The Stranger and the Deal
Seven hours ago, Joren had been nursing a bitter cup of synthale in one of Xyllar’s infamous dive-bars, the Undermarket stretching beneath him like a shimmering mirage of desperation and greed. There, amidst the haze of narcotic vapors and the hum of ancient machinery, he’d been approached by a man cloaked in shimmering black. The figure had a Vriix accent while his words hinted at old Earth—untraceable, dangerous. The offer was simple and grim: retrieve the cipher key from Governor Thalburn’s private chamber, and in return, Joren would walk away with 10,000 xenon talons and freedom from the bounty that shadowed him across three systems.
"Why me?" Joren had asked, his calloused hand never straying far from the knife hidden in his sleeve.
The cloaked figure had leaned in closer, the faint scent of burnt ozone clinging to him. "Because no one else on this desolate slag-heap has your skillset—nor your... history with Thalburn."
History. That single word had sealed Joren’s fate. He’d accepted without hesitation, though the acidic knot in his stomach warned him he might regret it. He always did.
The Heist Gone Wrong
The infiltration had been flawless. Joren slipped past Thalburn's mechanized guards, their thin, arachnid limbs clattering as they patrolled the governor’s immense ivory-blade palace. He’d bypassed retinal locks and sound-wave traps that would’ve liquefied an ordinary man’s eardrums. The cipher key had hung suspended in a containment sphere in Thalburn’s chamber, an artifact of dazzling complexity, faintly alive with crystalline pulses of blue. Getting it out had been child’s play compared to what had come after.
Thalburn had been waiting for him.
"You never could leave well enough alone, could you?" the governor sneered, his once-handsome face now distorted by years of synthetic enhancements. The silvery plates of his jaw caught the light as he spoke, giving his words a sharp, metallic edge. And then the guards swarmed in.
Joren recalled the brief chaos—broken glass, smoke grenades, and the hiss of his plasma blade cutting through synthesized muscle and bone. He’d escaped, but not before leaving a trail of destruction that would send every bounty hunter on Xyllar sniffing for his blood. Fate seemed to delight in making him a target.
The Weight of Guilt
Now, in the empty red expanses of the desert, the cipher key throbbed faintly in the pouch strapped to his chest. Joren slowed his steps, his pulse pounding in time to the artifact’s rhythm. Was it guilt or fury tightening his chest? He could still hear Thalburn’s voice echoing in his mind, an unwelcome memory from years ago when they weren’t enemies but comrades, fighting together to wrest control of Xyllar from the corporate oligarchs that had drained its riches and left its people to rot.
But ambition had made Thalburn a tyrant, and Joren couldn’t stomach what they’d become after the revolution. He’d slipped away under the cover of night, leaving Xyllar to burn. Leaving her.
Sienna. The name hit him like a bullet, a bullet that never missed. She’d been the one anchor in his life tethered to something good, something honest. Thalburn had destroyed her in his rise to power, though Joren blamed himself more than anyone. He hadn’t stayed. He hadn’t fought.
The Sands Turn Red
A sharp whine pierced the air, and Joren’s instincts shoved him to the ground just as a plasma bolt seared past his shoulder, scattering crimson sand into the air. He rolled, weapon drawn, and fired at the silhouette against the dying light. One down. But others emerged, cloaked in the shadows of the twin suns.
The first mercenary lunged—a Zynkar, its sinewy body framed in bio-armor, serrated blades extending from its forearms. Joren sidestepped and drove his blade through the creature’s sternum, twisting until the alien collapsed with a guttural groan. Another came, then another, until the red sands drank deeply of violence. He moved with precision and fury, each movement a dance choreographed by survival. When it was done, Joren was still standing amidst the carnage, but his strength was sapped, the horizon blurred by sweat and exhaustion.
The Cipher's Power
And then, it spoke.
The cipher key—a machine, a consciousness, an unknowable thing—spoke in his mind. Not words, but shapes, colors, emotions. It connected threads of meaning he couldn’t begin to unravel, vast and infinite. It promised him redemption. Or destruction. It promised him a way back to Sienna—not in memory, but in flesh, if he had the courage to use it.
Joren slumped to his knees, his bloodied fingers brushing the cold surface of the artifact. He’d come this far for freedom, but the price now demanded was unimaginable. Could he bring himself to wield the power? Could he risk letting it poison his soul—again?
To Be Continued?
The crimson horizon stretched endlessly before him, mirrored by the choices that lay ahead. Joren Kael, scarred but unbroken, rose to his feet. The universe had set its latest trap, and for better or worse, he was stepping into it.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Why Jealousy is Surprisingly Beneficial
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Get Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
1 comment