My first night in Lanta was… unremarkable. The apartment was nice, exactly the kind of place you could imagine an "up-and-coming bounty hunter" living in—modest, clean, and blessed with one feature I hadn't experienced in what felt like a lifetime: a water shower. Not sonic. Actual. Running. Water.
I hadn't realised how much I missed the feeling until it hit me. My Earth self sighed in bliss, my Tatooine self nearly wept. I spent the maximum time of ten minutes under that stream, and I was reborn. If I hadn't remembered the cost of water back in the Dune Sea, I might've just asked Alpha to hack it to keep running until the landlord sent a droid to drag me out.
But eventually, reality intruded. Chores. Galaxy-spanning adventures might be on the horizon, but right now I needed groceries, clothes, a proper computer terminal… oh, and to officially register myself as a bounty hunter. Funny how mundane that list sounded written down: food, clothes, computer, and mercenary license.
First stop: clothes. Don't get me wrong, I loved my look—helmet, armour, the whole "don't mess with me" aesthetic—but it screamed offworlder. Time to put together something casual for when I'm not on the job.
Walking the streets of Lanta's central district was like stepping into a fashion study on restraint. Locals wore muted shades of black, grey, cream, maybe the occasional dark green or burgundy if someone was really feeling adventurous. No bright colours. No showy patterns. Just sharp cuts and subtle flourishes. Understated, bordering on sombre.
Apparently, it was a cultural thing—Lantillies preferred to avoid what they considered "visual noise." Too much flashiness was gauche, even rude, in public. I caught myself staring at a trio of office workers, all wearing near-identical long coats with angled lapels, like someone had copy-pasted them out of a catalogue.
Not that everyone obeyed the rules. Offworlders strolled past in clashing reds and yellows, starship crews still in flight leathers, and one Rodian wearing neon suspenders that should've been banned under the Ruusan Reformation. So I wouldn't stand out too much… but I still wanted something that I could use to blend in.
After three shops (and too many credit transfers), I settled on two looks: black trousers—not denim, but close enough—paired with brown leather shoes, a grey turtleneck, and a brown leather jacket. Casual, practical, and a little stylish. My other gear was a local attire, and like everyone else's, it was bland, but perfect if I needed to go inconspicuously. I looked like I might actually belong here. My wallet whimpered quietly in my pocket, but even it had to admit: I looked good.
Next came groceries. And let me just say: alien supermarkets are weird. The store layout was familiar—aisles, baskets, checkout counters—but the contents were… eclectic. Stacks of fruit that glowed faintly. Rows of sealed jars with wriggling things inside that I was assuredwere food. Packages covered in more languages than I could read, each one more confusing than the last.
Alpha guided me through the shelves like an expert personal shopper, dropping notes into my head: That's edible. That'll kill you. That one's edible but will make your sweat smell like onions for a week. Don't even touch that—acidic coating. By the end, I'd cobbled together ingredients for a few basic meals. Nothing fancy, but enough to keep me alive and not smelling like an exotic spice market gone wrong.
Last big item: a terminal. Or rather, Alpha's terminal. I was mostly a passenger as they steered me across districts, ignoring one model after another. Too slow. Too unstable. Too overpriced for what it offered. My role was basically "wallet with legs."
Eventually, Alpha found their prize: a design rig used for starship schematics and product development. Sleek, heavy-duty, more computing power than I'd ever know what to do with. Expensive enough to make my eye twitch. Alpha purred in satisfaction, so I considered it money well spent. Delivery was required—the thing weighed as much as a baby bantha—and a technician arrived with a droid to lug it into my spare room. Watching them set it up felt like preparing an altar for some ancient machine god.
I was itching to power it on immediately, but I knew better. Once I sat down at that rig, I'd lose the rest of the day to tinkering. Which meant I had to bite the blaster bolt and get my registration done first.
One speeder taxi ride later, I stood outside what looked like… an office building. Clean facade, glass doors, a sign reading Bounty Hunter Registry — Lanta Office. I pulled on my helmet for intimidation points and marched inside.
…And froze.
The interior was spotless. White walls. Brushed metal counters. Potted plants. A ticket dispenser. I'd been braced for a smoky guild hall—hushed conversations, shady booths, maybe a backroom sabacc game in progress. Instead, I'd walked into the galaxy's most sterile bureaucracy.
Where was the danger? The subtle posturing? The cantina in the corner with bad lighting and worse drinks? I'd gotten all dressed up for this?
"Cough, cough. Are you alright, sir?"
An attendant was staring at me. Probably wondering why this armoured lunatic was standing like a statue just inside the doorway.
I cleared my throat. "Uh. Yeah. Fine. Just…"
"Not what you expected?" she said, lips twitching. "We like to keep things orderly here. What you're imagining? That's downstairs. Level Forty-Eight, there's a cantina called The Cadence. Very popular with your profession."
I blinked behind my visor. A guild cantina hidden in the lower levels? That was… actually kind of brilliant.
She gestured for me to follow, which I did, still reeling. This was not the bounty-hunting aesthetic holovids had promised me.
"Right. Uh, thanks. So… do I take a ticket?" I asked, eyeing the dispenser like it was preparing to ruin my afternoon. Horrible Earth flashbacks to bank queues came flooding back.
"Not today, sir. We're quiet. I'll show you right through."
She opened the door to a neat little office.
"Thanks," I muttered, shuffling inside. I felt ridiculous. Cheated. And, against all odds, kind of nervous.
The process of actually getting the bounty hunter license was surprisingly painless, even if it still left me feeling like I was stuck opening a bank account. My accountant—sorry, "handler"—was a human male dressed in those same understated tone clothes that all the locals of Lanta seemed to prefer. The whole procedure was quick enough not to be annoying, yet thorough enough to feel intrusive. They had clearly turned this into an art form, walking that razor-thin line between efficiency and survival instinct. After all, you don't want to bore a room full of armed bounty hunters or dig too deep into their pasts—both options tended to end badly.
So, half an hour later, I was back on the street with my ID now permanent and a shiny new card marking me as an official Lantillies bounty hunter. They even offered me a job off the bat, but I turned it down—said I needed to settle in first. What I actually wanted to do was set up my workshop and finish the implant designs Alpha and I had been working on.
Alpha had been slowly piecing it together in the background of my mind, pulling from her memories of how the implants worked back in Night City and cross-referencing it with what she'd researched in this galaxy. Her verdict: "acceptable, but uninspired." Apparently, prosthetics here weren't even marketed as upgrades. They were little more than medical replacements—basic, functional, boring. No thermal overlays for eyes, no wireless capabilities, no fancy UI. Just replacements 2.0. And according to Alpha, that was a criminal waste of potential.
I was still mulling over the whole "am I really willing to chop bits of myself off" dilemma while riding back in a taxi when my train of thought derailed. Because right there—stuck to the back of the taxi droid's head—was a silver card.
I blinked. Leaned forward.
Yep. Definitely a silver card.
The droid, oblivious as always, kept buzzing along while I carefully reached forward, peeled it off, and slid it into my pocket. Another absurd location. At this point, I was half-expecting to find one taped to a public refresher door or tucked inside a vending machine.
Anyway, back to my musings. Was I sentimental enough about my meat to keep it around? Honestly? Yes. What held me back was paranoia and the lingering "what ifs." What if the Gatcha handed me something down the line that didn't mesh with implants? What if this galaxy's tech didn't play nicely with my chaos-born gifts? Too many risks. The thought of my own body being compromised by the pull of a card was enough to shut the door on that idea.
So the answer? No, I wouldn't take the upgrades. Dilemma solved.
That still left the question of whether I'd use the cyberware tree at all. And the truth was, it had too much potential to ignore. I wouldn't be the one splicing wires into my bones, but that didn't mean others wouldn't line up for the privilege. So I started mentally plotting it out.
How? It wasn't going to be cheap, but I had enough of a credit stockpile to at least get started before I needed jobs to pad it out. What I needed was simple: a proper future-tech 3D printer, droid parts to cobble together a ripperdoc stand-in, and raw materials. That was it. The know-how? I had Alpha. The blueprints? Already being modelled.
Alpha, naturally, wasn't shy about pitching me on implants for myself. Optics, neural threading, nerve boosts—the works. She kept circling back to my eyes, insisting I'd be able to use my cyberdeck properly only with the hardware. But I couldn't do it. Too many ways for it to go wrong if the Gatcha decided to throw me a curveball. Maybe the Jawa god of randomness wouldn't allow a broken build, but I wasn't about to trust my life to cosmic customer service.
I told Alpha as much. She wasn't exactly thrilled, went quiet for a while, then begrudgingly accepted my reasoning. We'd use the tech, just not on me. And with that settled, the company plan started to solidify.
My little discussion was cut short as the taxi pulled up to my building. I paid, slipped out, and walked back into my apartment. First thing I did was ditch the armour and pull on something casual—no sense sweating in plates if no one was watching. Comfortable at last, I sat down at the table.
Silver card in hand, I pulled open the pack.
'I'm just a simple man trying to make my way in the universe.
'Officially become a bounty hunter.'
288.Invisibility (2.5 Rarity, 0.41% odds)
-Uncommon Ability-
Allows the user to bend light around themself or other object they are touching to render them invisible.
Oh yeah. Assassin arc unlocked.
If there was a ROB watching all this, then clearly they'd decided I'd be more entertaining sneaking around in the shadows than charging in with guns blazing. And honestly? They weren't wrong. The moment the card dissolved into me, I just knew how it worked. The power settled into my head like an old memory—unfamiliar yet natural.
There were catches, of course. Nothing this fun comes without rules. If I attacked or even did anything too aggressive, the invisibility would instantly fail. No stabbing stormtroopers while mid-cloak, no shooting blasters from thin air. But if I dropped out of line of sight? I could reengage it instantly. No cooldown, no recharge bar—just a weird limitation built into the system.
Which meant the rhythm of using it was going to be an art form. Invisible. Sneak. Position. Strike. Vanish again once no one's watching. A dance of shadows, if you will.
It was going to be tricky, but I could already see the possibilities. Infiltration jobs. Silent kills. Hell, just the ability to slip away from a messy situation would pay for itself ten times over. Between this, my martial arts, and the Nanaya assassination arts… yeah. I was definitely being nudged into the role of professional assassin.
And honestly? I wasn't mad about it.
With my latest card finished, I figured it was time to hit the grindstone. The shiny new computer sat there on my desk like some kind of smug promise, daring me to finally use it. I powered it up, went through the setup, and—because I wasn't completely reckless—slapped on a password. Something nice and secure. (Okay, fine, it was just "Direwolf77," don't judge me. It's not like anyone else was gonna guess that.)
Then came the fun part. I jacked in with my wrist cable, the connection clicking into place with a little hiss. Alpha immediately stirred in my head, all enthusiasm and quiet efficiency.
"Running diagnostics," they announced, their voice now with just the faintest hint of pride in it. "Checking for back doors… malware… intrusive protocols. None detected. Securing kernel. Encrypting personal data. There. This system is now safer than your apartment door lock."
"Wow," I muttered. "High praise, considering the door has two locks."
Alpha ignored the jab. Instead, they began uploading everything they'd been tinkering with in the background of my brain. Blueprints. Models. Cybernetic schematics. It was like someone had just dropped a library on my desk, and the computer strained for a second before dutifully spitting it all out.
I leaned forward, scrolling through line after line, model after model. And I couldn't help but smile. For someone who wasn't a Tinker, Alpha was damn impressive. Their designs were clean, efficient, and practical.
But they weren't perfect.
Already, my own instincts kicked in, and I started spotting little places where things could be better. Where wiring could be streamlined. Where load-bearing structures could be lighter without losing integrity. Where efficiency could jump by a fraction of a percent here, another there—tiny tweaks, but enough of them stacked up and suddenly you're looking at a whole different beast.
Alpha seemed to notice my grin. "You're seeing faults, aren't you?"
"Not faults," I corrected, fingers already flying across the keys. "Opportunities."
And just like that, I was in my element.
I woke up with my face glued to the workdesk, cheek mashed against the keyboard. My spine protested as I groaned and lifted my head. The faux window on the wall glowed a dull orange—it was evening. Again.
I honestly had no idea how late (or early) I'd stayed up, or how long I'd been asleep, slumped over my keyboard. Judging by the faint crick in my neck, it had been long enough.
Blinking blearily at my desktop, I saw the final product of last night's marathon: completed schematics for an ocular implant.
And not to toot my own horn—(okay, maybe just a little)—but it was brilliant.
These eyes weren't just replacements; they were upgrades. Enemies auto-highlighted, even through cover. A zoom function that pushed up to fifteen times magnification. Integrated HUD overlay, customizable, clean. And best of all, perfect sync with my cyberdeck—no more clunky middleman nonsense. Hacking, in theory, would be smoother than slicing through butter with a lightsaber.
Of course, theory and reality rarely shook hands.
There were problems. Not with the optics—they were gorgeous—but with the bigger picture. First, quickhacks and EMPs. In this galaxy, cybernetics weren't "online" like back home in Cyberpunk land. Most were glorified prosthetics, not nodes on a network, which meant you couldn't just breach someone and short them out. Fine, no free hacks on random people. I could live with that.
Another snag? Programming. I could build the hardware, sure, but I wasn't exactly fluent in software wizardry outside of basic control scripts. Quickhacks? Custom viruses? Forget it. Dead end. Luckily, Alpha was running on futuristic Earth code, which basically made her untouchable here. She could handle all the slicing and dicing. I'd stick to bolts, wires, and the physical world.
Then there was the EMP issue. Not really a dealbreaker, but it forced me to think about what these optics were actually for. They weren't meant to be military hardware or hunter-killer upgrades—they were supposed to help people see again. That was the whole point. Sure, I could layer in combat tracking, tactical overlays, and all the bells and whistles Alpha kept pitching, but that would turn them into weapons, not prosthetics. And that wasn't the market I wanted my company chasing.
As for the EMPs themselves—honestly, the average citizen could live their entire life without ever being hit by one. Adding shielding would drive the cost way up, all for a feature that most customers would never use. That made the choice simple: strip them back to the essentials. They'd still be incredible, lightyears ahead of anything the galaxy currently had, but not game-breaking. Not Cyberpunk-style apex predator eyes. Just… good eyes.
With a long sigh, I pushed aside the implant designs and linked into the Holonet, dragging up catalogues of fabrication tools. If I wanted to make anything worthwhile, I needed the infrastructure first.
Ten minutes later, my shopping cart was groaning. A high-fidelity 3D printer that could handle complex compounds. A chipboard printer for custom circuits. A few supplementary tools. Bare essentials, really.
The price tag made my chest tighten. I could afford it—barely—but it would gut my little nest egg. Still, if I wanted to make progress, there was no alternative.
"Necessary evil," I muttered, hitting purchase and watching my funds vanish into the digital abyss.
Delivery set for tomorrow. Great. That was future progress secured. Present me? Present me was still dead tired. I unplugged from the terminal, stripped down to something vaguely comfortable, and collapsed onto the bed.
Sleep claimed me before I could even start worrying again.
I was woken by the delivery men at an ungodly hour. 8:30 AM.
Why? Why would anyone inflict this cruelty on another living being?
I staggered up, took a deep breath to steady myself, and pulled on something vaguely presentable before letting them in. They were human—both of them. That wasn't what surprised me. No, what surprised me was that in all my time on Lantilles, I'd barely seen a single non-human. Shrug. If the locals were xenophobic, that was their problem.
The two workers did their thing with professional efficiency. Half an hour of installation, another half hour of diagnostics and calibration, and suddenly I had a miniature factory humming in my apartment. Glorious. Now all I needed was a ripperdoc and raw materials. And that required money. Lots of money. But if I wanted to open a business, then I would need a ripperdoc to actually do the surgeries. I needed to spend money to earn money.
So, bounty hunting time.
I strapped into my gear, called a taxi, and told Alpha to start spinning up design wishlists while we rode to the guild. They were only too happy to oblige.
We tossed ideas back and forth like kids in a candy shop. Implants, ware, the whole arsenal. I could reach into multiple markets. Did I want to create military grade cybernetics? There wasn't exactly a market for them at the moment. Maybe in the clone wars, but I wasn't sure if clones that lost limbs would be catered to with high-end cybernetics; it would most likely be too expensive. Who knows, I would come back to that if the market asked for it.
By the time the taxi dropped me at the guild building, I had my little "starter kit" sorted. Ocular. Legs. Arms. The most basic and fundamental, and the ones that would sell the best, as they covered nearly all common permanent injuries.
Inside, the place was busier than I expected. Killers of every stripe sat calmly in the waiting area, like they were waiting for a dentist appointment instead of sanctioned murder. I sighed, pulled a ticket from the machine, and took a seat. My turn came quickly enough—Room 4.
Helmet clipped at my belt, I stepped in. My handler looked up from his terminal, a bland man in bland clothes, and motioned for me to sit.
We started with the basics. "What are your skills?"
"Stealth and infiltration," I said.
He nodded, probably ticked a box. "Does that include… personnel disposal?"
My lip twitched. Cute phrasing. "Yes. I'm adequately skilled at… personnel disposal."
Another nod. No flinch. He just kept running down the list, dry as a protocol droid. Data reacquisition? Yes. Merchandise relocation? Yes, though I admitted I didn't have transport for big hauls.
Finally, I sighed and cut through the bantha poodoo.
"Look. I'm an assassin. I do stealth ops. Clearing rooms, single targets, sneaking past guards. I can steal data, delete data, grab physical assets—though I can't carry a speeder engine under one arm. I don't mind larger-scale ops, but I prefer to work solo. Clear enough?"
That made him pause, then nod slowly. "Alright. Insert your bounty hunter card, please."
I slid it into the reader. He tapped away. "Good. Your card now tags you for stealth, infiltration, and assassination work. At the terminals, you'll only see jobs you're suited for."
"Great," I said, relieved we were done. "So what's on the board?"
He skimmed his screen. "First option: a drug den. Eliminate the dealers and call for cleanup. The narcotics must remain untouched for destruction."
"I hate drugs," I said automatically. Easy box tick.
"Next: a gang hideout in the lower levels. Leader's trying to carve out territory. Targeting him alone completes the contract, but there's a bonus if you clear the rest."
Doable.
"Finally: a corporate theft case. Droid schematics were stolen. Your job is to infiltrate, retrieve the stolen data, and bring the designs back here, ensuring there are no other copies in the base. Targets are not marked for death."
I frowned. "Not marked for death?"
He gave me a look. "Correct. They're thieves, not killers. The police will catch up eventually. The company just wants its property back before it's sold."
I nodded, weighing it. "Alright. I'll take them all."
The handler blinked. "All three?"
"Yeah. Same sector, right? Efficient to hit them back-to-back."
He hesitated. "Normally, beginners start small. One or two easy jobs before moving on. If you fail, there's a penalty."
"Penalty?"
He folded his arms. "If you claim a contract, it's removed from circulation. Fail, and someone else has to pick up the pieces. It's to stop rookies from biting off more than they can chew. Like you seem… eager to do."
I paused. He had a point. Why wasn't I nervous? First job, no experience, and here I was already stacking contracts like an RPG protagonist. Was that my Discipline skill talking? The quiet confidence of someone who literally can't feel fear the normal way? Maybe.
I sighed. "Fine. I'll start with the data job."
He nodded, unfazed. "Smart choice. Most hunters hate non-violent infiltration work—it's rare, but profitable if you can pull it off."
He handed me a flimsiplast with the job details. Simple enough: infiltrate, steal the data, leave unseen.
I nodded, already feeling my invisibility skill itch at my fingertips. If all went well, I'd be in and out before anyone even knew I'd been there. And if things went wrong? Lightning claws, unarmed mastery, and a knack for improvisation would cover me. All non-lethal, of course.
I clipped the flimsiplast to my belt, thanked the handler, and made my way to the elevators. Time to head down to the lower levels.
My first job awaited