You glide into orbit above the world they call Orna. From space, the planet looks like it’s thriving—shimmering with solar latticework, glowing metro-loops, and vast towers coiled in rings of hydro-grown flora. But you feel it in the stillness. Something is stuck.
Sabine speaks softly into your mind:
“They said it was a sharing world. But nothing truly shared lasts forever unless it grows with the ones sharing it.”
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You dock at Port Vega, the station tethered just above the skyline. You’re not permitted to land on the surface directly—only passengers with planetary clearance can ride the dropcraft down to the lower platforms. You’re given a taxi. Clean. Automated. A sleek shuttle with curved seats and a gentle AI voice that hums like an old lullaby.
You barely notice the stowaway in the cargo shaft.
Not until the AI flickers. Not until a soft knock echoes from the rear panel. Not until a voice—unsteady, but burning—whispers:
“Don’t trust them. Don’t go to the city core. They’ll ask you to build something that can’t be unbuilt.”
A pair of eyes meet yours through the mirrored cabin wall. You feel it in your spine. This person has escaped something. Orna may be passive, but this one fought to make it this far.
You glance at Sabine. She doesn’t speak, but you feel her calculation shifting.
You hear the knock. Then the hiss. Then the clatter of a service panel dropping to the floor.
He’s covered in soot. Gaunt. Eyes like cracked obsidian. And he’s holding a pulse staff, rusted but active, pointed directly at your chestplate.
“Don’t go where they told you to go.” “I’m serious. Land west. Now.” “If you touch Skyreach airspace, they’ll take you. Not your ship. You.”
Sabine speaks aloud this time. Her voice is flat, controlled.
“Your weapon will not penetrate this armor.”
The stowaway doesn’t blink.
“Then I’ll crash us all and see what’s left standing.”
