Crossing the Hermit's portal was like being spat out by a cosmic anomaly. Leo stumbled and fell to his knees, not on cold metal, but on something organic and strangely warm. The "ground" yielded slightly under his weight, like leather stretched over bone. The air didn't smell of ozone or vacuum, but of a bizarre mix of exotic spices, burnt fuel, and something that could only be described as the sun-cooked flesh of an ancient space creature. It was an overwhelming, dense, and primordial scent.
When he got up and looked around, his mind struggled to process the scale of what he was seeing.
He was in a city. A bustling city, built on the carapace of a creature so colossal that its curvature was the horizon. The "ground" was a chitinous exoskeleton, with grooves and ridges the size of avenues that formed natural streets. Makeshift buildings, made from the wreckage of ships, stacked cargo containers, and tents of alien leather, sprouted from the carapace like colorful, bizarre fungi. Above, there was no sky, but a contained dome of energy, shimmering and rippling, that showed the Void swirling outside. Smaller ships and portals entered and exited through specific points in the dome, like bees returning to a glass hive. This was the Traveler's Bazaar, the largest neutral port in the sector.
It was a place of vibrant chaos. Leo saw beings of dozens of different species haggling at stalls. A crystalline being, whose words sounded like the tinkling of wind chimes, negotiated with a giant insectoid for a handful of gems that seemed to contain miniature galaxies. In a noisy cantina, pilots with tentacles instead of arms drank steaming liquids from metal mugs. The sound was a cacophony of languages, the hum of engines being repaired, and the cry of exotic creatures being sold in energy cages.
But the wonder of the place was quickly replaced by a cold fear. The Hermit's warning echoed in his mind: Your face is probably on every 'wanted' poster.
He pulled up the hood of his courier suit, trying to hide his face, and started walking, trying to blend in. It was useless. He was the only human in sight, his soft skin and bilateral symmetry an oddity in a sea of chitin, scales, and asymmetrical forms. The looks he received were a mixture of curiosity, disdain, and, worst of all, appraisal. They didn't see him as a person; they saw him as a resource, a curiosity, perhaps even a meal.
Then, he saw it. On a large holographic screen that ran ads for plasma weapons and second-hand ships, his own face appeared. It was a grainy, unflattering security camera image from the public library, perfectly capturing his panic. Below it, in several alternating languages, the text was clear:
WANTED: RENEGADE SYNDICATE AGENT NAME: LEO (SIN: 777-M-LEO-NA) CRIMES: POSSESSION OF RESTRICTED KNOWLEDGE, EVADING CUSTODY, DESTRUCTION OF SYNDICATE PROPERTY. REWARD: 50,000 KARMA POINTS (OR GALACTIC CREDIT EQUIVALENT)
Fifty thousand. It was a fortune. It was enough to buy a small ship and disappear forever. A shiver ran down Leo's spine. Every person who looked at him was now a potential bounty hunter. He saw a group of mercenaries look at the screen, then look at him, their multiple eyes narrowing. He turned quickly, his heart hammering.
He needed to get off the main street. He ducked into a labyrinth of narrow alleys, where the smell of engine grease and rancid spices grew stronger and the noise more muffled. He needed a new scooter and, as the Hermit had said, weapons. But above all, he needed to disappear.
He found what he was looking for in an area known as "The Scrapyard." It was a series of workshops and garages carved into the very carapace of the space beast, where mechanics of all shapes and sizes repaired and built vehicles. The sound of metal being hammered and engines being tested filled the air, a symphony of destruction and creation.
He chose the least conspicuous workshop, a dark garage with a flickering sign that read "Quick Fixes & Discreet Getaways."
Inside, a large, gorilla-like creature with four muscular arms and skin that looked like tanned leather was welding a hoverbike. Sparks flew, illuminating its wrinkled face and small, intelligent eyes.
"What do you want?" the mechanic growled, not turning around, his voice a low thunder. "If it's to polish your luxury cruiser, go somewhere else. I only deal with machines that have scars."
"I need a new ride," Leo said, his voice sounding nervous. "Something fast. Discreet. And durable."
The mechanic shut off the welding torch with a hiss of gas. He turned slowly, his four arms crossing over his massive chest. He wiped the sweat from his brow with one of his lower arms and looked at Leo. His eyes narrowed in recognition. He glanced at Leo's face, then at a small, dusty screen in the corner of his workshop, which displayed the same 'wanted' poster.
"Heh," the mechanic grunted. "A famous man. Fifty thousand... tempting."
Leo's heart stopped. He had walked right into the lion's den.
"But," the mechanic continued, "the Syndicate doesn't pay its bills on time. And I hate paperwork." He gestured with a clawed thumb to the back of his workshop. "I have what you need. But it's going to cost you."
He showed Leo a scooter. It was disassembled, just the chassis and a few main components. But Leo recognized the design. It was sleek, black, and made of an alloy that seemed to absorb light. It was very similar to Kael's scooter.
"The chassis of a Syndicate 'Phantom'," the mechanic said with a hoarse pride. "Stealth tech. Almost impossible to detect on normal scanners. A bounty hunter brought it in a few months ago, nearly destroyed. I fixed what I could, but it's missing the most important part: a compatible power core."
"I don't have a power core," Leo said.
"No," the mechanic said. "But your rival does."
Leo stared at him, confused.
"News travels fast, kid," the mechanic said, a cunning grin spreading across his face. "The story of your duel in the Crossroads is already a legend here at the Bazaar. The great Kael, defeated by a rookie and left stranded. And your little 'bomb' didn't destroy his scooter. It just disabled it. He's out there, adrift, waiting for a Syndicate tow. A tow that will have to navigate the Crossroads, which will take time."
The mechanic leaned in, his eyes gleaming with shrewd greed. "His scooter has a top-of-the-line power core. If you go out there, find him before the tow arrives, and bring me that core... I'll build you a 'Phantom' that will make Kael's machine look like a tricycle. And I'll forget I ever saw your face."
It was a suicide mission. To go back to the Crossroads. To face Kael again, this time to steal the heart of his machine.
But as Leo pondered the impossibility of the task, an alarm blared at the workshop's entrance. A red light began to flash, bathing the garage in a sinister glow.
"Customers," the mechanic growled. "And they don't look like the oil-change type."
Leo looked through the grimy window. A group of bounty hunters, led by a reptilian alien with a large plasma rifle, was walking down the street, peering into each workshop. They had seen the poster. The hunt had begun.