Avoria City, Year 2477. Planet VX-77.
After the wars that devastated Earth in 2170, humanity became obsessed with building bunkers tougher than their own common sense. Others simply said: "Goodbye, planet. Hello, cosmos."
A group landed on VX-77 and founded Avoria—a city meant to honor the best of the past… and ended up as a monument to the worst.
What looked like a new beginning became a chapter straight out of a horror film—the kind that ends badly, of course.
Avoria, once known as the jewel of the Renaissance, with its majestic buildings rising toward the sky as symbols of hope and progress for a new humanity, had become the epicenter of corruption and decay.
Each step echoed along the curved tunnel walls, amplifying the sense of isolation. Outside, acid rain poured in torrents, forcing people to take shelter under the city's massive structures.
Still, the two men kept walking toward the surface, unbothered.
"At least it doesn't smell like a sewer in here," Iskiel said, letting out a relieved sigh as a carefree smile crossed his face.
"Your privilege stinks worse than this place."
Iskiel shrugged, keeping his cheerful attitude.
"In my defense... I've got none."
Ryker let out a short huff, though the slight curve of his lips gave him away.
Both men pulled their hoods tighter over their heads and made their way toward the Dark Prism, a discreet bar tucked near the tunnel entrance that connected both worlds.
It wasn't particularly flashy, but it served its purpose: strong drinks, eccentric clientele, and an atmosphere rough enough to ensure that only those who knew how to behave made it out on their own two feet.
The staff were as efficient as they were intimidating—men whose politeness ended at a "welcome," provided you didn't give them a reason to break your leg.
Upon arrival, the pounding of the acid rain gave way to a deep bass that throbbed through the bar's metal walls. Neon lights spilled purple and crimson hues across the worn-out furniture, wrapping the space in a thick, almost surreal haze.
Behind the counter, a bald man dried a glass with mechanical motions, unfazed by the curious stares of the newcomers.
Iskiel was the first to break the silence, scanning the place with a critical look.
"Still amazes me how this dump's still standing. Then again, with those guys at the door, who'd dare mess with it?"
"You, probably," his companion shot back, giving him a light push toward the darkest corner table.
"That's the kind of confidence I live for," Iskiel said, flashing a grin as he dropped carelessly into the chair.
Ryker didn't reply. Instead, he raised a hand to call the waiter.
The bar was still filled with the usual crowd: extraction zone workers looking to drown the day in cheap booze and dull conversation.
The air was thick—saturated with the scent of sweat, rusted metal, and the unmistakable stench of bootleg liquor.
Ryker unwrapped a fifth ration pack without enthusiasm. The crumpled wrappers piled up on the table, catching the dim flicker of the neon light that bathed the place.
"There's a similar chemical," Iskiel said, leaning forward slightly, "but it doesn't trigger all the same reactions as the one currently used in the Substras."
Ryker chewed in silence, processing the information.
"Then why do they want to push it into the market?"
"It's cheaper, doesn't last as long, and encourages more consumption. Basically, it cuts production costs. It works, sure—but its effectiveness is limited. And if it's exposed to a sudden temperature shift, it becomes useless."
Ryker dropped the empty wrapper with a grimace.
"They're selling us trash to save a few credits."
"Guess so…" Iskiel replied with a shrug.
He knew exactly where the conversation would go if he kept feeding it.
The city alarms blared a Code Red, the shrill sound reverberating off the walls. Inside the bar, time seemed to freeze in anticipation of the message. Ryker shot a questioning glance at Iskiel, who returned it with one filled with uncertainty.
"One sec, Black Velvet."
"Shut up, bleach-head."
Iskiel pulled out a deck and started checking the news when the governor's voice boomed from loudspeakers spread throughout the city.
"Citizens of Avoria, we are facing a Code Red due to a high-risk fugitive. For your safety, a curfew is now in effect. Officers are authorized to act as necessary."
Ryker frowned, visibly tense.
"This smells like trouble."
"We're leaving," Iskiel said flatly, stashing the deck in his backpack without wasting a second.
Both stood up quickly and rushed out of the bar. Ryker took a few moments to catch up, quickening his pace.
"The tunnel should still be open. We've got, at best, four minutes before they lock it down."
They picked up the pace and crossed the street, dodging pedestrians running in the opposite direction. Acid rain pounded against the hoods shielding their heads, while the blaring alarms mixed with desperate screams and hurried footsteps. Ryker gave his companion a quick glance—Iskiel's face had taken on an unusually serious expression.
"You think it's real?" Ryker asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Code Red is never a drill. And definitely not a joke," Iskiel replied without slowing down.
"There've been escapes before, but they've never locked the tunnels like this. If they're sealing them, it means something—or someone—extremely dangerous is out there. And if that's the case, we shouldn't be topside."
Up ahead, the tunnel entrance came into view, bathed in flickering lights that cast eerie shadows along the curved walls. A group of armed soldiers stood guard, inspecting everyone trying to pass through.
The line was endless, and panic had begun to take hold of the crowd.
"We're not gonna make it," Ryker muttered, frustration etched across his face as he watched the flood of people cramming into the tunnel entrance.
Midway through the path, an armed soldier appeared out of nowhere, blocking their advance with an intimidating stance and eyes locked on his first target.
"Identification," he ordered, extending his hand firmly.
"Yes, sir."
Iskiel raised his hand with apparent calm, trying hard to stay composed. He slipped his fingers into his pants pocket, but the ID got stuck. The delay made the soldier's expression harden, reading the gesture as a potential threat.
"Easy," Iskiel muttered, raising his other hand in a calming gesture. "I'm just pulling out my ID."
Ryker, who had remained silent until now, sensed the shift in the air. The soldier's tension and the way his finger hovered over the trigger sent alarms ringing in his head.
"Seriously?" he snapped, trying to keep his temper in check. "He's pulling it out—what's the problem?"
The soldier didn't even glance at him.
"Shut up."
The sharp tone made Ryker grit his teeth, but he forced himself to hold back. The situation was already too fragile to push it further.
Iskiel tried to extract the card carefully, but the slight tug of fabric as it came loose triggered an even more aggressive reaction.
The man instantly raised his weapon, aiming straight at Iskiel's chest.
A heavy silence took over the space, broken only by the distant echo of the city's alarms. Ryker stepped forward, raising both hands in a calming motion, while Iskiel, trembling, lifted his hands quickly in surrender—just fast enough to seal his fate.
"Wait, wa—"
Ryker's voice was cut short.
The gunshot rang out instantly, followed by the choked screams of nearby civilians. Some ran in terror, others froze in place, paralyzed by panic.
It all happened in a blink.
The impact made Iskiel stumble back. The ID slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud. His face shifted from shock to pain as blood began to spread across his shirt. No words came out. His legs gave out, and his body collapsed to the floor with a heavy thump.
Chaos erupted in seconds. Desperate screams mixed with gunshots fired into the air, forming a twisted symphony of terror.
"Ri… Riddle…" Ryker murmured, his eyes fixed on his fallen companion, as a veil of tears blurred his vision.
The soldier pointed his weapon at Ryker, forcing him to run without looking back as another gunshot rang out behind him. His legs moved on pure instinct, carrying him away from the main avenue. He didn't stop—not even when exhaustion started to drag at his limbs, threatening to bring him down. Panic and adrenaline were far stronger than fatigue.
In the distance, the shouted orders of soldiers blended with the panic of civilians, forming a muddled, distant echo. Ryker turned sharply into a narrow alley, stumbling over the debris strewn across the ground. His hands searched for support against the wall to keep from falling, leaving dusty prints on its worn surface. He paused for a moment, gasping desperately, trying to catch his breath while his dazed mind fought to process what had just happened.
Iskiel's face rose in his memory—that look of disbelief and pain that would haunt him for a long time. He shut his eyes tightly, as if that could erase the image, but it only made it clearer.
He'd run away like a coward. He'd left him behind in the most critical moment.
What did that make him? A selfish bastard?
Useless? Or just someone who had no idea what to do?
The walk back home was slow, every step heavier with mounting guilt.
The moment he crossed the door, he collapsed onto the couch, his heart still pounding in his chest. He ran a trembling hand down his face and let out a long, heavy breath, thick with anguish. He needed to understand what the hell had just happened.
He turned on the holographic screen and, with shaky fingers, selected the most recent news broadcast. A faint hope still clung to him: that his partner was still alive.
"Tonight, an altercation in the Upper Zone left one civilian dead and six others seriously injured after a confrontation with security forces. The individual, identified as Iskiel Riddle, resisted authority and was neutralized on the spot. According to official sources, the man was suspected of…"
The sound faded into the background.
He sat there, motionless, unable to take his eyes off the screen. His mind looped the words again and again.
He was dead.
He swallowed hard, a sharp pain twisting in his gut. On the screen, the image of the lifeless body lying on the ground was inescapable— A pool of blood slowly spreading underneath, And his face, frozen in that expression of shock.
Ryker clenched his jaw and turned away. There was no point in staring. Nothing would change, no matter how much he wished it would.
But the weight in his chest was unbearable, like an invisible knot tightening around his insides. His eyes burned. His stomach lurched wildly, dragging him to the brink of vomiting. There, hunched over, his blurred gaze filled with withheld tears— The truth hit him with devastating clarity.
"Hope doesn't die — it sells itself to the highest bidder."