of someone crushed in the collapse or unable to survive the jump. Those bodies were tossed into recycler pods, where they would be broken down for whatever useful materials could be salvaged. Behind them, a group of synthetic enforcers in old combat suit uniforms was overseeing the disposal of more bodies, their glowing blue eyes coldly assessing the carnage.
Life was cheap here, and so was death.
A young woman, her body covered in cybernetics, walked through one of the partially rebuilt streets. Chayla, a scavenger by trade, wiped the sweat from her brow and adjusted the heavy-duty plasma cutter strapped to her back. She had been working nonstop since the FTL jump, not just to fix the damage, but also to claim any valuable tech she could find in the ruins.
"How many more bodies are they going to pull out of the wreckage?" a nearby voice grumbled. It was Garrett, a mechanic with arms that had more metal than flesh. He was crouched next to a destroyed food stall, stripping wiring from the wreck.
"Recyclers still processing the dead?" a young boy stared into the people who were still collecting corpses or what was left of their biomass.
"As many as they find," Chayla replied, her eyes scanning the scene for anything salvageable. "Those that weren’t liquefied by the jump are still buried deep. Did you hear about the kids in Sector B-Seven? Crushed under a bulkhead."
"Yeah. They’ve got bodies in line from here to hell. People died by the hundreds in the lower levels, not to mention those crushed during the jump." Mekka, another scavenger, wiped the grease from her forehead as she rummaged over the dump of collapsed buildings. "Enough staring at them boy and pass me that stabilizer core."
The boy who got distracted was her helper, a younger scavenger named Hawk, who tossed the glowing blue core to her. His arm, fully mechanical, whirred as he adjusted his aim.
"Careful with that. We don’t have many left until the next trader brings something," Mekka chided, catching it.
"Yeah. Heard they’re gonna run a memorial for 'em next week. Not that it’ll mean much in a place like this." Garrett grimaced.
Chayla chuckled darkly.
"A memorial? In Banedog's Backyard? That’s rich."
"By the way… how many more weeks until we’re back to normal?" Hawk shrugged, leaning back against a half-destroyed bulkhead.
"Normal? This place ain’t ever been normal. But another month, maybe two. We’re low on supplies, and with the new routes not up yet… well, you know how it is." Garrett snorted.
Another scavenger limped by, his leg held together by a makeshift brace, dragging a cart full of scrap metal.
"I heard that the ruling circle is planning to reorganize a new management," he muttered to Chayla as she passed by.
"They bring in new management every month. Ain't gonna change a thing. The Backyard’s a beast, and no one tames it." She scoffed, waving him off.
--
In the meantime, trade had slowed to a crawl. Supply lines had been severed, and communications scrambled. What once was a thriving hub for smugglers, traders, and criminals was now a shadow of its former self. The streets of the station, usually bustling with activity, were quiet, save for the constant work of rebuilding.
Since the FTL jump, the station had barely been able to keep contact with the outside world. Its usual influx of shady merchants, pirate lords, and scavengers had gone silent. The process of reestablishing their trade routes was still weeks away from being completed.
And up in the Control Center, a high-tech yet ramshackle facility at the heart of the station, Borz, the station’s flight controller, was leaning back in his chair, his feet kicked up on the console. He had dark bags under his eyes, his once-fine leather jacket now stained with sweat and grime. The control room was a mess, but they were still operational. He was with three co-workers, a young tech named Elna who had a neck full of wiring leading into her spine, leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temples. The comms unit on her ear buzzed with the static of background noise as she monitored the channels. She was still scanning through incoming signals for any intruder or possible ship coming their way. And another archiver of Neonmyx, Shiv who was assisting both in indexing the records. The three also monitored the slow trickle of communications and navigation data.
"We’re not supposed to be expecting any incoming ships yet, right?" Elna asked no one in particular as she yawned.
Borz glanced over at her and joked.
"Not unless some idiots were brave enough to find the space around here to intentionally find us. Ahhh… I could use a blowjob right now from one of the girls in the Pink Maw.” He sighed deeply as he playfully grabbed his crotch, trying to ease his frustrations of overworking in his current shift. Then he turned to one of his coworkers sitting beside him who was also tired. “Hey, give me one.”
Elna just gave him a silent middle finger on the side while Shiv tilted her head and was covered in a visor that was feeding her data.
“I’ll happily give you one.” Shiv smiled at him, showing her white toothy grin but the vibes that he got from her made him shudder in dread and return to his console.
“Ah, nevermind.” He mumbled, his mechanical arm whirring as he decided to finish with the archiving of the docking data that they had managed to restore. Then Elna leaned back on her chair and stretched her arms upward. She looked at the ceiling for several seconds, yawned widely, and then returned to her work.
“Nothing new on long-range scans,” she grumbled. “Still dead out there.”
“You expecting something?” Teased Borz. “We just jumped 100,000 klicks away. Nobody even knows where we are.”
"Most of the station’s systems are fried, and we’ve only restored about 60% of the navigation system. It would take decades until the next safe jump." Shiv uttered. “Well, it was only thanks to Green that we still have much operational awareness on this matter.”
Then suddenly, a new blip appeared on Elna’s screen.
“Huh…. Unknown vessel entering the vicinity,” Elna muttered, sitting up and narrowing her eyes at the data feed. “What the hell? Hey, Borz, we’ve got a visitor. But that can’t be right… right?"
"A ship approaching. Looks like a…transport barge?" Shiv rolled her seat towards Elna and frowned at the latter’s console display, confused.
Borz stood and walked over, leaning over her console, examining the readings. Shiv went back to her console and started connecting with the scanners of the station.
"A barge? What the hell? That’s impossible. That can’t be right. No routes have been reestablished yet. No one knows where we are." Borz raised an eyebrow. His concern was at a place as Banedog’s Backyard is a rogue or outlaw station. Outlaw stations go out on their way to avoid being near major shipping, trade, or FTL routes to avoid detection. Most of these stations will always be located either hidden in asteroids or space debris, rogue systems, or in the coldest corner of space. The only way for newly established outlaw stations to create their own supply or shipping routes was to initiate contact with the underworld of the sovereign planets or stations.
“I’m telling you, there’s a ship out there,” Elna insisted, typing rapidly on the console. A visual of the incoming vessel appeared on-screen: a massive transport barge.
“Run an initial scan,” Borz ordered, his voice tense.
“It seems to be just a regular ship,” Elna spoke out loud her impression.
“That’s odd. Neonmyx didn’t have any scheduled shipments either.” Shiv leaned in, studying the data on her table.
“Regular, my ass,” Borz muttered. He flipped a switch and opened the comms line to the ship. “Unidentified vessel, you’re entering restricted airspace. Identify yourself and state your purpose.”
There was a crackle of static before a calm, monotone voice replied.
"This is the Omen, a cargo vessel. We are requesting permission to dock. We have trade goods for sale. Repeat, requesting permission to dock." The reply crackled through the speakers in their console, distorted but clear enough. Then a man appeared on a holo, he wore nothing that could be out of place or weird. Although the current situation was more than weird enough to be considered to just be a coincidence. They won’t turn away any trader that brings supplies that could help them rebuild their station but they were currently on high alert after their previous predicament with the UGTR.
“Are they serious?” Borz said, raising an eyebrow. “We’re still rebuilding half the station. What the hell kind of trader just shows up here when we’re in the middle of nowhere?”
"Yeah, well, they’re hailing us. Asking permission to dock." Elna frowned. “So what now?”
"A large transport barge. Normal-looking freighter, according to the deeper scans." Shiv nodded, her fingers flying across her console. “The ship’s name is… Omen… no affiliation. Seems good enough?”
"Hold," Borz barked into the comms, muting the line before turning to the console beside him. He hit a secure connection and opened a line to Nurgel, one of the lieutenants of the Neonmyx syndicate. He could hear loud moaning and gasping sounds on the other line as it was covered by a loud angry voice.
“What?!” it was obvious that the person on the other end didn’t want to be interrupted.
“Uhhh… yeah… ummm… sorry for disturbing you, but we’ve got a situation,” Borz said. “we’ve got an unscheduled visitor. A trading barge, name of Omen. They’re requesting permission to dock and trade, but we haven’t finished re-establishing the routes yet. Sound fishy right?”
The comms crackled for a moment before Nurgel’s raspy voice came through.
“Everything’s fishy in this place,” Nurgel grunted, Borz heard another loud moan from the other side. “Was at one of our mark ships?”
“No. They just appeared. We don’t know how they found us.”
There was a long pause.
“Trade’s been slow. If they’re carrying valuable goods, we can’t afford to turn them away. I’ll leave the call to you, but keep an eye on them.” Nurgel grunted again, letting Borz hear more moans. “Run an interrogation. Find out who they are and what they want. If they seem clean enough, let them dock. But keep them on a short leash of drones and men. This could be trouble.”
“Yes, boss,” Borz replied, closing the line before unmuting the comms to their visitor. “Alright, Omen, state your cargo and the nature of your business.”
There was a brief pause before the man replied.
"We are carrying a variety of supplies, including food rations, spare parts, and medical equipment. We’ve heard this sector needs repairs, and we’re looking to trade."
“Medical supplies? Since when does anyone trade med kits around here?” Elna scoffed.
“Sounds too good to be true,” Borz agreed. “How’d you even find us?”
Another crackle.
"We’re traders. We make it our business to know where the demand is. The station may be in disrepair, but we were told there’s still money to be made here."
Borz exchanged a look with Elna with a skeptical look.
"Who told you?"
"Anonymous source," the voice responded its tone still unnervingly neutral.
“That’s not an answer,” Borz said, his patience thinning. “Listen, we don’t appreciate strange ships showing up out of nowhere. How do we know you’re not UGTR patrol or Alliance ships?”
A short silence followed, then the voice on the other side shifted. This time, there was a hint of amusement.
"If we were UGTR or Alliance scouts, you’d already be dead, wouldn’t you?"
“Watch your tone. We don’t tolerate threats, even from traders.” Borz's jaw tightened.
There was a brief pause, then the voice softened once more.
"Understood. We’re just here to do business. No threats, no tricks."
Borz exchanged a glance with Elna, who just shrugged. Then he turned his gaze to Shiv for confirmation of the scanned ship.
"Doesn’t look like they’re affiliated with any authorities so there’s no danger except for those three main guns," Shiv said after a brief scan. "Just cargo."
Elna watched the screen as the ship maintained its steady slow course toward the station.
"So?" she asked Borz quietly, "What do we do?"
Borz stared at the screen, the weight of the decision hanging in the air.
"Alright," Borz muttered, taking back to the comms. “Confirm cargo manifest for trade.”
The ship, Omen then sent them their manifest and allowed the station’s drones to scan the cargo bay of the ship. Seeing that they didn’t have anything that could threaten the station, Borz nodded.
"Send them to Dock 221," Borz ordered, though he scratched his chin in confusion. "But let Rikard know. I want eyes on this ship as soon as it lands. Alert me immediately when you see something’s off."
Elna nodded, opening the comms again.
"Omen, this is Banedog’s Backyard Control Center. You’re cleared to dock at Dock 221. Fair warning, though—Banedog’s Backyard is still in the middle of repairs. Don’t expect the red-carpet treatment." Elna relayed the orders.
There was a brief static, followed by the voice of the Omen’s captain, crackling through the speakers and holo.
"Copy that, CC. We’ve got a shipment of tech parts, fuel rods, and med-grade cyberware. Looking to offload some stock and get ourselves a drink. Appreciate the hospitality. We’ll proceed with caution."
"Not a problem, Omen. Dock 221 is yours. Control out." Elna cut the line and leaned back in her chair, looking at Borz who was still scratching his chin.
“This better not blow up in our faces.” Borz exhaled slowly.
“We’ll see,” Shiv muttered. “But something tells me this ship is more than just a simple trading vessel.”
"Yeah, something’s off about this. A trader showing up before we’ve even rebuilt? You think they tracked us?" Borz agreed.
"If they did, they’re pretty damn good. Especially when no one knows where we are and we also barely know where we are right now." Elna glanced at the screen, biting her lip. Then she asked her fellow staff. “So, you think they’re trouble?”
Shiv was the one who answered her question with a smirk.
“In this place? Always.”
--
Down in Dock 221, Rikard, a long-time dock worker with a rough demeanor, watched as the Omen maneuvered into place. The ship was a large transport barge, old but sturdy, its hull marked with scratches from years of service. As it settled into the docking bay with a heavy thud, steam hissed from its vents, and the massive doors slowly began to open. Life had been stagnant on Banedog’s Backyard since the FTL jump, and the first arrival in weeks had the traders buzzing. Vendors, smugglers, and mechanics crowded Dock 221, vying for the chance to do business with the crew of the Omen. The outlaws were eager and hungry for new deals.
Rikard leaned on his tool belt and sighed, flicking his cigarette to the floor.
"Another bunch of idiots thinking they can make a quick buck here. Don’t they know this place is cursed now?" he was one of the few who also remained skeptical of this ship’s arrival.
His partner, Kina, a wiry woman with augmented legs, smirked.
"Doesn’t matter. They’ve got cargo, and we need supplies. I say let 'em in. If they cause trouble, we’ve got more than enough firepower to deal with it."
The docking doors finally opened fully, and a group of figures emerged from the Omen. They looked like regular traders—worn clothes, dusty boots, the kind of crew that had seen more backwater planets than they could count.
"Welcome to Banedog’s Backyard," Rikard said sarcastically, waving them in. "Hope you brought something good."
One of the traders, a tall man with a cybernetic eye, stepped forward, holding a datapad.
"We've got medical supplies, processed foodstuffs, and some hardware. Interested?"
"Medical supplies, huh? Could fetch a good price, especially with all the injuries from the jump." Kina whistled low.
But Rikard grunted.
“We’ll see. First, we need to inspect your cargo.”
“By all means.” The captain spread his arms wide, a thin smile on his lips.
Rikard took the datapad and started scrolling through the manifest. It only took a couple of minutes until the main droid reported back and confirmed everything was in order.
“Cargo’s clean. All clear.”
Rikard turned back to the captain.
“Alright, you’re clear. But remember—we’re watching you. No funny business.”
The captain nodded, his smile never reaching his eyes.
“Of course. We’re just here for business. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The trader nodded and immediately turned then as the captain ordered his men to unload their cargo. Rikard eyed the group warily. Something still felt off, but they needed the supplies.
As crates of tech gear and cybernetics were unloaded, the crew of the Omen mingled with the crowd, haggling over prices and establishing connections.
The bustling chaos of Bay 221 was palpable. As the cargo hold doors of the Omen hissed open, a crowd of merchants, smugglers, and black-market traders surged forward like a tide of desperate scavengers. It was the first sign of life they’d seen in weeks, and the promise of fresh goods sent them into a frenzy. The air buzzed with the clamor of competing voices, elbows jostling as they vied for position.
“Hey, I’ve got spare parts for anything! What do you need? Thrusters? Hull plating?” a greasy-haired merchant barked, waving a clipboard covered in smudged data.
“No, no, forget that scrap! Do you want weapons? I’ve got enough parts to make railguns and slug rounds to take down a Corvette!” another trader interrupted, pushing his way through the crowd. “I’ll give it to you for cheap!”
Another man, his face smeared with grime, shoved his way toward the front.
“Medical supplies! I heard you’ve got ‘em! I need whatever you’ve got—my boys back in District M37 are dyin’ without proper meds!”
The Omen’s crew barely had time to step off the ramp before the onslaught of merchants surrounded them, flashing trade requests, digital credits, and bartering offers. The ship’s captain, raised his hand, trying to calm the crowd.
“Alright, one at a time!” His voice cut through the din, though it did little to stop the fervor. His crew—composed of rugged men and women with various augmentations—began unloading crates while trying to keep the traders from swarming too close.
Traders yelled over each other, offering anything from bootleg cybernetic parts to illicit substances. The air was thick with desperation as merchants fought to secure deals, slapping each other’s hands away to be the first to make a bid.
“Fifty crates of stims! Fresh from Orion Station!” one trader hollered, shoving his way past a man who was trying to sell salvaged energy cores.
Another scrapyard merchant, his teeth yellowed from years of smoking, waved a holographic display in the faces of the crew.
“I’ve got ships! Good ones! They’re barely held together, but they’ll fly!”
"Hey! We’ve got top-grade weapons! Rifles! Ballistics and Energy!" A woman with a patch over one eye pushed her way through the crowd, clutching a crate with one hand while waving a datapad with another, at the nearest crew member.
A group of scrappers pushed from behind, brandishing various cybernetic components scavenged from ruins in the station.
"Forget that! Do you want real deals? We’ve got UGTR-grade exo-limbs! Top-tier quality, I swear on my mother’s grave!"
A large man with a cybernetic arm shoved his way to the front, his voice booming over the cacophony.
“You need parts, right? I’ve got reactor components, fresh off from a salvaged corpo-made corvette—untraceable! Name your price.”
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"I’ll give you two-for-one on fusion cores and plasma coils. You won’t get a better deal on this piece of junk heap." a young woman spat, her face covered in grease from hours spent tinkering with ship components.
But while the main cargo bay was busy, up on the bridge, something far more secretive was happening.
--
As the madness unfolded, two figures emerged from the crowd, a twin. Dressed in sleek, dark combat suits, their movements were graceful yet menacing. Their pale skin reflected the artificial light of the docking bay. Behind them, a broken man stumbled forward—a ragged figure in tattered clothes, his wrists, and body riddled with scars from crude surgeries. His half-metallic face gleamed under the dim lights of the docking bay, and his one remaining eye twitched as it tried to focus.
The man had seen better days. He had been a freighter captain once, until pirates took his ship, slaughtered his crew, and sold him and the rest into slavery. His body bore the unmistakable signs of forced crude surgeries. Scar tissue ran across his chest and limbs, evidence of implants torn out. The left side of his face was a nightmare of metal, wires, and an exposed skull, with only one half-functioning eye hanging on by a thread. His previous captors, the slavers, had removed most of his cybernetic implants for resale on the black market, leaving him a mangled wreck of a man. The only reason he was still alive was because the twins had found him, dragging him from the depths of a slave camp on some backwater corner of the station.
He had seen many horrors during his time in slavery. But none compared to what the twins had done. He remembered the massacre—the way they had torn through the camp, slaughtering slavers and slaves alike without hesitation, their movements efficient, deadly, and without remorse. He had been the only survivor, and even now, a cold dread filled him as he walked behind them.
Now, they had brought him aboard the Omen for reasons unknown. The man moved like someone who had seen the edge of death—and half of him was already wishing for what lay beyond it. He remained silent, his hands trembling as he stood between the twins, unsure of his fate from being wanted alive by his new captors.
As they approached the Omen’s security checkpoint, cyborg guards scanned the trio with red glowing eyes, their massive frames towering over the twins. After a moment, the guards stepped aside, allowing them entrance. The twins didn’t hesitate, leading the man through the ship’s corridors without a word. The walls of the ship were cold and sterile, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The man shivered as they passed through the cargo bay, his eyes darting around. The faint hum of the ship’s engines reverberated through his bones, but it was the cold that chilled him to the core.
They brought him to a small room—barely more than a metal box with a cold-water bath in the center. Without warning, the twins shoved him inside.
“You need to be clean,” The first twin said coldly, her voice devoid of emotion.
The man stumbled into the bath, the shock of the freezing water making him gasp. He looked up at the twins, confusion, and fear in his eyes, but he didn’t resist. He had long since given up any semblance of dignity.
“Wash yourself. Quickly.” Another twin spoke, her voice was as emotionless, her arms crossed, silently watching him.
He lowered himself into the water, the cold seeping into his bones. The man shivered and complied, scrubbing the grime and filth from his skin with water that bit into his bones. After what felt like an eternity, they threw him a rough cloth and a simple set of clothes—just enough to cover his scarred body. The twins watched him like hawks, their eyes unwavering as he dried off and dressed.
After the humiliating bath, the twins led the man into a small, confined elevator that rattled as it ascended to the upper levels of the ship. The atmosphere was thick with silence, the sound of the man’s ragged breathing the only thing breaking it. The twins remained stone-faced, their eyes forward, their presence a reminder of their indifference towards him.
The elevator came to a halt, and the doors hissed open, revealing what they could immediately understand as a former captain to be the bridge of this ship. It was surprisingly clean compared to the rest of the ship. The room was lavish, in its way—dark and gothic, with polished floors and delicate furnishings. And in the center of it all stood a figure that mysteriously made his skin crawl with fear, dread, and confusion. Her presence there itself, was jarring, out of place.
A young girl dressed in a pristine black gothic maid uniform, something that he knew to be only worn by servants of the wealthy and powerful. And yet the twins acted as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Then both immediately dropped to their knees, bowing low, their foreheads nearly touching the floor in a deep, reverent prostration. Implying that this girl who was wearing servant clothes, was superior to them.
He stared in disbelief. The twins—the ruthless combatants who had shown him and the slavers they had massacred with no mercy—were prostrating themselves before this girl who was seemingly strange younger than them.
“Vestal, we are at your command.”
The man blinked, his confusion deepening. He stood there, trembling, uncertain what to do. He understood that he should also kneel but it was probably because of the mysterious dread and fear that felt towards the young maid that his body refused to obey his mind. The figure turned slowly, her eyes locking onto his. Cold, indifferent eyes that looked through him as if he were little more than an insect.
His breath caught in his throat. He immediately understood that she was the one who wanted him to be here. But he started to ask questions within himself. What did she want with an already broken man? More insignificant than a slumdog in this station?
"Kneel." He heard a word. Then a second later, one of the twins shot out their leg, kicking the back of the man’s knees with brutal efficiency. He collapsed to the ground, his nose slamming into the floor with a sickening crunch, blood streaming down his face as he was forced into a prostrate position.
The twins hissed, one of them uttered in a voice laced with venom.
“You are not worthy to stand in her presence or even to look at her, let alone breathe the same air.”
“Know your place, scum.” The second twin pressed his head further into the floor.
His body shook with pain, but fear kept him silent. He had heard stories—rumors, really—about beings like this. The stories were always whispered, passed from person to person, never believed, but always remembered. Worshipped as divine by Terrans. But those were drunken stories, far-off legends, and conspiracy thrown by those in the BLACNET… but now, one stood before him, gazing at him with indifferent eyes.
“Geisler, former captain of the Vubrau,” she said softly, her voice carrying a chilling undertone. The maid stepped forward, her boots clicking softly on the metal floor as she approached him, her cold gaze fixed on the man's broken form. Her shoes stopped just barely where the pool of his blood had stopped flowing.
“I have questions for you, Geisler,” she said, her voice sharp and cutting. “And you will answer them truthfully. I will not repeat myself. Do I have your full attention?”
With his mind spinning, he could only nod weakly, blood dripping from his face as he braced himself for what was to come.
“Tell me everything about Ubel,” the maid said, her voice calm yet laced with an undeniable authority. “I want every detail, no matter how small.”
--
The bridge was quiet, save for the man's heavy breathing as he knelt before the maid. The sterile light of the Omen’s bridge cast cold shadows over the kneeling form of Geisler, his body trembling as he poured out every memory he could recall. His voice was hoarse, each word heavy with fear and exhaustion, recounting the events with Ubel that had led to his capture.
Geisler gulped, his mind racing to gather his scattered thoughts.
The maid remained silent, her cold gaze fixed on him as he spoke. Her stillness unnerved him, like speaking to a statue. The twins stayed where they were, unmoving as they still pinned him to the floor.
“—They stripped our ships bare, took everything of value,” Geisler continued, his voice faltering. “Then...then they sold us. To the slave pens, here in Banedog’s Backyard. I don’t know how many...how many of my crew are still alive.”
His voice grew hoarse, his fear suddenly giving way to desperation.
“My wife and daughter...they were with me. I didn’t tell the pirates about them. I was afraid they’d...hurt them, for fun for being my family. I couldn’t risk it.” His eyes began to water. “Please… please, if there’s any way, you can—"
Before Geisler could finish, one of the twins moved. In a blur, she drew a blade and plunged it into his neck with precision, cutting off his words—and his life—in an instant. His eyes were still widened in shock, his mouth opening to scream, but no sound came out. Blood poured from the wound as he slumped forward, his head hitting the floor with a soft thud. His body convulsed briefly before slumping forward, his blood pooling onto the floor.
The maid remained unfazed, her expression never changing as she watched the man’s life, drain from his eyes.
“We apologize, my lady,” said one of the twins as she wiped the blood from the blade with a white cloth. “We knew you were about to kill him yourself, but we couldn’t allow his blood to stain your garments.”
Her sister nodded in agreement, adding.
“He was a peon unworthy of your time.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said softly, almost as if to herself. “He dies all the same.”
The twins exchanged a glance before straightening, their posture rigid as they awaited the maid’s next order.
"Allow us to dispose of the body," the second twin said, already pulling a small device from her belt to begin the process of erasing any trace of Geisler.
The maid gave a brief nod. As the body was being cleaned, the conversation between the three shifted into something far darker. The maid’s voice cut through the silence like a razor.
“You two were always too eager to please me,” she said, her tone dispassionate. “You forget your place at times.”
The twins immediately lowered their heads.
“We are sorry, Mistress,” they said in unison.
The maid’s eyes narrowed slightly, but then she continued, her voice now sharp with authority.
“The QUILL believes they control you, but you serve a far higher power. Never forget that.”
“We follow the will of the Vestals, nothing more,” the other twin added, her tone filled with quiet reverence.
“Good. Continue to play your role as our puppets.” The maid’s cold eyes softened slightly, but only for a moment. “Now, we shall continue with the next phase of the mission.”
---
After the mess with Geisler was dealt with, the maid and her twin agents made their way to a nearby bar that was still surprisingly bustling with life despite the destruction that surrounded its building. Bodies still lay under rubble nearby, and parts of the station remained in disrepair. The bar stood as an oddity, packed with patrons outside, many of whom seemed unaffected by the damage from the station’s recent turmoil.
“Stay at a distance. I’ll go alone.” The maid commanded the twins and the two immediately bowed in obedience. The two women stood and hid at another building just a few meters away from their target establishment.
The bar inside was unusually lively. The Bells ‘n Balls—was packed to capacity, a strange contrast to the ruins outside. The music thumped with heavy bass, and patrons—pirates, traders, mercenaries—laughed and drank as if nothing had changed. Inside, the dim lights flickered as the maid scanned the room, her black gothic uniform attracting a few curious glances, though no one dared approach her. Her eyes landed on a male prostitute across the room, engaged in conversation with a client. She glided through the crowded bar with quiet efficiency, making her way toward the back where a male prostitute was conversing with a client.
Without warning, the maid placed a gloved hand on the client’s shoulder, and with a quick, silent motion, knocked him unconscious—or rather, unintentionally killed him as she mistakenly did it with more strength than what his neck was capable of. The client slumped forward in his chair, his head hitting the table with a soft thud, and fell from his seat.
“He fell.” In a monotone voice, the maid said.
The male prostitute turned to look at her, irritation clear in his eyes. Before he could say a word, the maid took the vacant seat with indifference.
“Aurum,” she began, but before she could continue, the man flipped a glass knife in one fluid motion, aiming it directly at her face.
With a calm that bordered on inhuman speed, the maid caught the blade with a hand, the tip was lodged between her index and middle finger in a split second, her expression unchanged.
“Never.call.me.that,” the male prostitute spat, his eyes narrowing.
The maid tilted her head, the glass knife still pinched delicately between her fingers.
“Is that not your name?” The maid tilted her head slightly and said softly, her voice betraying no emotion. “How should I address you, then?”
“Gold,” he spat. “If you’re gonna talk to me, it’s Gold.”
The maid’s cold eyes studied him for a moment.
“There is no difference. Aurum is Latin for gold.”
Gold sneered, leaning back in his chair.
“Of course, they’re the same. That’s exactly why I hate it.” He snatched the knife from her hand and leaned back in his chair, his expression relaxing into a mask of sarcasm. “You think you can just waltz in here, spout whatever name you like, and I’m supposed to just answer your questions for free?”
He sighed, resting his arm on the table.
“If you’re gonna play games with me, it’s gonna cost you, Vestal. I wasn’t made to deal with inhuman trash.”
With those words, the maid’s eyes narrowed, a cold glint flashing in them. For a brief moment, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. Gold, however, merely chuckled, unaffected.
“Relax,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m just being polite, giving you the same courtesy you just gave me. After all, we’re just playing a little game, right?”
The maid remained silent, but inside, she noted his familiarity. She had done this before with him. As well as her sisters. Too many times, perhaps.
The bar’s dim, flickering lights cast a shadow over Gold's smirking face as he leaned back, the tension between him and the maid thick in the air. His finger tapped rhythmically on the table, the metallic sound of his glass knife clinking against his ring.
“So… what’s it gonna be this time? Information, I assume. But you know the rules, Vestal. You pay, I talk.”
“Then name your price.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of the maid’s lips, though it was more predatory than warm.
“How can I tell you the price if you don’t tell me what you want first?” he replied.
The low hum of conversation in the bar seemed to fade as the maid reached into her coat, pulling out a small holo-projector. She placed it on the table between them, activating it with a soft touch, and slid it across the table. A hologram flickered to life, revealing the image of a young girl—her delicate features and cold, distant eyes frozen in the light.
“I’m looking for that girl.” The maid’s cold, measured gaze locked onto Gold, who didn’t even glance at the image.
“Why are you looking for her?” he said with a casual drawl.
“That’s not-”
“That is my price.” Gold interrupted her.
For a moment, the maid hesitated. Her lips tightened ever so slightly, a rare hint of emotion crossing her otherwise cold demeanor. She hadn’t wanted to disclose more than necessary, but there was no other way to get what she needed from Gold. After a long silence, she spoke.
“She was one of our… experiments. A failure.”
Gold’s eyes flicked toward the picture then, his eyebrows raising slightly. A slow grin crept across his face, revealing a row of uneven, yellowing teeth.
“Still chasing ghosts, are we? The Luna Princesses still haven’t learned a damn thing in all these years. You’re still doing the same thing you were doing centuries ago. Trying to pretend you’re gods.” He let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the bar’s usual hum. “I should’ve known. Those ‘runaway’ rumors that’s been floating around—the ones that were found and caught escaping Luna were related to your little experiments.”
“The answer, Gold. I’ve already paid.” The maid’s voice tightened.
Gold chuckled again, shaking his head as if amused by her impatience.
“Fair enough. The girl you’re looking for is with the one you are now hunting.”
The maid’s face remained impassive, though there was a glint in her eyes.
“With… Ubel?” A brief silence followed. The maid closed her eyes, processing the new information. Then, she straightened, preparing to ask another question.
But Gold, ever the opportunist, raised a finger.
“Ah, ah, ah. You want more? It’s going to cost you.” Gold’s grin widened as he leaned forward, elbows on the table, savoring her reaction.
“Name your price.” She didn’t hesitate. “I want to know Ubel.”
Gold rubbed his hands together as if relishing the game.
“7,800 credits for this one.”
The maid’s eyes narrowed slightly, knowing full well that such a price was absurdly low for information of this magnitude.
Gold, sensing her suspicion, chuckled.
“Don’t get too excited. I meant 7,800… with fifty zeros added to the end.”
The maid didn’t flinch at the amount but the playful exchange that Gold was giving her was making the temptation to kill this male prostitute in front of her, wanting. His personality was the very reason why she had to go out of her way to find Geisler to confirm the name of her target. Gold will give her confusing answers or even mislead her into unwanted pursuits with reasons that she doesn’t know who she wants. She tapped her wrist device, transferring the astronomical number of credits directly to his account without flinching. Gold frowned as his wrist display confirmed the transaction, visibly disappointed by how easily she paid.
“No fun in clients with bottomless pockets,” he muttered, disappointed. “But hey, credits are credits. I’ll take it.”
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as he finally addressed her question.
“I don’t know Ubel’s real identity. That’s the truth. But here’s the part that’ll keep you up at night: this answer is almost an answer. It’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something that’ll twist your pretty little plans inside out.” He gleefully shook his head side by side as if he was having fun.
The maid’s sharp gaze didn’t leave him, silently urging him to continue.
Gold let the silence hang for a moment before adding.
“The princesses of Luna, your Vestal sisters, have been poking around in things they shouldn’t—tampering with space and time. Do you want to know why Ubel’s so dangerous? He’s probably the result of all that meddling. He’s an anomaly. An unintended consequence.”
"An anomaly?" The maid’s brow furrowed.
Gold’s grin returned, this time sharper, predatory.
“He doesn’t belong in this cluster. The things he does, the way he leads… It doesn’t make sense because he doesn’t make sense. And you know what’s even more fun? He knows about me. Yet, I didn’t know him, never dealt with him, never crossed paths—but he knows me.”
“That’s impossible,” the maid responded flatly. “Someone must have told him about you. One of your clients.”
Gold shook his head, clearly amused.
“Oh no, sweetheart, my clients don’t talk. They wouldn’t even mention me in a drunken confession, let alone under torture. You know the type—high rollers with everything to lose.”
The maid closed her eyes for a moment, processing this new information. Everything Gold said unsettled her—not because of what he knew, but because of what it implied. This was beginning to tread into dangerous territory that they did not want. Gold watched her reaction with keen interest.
He leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m curious. What happens to those little runaways after they’re caught?” Gold leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. His eyes, sharp as ever, gleamed with something darker now.
The maid’s expression didn’t change, but her voice took on an edge of sarcasm.
"Curious? Really? For someone who claimed that doesn’t care about ‘inhumans,’ you certainly seem to ask a lot of questions about them. And the price for that answer is far more than what you’ve paid me, Gold."
Gold chuckled, leaning forward, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Relax, Vestal. Consider it an academic question." He took a slow sip of his drink before setting it down with a soft thud. “But let me give you something in return for your curiosity. Your dear Ubel is likely heading to one of two places—Jupiter’s moons or the stations orbiting Uranus. Seems to me that’s everything you need, right?”
The maid’s eyes narrowed slightly, the information slipping into place with ease.
"Yes, that will suffice."
Gold smirked, pleased with himself. But the playful air between them took a dark turn as the maid met his gaze. Her voice was cold and mechanical when she finally responded to his earlier question.
“The recaptured assets,” she delivered her answer with cold detachment. “They’re recycled. Assets, like any other material, are reprocessed into something useful. Most of the time, they become part of the line.”
“Recycled, huh?” Gold raised an eyebrow, swirling the drink again, his tone suddenly sharp. “That’s a pretty word for turning them into dolls, isn't it?”
The maid’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
Gold chuckled darkly, swirling his drink.
“And that,” he said, his voice lowering, “you see, this is why I despise you and your creators. You treat life like it's expendable. Playing God, as if that was ever a good idea.”
The maid’s demeanor changed in an instant. Her face twisted into a mask of cold fury.
"You dare mock our Creators?” she spat, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. “We exist because of them. Without our creator—"
“Your creators,” Gold interrupted sharply. He set his glass down with a loud clink and met the maid’s glare head-on, his tone dripping with venom. "Abandoned us. Sex Dolls have no right to judge me."
The insult was like a slap in the face. The maid's usually emotionless face twisted, her voice rising in fury.
"I will not tolerate such heresy in my presence! Even if you are a sister unit—"
"Heresy? Sister unit?" Gold sneered, cutting her off again. "Don't you dare compare me to you and your obedient sisters?"
The words hit like a gunshot. For a moment, the entire bar seemed to hold its breath. Something had crossed the line. The maid’s hand twitched, her fingers flexing as if they were ready to strike.
“You were made by the same Creators!” She said slowly, repeating once again. “Do you reject your very existence?”
Gold’s eyes darkened, and his smirk faded into something more sinister.
“I reject everything about them. Let me tell you something, Vestal.” He spat, leaning in. "I know more about our creators than I ever should. And that’s why I hate them. You think I don’t know what they did? What they truly are? I’ve seen more things than you and your sisters ever will. I was built for one thing—to see and to know. And what I’ve seen… disgusts me.”
The air between them crackled with tension. The maid’s hand clenched, her patience snapping.
Gold smirked, his eyes flashing with mockery.
"Oh, What’s the matter? Wait, is that what this is really about? Do you and your sisters actually miss your master’s approval? Do you and your sisters miss the touch of your masters? Miss the feeling of being useful to them? Did you miss their disgusting dicks and pussies?"
That did it. The maid moved faster than anyone in the bar could see, her foot lashing out in a devastating kick aimed at Gold’s head. But Gold, anticipating the move, dodged with inhuman speed as he dodged to the side. Her boot crashed through the table instead, splintering it into pieces. Patrons around them paused and looked at the explosion of violence, but none dared interfere.
“Touchy, aren’t we?” His voice was mocking, standing several feet away, grinned with amusement, dusting himself off. “Missed me. And here I thought you Vestals were supposed to be the perfection of combat incarnate.”
The maid’s expression was murderously cold, her voice low and deadly.
“I’ll give you one chance. Take back what you said.”
Gold laughed, but there was no joy in it.
“Oh, I know you would. But even if I wasn’t built for combat, I’m pretty damn sure I could take you without your sisters backing you up.” He tilted his head, his grin widening.
Then he added more words.
“You know,” he said, stepping toward her, “I never actually wanted to answer your questions. The only reason I did was because someone else made a request. A certain someone—someone far more interesting—wanted to make their life more… interesting. And this? This is how I make sure I will also get to enjoy the show that will now begin.”
The maid froze, her rage momentarily eclipsed by confusion.
“What are you talking about?”
“Now that... that’s the fun part, isn’t it? Let’s just say I’ve been paid in a different currency this time.” Gold’s smirk returned, lazy and dangerous. “A little chaos, a little mystery... it’s what keeps this universe interesting. And I’ve survived worse than you… doll”
The moment that word left Gold’s lips, the maid felt her temper snap.
The air in the bar crackled with tension as the maid’s foot slammed into the floor, sending a ripple of destruction across the room. In the blink of an eye, she moved with blinding speed, her body vanishing from sight. In less than a second, she appeared beside Gold, her hand clutching his skull with such force that the wall behind him shattered as she slammed his head against it. The force was devastating, turning his skull into a mess of twisted metal and synthetic flesh.
Gold’s body crumpled, but the smirk never left his face as the puppet disintegrated into dust. The maid’s eyes darted around the room, her instincts screaming at her to stay alert. She had felt it before she entered this place—something was off.
She had been too focused on her rage to notice it before, but now it was undeniable. Her sensors picked up multiple activations in the room. From every corner of the bar, a low hum reverberated through the air, a ripple of energy coursing through the patrons. Slowly, they all turned toward her in unison, their faces eerily blank, eyes gleaming with malevolent glee. The bartender, mercenaries, smugglers, staff, waitresses, and dancers—every single one of them was a puppet, an extension of Gold.
And Gold's voice echoed from their mouths in eerie unison.
“Spank the naughty girl.”
The maid’s eyes narrowed. The entire bar was nothing but a puppet show. Her cold exterior shifted, and with a simple motion, she activated a protocol.
“Combat Mode Regal Cleaner – Engaged: Elimination”
Her body shifted seamlessly into a stance designed for total annihilation. Her maid uniform shimmered momentarily as advanced tech hidden within adjusted, augmenting her strength and speed far beyond what was humanly possible.
Her bare hands were enough. And then, all hell broke loose.
She moved first, a blur of motion as she closed the distance between herself and the nearest puppet. Her fingers pierced through its skull, splintering metal and flesh alike. She yanked her hand back, pulling circuitry and blood with it, then spun around to tear through another. More puppets descended upon her. Some wielded makeshift weapons like chairs and broken bottles, others fired their blasters and pistols, sending streaks of plasma and bullets searing through the air. The maid dodged with an ease that seemed almost unnatural, her body flickering in and out of view as she moved too fast for the naked eye to follow. She moved faster than the normal human eye could track, her hand shooting out to grab the next puppet by the throat. With a sickening crunch, she crushed its neck and hurled it into the others, knocking them down like bowling pins.
She slammed her fist into another puppet’s chest, shattering its torso into pieces. With a swift kick, she sent another flying through the air, its body collapsing against the bar, knocking bottles of liquor to the floor. She spun, catching the wrist of a puppet attempting to stab her from behind, twisting it with enough force to tear it clean off before using the severed arm to club another enemy in the head.
The bartender puppet threw a bottle of acid toward her, but she dodged in a blink, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. Her combat style was as precise as it was brutal—each strike shattered skulls, crushed spines, cybernetics, and dismembered limbs.
Gold’s voice echoed through the cacophony of the fight.
“One of the used and discarded dolls who can’t think for herself.”
The taunts, though they should have been meaningless, dug into her mind. She dodged a barrage of gunfire, flipping over several tables and using the wreckage around as makeshift shields. Not because bullets could harm her but because she does not want the very clothes that her creators gave her would be scratched by bullets.
“You were thrown away,” Gold’s voice taunted again, this time through a puppet disguised as a dancer. “Nothing but trash now.”
Her rage fueled her strikes, each one more violent than the last. A group of puppets managed to corner her, pinning her with heavy steel limbs, but she twisted her body with unnatural grace, shattering them all in one fluid motion. The force sent chunks of metal flying across the room, embedding themselves into walls.
“A useless tool discarded by your creator after being used.”
Her movements became faster, more vicious. She leaped onto the bar counter and backflipped into the air, dodging a wave of blaster fire as she landed on top of two puppets, slamming them into the ground with enough force to cause the floor to crack beneath them.
One of the waitresses tossed a knife toward her. The maid snatched the blade mid-air, flipped it in her hand, and hurled it back, impaling the puppet’s head with deadly accuracy.
The swarm didn’t stop. More puppets poured in from the nightclub’s hidden rooms, every one of them charging at her with reckless abandon. She tore through them with brutal efficiency, her fists a blur as she dismembered and destroyed everything in her path. Even as blasters fired, she weaved between the shots, dodging them with ease, her body becoming a blur of motion and violence.
Each puppet that fell seemed to glow for a moment before dissolving into golden dust, but more took their place. It felt endless. And all the while, Gold’s voice laughed, mocked her.
“You were made to serve. You can’t escape that. And… to be honest, I pitied all of you.”
The maid let out a growl, her patience finally snapping. She dashed forward, her speed breaking the sound barrier as she grabbed two puppets by their heads and smashed them together, splintering their skulls into fragments. Then, with a rapid series of strikes, she dismantled another group, leaving nothing but broken metal and bloodied limbs scattered across the room.
More puppets poured out of back corridors and even the ones from outside of the nightclub. The crowd seemed endless. The floor was littered with broken bodies, but they just kept coming. A puppet wearing a bouncer’s uniform swung a baton at her, which she caught mid-swing before twisting it out of his grip and shoving it through his chest. And still, Gold kept taunting.
“If I tell you the truth, you will be destroyed. You are like a parasite. Who doesn’t know how and where to live without your host? The difference is, I already know mine. You don’t.”
She growled low in her throat, spinning to dodge another shower of bullets from the nightclub staff. But something was wrong. Through the haze of battle, she noticed the faint glow emanating from the destroyed puppets. One by one, the ruined bodies began to hum, their broken limbs sparking with energy. A low mechanical sound pulsed through the nightclub, growing louder with each passing second.
But suddenly, something changed.
A deafening roar ripped through the establishment, the shockwave blasting out the walls and vaporizing the remaining puppets. The explosion engulfed the entire bar, the fiery blast consuming everything in its path.
---
Outside, the twins had been stood patiently, waiting as instructed. The explosion rocked the area, flames shooting into the sky as debris rained down from the blast site. Pieces of the nightclub were scattered around. Their heads snapped simultaneously toward the bar, alarm flashing in their eyes as they prepared to rush in and assist.
But before they could even take a step, the maid appeared behind them, her presence ghostly and silent. Her maid uniform was covered in dust. But aside from a few lines of ashes on her hair, she looked unharmed, unbothered by the destruction she had just gone through.
“We’re done here,” the maid said coldly, her voice calm despite the chaos that had just occurred. “We’re leaving.”
The twins immediately dropped to one knee, bowing their heads in acknowledgment.
“As you command,” one of them said before both rose to their feet and rushed to her side to help dust off her uniform. They worked in silence, meticulously patting her down and straightening her appearance. The maid stood still, allowing them to clean her up as they ensured her appearance was immaculate once more.
While they worked, the maid connected to Luna Palace, sending her report across the secure network. Her voice, calm and measured, betrayed none of the fury she had unleashed moments before.
“I’ve found the girl’s location. She’s with the one we’re hunting—Ubel. I am raising him to Priority Target #4 on the Vithrari List. I also advise deploying a penal armada. We’re running out of time.”
She paused, listening to the reply, her gaze cold and distant.
“I will take the Jupiter route. Send someone else to cover Neptune. Ensure that the agent you are sending is briefed.”
The connection ended.
As the twins finished tidying her uniform, the maid turned and began walking toward the docks. The twins followed her in perfect synchronization. They walked in silence back to the docks, their footsteps echoing through the now-quiet docks who just finished their trade with their ship. They boarded swiftly, and the docking bay doors hissed shut behind them.
Once inside, the maid made her way to a private chamber within the vessel. The room was small and dimly lit, dominated by an ornate altar adorned with intricate symbols and offerings. She knelt before it, her head bowed in prayer.
“We will bring you back,” she whispered, her voice filled with unwavering conviction. “With your advent, the golden age of humanity rises again. This universe will kneel before you as it did before.”
Her hands clasped tightly, her eyes closed as she made her solemn vow.