I took a drag from the cigar stub singing my fingertips. I could always use my cybernetic right hand, inhibiting feelings such as pain did not register in the metallic member, but that would rob me of its enjoyment. The warm pain was as vital to the experience as the smooth taste of rum-stained tobacco, the gentle billowing of smoke, the crimson ring at the edge of the cigar burning ever closer, or the clarity of mind that came as your bloodstream absorbed a variety of stimulants.

The pain reminded one that everything good in life came with sacrifice.

How many of the powdered aristocrats sharing this lounge with me had ever spent more than their dynastically endowed fortune to get something they truly desired? How many had watched a man die in person, not hundreds of lightyears away broadcasted over a holo screen? How many had pulled the trigger themselves, and even found excitement in the primal activity of extinguishing a human life?

The Lounge. It was LimeLight’s equivalent of a betting house; one of many spread throughout the sphere of LimeLight’s influence in a dozen or so derelict systems. It gathered the wealthiest of the competition’s esteemed audience to congregate in relative anonymity to bet on the outcome of a given round, donate to contestants, or even attempt to project the season’s winner. Mostly it was a place for haughty nobles to brag about their chosen race horses while sipping overpriced liqueurs and inhaling snuff. I was here on orders.

This particular locale was furnished in a style similar to nightclubs endemic to The United Systems of Humanity (USH for short) in the late 23rd century. White, chic, minimalist - no obtrusive curves or overindulgent impressions in the architecture. The room itself had a flat exterior wall, sloped inwards gently to form a sort of rhomboid shape as it met with the ceiling and the inner wall along which the bar and entrances were situated.

Two pairs of “pacification” bots armed with stun rifles posted up on either side of the sliding glass entry doors. They remained motionless, their alabaster armor blending in with the whitewash of the paneling.

Nothing flashy adorned the walls, aside from the killer bots. Instead, the ceiling and side-walls were laced with a geometric pattern of interlocking triangles and hexagons. They were composed of a luminescent material in hues of pastel pink and a deep purple to achieve a cooling, almost reflective atmosphere. Quite to my taste, actually.

Furniture came in two varieties: flat open couches cushioned with white pillows sunken into amphitheatric pits, and egg-colored chair pods scattered about the viewing floor that allowed for more privacy. I had retreated to one such pod planted in front of the rectangular viewing window that lined the width of the exterior wall. From here I could watch the twin stars of the “nearby” Turms System in their rival orbits, each rotating away from the influence of the other.

One shone a deceptively cool blue; the O-type star was far more powerful than its yellow counterpart and swirled dangerously close to our station at roughly 300 million miles away. Its paler rival was much nearer, about 100 million miles, and thus put on the airs of competition in size and intensity - but it really was no match. If the quiet, azure giant simply wandered a few steps closer it would engulf the yellow sun in a matter of years: trite moments to these celestial beings.

I glared over at the noise erupting from the bar. Its sleek countertop was stained by the sloshing libations of a complacent ruling class. Two elderly men - one in a navy suit and one in silver - sat chuckling with arms draped over one another. The one on the left was Harod Penn, owner of CastCorp. CastCorp was an industrial printing company that mass produced just about everything needed to start up a colony or mobilize a new military outpost. They made a living stocking invasive expeditions with supplies to terraform an entire planet and harness it for the progress of humanity.

The man on the right? Marcus Gerald. Head of the Conservationist party in a region that encompassed about 30% of USH controlled space. Two sworn enemies on the public stage now enjoying a few laughs with one another as they watched thousands of sentients battle to the death for their amusement.

A bartender dressed in a white and red striped waistcoat attended to the patrons at the bar. His wavy brown hair and charming smile could fool most in passing, but the yellow glow in his eyes gave away his true nature. An android - commissioned by the technicians of LimeLight to deal in all things luxury.

He chirped something affable to the culprits, waving his hand permissively as he wiped down the countertop. Though he managed the bar, alcohol was not his only ware on offer. Opiates, narcotics, suppressants, any and all illegal substances you could think of filled the encryption protected cabinets.

I spotted a partaker, an Undu Matriarch bedecked in a platinum-scaled bodysuit, snorting a line of white powder with her fuschia colored snout. Undignified savage.

She sat among a rainbow of other dignitaries in one of the pit couches. Two Retan chiefs, a Dralid queen, and a Human governor all watched the same instance projected from a glass orb mounted on a central table. They cheered raucously, every one of them in an advanced state of inebriation.

Here the elite of the galaxy could coalesce in their degeneracy with impunity. Upon docking the shuttle all electronics were disabled by an electromagnetic field. All weapons, equipment, or artifacts used to record likenesses or even notes about the unfolding of events here were confiscated and stored in a locker room. Of course, LimeLight probably kept a whole server of footage to use as political leverage one day, but they hadn’t tried anything. Yet.

The only device cleared for use was a hologlass that allowed its wearer to tune into live instances of the LimeLight competition, view statistics, place bets, watch the highlight reels, and communicate with adopted contestants. It was quite a handy piece of augmented reality technology, actually. You could also share viewings via the table-mounted sets as the rabble in the corner were doing, but I had no desire to join them.

Instead I reclined in the isolation of my own pod, picking at iced crustaceans in a goblet as I watched the round before me unfold.

A scrawny fellow with hair like rotted straw stood before the jewel-encrusted statue of a lion. They played a game of ancient human origin, from a society lost to all but the most ardent historians. The BIOS system generated this lion based on descriptions of the Egyptian god of wealth and incense - Dedún. Over the course of the last half hour, the man in wildly ineffective and quite hideous leather-strapped armor had learned the rules of this game, developed his own strategy, and outwitted the manifestation of a millenia-old deity - a feat he accomplished by simply annoying his godlike opponent and blowing on a precariously placed paddle.

Contestant #45,590. Puck Mallory. The card-playing urchin I had been mere moments from obliterating but, in a move that surprised even me, instead offered him a chance at redemption by representing The Organization in LimeLight.

He layed low throughout the early rounds of the competition, barely squeaking by the first two rounds. I chalked it up to pure gambler’s luck at first. Watching him now, though, I was starting to see potential in the backwater swindler. He had a grittiness about him; the tenacity of an underdog. It was to be expected from a street mutt that was forced to be resourceful on a daily basis just to survive. I was curious to see just how far he could go.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Boris Vasili. More infamously, Scar. Would you do me the kindness of your company?”

My hackles rose upon hearing my birth name said aloud.

A lanky gentleman with silvery hair that connected to a well-groomed beard leaned on the pod adjacent to mine. He wore a white suit complemented with an aegean-hued tie and triangle kerchief in his breast pocket. A pair of silver framed spectacles dangling loosely from a chain around his neck refracted light from the nearby stars, giving one lens a tinge of blue and the other of yellow.

“Mr. Legrande. It would be my pleasure.” I responded cordially and waved for him to take a seat.

“Much obliged.”

Mr. Legrande, or what he let himself be called anyway, was a Representative of LimeLight. They all wore that glaring white suit as a uniform. It had an odd contrast against his olive skin, but was visibly well-tailored and cared for.

The style was far too bright for me - my typical palette being black and gray - but the LimeLight folk took pride in the pristine complexion of their apparel. Each had their own flair to accent the foundational bleach color. Mr. Legrande chose a velvety dark blue. Dolos the Radiant stayed true to his name, embroidering himself with royal golds and purples. It was cute, really.

“I am surprised to see you so far from home, Mr. Scar.” Legrande’s voice purred as he spoke. He had a cultured accent, one you would hear often on the capital planet of the USH - Vitus.

“The allure of the competition drew me out.” I replied with a false smile.

“Ah, you mention that. I am surprised you did not re-enter yourself this year.” The representative folded his hands across his lap as he settled into his seat. “You were quite the opponent several seasons ago. The scar seems to have healed nicely, by the way.”

“It aches in damp weather, but at least gives me a story to tell.”

“So, why did you not join in the good fun yourself? There are many more stories yet to unfold. It is unlike you to sit on the sidelines.” Legrande pressed. He spoke in a casual tone, but he intended his questions to be answered.

“My responsibilities have grown, I am afraid.” I met his blue eyes with the unflinching black of my own. “I cannot afford to risk myself and my holdings like the younger man I once was.”

Legrande gave a throaty laugh. “I don’t think a man like you has ever been young, Mr. Scar. I suspect you came out of the womb with the hardened heart of a soldier.

“Either way. My time for competing has passed.”

“And now others do it in your stead, yes?”

“Yes, that is correct.” If his goal was to irritate me, it was working. “I have better things to do than play carnival games with cutthroats and vagabonds.”

“Boris! I’m hurt. After all we’ve done for you. The arm, the implants; a lot of you has come from our own development labs!” The Representative placed his hands on his chest as he gave me an injured look.

“All of which has been upgraded since my time in LimeLight. I have technicians of a much higher degree of skill in my employ.” I responded, crunching the head of a crustacean.

“I doubt your claim but I won’t press it. We have the best of the best working for us, one way or another. The resources at our disposal have expanded rapidly these past several years.” Legrande placed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose and turned to look at the twin stars.

“Quite a marvel, aren’t they?”

“Indeed. I was admiring them before you appeared.”

“Turms. A system with no habitable planets, but one of the rarest vistas this side of the galaxy. A binary star. It was a popular tourist attraction in the early decades of this century, until Dralid slaver ships began frequenting the area.” Legrande scratched at his chin. “We worked out a favorable deal with them, though.”

“Good on you. It is a beautiful sight that ought not go to waste.”

“The blue star, I like to call him Nethun, so vast and proud. The upstart yellow, I call her Mania. She tries desperately to outshine him, but her beauty is cheap in comparison. It’s an ill-conceived notion that she can compare, really. Blue is such a noble, rare color in nature. Yellow is a dime a dozen.”

I grunted my agreement. I really wished he would take his nuisance elsewhere.

“One of your men - Contestant #16,319. It is a shame what happened to him.” The silver man continued, either oblivious or uncaring of my annoyance.

Arman. He died in Round 2 fighting some gasmask wearing freak, though I’m not entirely sure why. The poison weaponry his opponent employed hadn’t appeared to touch him before he fell.

He had been a loyal enforcer; my most reliable street agent. I knew him from youth and practically raised him under my wing. His parents descended from the same homeworld as me, though they were refugees after the First Undu Conflict displaced them.

“To die like that. Writhing in pain, unable to breathe. Horrid.”

“He was a noble warrior.” I stated flatly.

“Noble, yes, but inexperienced.” Legrande turned to face me once more.

“He was unable to hide the device you granted him for aid. An illicit electronics scrambler, was it not? He had it in his pocket when the victor searched his body.”

“I did not know that was on him. I am unsure of how he received such an item. Isn’t that your concern? To filter out illegal artifacts.” This LimeLight puppet’s attempts to intimidate me would fall short. I had plausible deniability on the aid granted to all competitors. It was done through an agent, Tyrus was his name, and even then such aid could scarcely be traced to him. Only if a competitor talked. Agent meeting rooms were unsurveilled by the BIOS system.

“That is very much my concern, Mr. Scar. Truth be told it is the primary reason I came to visit Le Turms.”

He leaned forward in his chair, arm outstretched. “Here. Let me show you something.”

The channel on my hololens changed from the glyph-filled Egyptian tomb to a cubic room with a single chair in its center. A bulky figure was strapped in by the wrist, legs, and throat to the metallic seat. Blood stained his bald head. Dried vomit caked his bare chest and legs.

Arman.

A variety of sharp instruments, needles, and tools of malicious design attached to robotic arms surrounded him. He seemed to be in a state of semi-consciousness, his head stooped low. Sickly growths coated his torso ranging in size from golf balls to ripe melons. His skin had drained to a pallid color under the stress placed on his body.

One of the arms revved to life and injected him with a gray substance. He began screaming, tears of blood running down his gaunt cheeks.

“What the hell is this.” I could not disguise the rage in my voice. It was all I could do to stop from leaping into the Representative’s pod and tearing out his throat.

“Not all contestants die when they are eliminated from LimeLight, Mr. Scar. Some of them are preserved in stasis for continued...use. The terms of a slave contract allow this practice, as well as the punishment for those who violate our terms. Additionally, those that show great promise sometimes are preserved for a different purpose altogether, lest their talents go to waste.”

Legrande shrugged his shoulders. “I digress. In this situation, Contestant #16,319 has been suspended for violation of our competition’s terms. As far as you are concerned, I suppose he is dead. But I assure you he is very much alive.”

“Release him.” I struggled to say through gritted teeth.

“I’m afraid not.” Legrande wagged his finger. I could kill him in seconds, it's those damn droids that wouldn’t let me leave here alive.

“How much must I pay you.”

“No amount of money can rectify this situation, Mr. Scar. If cheating could be excused with money, it would happen prolifically. I needn’t remind you our patrons are among the wealthiest people in the galaxy.”

“You expect me to sit here with the knowledge that one of my best men is alive and being tortured by your lab freaks?”

He must have taken note of the murderous intent in my eyes. Legrande sat back in his chair and simply replied. “You have no agency to affect this situation. Your Organization is not as powerful as they like to pretend. Secrecy is not power, it is just a defense mechanism. We don’t have to hide - we shine brilliant for all to see.”

The light of Nethun caught both of Legrande’s lenses in full. A blue glow emanated from the glass, masking his eyes.

“This is your warning, Boris. Do not tamper with the competition again - or there will be worse consequences than the torment of a broken hound. Keep better track of your remaining contestants.”

With that, the representative stood from his chair and excused himself with a slight bow.

Nethun pulsed in the distance. I felt its heat for the first time since entering the shuttle. Even millions of miles away, nothing burnt quite like the heat of a blue star.