Orbit-12 – Low-Tier Slums
The pounding came first — sharp, metallic thuds that rattled the flimsy metal frame of the door and sent a shiver down the walls. Dust drifted from the ceiling. The sound was wrong. It wasn't the dull knock of a human fist. It was heavier. Heavier and faster. Mechanical.
Jarek Venn's eyes snapped open — except he wasn't Jarek Venn. He was… someone else.
The stale air in the tiny capsule apartment smelled like rust and fried circuitry, and the dim light from the flickering neon strip painted the ceiling in sickly green. A thin blanket tangled around his legs. His head pounded like he'd been on a week-long bender, but the pain wasn't entirely his own. Images — jagged, broken — flashed through his skull: a smoky gambling den, a hand signing off on a credit loan, the face of a man with gold teeth and chrome jaw hinges grinning as he said, "Two million credits, due in three weeks."
The pounding came again, harder. The sound vibrated in his chest.
"Jarek Venn!" a deep voice boomed from the other side.
Another voice, rougher: "Open the door, or we take it off the hinges!"
Panic gripped his gut like a vice. He had no idea where he was, not really. No idea who these people were — except the name Brass Fang pulsed through the inherited memories like a warning siren. Debt. Unpayable. Violent collection methods.
He stumbled out of the cot, bare feet on cold metal flooring, and looked around the room. It was barely three meters by three, a single sink in the corner, a vending wall with flickering buttons, a cracked viewscreen showing the spinning debris field outside Orbit-12. A city in orbit, if it could be called a city — more like a floating scrap heap where the poorest in the sector clung to life.
And then —
> [SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
Welcome, Host. Infinite Rebate System Online.
Rule: Every expenditure will be refunded between 1× and 1000× the spent amount. Multiplier determined by current Luck stat.
Luck: 0
Increase Luck by completing System-issued Luck Missions.
The glowing text hovered in his vision, translucent but impossibly crisp.
"What the hell—" he whispered.
The pounding shook the door again, and the sound of servos tightening told him the collectors were prepping a breach.
His eyes darted to the vending wall. If this was real — if it wasn't some coma dream — he needed something to defend himself. Something that could keep him alive for the next thirty seconds.
His hands moved before his brain could catch up, tapping the cracked screen until he found it — Plasma Pistol, Mark-5, worn but functional. Price: 8,500 credits.
He checked his balance on the embedded wrist chip: 10,000 credits. The last dregs of whatever this Jarek had left. His pulse hammered in his ears. If the system worked, maybe…
He slammed the purchase button.
A beep, a hiss of compressed air, and the vending slot clunked open, revealing a matte-black pistol with a dull glow in the barrel vents. It felt heavy in his palm, balanced but lethal.
Then, the sound in his head — clear, mechanical, but warm in tone:
> [Purchase detected.]
Rebate multiplier: 5×.
Refund amount: 42,500 credits.
New balance: 44,000 credits.
His breath caught. The numbers were real. The pistol was real. The credits were real.
The metal door groaned, dented inward by a massive blow.
He dove behind the narrow bed just as the entire slab exploded inward. The door hit the wall with a clang, and two figures stepped through. Both were huge — cybernetic arms gleaming with hydraulic pistons, lenses glowing red in place of one eye each. Their faces were half-flesh, half-steel, and both wore the sigil of a grinning brass wolf's head on their jackets.
"Venn," the first one growled, voice filtered through a vocoder. "Time to pay up."
The second one's gaze fell on the pistol in his hand. "You think that's gonna help you?"
Jarek — no, he — didn't answer. His palms were slick with sweat, heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe. He'd never shot a gun in his life, not in his old body, not in this one. But his finger found the trigger anyway.
The first collector lunged forward, and instinct screamed louder than fear. He squeezed the trigger.
A pulse of blue-white plasma spat from the barrel, slamming into the collector's chest with a crackling hiss. The man jerked, sparks flying from the impact point, then crumpled to one knee. The smell of scorched synth-skin filled the room.
The second one roared, swinging a metal fist toward his head. He ducked, the blow tearing a chunk out of the wall. Another shot — this one caught the thug in the shoulder, spinning him into the vending wall hard enough to crack the display.
Jarek's hands shook. He wasn't breathing right. His mind screamed at him to run.
So he did.
He bolted through the open door, boots slamming against the grated flooring, past the shouts of angry merchants and the reek of fried oil from a nearby food stall. The narrow corridor twisted into a main walkway lined with flickering holo-ads for cybernetic upgrades and "discount" organ replacements. The hum of the station's engines vibrated through his bones.
Behind him, heavy footsteps and the hiss of hydraulics — the collectors were already getting up.
He rounded a corner and spotted a uniformed port officer leaning against a railing, bored eyes scanning the crowd. Without thinking, he yanked 5,000 credits from his account and slapped it into the officer's datapad.
> [Transaction complete.]
Rebate multiplier: 3×.
Refund amount: 15,000 credits.
New balance: 54,000 credits.
The officer glanced at the screen, then at him, and nodded. "Dock 7. Ship's leaving in two minutes."
No questions, no hesitation. Money talked faster than fear here.
Jarek sprinted toward the docks, the rebated credits burning like a live wire in his account. It was real. All of it. The system wasn't a hallucination. And if it worked like this every time…
He almost smiled — until he caught a flash of brass teeth in the reflection of a passing window.
Brass Fang was here.