I huddled in the dim glow of my scavenged rig.
The irradiated wind howled outside my makeshift hab-pod like a banshee on a bad trip.
Nineteen years scraping by on Old Earth's gutted corpse.
Slaving for the Vortex Mining Conglomerate—fixing their rusty miner tools, dodging rad-blasts, and hustling side gigs just to stack creds toward buying out my contract.
No cybernetic augs for me.
Not like those star-kissed elites.
Just raw grit.
A tongue that could charm a mutant into sharing its lunch.
And a naive dream that one day I'd flip the script.
But tonight?
Tonight I was pirating a feed from the void.
Eavesdropping on one of those augmented assholes broadcasting his superiority to us lower-world scum.
The holo crackled to life on my wrist-comm.
Hijacked through a black-market relay.
There he was: Harlan Voss.
Some merc kingpin lounging in his luxury asteroid retreat out in the Elysium Belt of the Vega system.
The place spun like a jewel in a rich solar system's crown—a vacation fortress hollowed from rock.
Probably decked with zero-g pools and synth-servants.
His voice dripped smug venom.
Augmented to boom like thunder.
"In the void's embrace, we rewrite our flesh: neural amps for god-like smarts, chrome limbs for unbreakable might.
We elites glow up, predict the stars, crush worlds underfoot.
But you dregs on that forsaken husk called Old Earth?
You're meat in the machine—sweating for conglomerates like Vortex, chained by contracts tighter than a black hole.
No augs, no edge.
Pathetic fodder, toiling in the dust we left behind a millennium ago."
He laughed.
Toasting with a crystal decanter.
His words a broadcast knife twisting in the guts of every poor soul patched into the lower feeds.
Shitting on us like we were yesterday's waste.
Fueling that envy burning in my chest.
If only I had his setup—his power.
I'd show 'em all.
But envy wouldn't pay my way out.
Vortex had just extended my indenture indefinitely.
Crushing my escape under their corporate boot.
No more trust.
No alliances.
I'd play calculated from here.
Using every trick on my body to survive.
That pilfered data cache I'd snagged during a shaft repair?
It was my spark—coords to a forgotten biotech lab buried deep in Earth's ruins.
Riches, maybe.
Freedom, definitely.
But diving solo was death.
So I hit the undergrid black market.
Last of my creds burning a hole in my account.
Three low-level mercs huddled in a dingy stall, reeking of cheap synth-booze and rust.
Cheap thugs with battered pulse rifles and glitchy visors.
I leaned in, sly tongue working overtime.
"Listen up, void-scum.
Got a prime gig—buried tech haul, coords locked in.
Split the loot four ways, easy creds to line your pockets.
I'm fronting the risk, you bring the muscle.
What say? Last of my stack says you can't pass this up."
Jax, the scarred leader, sneered down at me.
"Fuckin' short-stack thinks he's a boss?
You need a verti-boost implant, kid—stretch that runt frame before you talk big."
The skinny one chuckled, spitting rad-muck.
"Yeah, pint-sized hustler.
But creds talk.
Show the transfer."
I pinged my last digits over.
Watched 'em light up greedy.
"Deal's sealed, assholes.
We move at dusk."
They nodded.
Grins sharp as shards.
But me?
Prepared as hell.
Trust no one—my new code.
The journey was a grind through hell's asshole.
We trekked irradiated badlands first—rad-storms whipping dust that burned eyes and skin raw.
Mutant howls echoing from craters.
Then the mutants hit—pack of rad-twisted freaks, all fangs and glowing sores, charging from a crater rim.
Jax blasted first, pulse rifle barking plasma that melted one's face into bubbling slag.
Skinny one flanked, flux-knife humming as he gutted another, entrails spilling like radioactive spaghetti.
The third merc covered my ass, rifle bursts popping heads like overripe fruit, gore spraying in arcs.
I dodged, flashlight swinging, yelling coords over the chaos.
"Keep 'em off me, you fucks!
Lab's this way!"
They held the line.
Bodies piled.
We pushed on.
Dropped into the shaft coords.
Rappelling down crumbling vents, ropes fraying on jagged rebar.
Flashlight beams dancing like ghosts.
Deeper, air turned thick, spore-dust choking lungs, forcing coughs.
Ancient ruins crumbled around us—collapsed hab-domes, fossilized tech husks.
Hours of sweat and curses.
"Better not be a bust, shorty," Jax growled midway, rifle bumping my shoulder.
"Or we'll vent your ass here."
I smirked.
"Keep whining, you'll attract more crawlers."
Finally, the lab's vault loomed—half-buried in debris.
Panel flickering with ghost power.
My heart pounded.
This was it.
We stepped into the facility's antechamber.
Air stale but breathable—scans pinged clean.
The mercs yanked off their gas masks, gulping fresh-ish air.
I kept mine strapped tight.
Calculated paranoia.
A neural shutdown brew, quick and quiet.
As I hacked the panel, Jax's tone turned feral.
"Halt, runt.
Saw your coords—prime score.
Bigger payday if we dump you and claim it solo.
No split for the midget."
Weapons whipped up.
Plasma casters glowing.
Flux-knives humming—those sleek energy blades that sliced molecular bonds like butter.
All pointed at my chest.
I'd clocked their shady whispers earlier.
But no sweat.
I chuckled low, arrogance bubbling up.
That's when the chaos ensued—the effects from the poison I'd laced into their rations earlier kicking in hard.
First twitch from the skinny one.
Then a ragged cough.
"The hell—?"
Jax hacked next.
Eyes bulging.
"Poisoned... can't move, you little shit!"
The third clutched his throat.
Rifle dropping.
They gagged, choking on their own saliva, bodies seizing as the toxin shut down their nervous systems.
Nerves fried like overclocked circuits.
I snatched Jax's caster from his frozen grip.
The thug's face twisted in silent fury.
"Should've seen it coming," I quipped.
Arrogance masking the adrenaline.
Then, as they spasmed on the ground, drool foaming from lips, I leaned in.
"You chromehead wannabes think you can flatline me?
Nox ain't just a name.
Before I was orphaned, my family turned venoms and toxins into wetware medicine—cures from the void's deadliest drips.
Guess I kept the family recipe... for the other side."
One by one, I offed 'em.
First, the skinny one—plasma burst to the head, skull exploding in a spray of gore and sparking augs, brains splattering the tunnel walls like abstract art gone wrong.
He crumpled, twitching, golden circuits frying in the mess.
Next, Jax— I rammed the flux-knife into his gut, twisting until his innards churned like a blender on high, blood bubbling out in frothy crimson waves mixed with bile and shit-stink.
He gurgled, eyes rolling back as his cheap implants shorted, sparks dancing from his mouth like a fireworks finale.
Last one—desperate lunge frozen mid-air, I grabbed his arm, tore it off with a wet rip, bone snapping like brittle candy, arterial spray painting the walls red.
He howled silently, toxin locking his scream.
Then I blasted his chest open, heart exposed and pumping futilely before it burst in a gory pop, steaming viscera coating my boots in slick chunks.
Bodies crumpled.
Stiff and smoking.
No remorse in the wastelands.
Survival's a solo game.
"Thanks for the new gear, shitheads."
I rifled their corpses.
Snagged the plasma casters, flux-knives, extra clips.
Then spotted it—on the third one's face, a not-too-damaged ocular implant.
The Vizor-Eye Mk7.
Scans thermal sigs, hacks low-sec locks, even overlays AR data for targeting.
Prime loot.
Pocketed it.
Stealing augs from corpses?
One of the lowest biojacker moves in this sparked world.
But after grinding as lowly corporate fodder for Vortex?
I felt zero remorse—those fleshware chains had sparked me long enough.
The vault hissed open.
Lab's eerie hum beckoning.
I stepped in.
The air thick with promise... or deletion.