It was refreshing walking into my apartment, refreshing in the way stepping under cover from a rainstorm is. You're still soaked to the bone, still dripping into your boots, but at least you're not actively being pelted by the sky anymore. That was the best way I could explain the feeling running through me. I'd stepped out of the crucible, minor as it might have been—and now I was back in the normal world. The changes clung to me anyway, like raindrops stubbornly sinking into cloth.
And for once, I realised, I was happy. That hit me harder than expected. Happiness hadn't exactly been a frequent guest in my life lately. Content. Proud, even. Just a little. I'd come a long way in a short time, and it felt… nice. I chuckled as my brain replayed that glorious meltdown between the gang boss and the Trade Federation rep. A true comedy duet. Proof that humour can be found even in the darkest, most dangerous corners of the galaxy—if you're willing to notice it.
I peeled myself out of my bounty hunter gear, stretching like someone stepping out of a too-tight costume, and padded toward the tiny excuse of a kitchen. Lunch was going to be nothing glamorous. Groceries weren't exactly exotic right now, so I threw together a toasted sandwich with some space cheese, space meat, and a few space veggies. I could almost hear some nutritionist screaming, "That's nerf ham, you idiot!" but it tasted decent enough, and that's what mattered. Space food was space food.
Once the plate was clean, it was time for the real reward. I pulled out my Chaos Gatcha cards and laid them neatly on the couch cushion beside me. One Bronze—for accepting my very first bounty gig—and one Platinum, apparently because I'd gone full stealth like some holo-drama assassin. Not bad. Not bad at all.
I settled into the couch, exhaled once, and tore open the Bronze card.
'To steal from the Empire, you just walk in and act like you belong.'
'Accept your first gig.'
264. Large Pockets (2.6 Rarity, 0.64% odds)
-Uncommon Trait-
Your pockets are deceptively large; any pocket you own that you slip your hand into is 10x larger on the inside. This applies to backpacks and such, but does not affect the object itself.
Oh, mama, the Bronze card was a beauty. Infinite storage, basically. Or at least a personal pocket void big enough to make smugglers weep with envy. Finally, a solution to the age-old problem of loot logistics. I'd been quietly worrying about what I'd do the day I tripped over a crate of priceless relics or stumbled into a credit shipment worth more than my soul. Answer: Now I could carry it all, no freighter required.
The plan was simple—pick up a couple of collapsible duffel bags, stuff them in my coat, and boom: instant walking warehouse. Some people dreamed of lightsabers; me? I wanted storage solutions. Neat.
Alpha came online like a stagehand poking their head out from behind the curtain. "Noted. Adding duffel bags to your supply list. Priority: moderate."
I chuckled. "You're just here for the fireworks, aren't you?"
"To witness objective improbabilities in real time is… engaging," Alpha admitted. Which, coming from them, was the AI equivalent of excited squealing.
"Glad my life's a spectator sport," I muttered, and reached for the Platinum card. Now, this was the big one. The card that had kamikazed through my taxi window and slapped me in the forehead like the universe itself was telling me to stop slacking. If Bronze was pocket space, what was Platinum?
'Your eyes can deceive you. Don't trust them.'
'Complete your first gig, upgraded due to being unnoticed.'
685. Tinker - Analysis (4.6 Rarity, 0.23% odds)
-Elite Ability-
Allows you to build technological constructs or contraptions related to analysing data, like scouters, observation drones, predictive programs, etc.
Ohhh, more Tinker powers. Excellent. This is exactly what I needed—was half-hoping, really. Now Alpha and I can stop pretending we're just passengers in this meat-grinder galaxy and start building. This was also a direct replacement for the problem of ocular implants. I could tie the two together, and instead of having to replace my eyes, I could just make some super visor or incorporate the tech into my helmet! Maybe even some Tony Stark super glasses!
I'm actually relieved. I was worried that I would lose so much utility from my cyberdeck due to not installing optics, but now? Now I can fold this in and make a visor. Weapon detection overlays, different vision modes, infrared, EM, zoom functions, whatever I can code in.
But predictive programs? That's where it sings. If I'm ever outmatched in a fight, I can stall, dodge, turtle—until the algorithm dissects my opponent's patterns and starts whispering counters into my ear. Suddenly, I'm a budget precog with a HUD.
Other than glasses, there were drones. Lots of drones. I can whip them up, and Alpha can pilot them. Suddenly, he's got hands, eyes, and reach. Not only that, but the scanning tech? It's absurd. And if Alpha implements the code into his drones? Oh, hell yes. Now we're cooking with plasma.
Still, what I really want right now are stealth drones. I know I can make theminvisible—makes sense, they're analysis platforms. But try to slap cloaking on something non-analysis, and the system slaps my hand away. Limitation, sure, but understandable. Drones are built from a stew of subskills, flight, sensors, programming, robotics, and Tinker: Analysis lets me grab that whole package so long as the end product's about observation. Split those categories apart for some random contraption, though, and nope.
Weird boundary, but honestly? I'm not complaining. This is still one hell of a power. Which means I now have one urgent priority: buy materials. Because the real tinkering starts now.
It turns out two and a half K credits don't stretch far when you're trying to play mad scientist. At first, I thought I'd start with a simple prosthetic to practice my proper tinkering. That idea lasted right up until Alpha reminded me that, oh, hey, they don't actually have a body yet. Hard to argue with that.
So the priority shifted. I needed to give Alpha some agency in the physical world. The choice was between a flight drone or a spidery little crawler bot that could sneak into vents and scout interiors. With the scrap pile I had, I could only afford one.
I let Alpha choose.
"An aerial drone is the better option," they said, voice crisp in my ear. "If you can make it small enough, I'll be able to operate both inside and outside."
Hard to argue with logic that neat. I nodded, and together we sketched out the design: the smallest I could manage was about a small toy-helicopter size, about 10cm. No rotors—too noisy, too obvious. Propulsion tech in this galaxy was good enough that I could shrink it down, run it silent, and make it smooth. Add a lens array, a tiny manipulator claw and tech interface arm—and we had the makings of Alpha's first body.
Then came the shopping spree. Lenses, propulsion cores, manipulators, stabilisers—small but expensive parts that drained my account like a stab wound. By the time I closed the order forms, I was practically broke again. A week's worth of spending money left. Enough to limp by, but it meant I'd need to line up another job soon. Which was fine. Honestly, bounty work was growing on me. There was something… fun about it. Dangerous, sure, but from when I was in the field, I could feel the different skillsets I'd picked up fusing together, meshing into something sharper, something more whole.
Blueprints finished, clock crawling toward midnight, I called it a night. Sleep took me fast, and with it came dreams—vast mechanical landscapes, shining technologies unfolding, a galaxy remade in steel and light. Post-scarcity, post-struggle, every being lifted together. A noble dream.
By morning, the specifics had slipped through my fingers like smoke, but the feeling lingered. I woke up with an odd clarity, equal parts invigorated and determined. The future might be hazy, but the work started now.
The morning passed slowly. I made myself an egg-based meal—pleasant enough, though I barely tasted it. My head was full of blueprints, phantom circuits, and the sound of whirring fans that hadn't even started yet. I knew I wouldn't finish the drone today, but that didn't stop the itch. I wanted to start.
The 3D printer and circuit station were already warmed up, waiting like hounds straining at the leash. They'd handle the most delicate components, while I busied myself with programming, wiring and motor calibration in the meantime. I let myself drift in daydreams of my construct coming together—Alpha's first real body—until the knock finally came. The parts.
I was ecstatic. I signed so fast I nearly broke the datapad stylus in half, then disappeared into my tinker den.
First things first: get the printers going. Feedstock in, blueprints loaded, finger hovering over the start button. For a second, I just breathed. This is it. This is the beginning. I pressed the button, and the machine hummed to life, lights and arms twitching as it began the delicate birth of something new.
With that in motion, I spun my chair over to the main rig, jacked in, and started on the coding. Alpha leaned in, eager to spar with me over design choices. Firewalls, obfuscation, signal cloaking—we wanted this drone invisible in every sense. Of course, perfection doesn't exist; the drone could still be picked up on the right sensors or blocked by a jammer. But hacked? Never. Alpha was the brain. Without them in the circuits, it was just a lump of dead metal.
I grinned as we argued and one-upped each other, trading clever workarounds like cards in a sabacc game. It was fun, too—so much faster through the cyberdeck than the plodding rhythm of typing.
By the time Alpha ran the final debug pass, the printers were only halfway done. Six hours to go, at least. I stared at the status bars, weighing my options. Wait it out? Or come back fresh? In the end, exhaustion won. Alpha kept the wireless tether and promised to watch the process while I crashed.
That night, my dreams weren't of machines, but of people. Or rather, the lack of them. Companionship. Company. I realised how alone I was here, in this galaxy. Only Alpha and Nyx. And while they kept me grounded, part of me wanted someone else—someone more human in their mind, if not their species. I woke up heavy with that loneliness. So I summoned Nyx, gave her the affection she deserved. She didn't mind the pocket dimension; she managed to communicate to me that she still felt connected, still dreamed of my world and what I was doing. That helped. It steadied me. She was watching and not just isolated in nothingness.
The next morning, the parts were ready. I checked each print carefully, hunting for flaws—but they were perfect. That alone felt like a victory.
The assembly was pure joy. Like Lego, only dialled up to eleven. My Tinker gift guided my hands: lens into mount, claw to actuator, wiring to the board, battery slot snapping into place. It all flowed. What should have taken days fell into place in hours. No hesitation. No second-guessing. I just… knew.
By evening, I had it. A compact drone, no bigger than a toy helicopter, resting on my workbench. Sadly, no invisibility. It was possible, but the materials required were expensive, too expensive for now.
When I was satisfied there weren't any obvious flaws—no loose joints, no cracks in the plating, nothing that screamed "explosive mid-mission failure"—I let myself really look at the design. And oh, stars above, she was a beauty.
The frame was shield-shaped, all sharp lines and aggressive angles, like someone had sculpted intimidation into metal. At each corner sat a repulsor, four silent guardians that promised lift and stability with effortless menace. The claw gripper tucked flush against the body, extendable but so seamlessly integrated that you almost forgot it was there—until it snapped out like a predator's talon.
The whole thing was encapsulated in matte-black plating. Not shiny, not showy, just a predator's hide: understated, practical, and lethal. No neon strips. No glowing bits that screamed "shoot me first." Just a single optic, dim and unassuming, like the cold, steady gaze of something that didn't need to prove itself with flair.
It wasn't just a drone. It was art disguised as hardware, elegance sharpened into utility. The kind of engineered beauty you didn't hang on a wall—you set it loose on your enemies.
Alpha slipped in wirelessly. The drone rose into the air, silent as a thought. It swivelled its lens toward me, scanning, and data flickered across my PC screen in neat real-time streams.
I laughed, whooped, and actually fist-pumped the air. Alpha's voice cut through, smug as ever:
"Our success was inevitable."
I smirked. "Sure. But inevitability deserves a celebration."
And we did celebrate, in our way. It wasn't much—a single drone—but it was proof. Alpha and I could build. We could change things. We weren't just bounty hunters making things slightly better; we could create!
As I flopped down onto my bed, my hand brushed against something hard in the pillow. I didn't even have to think. A card pack.
I slipped my hand into the pillowcase and pulled it out. Sure enough, it was exactly what I expected: a bronze card. I smirked. Not bad. A little piece of entertainment to fall asleep on.
I turned it over in my fingers, then carefully opened it.
'I like taking things apart and putting them back together. Tinkering. I'd be a professional tinkerer. Tinkerbell. I think that's what they're called.'
'Create your first small-scale project.'
327.Tail (1.3 Rarity, 1.26% odds)
-Common Ability-
Allows you to grow a strong tail on your body that you can manipulate with dexterity.
Well, that was a bit of a bust. I'd been ridiculously lucky with my rolls so far, so I suppose I could let this one slide. Still… let's see what it does.
I flicked the mental toggle—and yelped. Yep, probably not the best idea to be lying flat on my back when a tail is about to sprout. I rolled onto my side, letting it emerge.
It was… fluffy. Like a cat tail, not a dog's. I sighed. I was not a furry. If a furry were in my shoes, they'd probably be over the moon, but me? I just didn't see the point.
Fine. No tail for me. I willed it away, and it disappeared as if it had never been. Rolling back onto my back, I let sleep take me.
It was morning, and I figured it was time to take another job and earn some credits. Now that Alpha had a rudimentary sense of agency, they were happy to let me focus on designing cybernetics. That meant it was time to start stockpiling funds—not for rent, not for food, but for building a real foundation. If I wanted a proper company, I'd need to roll out some cyberware. Basic models at first, but ones that actually worked and could be sold. The higher-end stuff would come later.
My goal: fifteen thousand credits. A lofty sum, but a solid target. That would give me the budget to implement all of the cyberware I wanted to design, build, and refine. For now, hopefully four thousand would get me started—enough to gather the raw parts, prototype a few basic implants, and prove that this whole "bounty hunter turned cybernetics entrepreneur" thing wasn't just a fever dream.
Shower time brought its own victories. My waterbending. I know, I know—you thought I'd forgotten. Nope. I'd been practising every shower session. Still rudimentary, but progress was visible. Angle the stream, launch droplets at the wall. That's it for now. Tiny victories, but refreshing. It was nice to work for something again, rather than having every skill handed to me fully formed.
Out of the shower and into my gear. On the way to the guild, I picked up eleven duffel bags. They rolled up neatly and slipped into a specially designed pocket on my belt. One pocket for empty bags, a few others with drawstring openings to expand and accommodate a full duffel bag. Practical, compact, and absurdly satisfying. I'd finally solved the universal problem of "how to carry everything without looking like a pack mule." Alpha chimed in, as expected, making notes on my storage innovations. They were fascinated, naturally. Watching reality bend around me was apparently a source of entertainment for them.
The guild building loomed as unchanged as ever. John, the human who'd helped me last time, spotted me immediately. The building was nearly empty, which made me wonder about where the rest of the hunters found their contracts. I resolved to ask later.
"Jax," John greeted me. No hello. No good morning. Just 'Jax.' Charming.
"Good morning, John," I replied, helmet off. John—ever the professional—ignored my pleasantries and got down to business, motioning me to insert my card into the scanner. The terminal rotated so we could both see the job listings.
I scrolled through a few infiltration and stealth missions. Pretty standard fare: stolen wedding rings, scouting up-and-coming gangs, minor thefts. Yawn. Not what I wanted. I was ready to use all my skills, maybe get a little messy. I wanted a fight. A real challenge. Something where the head honcho was the target and, optionally, I could mow down the rest of the gang for fun. And luckily, one caught my eye: a small gang clearing mission.
The gang had set up shop just a little too close to the surface and had been extorting some wealthy underground shops; not only that, they had kidnapping, extortion and murder on their rap sheets as well. My mission: eliminate the interference, any loot if available was mine to keep, then collect proof via holopad photos.
I signed up, and John nodded. After my last flawless job, he apparently had little reason to question me taking on a minor assassination-style mission. With Alpha already dissecting the gang data and mapping everything out, I finally asked John about the unusually small number of hunters in the office.
"There are many 'unofficial' jobs offered in the cantina a few levels down," John explained, sounding tired. "The ones here are verified, prepaid, and insured. You won't have to negotiate or worry about getting scammed. Government-sanctioned. Show the scanner, and any law enforcement officer knows you're on official business. The unofficial jobs? Your problem if you get caught, and there's no guarantee of payment."
Fair enough. I'd check out the cantina eventually, but right now, official jobs seemed smarter. Pay was predictable, risks were lower, and Alpha had me covered for all the planning anyway.
John leaned back, clearly ready for me to leave. No goodbyes. No parting words. Just business. I shrugged and left in kind.
I did the same thing as my last job—caught a taxi to the right sector, then hoofed it down into the lower levels. But unlike the slums from the other day, these levels had a different flavour. They weren't all grimy and desperate. No, this was a proper underground market.
And I do mean proper.
Food stalls smoked and hissed, clothes hung in shimmering racks, weapons and armour gleamed under jury-rigged lighting. There were sellers with crates of droid parts, bags of exotic spices, even raw materials stacked like they'd just come off a freighter. It was busy, bustling, and surprisingly well-maintained. Not an "official" market, technically, but clearly one the government let run because the stall owners paid their dues.
That fact alone said a lot.
The place even had enforcers—market muscle, armed to the teeth and clearly respected. They weren't there to shake people down, but to make sure business flowed. It struck me as probably the safest "black" market I'd ever seen. Of course, at this level, nothing openly illegal was being hawked. I was told the deeper you went, the greyer the wares became.
Still, I took my time wandering, asking careful questions. Stall owners talked to each other, stayed in touch. It wasn't hard to start piecing together a picture. Up on this level, the gang hadn't touched anyone. Too public, too many eyes. But further down? That was where the trouble started. The gang hit the markets like raiders—blitzing in, murdering the guards, looting whatever they could carry, and vanishing before reinforcements could arrive.
Efficient. Brutal.
They didn't kill the sellers, though. They knew better—no sellers meant no loot next time. But they weren't above hurting people. The fear they left behind was enough to keep everyone cooperative.
It made me think of the bounty in a new light. If every merchant in this massive market had chipped in, that meant a serious pool of credits. I hadn't actually enquired about the pay, but I had assumed that from the description that it would be a relatively simple job and simple pay. Rookie mistake not to dig deeper into the job and pay first. Lesson learned.
I thanked the tech seller I'd been questioning, shook his hand, and moved on. If I wanted real info, I needed to go deeper.
And credit where it's due, this whole underground labyrinth was organised. Walkways were solid, the lighting steady, and even the elevators worked. There were listings for each level: food, clothing, droid parts… even "dubiously legal" tech got its own floor. I couldn't help but smile when I spotted that one. I'd definitely be back here when I had the credits.
At the bottom tier, things changed. The stalls were tighter, shadows heavier, goods a little more dangerous. Forged IDs, death sticks, restricted and prototype blasters—no more pretending here. I lingered at a stall selling "modded" droids. Imagine your standard etiquette model, but with the social programming stripped out and a vibroblade attachment added in. Charming.
The Bith running the stall listened when I mentioned the bounty. Then his whole posture slumped. His translator spat out a long, mournful sigh before words followed.
"Listen to me. Turn back. Head upstairs. Hand the job back in. You're not the first hunter sent after them. You're not the second. Not even the fifth. Every single one of them went down there. Not a single one came back. And every time, we pay the price for daring to try and fight back."
That gave me pause. For a second, I actually considered doing just that—turning back. Not because I was scared exactly, but because this was already looking bigger than what was advertised.
Still, I kept my tone level, calm. "I hear you. But I don't want to just stumble around blind. Numbers, direction, weapon types, tactics… anything that tells me what I'm walking into. If I think it's too much, I'll pull out. I'm not here to get myself killed."
The Bith studied me for a long moment, his large black eyes reflecting the glow of his droids. Then his translator clicked on again.
"Numbers: around twenty. They move well. Ex-military, militia, maybe even a professional pirate crew. Weapons: rifles, sidearms… and one heavy with a rotary gun."
My gut tightened. "Rotary gun?"
The Bith gave the faintest shrug. "That is why we bend. Why we've survived. They're disciplined, coordinated, and dangerous. This isn't a street gang. It's a unit. Solo hunters don't last. You'd need a team, and the guild doesn't do teams."
"Still, they're based somewhere, yeah?" I pressed.
Another sigh. The translator whined. "Seven levels down. An old factory. Used to be part of the market, before crime swallowed it. Now it's nothing but a warren—tight alleys, sudden open spaces. Both are bad for you. Expect traps. Expect cameras. Expect them to be waiting."
I let that settle in. This wasn't just a bounty anymore. This was a trial by fire. Bigger, nastier, more professional than I had been led to believe.
My nerves fluttered, but I held myself steady. Bootstraps pulled up, posture straight, I nodded once. "Appreciate the warning."
The Bith's translator spat out one last phrase: "Good luck. And it was nice knowing you."
He turned away, already done with me. Probably already convinced I'd be another name in the dirt.
I left a few credits on his counter in thanks, then walked off, slower than before.
Seven levels down. Twenty trained killers. A rotary cannon.
Yeah. Let's see how this goes.
Invisibly.
A/N:
Hey all,
I'm back with some updates on my stories! Just a quick heads-up — I'll be moving countries this Friday. I'll be heading to Zimbabwe to stay with some family while I get settled and look for work. I know it might sound a bit unusual to move there for work, but with family support it should give me the chance to get on my feet.
Because of that, updates might be a little irregular while I adjust. I'll still do my best to stick to my schedule, but please bear with me if things get a bit wobbly for a while.
On the writing front, I'm about to dive into chapter ten of this story. I haven't made much progress on The Veilwalker recently, but don't worry — I've built up a nice backlog, so posting there shouldn't be delayed despite the move.
Thanks so much for reading, and for all your support. Here's hoping the transition goes smoothly and I can settle into this new chapter of life quickly. Wishing you all the best!
—SingingKing