EPISODE ONE: STRANGER, LOVER, DANGER
The Meridian tore through the neon-drenched atmosphere of Midieth, its sleek, fighter-class frame slicing the air like a comet in full blaze. Plasma engines roared against the gravity wells of the sprawling metropolis, leaving behind a ripple of heat distortion in its wake. In the chaos of the skyways—where towering spires stretched beyond the clouds and artificial highways pulsed with synchronized traffic—the ship's reckless trajectory was nothing short of defiant.
"Priority traffic only," barked a digital enforcer from one of the floating patrol stations. Its voice echoed through open comm channels in sharp, synthetic syllables. "Unidentified vessel, reduce speed or face immediate enforcement action."
The pilot didn't listen. The Meridian cut through the congested aerial lanes, slipping between Lev-Haulers—massive, floating cargo freighters stacked with interstellar goods—before diving through the translucent energy barriers of a high-speed transit tunnel. Light panels flickered across its metallic hull as it vanished into the depths of Celestial District 08, the pulsing heart of Midieth's intergalactic trade.
From above, the city stretched like an endless, breathing organism—a fusion of hyper-modern architecture and ancient cultural remnants preserved in the city's core. Hovering orb-lanterns projected holographic calligraphy in dozens of languages, advertising everything from cybernetic enhancements to exotic off-world cuisine. Sky-trams slithered between luminous megastructures, their surfaces displaying mythic symbols of Midieth's corporate rulers—The Celestial Concord of Trade and Transit (C.C.T.T.).
Down in the merchant tiers, gold-plated envoy ships and rugged freighters jostled for prime docking space, their pilots shouting over bazaar markets where traders from the Drelvaar Expanse and Zenthari Reach peddled goods of questionable legality. The scent of roasted Vharron spice-fruit mixed with the ozone tang of overworked energy grids, while distant temple bells from the Old Meridian Shrine rang against the hum of machinery.
A local expression passed between merchants as they exchanged credits, an old Midiethian proverb:
"The hand that counts the stars is never empty."
Here, wealth was the lifeblood, and commerce was a battlefield sharper than any war.
The Meridian's Descent
The Meridian nosedived through a cloud of floating courier drones, sending them scattering in all directions. Below, a series of landing platforms jutted out like metallic petals, each assigned to a different sector—high-end trading domes for corporate elites, industrial drop zones for planetary shipments, and the No-Questions Docks for ships like the Meridian, whose pilots didn't care much for regulations.
A cluster of black-and-gold enforcer ships from C.C.T.T. Fleet Command hovered nearby, their pronged energy stabilizers crackling with silent authority. Unlike the lawless chaos of planets like Zusk, Midieth maintained a strict control over spaceport activity. Customs Officers, adorned in red-trimmed visors, scanned ships for unauthorized cargo, while security mechs patrolled the perimeter like silent sentinels.
Despite the patrol presence, there was always a way in.
A sudden flare of light-piercing mist signaled the Meridian's landing thrusters engaging. The ship slowed to an abrupt halt before touching down on an old docking pad with a cracked emblem of the Auto's Auto Space Garage.
The boarding ramp hissed open, revealing a worn deck of scorched steel plating.
And then, as if on cue, the music began.
A sudden blast of synthesized drumbeats erupted from the ship's speakers—an over-the-top, theatrical theme song that could only mean one thing:
Captain Zana Haw Jr. was making an entrance.
"Ladies and gentlemen, merchants and mercenaries, loan sharks and lawmen!" Zana's voice carried over the air, her mischievous grin visible even before she stepped into the light. "Your favorite space adventurers have arrived!"
Onions, standing just behind her, sighed audibly, rubbing his temples as if this were a well-rehearsed nightmare. "Do we really need the damn theme song?"
The speakers blasted louder.
"WE'RE DEAD, DEAD, DEAD AND GONE—EXPEDIAN'S GOT IT ALL WRONG! OUTLAWS, FREAKS, AND A PILOT WHO SINGS, IF WE DON'T CRASH, THEN BUY ME A DRINK!"
"No," Onions groaned, muttering curses under his breath.
A few dock workers turned their heads at the spectacle, unimpressed. The C.C.T.T. customs officers shot each other a glance, visibly debating whether this was worth the paperwork.
Behind them, Vernon Troppo, the so-called space wizard, spun his staff dramatically, sparks flickering at its tip. Lady Geiren, arms crossed, looked as if she was already plotting several backup escape plans, while Lopoea, ever the telepathic navigator, merely adjusted her visor, scanning the crowd for trouble.
And then, stepping into the scene, was the reason for the chaos.
—Auto, a native of Nuvex, as unmistakable as the stench of industrial grease clinging to his clothes. He was obese, human-like but grotesquely alien, with thick, leathery skin, sagging jowls, and eyes so sunken they looked like twin oil spills in the middle of his face. His three-fingered hands fidgeted as he took in the ship, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.
A laugh rumbled in his throat, low, ugly, and completely insufferable.
"By the slums of Zusk, it is the Meridian. Thought someone had finally put the poor thing out of its misery."
A few dockworkers snickered, the sound grating against Zana's ears. She turned her gaze to Auto, unimpressed.
"Funny. You're still as ugly as ever, Auto. Thought someone would've put you out of your misery by now."
The workers' chuckles turned into outright laughter, and Auto's smirk twitched. "Real sharp, Captain Jr.," he shot back, rolling his eyes. "That wreck behind you's got more rust than dignity. What happened? Some poor asteroid too slow to get outta your way?"
Zana's grin didn't waver. Instead, she leaned in slightly, voice casual but laced with the precision of a well-aimed plasma shot.
"You know, my father saved your sorry hide more times than I can count. You still owe him a whole lot of units for that."
Auto visibly stiffened, his smugness faltering.
Zana pressed on, enjoying herself now. "I still remember how you used to freeze up the second things got bad—crying behind the control panel while my dad pulled your weight. Commander Auto, the fearless second-in-command."
The crew chuckled. Auto clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed. "Yeah, yeah, you're real funny, kid. How 'bout you get lost before I remember how much I don't like you?"
He waved a meaty hand, dismissing the lingering onlookers who were clearly enjoying the exchange too much. They drifted away into the marketplace, still muttering about the Meridian's former glory and how far it had fallen.
Zana just grinned wider.
The Crew Disperses
With Auto successfully irritated, the crew broke apart, each with their own terrible ideas for the day.
Vernon Troppo swung his satchel over his shoulder, already rubbing his hands together like a merchant about to swindle a village of gullible farmers. "I have an appointment with fate, destiny, and a few deeply stupid individuals willing to purchase mystic elixirs of questionable origin." He twirled his staff dramatically, nearly smacking Onions in the face. "May the cosmic forces bless my deception!"
Lady Geiren, arms crossed, eyed a weapons vendor just across the docks. "I'll be testing some new toys. If any of you idiots get shot, that's your own fault." She stalked away, already scoping out a plasma repeater with custom grip modifications.
Holden, the ship's permanent resident , yawned and stretched. "I'm going back to sleep. Wake me up when we're leaving or don't wake me up. Preferably the latter."
Lopoea, their quiet telepathic navigator, simply turned and walked back toward the ship without a word, disappearing into the shadows of the docking bay. What she did in her free time was anyone's guess, but no one questioned it.
Business With Auto
That left Zana and her ever reluctant and loyal second in command, onions and Auto, standing near the Meridian's loading ramp.
Zana pulled out a small data chip from her belt, tossing it to him. Auto snatched it mid-air, inserting it into a scanner on his wrist. His beady eyes flickered as the list came up.
A long pause.
Then: "...The hell is this?"
Zana smirked. "Our shopping list."
Auto scrolls through the items.
Some of it's reasonable—replacement fuel cells, new thermal plating, a batch of low-grade rations.
Some of it's barely legal—black-market EMP grenades, stealth drives, an unauthorized jump-calibrator.
Some of it's impossible—a Zenthari Gravity Crystal, an Arkanian NeuroLink Upgrade.
Some of it's just… weird.
Auto squinted at the list. "What the hell is a 'cosmic cheese reactor'?"
Zana shrugged. "Beats me. Lopoea makes the lists, I think"
Both Zana and Auto turned toward the ship, where Lopoea stood halfway up the ramp, arms crossed, staring at them with unreadable disinterest.
Auto groaned. "Are you telling me no one knows who makes your supply lists?!"
Zana grinned. "Guess it's a mystery!"
Auto rubbed his face, clearly regretting every life choice that had led him here. "You know what? I can get you about half of this stuff. The rest… you're outta luck or need deep pockets, you are paying in cash or -."
Zana chuckled and patted him on the back. "Nice try, you still owe my dad a lot of units, I still have that beautiful ledger with me, you really hit the casinos - "
Auto grumbled under his breath. "Yeah, yeah. I should've let that starquake take me when I had my chance."
And just like that, another typical day for the Meridian's crew had begun.
A Walk Through Veydrax
Zana and Onions stepped out of Auto's cramped, cluttered warehouse, the mechanical hiss of the door sealing behind them. The air outside was thick with the scent of coolant vapor, ionized metal, and the distant spice of street food carts lining the neon-lit thoroughfares.
The commercial hub of Veydrax was always alive—a labyrinth of sky bridges, rotating market stalls, and flickering holograms vying for attention. Above them, advertisement drones hovered like digital fireflies, projecting ads in a dozen alien languages. The city stretched vertically, its towering megastructures cutting into the sky like blades of steel, each level a new ecosystem of commerce, crime, or innovation.
On the lower levels, you found smugglers, bounty traders, and off-the-books mechanics fixing up rusted ships for desperate clients. Higher up, the rich floated in hover lounges sipping imported liquor, watching the chaos below like spectators at a bloodsport. Somewhere in between, the Meridian's crew walked a precarious line between both worlds.
As they moved through the hustle of interplanetary merchants and rogue traders, Zana pulled up her digital ledger on her Novien suit's wrist interface. Her eyes narrowed at the numbers flashing back at her.
"What the hell?! We're nearly broke?"
Onions barely glanced her way, rubbing his bearded chin. "You're just noticing?"
Zana tapped furiously through the transactions, her eyebrows twitching with every unnecessary charge. "Who the hell has been spending our money? I swear—"
The answer in form of transaction logs blinked at her.
Geiren.
The transaction logs flooded with recent purchases.
Prototype Plasma Cutter - 14,000 credits
X9 Shockwave Blade - 8,500 credits
Upgraded Sniper Mods - 3,200 credits
Unknown Item (Caution: Illegal in 12 systems) - 9,900 credits
Zana groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Of course. Of course she's been blowing our money on weapons again."
Onions snorted, shifting his massive frame as they stepped onto a floating walkway that adjusted under their weight. "Well, to be fair, she does like shooting things."
"Yeah, and I like not being broke."
Zana swiped the interface shut and sighed. "We haven't had a job in a week."
Onions nodded gravely. "It's the curse."
Zana side-eyed him. "Oh, not this again—"
Onions pulled out a stiff, metallic card, edges lined in faint blue circuits that pulsed like veins. It was Vernon's, part of his so-called mystic deck. The card's image showed a throne of skulls, a shadowy princess at its center, surrounded by symbols of war and decay.
Zana frowned. "A space princess sitting in the middle of a bunch of dead things?"
Onions nodded solemnly. "That's what Vernon pulled before our luck ran dry."
Zana rolled her eyes. "Vernon doesn't even know what his cards mean half the time."
Onions stared at the card again, turning it in his thick fingers. "Yeah, but this time it felt real, y'know?"
Zana gave him a flat look. "You also think vending machines are out to get you."
Onions grunted. "That was one time."
A long silence stretched between them before both simultaneously shrugged.
"He's bad at magic."
"Really bad."
They shared an unspoken agreement—Vernon was, without a doubt, the worst so-called magician they had ever known.
A Plan to Fix the Credit Problem
Zana stretched her arms, cracking her knuckles. "Alright. We need work, and we need it fast."
Onions perked up. "Pub?"
Zana snorted. "We owe too many people money to drink in peace."
A pause. Then, simultaneously, they both grinned.
"Guild."
The I.G.C.B. - Intergalactic Guild of Contracts and Bounties
The I.G.C.B. was a sprawling complex of steel and neon, standing three levels above the lower districts, overlooking the industrial yards. It wasn't just a place for bounty hunters, mercenaries, and desperate freelancers—it was a beating heart of deals, betrayals, and blood-soaked opportunities.
Holo-screens flickered with new contracts.
Hired guns leaned against bar counters, swapping stories of botched missions and unclaimed bounties.
Drunk pilots played betting games, some losing ships over a bad hand of cards.
And somewhere, a deal was always being made in hushed whispers.
Zana and Onions stepped in, eyes adjusting to the shifting red and blue hues of the overhead lights.
Their first problem?
They weren't exactly welcome here.
The IGCB branch in Midieth—a rusted old bar doubling as a contract house for bounty hunters, pilots, and all manner of scum—went dead silent the moment Zana and Onions stepped in.
Even the holographic jukebox sputtered out mid-song, as if sensing the shift in atmosphere.
A three-eyed drunk slobbering over his ale had his lips forcibly shut by a nearby patron. The dart game in the back froze, the thrower clutching his arm mid-motion. A gang of grizzled mercenaries exchanged wary glances, and even the space flies buzzing around the neon-lit bar lamps had the courtesy to go mute.
Zana and Onions exchanged an awkward glance.
They shrank.
They had a terrible record here—a record that included bar fights, unpaid debts, and at least one 'accidental' explosion. The IGCB regulars weren't exactly happy to see them.
And then, he appeared.
Enter Pompom, the Two-Timing Droid Devil of Midieth
From behind the rusted steel bar counter, a figure clinked forward—each step accompanied by the soft jingle of countless chains and gems dangling from his modded exoskeleton.
Pompom, the Guild Branch Master of Midieth, was a humanoid service droid with a peculiar addiction to anything shiny. He gleamed under the neon glow, his gold-plated fingers tapping against the bar top, the gaudy rings on each digit catching the dim light. His faceplate, eerily expressive for a droid, twisted into a crooked smirk.
A hush fell over the room.
Zana and Onions braced for impact.
And then—
"WELCOME, YOU FILTHY DEBT-SWALLOWING HUNK OF JUNK AND HER MEAT TOWER OF A SIDEKICK!"
Drinks. On. The. House.
Zana blinked. "I—what?"
Pompom had never offered them anything but ridicule and threats of dismemberment. The sudden hospitality sent a chill down her spine. Even Onions—who rarely suspected anything—narrowed his eyes.
Something was up.
Zana hesitantly grabbed the offered drink, but before it reached her lips, Onions sniffed the air and whispered.
"It's a trap."
Zana frowned. "No crap, Onions."
Pompom's grin widened as he leaned over the counter, his voice smooth as oil on rusted gears.
"You're probably wondering why I'm in such a good mood. Why, oh why, is dear old Pompom, the most generous and least corrupt droid in this cesspit of a system, offering free drinks and warm hospitality to the infamous Zana Haw Jr. and her walking brick wall?"
Onions crossed his arms. "Because you're a conniving, backstabbing, money-siphoning, two-timing—"
Pompom cut him off with a laugh.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear dumbbell. But let's talk business."
The Threat: The Grand Ledger and a Dangerous Drop
Pompom tapped a holo-keypad on his wrist, and above them, a massive screen flickered on, displaying the Grand Ledger of Pilots and Hunters—a galaxy-wide ranking system for bounty hunters, mercs, and freelancers.
Current Rank: 897
Pompom's glowing optics flickered as he typed something in.
New Rank: 987
Zana's stomach dropped.
Onions squinted. "That... that's bad, right?"
Zana clenched her fists. "That's terrible, Onions! If we drop below 900, we lose access to high-paying contracts and we barely ever get any! We'll be stuck doing garbage jobs—scrap hauls, corpse retrievals, or—"
"Catering gigs," Pompom added smugly. "Rich people in the Veydrax core stations love pilots who can carry trays."
Zana snapped her gaze to the droid. "You're blackmailing us."
Pompom feigned mock offense, pressing a gilded hand to his chassis. "Blackmail is such a harsh term. I prefer… business negotiations which you deserve of course."
Onions grunted. "So what's the job?"
Pompom's mood shifted instantly, his smirk turning sharper.
"Oh, it's nothing too extreme. Just a simple delivery."
Zana scoffed. "Bull. Spit it out."
Pompom grinned. "I already took my cut."
Zana's brows twitched dangerously. "Your cut?"
Pompom gestured lazily. "Seventy percent."
Zana slammed her fist on the counter. "SEVENTY?!"
The patrons flinched. A few even inched toward the exits, sensing the imminent eruption of chaos.
Pompom remained unfazed.
"Collateral, my dear Zana." His optics flashed. "For the… numerous damages you and your misfit crew have caused over the years. I call it—preemptive compensation."
Onions scratched his head. "Did we really cause that much damage?"
Pompom's expression darkened. "Collateral and Interest!"
A screen flickered to life, replaying past events in grainy security footage.
1. Zana accidentally crashing a supply skiff into the Guild bar.
2. Vernon using the bar's ceiling as a 'practice zone' for his terrible magic.
3. Onions getting into a brawl that collapsed half the upper balcony.
4. Geiren… well, just shooting things.
Zana groaned. "Fine. What's the job?"
Pompom beamed. "That's the spirit!"
He pulled out a holo-scroll and tossed it to her.
"Read up. The client's waiting. Do it, or say goodbye to any good jobs for the next year or forever."
Zana snatched the holo-scroll, grumbling under her breath.
As she turned to leave, Pompom suddenly yanked the drink from her hands.
"On second thought, you've had enough. That's good wine, it should not got to waste"
Zana's eye twitched.
Onions sighed. "I told you it was a trap."
Zana and Onions stood before Room 1, staring at the flickering LED panel above the door. The number "1" pulsed in an ominous red, casting eerie shadows against the metal-plated hallway.
Neither moved to knock.
The job details weren't promising—a passenger and his cargo, destination: Zusk.
Anything involving Zusk was a red flag.
Zana shifted uncomfortably. Zusk wasn't just a bad idea—it was a death wish. The entire sector was a lawless pit, crawling with black-market dealers, rogue cyber-syndicates, and the worst of interstellar criminals. It also happened to be under heavy surveillance by the G.O.R.E. Space Marshals—a militarized police force notorious for shooting first and interrogating whatever remained.
"This is stupid," Zana muttered, arms crossed. "Whatever's in that cargo, it's gotta be illegal."
Onions scratched his head. "Maybe it's just really, really expensive luggage?"
Zana shot him a look. "The only thing that gets shipped to Zusk is either a weapon, a corpse, or something that no one should be talking about or taking there."
They both went silent, staring at the door.
Then, Zana's wrist-tech flickered red.
A soft ping echoed through the hallway.
Her Novian Suit System was prompting an update.
Zana groaned, rolling her eyes. "Again? These updates are getting ridiculous."
"what's that?"
"beats me, I barely understand how to put the damn thing on,"
"Update seemed to cost a fortune, want to go for it?"
"Thanks to Geiren's friendly spending habits, I can't,"
She tapped the holographic interface, switching it off.
"The updates do have some nice surprises every now and then," Onions shrugged. "The last update gave you that heat-plasma defense."
Zana scoffed. "Yeah? And the one before that nearly short-circuited my entire nervous system."
Onions hummed, as if debating whether to agree. "At least it looked cool."
She sighed, glancing at the door again.
"Whatever. Let's just get this over with."
Meeting Xhin
The door slid open with a mechanical hiss, revealing a dimly lit room. The air inside smelled of sterilized metal and incense, a strange mix of pristine cleanliness and something older, heavier.
Standing at the center was a tall, purple-skinned humanoid.
His slender frame was wrapped in an intricate black and gold coat, embroidered with strange glowing symbols. His eyes—silver, without pupils—watched them carefully. Beside him, resting on the floor, was a large, reinforced suitcase.
Zana and Onions stepped in.
The door sealed shut behind them.
The alien gave a slight bow. "I am Xhin Exer, from Avery-9."
His voice was smooth, calculated. His movements, too precise.
Zana's instincts flared. Something about him felt… off.
"You're the package, then?" she asked.
Xhin nodded. "And my cargo." His silver gaze flicked to the suitcase. "Safe passage to Zusk. That is what was arranged."
Zana glanced at Onions.
Onions glanced at the suitcase.
Neither liked this.
Zana crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. "Pompom said you'd pay the rest upon arrival."
Xhin nodded, unfazed. "Correct."
Onions tapped his fingers against his arm. "And how much is this 30% we are talking about, exactly?"
Xhin glanced at them both, then said it casually—too casually.
"200,000 units."
Silence.
Zana and Onions froze.
Even the background hum of the station seemed to falter for a second.
Zana blinked. Once. Twice. Then—
"TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND?!"
She wheeled around so fast her suit nearly glitched. "I'M GOING TO SHRED THAT SCRAP-PILE AND SELL EVERY LAST SHINY BIT OF HIM!"
Pompom. That shifty, bling-obsessed, two-timing junk heap.
No wonder he was so smug. No wonder he had practically gift-wrapped this job for them.
Onions let out a long, slow breath. Even he looked pissed. "That rust-bucket scammed us."
Zana seethed. "He didn't just scam us—he robbed us blind and handed us a time bomb!"
Because no ordinary delivery to Zusk was worth that much.
Even for illegal cargo, 200,000 was way too high.
And yet… they had no way out.
Pompom knew they were desperate. Knew they had no jobs lined up. Knew they needed the credits.
Which was exactly why he'd set them up.
Onions shook his head. "I have to say he picks his market very well, We do need a Job and we owe him a lot."
As Zana crossed her arms, her Novian comm-link pinged again.
This time, it wasn't an update.
A new signal had been detected.
Zana frowned, glancing at the red blinking light on her wrist display
Her Novian Suit had been acting up again, blinking red warnings in an ancient, unreadable script. She had no idea what it meant.
She never did.
She poked at the holographic interface, half-expecting something to happen. It didn't. Just more symbols she couldn't decipher.
"Damn thing," she muttered.
She had owned the suit for years, ever since her father left it to her. A legendary artifact of war, one of the last few surviving Persona Assault Proto Suits from the old space conflicts.
Problem was… she sucked at using it.
The manuals were unreadable. The controls made no sense. Half the time, the suit updated itself without permission—and she had no idea who the hell was updating it.
Once, it had deployed a heat-plasma shield in the middle of a card game. Another time, it refused to open until she almost lost consciousness. The incidents were either trying to murder her or make her murder others, unintentionally.
Now it was blinking.
Why?
Zana had no idea.
She glanced at Onions. He was still focused on Xhin and the job.
Should she mention it?
She tapped the blinking warning again.
The signal vanished.
Just like that.
Like it had never been there.
Her chest tightened.
Something wasn't right.
Or maybe she was just overthinking it.
With a frustrated sigh, she dismissed the alert and ignored the suit. It was probably just another one of its cryptic malfunctions.
Onions leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as he pulled something from his pocket. The card.
Vernon's card. The one with the Space Princess surrounded by skulls and dead things.
"Should we show him?" Onions muttered.
Zana made a face. "Why?"
"I don't know. Maybe he knows something? Like, about space princesses or… something?"
Zana snorted. "Right. Because every tall purple alien we meet just happens to be an expert on Vernon's half-baked, cryptic nonsense." She waved it off. "Not happening."
Across from them, Xhin raised a brow. "Should I be concerned that you're speaking in whispers while I sit right here?"
Zana flashed a wide, disarming grin. "Nope. Totally normal. Just friendly banter."
Xhin didn't look convinced.
Before he could press further, Zana swiped at her suit's interface, projecting a holographic document in front of him.
"Standard Life and Cargo Transport Agreement." She clasped her hands. "You sign, and we promise to get you to Zusk. Alive, preferably."
Xhin's brows furrowed as he skimmed through the clauses.
"In the event of death, abduction, dismemberment, experimental hazards, poisoning, ship hijacking, unfortunate space frog mutation, unforeseen psychological trauma, or general existential crisis caused by prolonged exposure to Holden's cooking, the crew of the Meridian assumes no responsibility."
Xhin blinked. "Excuse me—what?"
"Totally standard," Zana said smoothly. "Just a little fine print so you don't sue us if, you know—" she made a vague explosion gesture. "Boom."
"But—"
"Sign here!" she cut him off, shoving the agreement closer.
Xhin hesitated… then, reluctantly signed.
"Perfect!" Zana snatched the contract away. "Now, when do we leave?"
Xhin glanced at his wrist device.
"Now."
Onions sighed. "Of course."
"But," Xhin raised a finger, "I need a moment first."
Zana and Onions exchanged a look.
"Sure," Zana shrugged. "We'll wait outside."
They stepped into the dimly lit corridor.
And then—the noises started.
A series of grunts. Shuffling. Clattering.
A loud thunk.
Then—a high-pitched shrill.
Zana and Onions stared at the door.
Onions' ears twitched. "Uh. What is he doing in there?"
Zana folded her arms. "Beats me."
Another muffled crash.
"Should we check?"
"Nope."
They stood there, listening as more unexplainable sounds echoed from the room.
Onions slowly turned to Zana. "You do realize we have no idea what we're getting into, right?"
Zana grinned, unbothered. "Eh. How bad could it be?"
Onions sighed deeply. "We're so dead."
In the heart of Midieth's bustling marketplace, where neon signs flickered in alien dialects and the air buzzed with the chatter of a thousand tongues, Vernon Troppo took the stage—or rather, a makeshift stall stacked with artifacts of dubious origins.
A small crowd had gathered, drawn in by his elaborate flourishes and the way his golden-trimmed cloak billowed, despite the fact that there was no wind.
Vernon raised his mystical staff (a repurposed antenna, but no one needed to know that) and cleared his throat.
With a dazzling grin, he launched into song, his voice smooth and theatrical, dripping with the weight of legend—
"From the stars I came, from the myths untold,
A Zorvathian mage, with powers of old!
I walk through the echoes of time and fate,
Weaving magic—too grand to replicate!"
The wide-eyed customer, an eager, four-eyed Merkalian trader, gasped. "Truly?! You—You're from the legendary planet of heroes?"
Vernon twirled his staff and smirked. "Ah, my friend, not just a planet—
A realm where adventure is spun into destiny!"
Then, with a flourish—
"I conjure the storms, I summon the tides!
Galaxies tremble when I open my eyes!"
The customer leaned forward, practically trembling with excitement. "So you—you can control the elements?!"
Vernon paused. "Technically—" He quickly launched into the next verse before the customer could think too hard about it—
"Fire and frost, shadows and light,
I bend them all with effortless might!"
The customer clapped excitedly. "Amazing! What else can you do?"
Vernon spun on his heel, throwing a handful of cheap glowing dust into the air. It crackled in dramatic bursts of blue and green.
"I brew elixirs, I heal with a touch!
With artifacts lost, I know just as much!"
The customer gasped. "You—You're an artifact master too?!"
Vernon winked. "Of course, of course!"
With a grand gesture, he swept up an unassuming trinket from his table—a simple metal cube with faint engravings.
"Ah, but behold! This relic divine—
A treasure beyond all space and time!"
The customer's breath hitched. "What—What is it?"
Vernon lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes glinting with mystery. "A lost piece of the fabled Chrono Vault… once wielded by celestial beings who could shift time itself!"
The customer visibly shuddered. "Can… Can it really alter time?"
Vernon placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.
"For the right price, my friend… anything is possible."
The customer nodded furiously, reaching for his credit chip, while Vernon suppressed a victorious grin.
Another day, another legend sold.
Meanwhile Onions led Xhin down the narrow corridors of the Meridian, posture stiff with exaggerated politeness.
"The finest accommodations on board," he had promised. "A-star luxury."
The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and—
A total war zone.
Clothes, loose tech parts, leftover food trays, and something that might have been alive sat in the center of the mess.
Onions stared.
Xhin stared.
A slow, mechanical creak echoed as Onions slid the door shut again without a word.
"Not that one," he muttered, moving to the next room.
Another disaster. And another. And another.
Finally, after five tries, he found one that was only mildly horrifying. Good enough.
"Here. Deluxe suite," Onions said, voice flat.
Xhin narrowed his eyes, clearly unimpressed.
Onions ignored him and hurried off to the cockpit, where Zana was already checking the ship's systems.
Meanwhile, in the Engine Bay…
Lolo was deep in his work, adjusting the ship's core circuits while his Lingua-Bot assistant hummed an incomprehensible tune.
The bot's multi-lensed eyes flickered in rhythm as it handed him tools.
"Auto—adjust power relays. Stabilizers at 97%. Shields 89%."
Auto beeped in confirmation, finishing some quick calibrations.
Somewhere overhead, Zana's voice crackled over the comms.
"Alright, crew! Countdown starting in—"
She didn't even finish the number before the ship lurched violently forward.
Lolo swore. The Lingua-Bot shrieked in four different languages.
Zana pushed the thrusters, shields active, systems green-lit.
"Alright, I feel like we're forgetting something," she muttered.
Onions thought for a moment. "Nah."
Satisfied, Zana grinned and started the countdown.
"Five, four, three—"
Somewhere below, Holden barely stirred from his sleep, grunting at the noise.
In the weapons testing hall, Geiren kept firing at moving dummy targets, oblivious to the launch alarms.
And then—
The Meridian shot up into high altitude, piercing the sky like a silver-blue bullet.
Somewhere… Very Unfortunate
Vernon Troppo appeared inside a prison hold, arms spread wide.
"Ah! A simple mistake, my friends! I was just—"
ZAP. The security grid tried to contain him.
Vernon's eyes widened.
"Nope, nope—nope! Not today!"
With a dramatic flick of his fingers, he warped out.
And landed—
Face-first into a luxurious pool.
A pool party.
Music thumped in the background. Sunbathing aliens stared.
One giant, muscular aquatic brute pulled off his sunglasses.
Vernon froze.
Then—
"THEFT MAGIC! GET HIM!"
Vernon let out a horrified shriek and warped again.
Back on the Meridian, Lolo was tightening some bolts when something smacked against the outer glass panel.
He barely glanced up.
Auto beeped in concern.
Lolo shrugged. "Probably just space debris."
It was not space debris. It was Vernon, half-naked, clinging desperately to the hull, face contorted in terror.
The ship accelerated.
Vernon's fingers slipped.
He warped.
And—
"AAHHH—!"
He appeared inside Xhin's room, crashing into a table.
Both Xhin and Vernon screamed.
"WHO ARE YOU?!" Xhin yelped.
"WHO ARE YOU?!" Vernon shouted back.
The door burst open. Zana stood there, arms crossed.
She took one look at Vernon's half-burnt clothes, sighed, and grabbed him by the collar.
"You forgot me again!" Vernon snapped.
Zana scoffed. "Pfft. No, I didn't."
Vernon gestured wildly to the evidence.
"…I swear you keep trying to ditch me, Let me tell you something, I, Vernon Troppo of - ."
Xhin groaned, holding his damaged GPS locator.
"No, no, no, no…" he muttered.
Zana and Vernon paused.
"…That a problem?" Zana asked.
"Could you give me some space, boh of you!?"
Xhin just buried his face in his hands. Both left immediately.
The Meridian hummed with energy as its boosters ignited, sending the ship into a hyperspace surge. For a moment, the view outside stretched into streaks of endless light, the universe blurring into a mesmerizing, golden-white vortex.
Inside the ship, Onions strolled past Holden's room, knocking twice on the door.
"Oi, food prep, let's go," he called.
A muffled grunt was the only response.
Onions sighed. "C'mon, man. Everyone's gotta eat."
Another grunt.
"I swear if you don't get up, I'm telling Zana."
Silence. Then, finally—
"Go away."
Onions rolled his eyes. Typical.
Zana sat at the helm, one foot resting lazily on the console as she scanned their trajectory. Three days to their destination. A fuel stop along the way. Easy.
Hopefully.
Onions dropped into the co-pilot's seat, arms crossed.
Zana sighed. "Look, let's just get this mission done without ruining Xhin's day. For once, let's not turn a simple job into a galactic incident."
Onions snorted. "Us? Normal? Never happening."
"C'mon," Zana pressed. "It's a three-day trip. Let's just keep our heads down, deliver the package, and move on."
Onions frowned, glancing over his shoulder like he expected Xhin to appear out of thin air.
"Something's wrong with that guy," he muttered. "You ever notice? We don't get normal passengers, and he's definitely not normal."
Zana hesitated.
She'd been thinking the same thing.
But right now, something else was bothering her—her Novian suit. The damn thing had been blinking its alerts at her, and she had no idea why.
Diagnostics? Nothing wrong.
Power levels? Stable.
Error messages? Unreadable.
No matter what she did, the mysterious blinking wouldn't stop.
Zana shook it off, forcing herself to focus on the stars outside.
For a brief moment, as they pushed into hyperspace, the distant galaxies seemed to slow—like time itself had softened.
The view was breathtaking.
"All those stars…" Zana murmured. "Somewhere out there, someone—or some alien—is having the best time of their life."
Onions sighed. "Yeah. Not us."
Zana smirked. "Well, we can't have it all, can we?"
Star System Alter Verge – Planet Skaya
Far beyond the bustling core worlds, in the distant reaches of Star System Number 4, lay the glimmering planet of Skaya. Unlike its mega-planetary neighbors—Oryion Rest, Dion, and Pluralis—Skaya was small, yet home to one of the most beautiful and fragile species in the galaxy.
The Skayans, beings of living crystal, shimmered with an ethereal glow, their bodies composed of rare, luminous minerals that made them highly sought-after in the darkest corners of the universe.
Their existence was a delicate balance between beauty and danger, and now, that balance threatened to shatter.
The Royal Court in Chaos
Inside the King's Inner Court, King Araca-Roth III paced restlessly, his every step echoing against the jeweled walls. His Queen sat in tense silence, her crystalline fingers twisting together as she fought to maintain composure.
An uneasy quiet filled the chamber, a silence thick with anticipation and dread.
Then, finally—
The doors swung open.
A messenger rushed in, breathless from the journey. Every eye turned toward him, hope hanging in the air.
The messenger bowed low, then spoke:
"Your Majesties... It is confirmed."
The Queen stiffened. The King's pacing came to a halt.
The messenger hesitated, then delivered the blow:
"Prince Dhomian has eloped with the Princess."
The room erupted in shock.
Gasps rang out, servants covered their mouths, and the Queen's body dimmed slightly—a Skayan sign of distress.
The worst had happened.
Their daughter—the Princess of Skaya, their one and only bargaining chip to prevent an inevitable conquest by the Pluralis Empire—was gone.
Her wedding to the Triplet Princes of Pluralis had been meticulously arranged. A political sacrifice to ensure their world's survival.
But there was one problem.
She had only ever loved one of the three.
And that one—Prince Dhomian—had spirited her away.
As the shock settled, a figure stepped forward.
Commander Zaon.
Tall and battle-worn, he was Skaya's most feared war commander, a veteran of countless interstellar battles. His loyalty to the crown was unquestioned, and if there was one person who could track down the runaways, it was him.
Zaon bowed. "Your Majesties, allow me to retrieve them. I will bring the Princess and Prince Dhomian back—alive and unharmed."
The King met his gaze, weighing his words carefully.
Zaon was not a man who failed.
The Queen finally spoke, her voice like chiming glass. "You will take a squad of your choosing."
Zaon nodded. "I will assemble my best."
But before the King could approve the plan, the doors burst open once more.
Prince Dharma and Prince Dhoma strode in.
The remaining two triplets of the Pluralis Royal House.
Dressed in midnight-black military regalia, their crystal-plated armor gleamed with an eerie brilliance. Their expressions? Cold. Unforgiving.
"There's no need to waste time," Prince Dharma sneered.
"We've already handled it," Prince Dhoma added.
The King narrowed his eyes. "Handled what?"
The brothers exchanged a glance before dropping the real bombshell:
"We put a bounty on them."
A stunned silence filled the room.
D.O.A
That was the order they had given.
It took a full five seconds before the Queen rose from her seat, trembling with rage.
"Dead or Alive?"
"Oh, that's what that meant, I did wonder what it meant, Oh well, I am sure they will be alright" One of them said.
The brothers had the decency to look sheepish.
"In hindsight…" Dhoma muttered.
"...we don't actually want them dead," Dharma admitted.
"We just want to punish him, we always share everything," Dhoma clarified.
Zaon remained still, watching them carefully.
And then, in a surprising move—he nodded.
"I see no issue with this, our ships are faster than some of the best star fighters in the galaxy, I will not fail" he said.
The King frowned. Something about Zaon's easy agreement felt… off.
"We have one request to make," and the twins grinned.
And so, the plan was set.
Zaon would lead the mission, bringing along his elite squad—with Dharma and Dhoma included.
The bounty was already in motion. Across the galaxy, hunters and mercenaries would soon be after the runaways.
And as the mission was prepared, one thing became clear:
Prince Dhomian and the Princess had no idea what was coming for them.
A Disastrous Wake-Up Call
Holden Kash, former movie star, current liability, and permanent tenant of the Expedian 1.0, woke up to the sound of explosions.
A groggy fart escaped him as he stretched, yawning like a man who had just come back from the dead.
He had been having the most beautiful dream—something about winning at a high-stakes poker game on a beach, surrounded by admirers who found him irresistible.
Then reality hit.
His stomach growled in betrayal.
"Food first. Sanity later."
Holden rolled out of bed, grabbed whatever semi-clean clothing he could find, and shuffled to the mirror.
With a thought, the tech embedded in his skull activated, shifting his hair color to a fiery orange.
"Damn," he muttered, admiring himself. "Still got it."
Satisfied, he staggered out, still half-asleep, and wandered toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was a crime scene.
Dirty dishes overflowed. A chair was missing a leg. There was an alien tentacle hanging from the ceiling fan (Holden chose not to ask why).
All of this was normal.
What wasn't normal?
The freezer door was wide open.
And inside?
A stranger.
A very naked stranger.
Holden, still too sleepy to care, barely reacted.
He gave a casual nod. "Hey."
The stranger nodded back.
Holden took a few more steps, scratching his messy bedhead hair—then his brain suddenly rebooted.
Wait.
Who the hell—
His eyes shot open.
His scream could be heard across the entire ship.
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!"
In full panic mode, he slammed the emergency intruder alarm with one hand while grabbing a frying pan with the other.
Everything descended into chaos.
Zana arrived at the scene with Onions.
Zana sighed. "Holden, put the pan down."
Holden, clutching his pan like a lifeline, refused. "Not until someone tells me why there's a naked freezer goblin in our kitchen!"
Zana pinched the bridge of her nose. "That's Xhin. Our Cargo from Avery - 9,"
Holden's expression darkened.
"No, he's not."
The room fell silent.
Zana frowned. "What do you mean?"
Holden, despite his chronic irresponsibility, had been places.
"Have any of you been to Avery - 9?"
Nope. Nope. Not Really.
"Have any of you seen anyone from Avery - 9?"
Again the reply.
"Listen, I've been to Avery-9. I know Averyans. There are five species—Sanakun, Cyraths, Gyrans, Hyras, Briers. Do you know what they look like? They are insect looking cannibalistic creatures who would eat anything even themselves. You would know an Averyan once you have met one, because they will be trying to eat you,"
"Wait, you have been to Avery - 9,what were you doing there?"
"I was trying to get married to the princess, I thought it was an easy score until I found out I was on the menu literally, that, over there is not an Averyan, I would know that, I still have PTSD over my little adventure, "
He pointed aggressively at Xhin.
The so-called Averyan was awkwardly eating a fruit.
Holden smirked. "Averyans don't eat fruit and certainly don't look like that,"
The tension in the room skyrocketed.
Xhin's expression shifted—not fear, not panic—just... calculating.
They had caught him.
And that wasn't good.
Before Zana could press the issue, an emergency beacon blared in the cockpit.
ALERT: Your ship has been flagged. Immediate compliance required. PULL OUT OF HYPER DRIVE NOW!
Her stomach dropped.
She sprinted to the controls and pulled them out of hyperdrive—
—only to find herself face-to-face with a blockade.
Two Space Patrol Marshal ships hovered in wait.
Weapons armed.
A transmission crackled in:
"Expedian 1.0, you have been flagged for excessive outstanding parking violations. Prepare to be boarded."
Zana's blood ran cold.
She loved her ship. But, well… she wasn't great at paperwork.
And now?
They were screwed.
"Very, Very, VERY Big Trouble."
Back in the kitchen, Holden was still yelling at Xhin when the comm system crackled on.
Onions' voice "Uh, Captain? We've got a problem."
Zana, sweating "How bad?"
Onions, slowly: "Very."
Zana "How 'very'?"
Onions "Very, very, very big."
Zana leaned back in her chair, heart pounding.
This was bad.
Like, dead-bad.
And now, with Xhin's true identity in question, things were only about to get worse.
The Arrival of Thunam Koreth
Zana stood at the docking bay, arms crossed, watching as the Space Marshals' ship settled onto the platform with an arrogant ease.
She already knew who was on board.
She wasn't excited.
But Thunam Koreth?
Oh, he was thrilled.
The senior officer of the Galactic Order of Regulations and Enforcement stepped down the ramp, flanked by two uniformed lackeys who seemed to exist purely to laugh at his bad jokes.
He adjusted his pristine coat, a smug grin spreading across his face as his boots clicked against the metal floor.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the daughter of a traitorous old pilot."
Zana clenched her jaw but didn't react. She knew how this game worked. Thunam wanted a reaction.
And she wouldn't give him one.
"Still flying this piece of junk, I see," Thunam continued, gesturing lazily at the Meridian. "Tell me, Haw Jr., how long do you plan on pretending you can outrun your debts?"
Zana forced a smile. "You here to collect parking fines or just to admire my ship?"
"Both," he replied, stepping closer. His men snickered behind him. "You owe quite a bit, Captain. Enough for us to impound this rust bucket if we feel like it."
Zana shrugged. "And yet, here you are, still just talking."
Thunam's smile twitched, but he let it go.
Instead, he looked past her, his gaze drifting toward the ship's cargo hold.
"You know," he mused, "I was just reviewing some security alerts. There's a highly illegal shipment headed to Zusk."
Zana's stomach tightened.
He didn't have proof.
Not yet.
Still, she had to tread carefully.
"I wouldn't know anything about that," she said, tilting her head. "And even if I did, you're here on a parking violation, Koreth. Not a smuggling charge. Which means you have no authority to search my cargo."
Thunam narrowed his eyes.
She was right. He hated that.
For a moment, the air between them thickened.
Then, just as quickly, he smirked again, stepping back.
"You're lucky I'm in a good mood today," he said. "But don't get too comfortable, Haw. You have three days to pay those fines, or this ship? It's mine."
He turned, waving a dismissive hand as he walked away.
"Oh, and for the record?" he called over his shoulder. "I wouldn't take the Meridian even if you gave it to me. I'm not interested in running a junkyard sale."
His men laughed on cue, and Zana had to force herself not to throw a wrench at his head.
As they disappeared back into their ship, she finally let out a breath.
Too close.
A crackle came through her comm. Onions.
"Uh, Zana? We've got a situation down here."
Because of course they did.
Zana rubbed her temples, sighed, and headed back inside.
The Story of Haw Senior – As Told by Thunam Koreth
Thunam Koreth leaned against the railing of the docking platform, watching Zana Haw disappear into her ship. His lackeys stood beside him, ever eager for a tale from their superior.
One of them—Lars—folded his arms. "Why do you even bother with her, boss? She's just another washed-up pilot with a debt problem."
Thunam scoffed. "You kids don't know history. You don't know why we say—" He smirked, locking eyes with them.
"Never trust a Haw to do the right thing."
The younger officer, Mirk, frowned. "I've heard that before, but I never really got the story."
Thunam's smirk widened. "Then let me educate you."