The outer wall of Aether-9 always smelled like rust, oil, and piss. Lars liked to say it gave the place character. Most people said it gave them asthma.
He ducked under a hanging sign sparking with bad neon and rolled his shoulders. The street buzzed—literally—with cheap synth music and the hum of energy pulses. A kid nearby was levitating a trash can lid with his fingers twitching in that Telluric Keepers way. Show-off. Lars smirked and kept walking, boots scuffing broken pavement.
Right behind him padded a heavy-footed, cybernetically-enhanced mastiff with a dented skull plate and a chain collar half-fused into his fur. Juno.
Lars glanced back. "You lose another bet with that junkyard cat again? Thought I told you to quit gambling."
Juno huffed, then sneezed metallic dust.
"Yeah, yeah. You're a damn rebel. Come on."
They passed a vendor selling knockoff void charms and grilled synth-rats. Juno stopped, sniffed, and looked up with slow, pleading eyes.
Lars sighed. “Fine. But I’m taking it out of your cut.” He tossed the vendor a chip and grabbed the skewered meat. “No chewing it all at once like last time. You almost exploded.”
Juno grabbed it midair and trotted ahead proudly. Lars chuckled, catching up
"Street fight in five minutes! Place your bets!" a bot barked through a speaker with more static than voice.
Lars cracked his knuckles. "Back in business, baby."
He stepped into the ring—a circle drawn in phosphor chalk, surrounded by screaming addicts, drunk gamblers, and two bored Keepers pretending not to bet. Across from him was a mountain of muscle with glowing cybernetic arms and a jaw implant that clicked when he grinned.
"You sure you're not gonna piss yourself, clown?" the big guy said.
Lars winked. "Only if you buy me dinner first."
Ten minutes later...
Lars held a bag of credits and an ice pack. One eye was starting to swell.
"That guy had a literal sledgehammer for a hand," he muttered, walking out of the alley and into the city's open sprawl.
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Aether-9 was beautiful, in a ruined way. Skyscrapers stabbed into the smog like rusted daggers. Drones zipped past glass temples. Somewhere in the higher circles, the rich played politics with people like chess pieces. Down here? People like Lars just tried to stay alive, laugh when they could, and not get eaten by voidspawn.
But today wasn't just about making money. It was a job day.
The warlord, General Morrex, ran the Rustline like it was his personal playground. His soldiers wore battered exosuits with jagged red marks across their chests—"Morrex's Teeth." Lars hated all of them.
He showed up late to the briefing. On purpose.
"Nice of you to join us," Morrex growled, turning from a holographic map. He looked like he was built out of anger and dead friendships. Face lined like a battlefield. Eyes like cold steel.
"I bring charm and morale," Lars said, throwing a lazy salute.
Morrex didn’t smile. "You bring problems."
Mission Brief: One of the outer ruins had been breached. The invasion came from another city—Noxfall. A direct assault. Unheard of. And the tip of the spear? A name whispered in encrypted feeds: Wayland.
"Orders are simple," Morrex said. "You engage the lead invader. You don't have to win. You just have to stall."
Stall? Lars thought. Translation: Die in style.
The Ruins, Thirty Minutes Later
Smoke curled from shattered buildings. Dead soldiers lay strewn in the ash. The air pulsed with quiet power, like a breath held too long.
Lars crept forward, blade humming in his palm. That’s when he saw him.
Wayland. Tall. Immaculate. Cloak shifting like ink in water. Holding a blade of blue void energy. Not a scratch on him.
Lars stepped into the open. “Hey! Fancy coat, lemme put ya a new one"
Wayland turned his head, calm and unreadable. “oh you must be the jester.”
“Please. I’m the whole circus.”
They clashed.
Steel against void. Lars darted in, wild, twitching, laughing. Wayland countered every move like he knew the script already. But it wasn’t hate. There was a rhythm. Almost... fun?
Then the ground shook. A second warlord descended.
Lord Garras, one of Morrex’s old rivals. Fused with biotech armor, three stories tall, hooked with chains and plasma cannons.
And behind him—
“Juno,” Lars breathed. His best friend, the dog,trying to protect a group of wounded soldiers. Morrex had ordered them to retreat. They didn’t. Juno stood his ground.
Lord Garras smiled with burning teeth. Fired.
Everything turned white.
Smoke. Blood. Silence.
Lars stood over what was left of Juno. The only part not burned was the metal dog tag in his hand.
His voice broke: “I didn’t get to know what I actually felt. But at that time, I didn’t care anymore. Maybe I just wanted to kill him too. But the rest of me wanted suffering.”
He turned toward Morrex—who’d watched it all, untouched.
“Orders followed,” the warlord said. “Necessary losses.”
Lars twitched. Eye glowing. Something ancient buzzed in his chest, just behind his ribs—
The glyph.
“Get in line or you’re next,” Morrex said.
Wayland appeared at Lars’ side, uninvited.
“I thought I was the enemy,” he said.
Lars, teeth gritted: “Still are. But you got good timing.”
Wayland smiled, just barely. “I fight out of honor. You? You look like you need therapy.”
Lars cracked his neck, laughing through tears. “the guy killed my dog.” he points to the warlord "asshole"
The two launched forward, glowing blade and glyph flare, into the chaos—