###

The slums of Galvaris Prime never slept. Neon lights painted the densely packed streets in garish hues of pink, green, and blue, flickering off grimy windows and the worn faces of those who called this labyrinth home. Merchants shouted over one another, selling dubious wares. Gangsters in slick jackets leaned against walls, watching every passerby with predatory eyes. Children ran barefoot through the alleys, clutching scraps of food or stolen goods. Above it all, towering spires of the wealthy cast their long shadows over the sprawling chaos below.

Sol crouched on the edge of a rusted rooftop, a small device whirring softly in his hand. Long, golden-blonde hair fell over his face, but he didn’t bother brushing it aside. His sharp, dark green eyes were focused on the street below. A gang skirmish was brewing—the Neon Vultures were setting up an ambush for the Iron Fangs. It was nothing new. In the slums, every district belonged to a gang, and the fight for supremacy never truly ended. But Sol wasn’t here for the drama; he was here for opportunity.

“Let’s see,” he muttered, tightening a small bolt on his gadget. It was a makeshift cloaking device he’d been working on for weeks. A patchwork of scavenged circuits and cracked lenses, but Sol’s creations didn’t need to look pretty—they just needed to work. And if this worked, it might finally give him the edge he needed to move unseen through the more dangerous parts of the slums.

Below, the ambush began. A sharp whistle cut through the air, and the Vultures sprang into action. Smoke grenades filled the street, neon silhouettes darting through the haze as shouts and gunfire erupted. Sol grinned. Chaos was his element.

Pocketing the device, he slid down a drainage pipe and landed silently in the alley. Keeping to the shadows, he weaved through the labyrinthine streets, heading toward the skirmish. His goal wasn’t the fight itself but what it left behind. Weapons, tech, and credits would be abandoned in the aftermath, and Sol intended to claim his share before the scavengers arrived.

---

An hour later, Sol returned to his hideout, a small, reinforced room tucked away in the forgotten corners of the slums. The space was cluttered but organized, with shelves of salvaged parts, half-finished gadgets, and a makeshift workbench illuminated by a single flickering light. A few personal touches—a faded poster of a starship, a cracked hologram projector displaying distant galaxies—hinted at his dreams of escape.

He dumped his haul on the workbench: a damaged plasma rifle, a handful of energy cells, and a small pouch of credits. Not bad for a night’s work.

“What’s this?” a deep, gravelly voice asked from the doorway. Sol didn’t startle; he’d known the old Vortigoth would show up eventually. His teacher, a towering alien with four arms and gray, leathery skin, stepped inside, his glowing yellow eyes scanning the room.

“Another night of reckless scavenging?” the Vortigoth said, crossing two of his arms while the other two inspected the rifle.

“Reckless pays the bills,” Sol replied, collapsing into a worn chair. “Besides, it’s not like anyone’s handing out job offers around here.”

The Vortigoth who Sol just calls “Doc” snorted. “You’ll get yourself killed one day, boy. The gangs don’t like it when someone takes from their table.”

“Then I’ll just take bigger bites,” Sol said with a smirk, holding up his cloaking device. “I’m working on something that might make their table invisible. What do you think?”

Doc leaned in, examining the device closely. He grunted in approval. “Crude, but clever. With the right adjustments, it might actually work. Still, it’s not enough to get you out of here.”

Sol's smirk faded. He glanced at the hologram of the stars, its light reflecting in his eyes. “One day,” he murmured. “One day, I’ll get off this rock.”

Doc sighed, placing a heavy hand on Sol's shoulder. “Keep dreaming, kid. But remember, dreams don’t come free.”

---

The next day, Sol was woken by the sound of banging on his door. He groaned, rubbing his eyes and grabbing a small device from his bedside table. It looked like a simple communicator, but it was wired to emit a high-pitched EMP burst if tampered with. Just one of many precautions.

“What?” he called, not bothering to hide his irritation.

The door slid open, and a young member of the Neon Vultures stepped inside, looking nervous. “Boss wants to see you,” the ganger said, avoiding eye contact.

Sol frowned. “Why?”

The ganger shifted uncomfortably. “Something about a job. Said it’s important.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Sol replied, leaning back. “Tell your boss I’m busy.”

“He said you don’t have a choice,” the ganger said quickly, stepping back as if expecting Sol to explode.

Sol sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. Trouble, as always. “Fine. Lead the way.”

As he followed the ganger through the slums, Sols’s mind raced. The Neon Vultures were usually content with their occasional trades and repairs. If they were calling him in now, it meant something big was happening. Something dangerous. And danger in the slums usually came with opportunity—if you were clever enough to seize it.

The walk through the slums was a journey through chaos and desperation. Neon signs buzzed and flickered, casting harsh light on the cracked pavement. Hawkers yelled about miracle drugs and counterfeit tech, their voices blending with the distant hum of generators and the occasional shout of an argument. Sol passed by a group of kids playing with a ball made of duct tape and scraps. One of them, a scrawny boy with dirt-streaked cheeks, glanced at Sol with wide eyes before darting into the shadows.

He couldn’t help but feel a pang of familiarity. That used to be him, scavenging and stealing just to stay alive. The thought made him tighten his grip on the small cloaking device in his pocket. He was still scavenging, still stealing—but now, he had a plan. A way out.

The Vultures’ base loomed ahead, a repurposed warehouse with their emblem—a neon vulture in mid-dive—projected onto the wall. Two guards stood by the entrance, their faces hidden behind masks. Sol's steps slowed for a moment, his mind calculating. He didn’t trust the Vultures, but trust wasn’t necessary to survive in the slums. Only leverage mattered.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The guards at the entrance stepped aside wordlessly, their masked faces giving no indication of recognition. Sol caught the faintest flicker of their helmet sensors scanning him, likely cataloging every item he carried. Standard Vulture paranoia. They thrived on being unpredictable, which often meant intimidating their own recruits as much as their enemies.

Inside, the warehouse had been transformed into a chaotic hive of activity. Neon lights pulsated from overhead fixtures, bathing the interior in hues of purple and red. Gang members bustled about, some haggling over crates of illegal tech, others tinkering with modified weapons on workbenches. A handful were lounging in an elevated corner, laughing over a card game that seemed to involve far more threats than strategy.

Sol walked deliberately, his strides calm but measured. His dark green eyes darted around, taking in every exit, every armed figure, every potential hiding spot. The base was a maze of scaffolding and makeshift corridors built from stacked crates and debris, designed to confuse outsiders—or trap them.

The air buzzed with tension, the kind that came with power struggles barely hidden beneath a thin veneer of unity. He noticed a cluster of newer recruits, their jackets still stiff and clean, being berated by an older ganger for mishandling a shipment. Across the room, a mechanic with a cybernetic arm was arguing with a supplier over the quality of a replacement part. Sol smirked faintly. The Vultures might strut around like a well-oiled machine, but beneath the surface, they were as fractured and chaotic as the slums they ruled.

As he made his way deeper into the base, the dynamics became clearer. The gang was split into cliques, each loyal to a different lieutenant. One group, clustered near the armory, was heavily tattooed and armed to the teeth, their leader barking orders like a drill sergeant. Another group lounged near a holographic map of the slums, their whispered discussions accompanied by sharp glances toward the armory crew. Sol knew these factions well—the Vultures’ inner circle was constantly vying for influence, their alliances shifting like sand underfoot.

The boss, Serik, kept them in check through a mix of charisma and fear. Sol had only met him a handful of times, but each encounter had left an impression. Serik was a man who thrived on unpredictability, his decisions as erratic as they were calculated. Sol suspected this summons had more to do with Serik’s agenda than any real interest in his skills.

He reached the central chamber, a raised platform surrounded by crude metal railings. Serik’s throne—or what passed for one—was a cobbled-together monstrosity of salvaged tech, blinking lights and exposed wires giving it an almost menacing aura. The man himself sat sprawled across it, a cybernetic hand tapping idly on the armrest. His sharp features were partially obscured by the flickering glow of a holographic interface projected from a device on his wrist.

“Sol,” Serik drawled, his voice smooth but carrying an edge that demanded attention. “So good of you to join us.”

Sol stopped a few steps away, his posture relaxed but his mind racing. “Didn’t think I had much of a choice,” he said, letting a hint of sarcasm slip into his tone.

Serik’s cybernetic hand clenched briefly, the sound of whirring servos filling the pause. “You’re right. You didn’t.” He gestured for Sol to approach. “Come. We have… business to discuss.”

Sol stepped forward cautiously, his eyes scanning the room. Several lieutenants were present, each watching him with varying degrees of interest and suspicion. This wasn’t just a job—it was a test. And in the slums, tests had a way of turning lethal.

As Serik leaned forward, the faint hum of the hologram intensified. “I hear you’ve been playing with some interesting toys,” he said, his gaze flicking to the faint bulge in Sol's pocket where the cloaking device rested. “Let’s see if they’re as clever as they say you are.”

Sol hesitated for a fraction of a second, long enough for the tension in the room to thicken but short enough to avoid appearing weak. He pulled the cloaking device from his pocket and held it up, letting the neon light reflect off its rough edges. "It's a prototype," he said, his voice measured, "but it works."

Serik leaned back, a predatory grin spreading across his face. “Show me.”

Sol’s mind raced as he considered his options. Demonstrating the device would reveal its capabilities, but refusing might seal his fate. He turned the device over in his hands, feigning casual confidence. "It’s not perfect yet," he said, stalling for time. "But it’s enough to make someone disappear for a while."

Serik’s grin didn’t waver. “Then disappear.”

The demand wasn’t a suggestion. Sol suppressed a sigh and activated the device. A soft hum filled the air as the device flickered to life. For a moment, nothing happened, and Ren could feel the weight of the lieutenants’ eyes on him, judging, waiting. Then, his form shimmered, like a mirage in the desert, and faded from view.

The room erupted into murmurs, some impressed, others skeptical. Sol moved carefully, circling around the platform while the cloaking field bent light around him. He wasn’t truly invisible—sharp eyes or advanced sensors could still detect him—but it was enough to confuse the average ganger. He let the murmurs build before deactivating the device, reappearing a few steps from where he had stood.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken calculations. Serik’s grin widened, but his eyes remained cold and unreadable. “Impressive,” he said, though his tone carried a hint of challenge. “How long does it last?”

Sol shrugged. “Depends on the power source. A few minutes at most. But I can improve it, given the right materials.”

Serik leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re a resourceful one, Sol. That’s why I’ve kept you around. But resourcefulness without loyalty? That’s dangerous.”

Sol met his gaze, his face neutral despite the unease creeping through him. “Loyalty works both ways,” he said carefully. “You know I don’t pick sides. I just survive.”

Serik’s cybernetic fingers drummed against the armrest, the metallic rhythm echoing in the room. “Survival is a noble goal,” he said slowly. “But in my territory, survival comes with a price. You’ll work for me now, exclusively. No more side gigs for the other gangs. No more playing the field.”

Sol's jaw tightened, but he kept his expression calm. “And if I say no?”

Serik’s grin disappeared, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. “Then I’ll take that clever little device of yours and leave you to the mercy of the Fangs—or worse, the scavengers.”

The threat hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Sol's mind raced, weighing his options. Serik’s offer wasn’t a request; it was a demand wrapped in thinly veiled flattery. Refusing outright would paint a target on his back, but accepting would tie him to a gang he had no intention of serving.

He forced a smile, masking the bitterness in his voice. “Exclusive work costs extra.”

Serik chuckled, the tension easing slightly. “Oh, you’ll be paid, Sol. In more ways than one. But cross me, and you’ll find out just how short survival can be.”

Sol nodded, hiding the storm brewing inside him. “Understood. When do we start?”

“Immediately,” Serik said, rising from his throne with a mechanical hiss from his cybernetic limbs. “Your first task will be simple—but crucial. There’s a shipment coming in tonight, something the Iron Fangs would kill to get their claws on. You’ll ensure it reaches us intact.”

Sol's heart sank. Smuggling runs in the slums were never simple, no matter how casually Serik presented them. Still, he masked his apprehension with a slight tilt of his head. “Consider it done.”

As Serik gestured for one of his lieutenants to brief Sol on the details, Sol couldn’t help but glance at the holographic map glowing on a nearby table. It displayed the slums in stark detail, highlighting routes, gang territories, and points of interest. His mind began to work, mapping his own path—not for the job, but for the escape he knew he’d have to make one day soon.

Serik might think he had him cornered, but Sol had survived too long in the slums to let anyone put a leash on him. He just needed to bide his time, gather resources, and wait for the right moment to slip through the cracks.

As the lieutenant began outlining the mission, Sol's sharp green eyes flickered with resolve. The slums of Galvaris Prime were a cage, but even cages could be broken. One way or another, he would find his way to the stars.