The streets of Valeris City hummed with life, the air tinged with the metallic scent of ionized particles and the faint ozone sting of active energy fields. Neon repair drones floated overhead like mechanical fireflies, their multi-jointed limbs meticulously welding shattered structures back together. The fractured city skyline pulsed with flickering holo-signs, some still glitching, projecting advertisements and public announcements that shimmered against the evening haze.
Ethan walked through the districts with no real destination, boots clanking lightly against the alloy-plated sidewalks. Patches of bioluminescent moss clung to the corners of buildings, casting an ethereal glow over the rubble. People bustled around him, not with despair, but purpose like gears in a massive machine, tirelessly working to breathe new life into their home.
Workers in exo-rigs, their metallic limbs gleaming under the artificial streetlights, carefully maneuvered massive support beams into place. Others used portable gravity stabilizers to lift entire chunks of collapsed buildings, floating them gently to the ground like ancient monuments being unearthed. In the alleys, vendors had set up pop-up kiosks with holographic menus hovering above sizzling food arrays, the scent of spiced protein and roasted synth-vegetables curling through the air.
Ethan kept his head down, hoping to blend in. But people noticed him, they always did.
A woman adjusting a plasma torch paused, wiping sweat and soot from her face with a swipe of her sleeve. She whispered something to her coworker, who turned to stare, his augmented eye flickering as it zoomed in on Ethan's face. An elderly man with cybernetic legs slowly stood from his perch on a crate, offering Ethan a slow, respectful nod. A child, wearing an interactive holo-visor that projected small, floating creatures around her, tugged on her mother's sleeve and pointed.
The ripple spread.
"That's him."
"Walker?"
"The merc who took down the Black Sun."
They didn't swarm him. They didn't beg for autographs or favors. They simply acknowledged him, like he was part of the planet now, a living artifact of their survival. A passing worker clapped him on the shoulder with a gauntleted hand, nodding before stepping back into his levitating scaffold. A vendor silently handed him a small vacuum-sealed pastry with a modest bow, the transaction automatically logged as "Paid" on his kiosk's holo-display before Ethan could protest.
He pocketed the pastry and kept walking, jaw tight.
Eventually, he found himself at a memorial site. A massive obsidian slab, its surface laced with microscopic nanolights that slowly shifted, glowing names fading in and out as the system rotated through the casualties. The wall stretched nearly an entire block, a monument both digital and physical. People knelt in front of it, placing small, floating light orbs into a shallow pool at the base of the monument. The orbs lifted slowly, rising like tiny stars, their glow casting soft reflections on the polished ground.
Ethan paused, scanning the names as they glided across the wall's surface. He didn't recognized any of them. Civilians who died in the terror attacks in Valeris and nearby settlements. The names scrolled past like a never-ending data feed, a living record of loss.
A young man, maybe in his early twenties, noticed Ethan standing there. He approached cautiously, holding out a small, hovering light orb that pulsed gently in his palm. "For the ones you lost," he said, voice steady but sincere.
Ethan hesitated, fingers brushing the cool surface of the orb. He activated it with a subtle flick of his thumb, watching as it lifted from his hand and drifted upward, joining the constellation of lights already floating above the memorial. He didn't speak a name. He didn't have to. The orb ascended into the sky, a small beacon in the sprawling city, lost among countless others but significant all the same.
When he finally turned to leave, the crowd instinctively parted for him. They didn't speak. They didn't try to stop him.
They didn't see a mercenary or an outsider in him.
They saw someone who had helped them reclaim their future.
By the time Ethan reached Nara's Nest, the sky had deepened into a canvas of stars, with the city below twinkling like a living organism. Holo-ads flickered across building facades, and airborne trams zipped silently overhead, their undersides glowing with soft blue propulsion lights. The streets were quieter now, the day's work winding down, but the cantina's neon sign still pulsed steadily, a beacon of familiarity in a city still finding its footing.
The faint hum of music slipped through the door, a slow, steady rhythm that felt like an exhale after a long day.
Inside, the atmosphere was dim but warm. The walls were lined with repurposed starship hull panels, their metallic sheen softened by hanging lanterns that emitted a gentle golden glow. Patrons clustered around tables and booths, their conversations low but not somber, just quiet pockets of relief. A few mercenaries sat in the corner, their armor scuffed, helmets resting on the table, but they were smiling, clinking their glasses together in a tired toast. Off-duty Coalition soldiers lounged near the bar, trading jokes and stories over cheap liquor, their voices laced with exhaustion but also an undeniable hope.
Ethan slid onto a familiar stool at the bar, his fingers tracing a small scratch in the wood.
From behind the counter, Nara turned, wiping a glass with a worn cloth. She gave him a smile, the kind that softened the lines of grief around her eyes. She was in her mid-fifties, her short silver hair streaked with hints of its original black. Her face, weathered but kind, carried the weight of loss, but her eyes, sharp and steady, still held a spark of life.
"Well, look who survived another day," she teased, resting her hands on the bar. "I was starting to wonder if I'd need to carve your name into the memorial wall myself."
Ethan snorted, rubbing his face. "You'd miss me too much."
"Damn right I would," she said, already reaching for the whiskey. "Place wouldn't feel the same without you skulking around."
She poured him a glass, neat, just the way he liked it, the amber liquid catching the light like molten gold. She slid it toward him with a practiced flick of her wrist.
Ethan took a sip, the burn grounding him. "Long day," he muttered, swirling the glass.
Nara leaned on the counter, her gaze steady. "I heard the governor left."
"Yeah," Ethan said, rubbing his temple. "Deal's done. Planet's future isn't my problem anymore."
Nara arched a brow. "Is that what you're telling yourself?"
He didn't answer, just stared into the glass as if the answer might be floating at the bottom.
She gave him a knowing look but didn't push. Instead, she turned to a small console embedded in the bar and tapped a few keys. A holographic menu flickered to life above the counter, its interface sleek and minimalist.
"Kitchen's still open," she said. "You want something? I've got that Terexian stew you like. Or the grilled synth-ribs."
Ethan's stomach growled at the mention of food, and he chuckled. "Stew sounds good."
Nara nodded, sending the order to the back. The faint hum of an automated kitchen unit kicking into gear buzzed from the other room.
He sat there for a while, sipping his drink, letting the low hum of conversation fill the empty spaces in his mind. The mercs in the corner were playing a card game, their laughter genuine, even if it was laced with exhaustion. The soldiers at the bar cheered when one of their own recounted a story of a lucky escape, clinking glasses in celebration of their survival.
Ethan watched it all, feeling oddly detached but also comforted. These people... they'd fought, bled, and lost, but they were still here. Still trying. Still living.
He didn't belong anywhere, not really. But sitting here, surrounded by people who understood what it meant to crawl out of the wreckage and keep going... maybe that was enough.
When Nara returned with his stew, she set the bowl down with a soft clink and slid a small, hand-carved pendant next to it. It was made of polished Kynaran stone, shaped like a bird in flight, the same symbol as her bar.
"Take it," she said, when he shot her a questioning look. "It's a charm. For protection."
He turned it over in his hand, feeling the smooth surface. "You know that doesn't actually do anything, right?"
Nara shrugged. "Maybe not. But it doesn't hurt to carry a piece of this place with you, either."
Ethan pocketed the pendant, nodding. "Thanks."
She smiled, tapping the bar with her fingers. "Don't mention it. Just try not to get yourself killed before you come back for another drink."
He smirked, raising his glass. "No promises."
And for the first time that day, the tension in his chest loosened just a little.