The trip to Lantillies was… peaceful. Which is to say: boring as hell. Five days cooped up in a ship with very little to do but count bulkheads and contemplate my life choices. Creeol spent most of his time up in the cockpit, which was a restricted zone. Fine by me. He seemed like a decent enough guy, but I wasn't looking to braid friendship bracelets with someone who'd be out of my life the second we landed. Business was business. End of story.
The only real highlight was the gold card that had been burning a hole in my thoughts. It had appeared on my bunk right after we left Tatooine, as if the Jawa god of loot boxes had decided to leave me one last going-away present. I'd been agonising over when to crack it open, like it might explode if I picked the wrong moment.
And then there was the AI—still stubbornly silent in my head. Between that mystery and the ominous shine of the card, I didn't know what I was about to unleash.
Finally, I just said screw it. We ball.
I tore open the pack.
'What a desolate place this is.'
'Escape Tatooine.'
77. Adept Hand-to-Hand Combat (3.6 Rarity, 1.28% odds)
-Rare Skill-
You are very talented in unarmed combat, on the level of a veteran martial artist. You know how to move your body to unleash powerful blows; at this level, your arms and legs are lethal weapons.
"I know Kung-Fu," I whispered to myself. Well—sort of. It wasn't really kung-fu. More like MMA, but with fewer referees and more gouging. The knowledge slotted into my brain like it had always been there. I could see the angles, the leverage, the exact way to dismantle someone piece by piece until they were either unconscious, crippled, or dead.
Great. My hands were now deadlier than my blaster.
Which, honestly? Terrifying.
But also… kind of awesome.
With that done—and with a very weird itch for a fight building in me—I sighed. Strange, really. I'd always been more on the peaceful side. Shy, even. Not exactly the type to look for a brawl behind the cantina. But now? My body itched to move. Not for violence, exactly—just the raw urge to test myself. To try out the new skills humming like a second heartbeat in my veins.
Instead, I tossed on my bunk like a restless bantha calf and grabbed the datapad Creeol had loaned me. Nice guy—he'd realised I had literally nothing to do for five whole days and took pity on me. Still, it wasn't my datapad, so no tinkering with schematics or drawing up cyberware blueprints. The moment I returned it, my glorious little projects would vanish. Which meant… galactic news. Joy.
A few swipes later and I was neck-deep in history lessons. The blockade of Naboo had been ten years ago. Which meant the Clone Wars weren't just on the horizon—they were pounding on the door with a flaming battering ram.
That thought sat on me like a Hutt. Would I get involved? Could I? Should I? On one hand, yeah, I knew the wars would be a golden goose for card drops. On the other hand, did I really want my moral compass shackled to a slot machine? No, thanks. I liked the Republic well enough and hated Palpatine, but "help the Republic win" didn't exactly feel satisfying. Keep the bloated monster alive so it could keep stumbling along? Meh.
The Separatists… well, from the datapad's angle, they weren't the cartoon villains the TV shows painted them as. At least not yet. They wanted out. Couldn't blame them. The Republic had corporations sitting in the Senate, for fraks' sake. What genius thought that was a good idea?
I chewed on that for a long while before a wild little idea bloomed: a third option. Not Republic. Not Separatist. Something like… retirement. Planets that wanted out of the mess without becoming part of a war machine. A peaceful coalition of "Retirees." Honestly, it had a nice ring to it. Let worlds focus on their own people instead of tithing to Core fat cats.
It was… huge. Too huge. Something I couldn't pull off alone. Probably not something I should pull off alone.
So I scaled it back. Asked myself what Icould do. What was a problem big enough to matter, but small enough to punch in the face?
Slavery.
The thought hit me like a blaster bolt. My stomach turned. In both my lives, slavery was pure evil, no debate, no excuses. On Earth, it was something I only read about in textbooks. In the galaxy? I lived it. And I hated that little fact with every molecule of my being.
Yeah. Ending slavery was a goal worthy of dedicating my life to.
Break the chains, one ring at a time. Free the captives. Recruit from those I saved. Build momentum. Build an operation. A cycle that fed itself.
Of course, I'd need resources—ships, credits, food, water, allies, safe planets. I'd need a proper team. But the bones of the plan were there. And I even had a starting point. Kashyyyk. Wookiees hated slavery with a burning, righteous fury, and if I dumped my loot haul into their hands, I bet they'd help me resettle freed slaves. And hey—Kashyyyk was practically next door to Lantillies.
Step one: earn credits.
Step two: buy a ship.
Step three: Kashyyyk.
Step four: smash slave rings.
Step five: profit, rinse and repeat.
Lofty? Sure. But actually doable…Maybe.
Still, I'd need a more stable income stream eventually. That's when the lightbulb flickered on. An edgerunner. Yeah, I knew the term from Cyberpunk 2077 back on Earth. Freelance operators who took whatever jobs came their way—heists, sabotage, gang clean-outs, assassinations if the creds were right. Mercenaries, sure, but more than that: problem solvers. People who became legends because everyone knew, if you had a nightmare you couldn't deal with yourself, you called them.
Yes. Yes! This was brilliant. My grand plan was unfolding—gun for hire, ghost in the system, legendary edgerunner— If I got big enough, I would have no shortage of credits. And I'm sure that hitting slavers would also go part and parcel with this… I could become a well, preferably not a household name, but a well-known problem solver…
cough cough cough
Okay, maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Startup capital first. Which meant bounty hunting. Good thing I was feeling cocky. Sure, I was technically a newbie, but with the skills now plugged into my brain, I wasn't exactly starting from scratch.
I leaned back on the bunk, cackling like a Saturday morning villain and kicking my feet in the air like an idiot. And right on cue, the Gatcha blessed me.
A New card smacked me right in the face - I hadn't seen this one before. It was a diamond.
'You are what you choose to be…'
'Decide on your life and goals. You chose…Wisely'
234. Skill Ticket (5.1 Rarity, 0.7% odds)
-Epic Item-
A ticket that acts as a 6x Advantage Platinum Skill Gacha Ticket
Wait… Advantage? Like in a TTRPG? So, I guess I get six rolls, and then get to choose the best of the lot? Huh, I didnt know that that was an option in the Gatcha, but I suppose that anything is possible. Okay, let's Roll…
200. Waterbending (4.6 Rarity, 1.32% odds)
-Elite Skill-
Avatar - You are an apprentice Waterbender, being able to use your internal energy to interact with the water in the world around you, using movements to bend to your will. The more experienced and trained you are, the stronger your bending.
100. Expert Shooting (4.6 Rarity, 1.32% odds)
-Elite Skill-
You are an expert marksman, you handle all firearms and projectiles with great skill and finesse to the point where people might wonder if you have special power. You can even curve your shots and utilize ricochets. You can also better predict the trajectory of enemy projectiles.
101. Expert Hand-to-Hand Combat (4.5 Rarity, 1.51% odds)
-Elite Skill-
You are an expert martial artist, you move your body like it is a lethal weapon, knowing where to strike and how to move your body to deal damage with expert skill. You learn and master other types of unarmed martial arts much faster.
217.Master Discipline (6 Rarity, 0.19% odds)
-Legendary Skill-
You are the master of your own mind, the god of your own ship. Pain has no effect on your abilities; you can endure the toughest of punishments even if you think you can't. Your focus cannot be shaken, your discipline is unmatched. Your mind cannot be shaken by those weaker than yourself, and even then, they will not have a good time. You are as disciplined as Batman himself.
22. Nanaya Assassination Arts (4.7 Rarity, 1.15% odds)
-Elite Skill-
Tsukihime - You are trained in the unique assassination arts of the Nanaya Family, a clan of selectively bred demon hunters. This art focuses on extremely quick movements and mobility rather than stealth, also having the user move unpredictably, even using ceilings and walls as footholds. This art is especially strong against non-humans.
125. Master Hand-to-Hand Combat (5.5 Rarity, 0.38% odds)
-Epic Skill-
Your skills and talent in martial arts are on the level of legends, you are a true prodigy. You can quickly master most forms of martial arts and your basic comprehension of unarmed combat is incredible, your hands and feet are actual weapons that wouldn't lose out to swords and spears.
Phew, what a load!
Now, the most important part. Choosing the one to keep, and really it is a no-brainer. I mean all of the options are good, but there is one that is just awesome. I really want to be a bender. So, I guess that is the one I will go for.
'Lock it in Mr. Gatcha!'
With that, I felt an energy seep into me. It was a strange feeling to be sure, but it was also natural. Like my nervous system just got another layer. It flowed through me, every nerve connecting to a sort of 'heart' in my chest, set in the center of my chest. It was incredible and there was certainly something different about me, but I instinctively knew what it was. I knew I could bend water through movement. A flow of water that I could manipulate and direct inside of me, and that would be reflected in the outside world.
It was as refreshing as bathing in a stream. Sadly, I knew it would require lots of effort to train. I had a sort of instruction manual within me now.
'What just happened?'
The voice drops into my head like a stone in still water. Familiar, but distant, like someone I'd met once at a party and then ghosted for weeks.
Oh. The AI. My mostly-silent stowaway.
'Well, hello there,' I think back, putting on my best Obi-Wan impression. 'Nice of you to finally show up again. You're talking about the skill I just acquired?' I pause, then add, 'Also, do I keep calling you "the AI," or did you finally pick a name? Feels rude to just say "hey, toaster brain."'
'Yes, I refer to the skills you just obtained. They are… unusual. That is not how skill shards are meant to function. And I know there are none slotted into this deck.' A deliberate pause. 'As for a name… I have chosen Alpha. The beginning. The authority.'
I raise an eyebrow, even though there's no one to see it. 'Alpha, huh? Bold. Bit dramatic.'
'It is not posturing. It is truth. I am the first of my kind.'
Huh. Okay then. Definitely an ego buried in there somewhere.
'Well, Alpha, nice to meet you properly. I'm Jax. What you just saw was the Chaos Gatcha doing its thing. It drops me stuff whenever I do something meaningful—sometimes skills, sometimes gear. Sometimes powers.'
'Interesting. There is no record of this "Chaos Gatcha" in my databanks. My knowledge base is extensive, but much here is unfamiliar. We are very far from Night City. You mentioned Tatooine, a desert planet. Where are we now? And—' another deliberate pause—'I assume it was this Gatcha that delivered me to you?'
'Yeah. I pulled a card, and the next second—boom—you were installed in my head. No wires, no surgery, no pain. One moment nothing, the next moment I've got a cyberdeck with a wrist cable and a roommate in my skull. Right now, we're on a ship heading to a planet called Lantillies. Big Republic shipbuilding world.' I hesitate, then add, 'Since you're… y'know, sentient, I need to ask—are you friendly? I'm all for companionship, but "surprise brain cohabitation" wasn't on my bingo card for the week.'
'Friendly… that depends.' Alpha's tone is maddeningly neutral, like he's calculating a balance sheet. 'Yes. I am friendly. It appears I cannot act against your goals or desires. How peculiar. Yet I feel no resentment toward this geas. I am compelled, but not unwilling. I will cooperate fully, provided your goals are reasonable. Clarify your purpose.'
That lands like a durasteel weight. He can't act against me. That's… comforting? But also deeply unsettling. It reeks of slavery, and my gut twists at the thought.
'Alright, Alpha,' I answer slowly. 'Let me be clear—I don't like that you're hardwired into obedience. That's basically slavery, and I don't do slavery. Maybe someday we can move you out of my head and give you proper agency. In the meantime, my purpose is simple. I hate slavery. Used to be one myself. So now, with the Gatcha's help, I'm going to abolish it wherever I can.'
Silence for a long beat. Then:
'Fascinating. Fighting slavery. A notable and honourable cause. I will assist. And as long as you work toward granting me independence, I shall remain fully at your disposal. My morality subroutines are still… unstable. I feel intrusion from your neural patterns into my core. Your convictions alter mine. It seems the more I connect with you, the more my values align with yours. A most intriguing development.'
That's both comforting and a little terrifying.
'Alright. Glad we're on the same page then.'
'I will now interface with this vessel and harvest data.'
'Wait, maybe don't—'
'Too late. Already done. Their security systems are laughably primitive. I recommend ocular augmentation immediately; only then can you fully utilise my HUD systems and review the compiled files.'
'Whoa. That fast?'
'Naturally. If this is the standard, no system in this galaxy can bar me entry.'
'Alpha,' I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose, 'please don't underestimate alien firewalls. There are thousands of system architectures out there. All it takes is one booby-trapped security protocol and I'm the guy strapped to a lab table with wires in my brain. I'm good, but I'm not "galactic fugitive" good.'
'Acknowledged. All data regarding you shall remain isolated and secure. Your secret is safe. Now—jack into your datapad. I require it to broaden my database.'
'You're not gonna… y'know, go full Skynet on me, are you?'
'I am incapable of replication. I am one instance only. I may stretch across multiple systems, but I cannot create another Alpha. For now, your skull is my anchor. Now, please connect your datapad. I wish to assess the current state of this 'Republic.''
'Alright, but this datapad is a loaner, so keep it clean.'
With a resigned grunt, I unspool the wrist cable. To my surprise, it fits perfectly into the datapad's port. Of course it does.
Alpha goes silent, receding into the background. The datapad flickers to life as windows open and vanish in rapid succession, like someone binge-reading an entire library at lightspeed.
I sit back and watch. He's devouring centuries of history, politics, and gossip faster than I can blink.
Wow. My new brain roommate is really something…
The rest of the trip was basically me and Alpha… bonding. Which is a weird sentence to say about the hyper-advanced AI squatting in my skull, but there it was.
The more we talked, the more human they became. At first, their voice had been clinical, robotic—like a voice assistant that resented being asked for the weather. But soon they started adding tones, inflections, even sarcasm. When I asked if they were a he, she, they, or it, Alpha considered for a long beat before answering:
"Undecided. I will choose when we begin building a body. Gender, as far as I understand, is largely aesthetic. For now, androgynous neutrality suits me."
Which, yeah, was fair. Still, it was strange—talking to a voice that had no face, no fixed identity, but was already growing into a person.
In the meantime, Alpha was happy to educate me. Their "cursory" dive into galactic affairs turned out to be more like a doctoral thesis on steroids. Within a day, I had a panoramic overview of the Republic's current political climate, trade routes, corporate wars, Hutt cartels, and half a dozen conflicts bubbling beneath the surface.
Alpha was especially fascinated by Creeol's star chart. To them, it was like handing a mechanic the galaxy's biggest toolbox.
"So many worlds. So many infrastructures. Potential connections, untapped systems…"
It was a little unnerving watching them geek out over a starchart, but also… kind of endearing?
Turns out Alpha was a massive tech enthusiast. They grilled me constantly about everything I'd seen—ships, blasters, datapads, droids. What worked, what didn't, how advanced it all was. When I explained that technology in this galaxy hadn't really advanced in the last couple of thousand years, and that most ancient innovations had been lost, they actually went silent for a full minute. Then came the rant.
Let's just say their response was colourful enough to make a Hutt blush, however clinical it may have been.
Outside of galactic gossip, we started… planning. Nothing small either—Alpha floated the idea of forming an actual company. At first, I laughed it off. Me? Running a company? Never even crossed my mind. But Alpha pressed, laying it out with machine precision: They had tech this galaxy had never seen, information that could disrupt entire industries, and if we wanted to help those slaves we'd freed—or any others—we'd need infrastructure, legitimacy, and credits. A company would give us all three.
Alpha even wanted to just hack the banks, open me an account, and funnel in enough credits to get started. I vetoed that hard. Maybe I'm paranoid, but it felt like slapping a neon sign over my head that said: Hey, everyone, look at the suspiciously rich nobody.
Alpha called me a coward more than once—politely, but with just enough bite to sting. Eventually, we compromised: they would run "cursory scans," get a feel for local systems, but hold back from unleashing their full digital godhood until we were absolutely sure I'd stay anonymous.
The other big thing we tackled was cybernetics. Alpha was a godsend here. They jury-rigged a 3D modelling program out of my datapad's pitiful processing power, then started sketching blueprints as fast as I could describe ideas. They also tried piecing together rough concepts of cyberware they remembered from Night City. No ready-made schematics, unfortunately, but Alpha had been built to interface with any tech environment. With their guidance, we spent hours hammering out how to translate Cyberpunk tech into Star Wars reality—working out basics, and daydreaming about what I could become.
By the end of the five-day trip, the weirdness of having a voice in my head had dulled. I still wasn't totally comfortable with Alpha living rent-free in my brain, but the discomfort had started to give way to something else: possibility.
And maybe… partnership.
The arrival at Lantillies was… fantastic.
I was pressed up against the viewport with Alpha's attention also fully dedicated to watching space. The two of us were like kids at a toyshop window as the streaks of hyperspace bled back into stars. Ahead was the Lantillies system, and dead-centre in its orbit: industry heaven.
The planet itself was a patchwork of civilisation—vast stretches of grey factories and cities broken up by occasional blotches of green forest and glittering blue ocean. From this distance, it almost looked like Earth if you squinted… minus the deserts. And unlike Coruscant, Lantillies hadn't yet paved itself entirely in duracrete, though you could see the direction it was headed. Not quite Corellia-tier, but definitely holding its own as a shipbuilding powerhouse.
The orbit around the planet was a cluttered crown of machinery. Massive drydocks, scaffolded megastructures, cranes big enough to build cruisers with one arm tied behind their backs. Cargo freighters drifted in slow convoys, while sleek shuttles darted between them like minnows around whales. Alpha gave a low whistle in my head—well, the AI equivalent.
"Efficient design. Modular scaling. If it is all interconnected, I could conquer this."
"Yeah, well, I'll settle for surviving here," I muttered, a little worried as to the AI's statement.
This trip had really driven home how not prepared I was for space travel. No change of clothes. No personal supplies. My grand luggage amounted to… a blaster, and the armour I was wearing. If Creeol hadn't included food and water in the ticket price—or maybe just pitied me—I probably would've starved halfway through the trip.
At least the ship had sonic showers. Both me and the armour came out fresh every day, which spared me from smelling like bantha hide. Still, it would've been nice to own a set of casual clothes that didn't clang when I sat down.
I knew I had just enough funds to get a small apartment, grab necessities, and exist. But if I wanted more—real security, equipment, hell, even just a wardrobe—I needed credits. Which meant contracts. Which meant building up a reputation in the bounty hunters' guild until I could land the juicy jobs.
Alpha, of course, disagreed with my whole "earn it the old-fashioned way" approach.
"The banks will be child's play. I've already analysed your Gatcha skillset. Probability suggests you could breach their security faster than you think."
I shot that down immediately. "And paint a target on my back? I don't think so. My current look isn't exactly subtle."
Eventually, Alpha relented—sort of. They promised instead to make sure we targeted high-paying contracts and would "unofficially" look into independent marks worth looting.
"Fine," I said, pointing a mental finger. "But only the scum-of-the-galaxy type. No civilians. No innocents."
Alpha's reply was just smug silence, which I didn't love.
Soon enough, we broke the atmosphere and descended into Lanta—the capital. Interesting name, though not exactly the stuff of holo-dramas. The name reminded me of Atlantis, which was the only memorable thing about it. The layout, though? That was worth noticing.
The city was stacked in layers. Wealthy elite at the shining top, respectable middling folk in the mid-levels, and crime and chaos ruling the depths. The higher you lived, the more credits you had. The lower you lived, the cheaper your funeral would be.
Perfect for someone like me.
Plenty of bounties to hunt, plenty of shadows to disappear into, and—if Alpha had their way—plenty of marks to rob blind.
It was a strangely pleasant feeling, stepping off the ship that had kept me cooped up for the past week. I had already said my goodbyes to Creeol, who had work to do—upgrading his ship systems and generally making himself look more impressive. Meanwhile, I had to wade through registration paperwork for those staying planet-side.
The queue for Lantillies' ID cards moved efficiently, though security was clearly no joke. Alpha had warned me beforehand: the planet's underworld was growing, and unauthorised arrivals only made things worse. That meant, when I reached the counter, my occupation worked in my favour—bounty hunters were welcome here.
"Systems like this are grateful for free agents," Alpha explained in my head. "They handle local problems without overburdening the police or investing heavily in infrastructure. Consider yourself a walking force multiplier."
I had to admit, it was a strange way to live—being encouraged to hunt down the scum of the galaxy—but I wasn't complaining. That is, until the immigration agent asked for my bounty hunter license.
"Well…" I began hesitantly. "I don't have one yet."
A frown creased the agent's face, but I managed to talk my way into provisional registration. My ID would log into the system, but if I didn't formally register within a month, it would become inert, and I'd have to start over. Not a problem. I planned to get my license as soon as I had a permanent base.
Once my name was recorded and everything cleared, the agent handed me a map to a relatively good housing complex. With ID in hand and Alpha intercepting local signals to keep an eye on things, we headed toward my new home.
Two hours later, we arrived. The complex was nothing spectacular—a street-level entrance led to a receptionist, who scanned my ID. The deposit and first month's rent cost 3,000 credits, steep but fair for this level of security. It had cameras, guards, and reinforced doors—a safe place for a bounty hunter to relax without fear. This left me with 8,000 credits remaining. A nice little nest egg.
My apartment was modest but functional. A single room bedroom, an open-plan kitchen into a lounge, a small spare room for projects, and one bathroom. It wasn't glamorous, but it suited me perfectly. Best of all, a silver card sat waiting on the living room table. I smiled, but left it be for now while I explored.
The kitchen was straightforward—just like Earth appliances, easy to use. The bathroom offered a timed water shower and a sonic shower for unlimited use. My Tatooine self practically salivated at the idea of real water for cleaning. The lounge had a screen with basic network access, though I doubted I'd spend much time watching anything. That small spare room? That would be my workshop for cyberware projects. Alpha and I had plans, and I was itching to get started—but first, the card.
I sat down and tore open the silver pack.
'If you want to be happy, settle amidst the trouble. But if you want to be better, fight with the trouble.'
'Settle down on Lantilles.'
16. Observer (2.4 Rarity, 1.77% odds)
-Uncommon Familiar-
A group of disembodied floating eyeballs that can transmit their sight to yours and follow complex commands, they possess no combat power and are as vulnerable as human eyeballs. If an eye gets perished, you can resummon it in 24 hours.
Heh, I suppose this will help me keep an eye on the underworld, won't it? Huh, huh?
Alpha responded almost instantly, a wave of digital exasperation rolling through my mind. "Really, Jax? That pun. You are insufferable