I was leaning against the tiled platform wall at Metro Station TND, dressed in my new threads and sporting an admittedly much-needed new pair of boots. The station, one of Bay City Metro’s few underground stops, was alive with movement. People poured out of the trains, streaming up the wide, rounded stairwell into the heart of the Neon District. The walls were plastered with posters advertising upcoming events, drink specials, subspace streamers, and other enticements ranging from mildly scandalous to outright debaucherous.
At the top of the stairs, a holomatrix emitter displayed a glowing map of the district, highlighting open clubs and venues. Tourists huddled around it, some staring intently as they tried to mentally navigate their way, while others synced it to their optics, pretending to walk an indirect route that totally didn’t lead to Topcat’s.
I slipped a joint between my lips, my eyes darting impatiently at the departing train. Rachel, as usual, was late—about as reliable as a two-credit alarm clock. I shook my head and lit the end of my spliff, taking a deep drag.
Just as I thought I might get lucky and ditch her altogether, she emerged from a train car wearing a black cocktail dress with a red jacket, fishnets, and black pumps. Her hair, once a disheveled mess, was now styled into her usual shoulder-length layered cut, like a phoenix from the ashes.
I gave her an approving nod. “Damn. Had no idea you still knew how to dress. Here I was thinking you were married to the pantsuit look. All jokes aside, you look good.”
“Back at ya, sis.” she said with a smirk as we started our ascent up the stairwell. “I like your fit. Wish I could pull off that classy cosmic beatnik thing you’ve got going.”
I glanced down at my outfit: black high-waisted bell bottoms, a maroon satin blouse, and my trusty wide-brimmed hat. I smiled, thinking she had her styles confused, but I appreciated the compliment nonetheless. “Thanks, Chel.”
At the top of the stairs, I stopped to peer at the holographic map of the district. The orange glow highlighted the route of Club Aerialia and pinpointed its current pick-up location.
“They’ll be here in the center of the district for about 45 more minutes,” Rachel said, glancing at the map before taking the lead. “Let’s shake a leg, eh, Lawrence?”
I followed her into the chaos of the Neon District, the pulsating energy of the city pulling us toward whatever madness awaited.
We wove our way through a sea of brightly dressed degenerates, all pregaming on their way to whatever venue had caught their attention. The ground was littered with empty tosh cartridges, shooters, and doob tubes, a testament to the debauchery in full swing. Sweeper drones, each marked with the Bay City Sanitation insignia, scurried between the throngs like mechanical mice, expertly avoiding drunken feet as they shoved the trash into hidden wall slots connected to a central vacuuming system.
“What a great idea~” I muttered, impressed, as I pulled out an atomizer filled with Grape ChryBmb Cosmitosh. Giving it a shake, I felt the lukewarm solution swirl inside the canister. “Pre-game?” I offered, holding it out to Rachel.
She was mid-stride, fine-tuning her eyeliner wing with a compact mirror while expertly navigating the crowd. (I love this crazy cunt.)
“Do Harvaxi always use their plumage as a conversation starter?!” she asked, starry-eyed, while eyeing my atomizer.
“Only if you’re dumb enough to call it ‘feathers’ to their face,” I replied, handing it over.
Without breaking her stride, she snapped her compact shut and, with a sharp hiss, noz-binged the hell out of my atomizer. She handed it back, leaving me just enough for a small hit—not that I cared. I had a few spare canisters stashed in my back pocket.
We stepped out from beneath a stretch of scaffolding into the full glow of the Neon District. The entire street was illuminated in brilliant, kaleidoscopic hues so vibrant you’d think it was daytime—if you didn’t bother to check the time. The F.M. League organizers clearly had the Mayor-Captain’s ear; Bay City was in perfect symmetrical orbit with the small blue-and-green tropical planet, Beldasia Omega. Its rings glistened under starlight, casting a faint glow on the oceans below. The planet’s backdrop, paired with the district’s pulsating, Saturnalian energy, was breathtaking.
Rachel exhaled a plume of haze from her nose, her eyes glassy from the hit. “Tell me,” she asked, voice dreamy, “why do we always seem to pre-game at the weirdest spots in the galaxy?”
I grinned, taking the atomizer from her hand and responding cheekily, “Because we have taste. And because the Neon District doesn’t deserve us sober.” I said taking the last rip, feeling my head fuzz up ever so slightly from the small hit.
“Can't argue with that,” she shrugged.
That’s when we spotted it: the rigid airship perched atop one of the organizers’ pick-up points, its imposing frame glowing in vibrant green neon. The entire exterior pulsed with energy, a beacon above the bustling district.
Dual holomatrix displays adorned either side of the airship, showcasing the club’s logo in bold, dazzling intervals. Every so often, the display would shimmer or transform into a virtual trap door. Through the illusion, you could catch a glimpse of the club’s interior—beams of light spilling outward as though the logo itself were a portal. Occasionally, a pair of brown eyes would appear, peeking out from the trap door before winking and “closing” it again. That little show was a signature signal: Verrick El-najjar, the big cheese who owned the place, will be on decks at some point tonight.
Back in the day, all you had to do to get aboard was step into the tractor beam tube and let it pull you up into the floating rave. But clearly, things had changed since my last visit—probably thanks to some drunken jackass ruining it for the rest of us. Someone always had to push the limits, and now there was probably some overly-complicated process to make sure no one got accidently “beamed” while drunk or high out of their minds.
We approached the entry, strutting like we owned the place. The bouncers clocked us immediately and, to my surprise, waved us right through. No ID checks, no hassle. Weird. But the tosh had fully kicked in by then, melting away any hesitation in my step before I even noticed.
The green velvet ropes dropped onto the platform as Rachel and I reached the center. One of the bouncers gave us a thumbs-up as we, along with a few other patrons, began to ascend gently upward in the tractor beam.
To my left, a woman was caught in a spinning tumble, desperately trying to maintain some modesty with a dress that clearly wasn’t designed for vertical transportation. She was failing spectacularly. “So glad I didn’t wear that skirt,” I muttered under my breath, stifling a laugh.
As everyone else stayed busy gawking at her impromptu trapeze act, I turned my attention to the view outside the beam. We drifted past rooftops and towering neon signs that loomed massive compared to their street-level perspective. The colossal Chunky Samurai sign, complete with its bushido-sumo mascot, bathed our section of the beam in a fiery red glow.
The faint thump of subwoofers grew louder and more distinct as we rose. By the time we reached the airship’s platform, the bass was a palpable vibration in the air. A bouncer reached out a hand to help us aboard.
“Welcome back to the Airship of Bass, Ms. Vincent,” he said smoothly, flashing Rachel a professional smile. “As always, first round’s on the house.”
I arched a brow at the treatment she was getting, my curiosity piqued. But before I could ask, the bouncer led us to a VIP booth—the kind of spot that screams, Great idea for a group, until you see the bill and wonder why you didn’t just opt for ass-crack-of-dawn waffles with your squad instead.
As I took my seat, I gazed around the club, a kaleidoscope of lighting systems and surreal visuals assaulting my senses. The airship’s frame was adorned with massive glowing Tesla coils that synced perfectly with the beat, crackling to life in bursts of holographic energy. Eight holomatrix emitters projected the vivid green sparks and arcs that danced across the club, giving the illusion that the coils were powering the entire place—or at least making it look that way.
Holographic go-go dancers shimmered on platforms, their movements creating a parallax effect that made them appear like windows into animated, emerald-tinged psychedelic patterns. The visuals pulsed perfectly in time with the thumping tech house mix the DJ was spinning, turning the entire club into an electrified, immersive fever dream.
The space was divided into three distinct layers. The main floor was a sprawling dance pit, alive with writhing bodies and syncopated lights. Above that, the lounge housed pool tables and other pub games, offering a slightly calmer reprieve for those needing to recharge. Finally, the catwalks and balconies towered above it all, providing an aerial view of the chaos below.
Each level boasted a fully stocked bar manned by mixologists so skilled, you’d swear they could make old Dino himself rise from the dead for a drink. I half-expected to hear his smooth crooner baritone belting out Sway at any moment, serenading the masses while they sipped their overpriced cocktails.
“I’ll get our first round. Be right back,” Rachel said, bobbing her head to the infectious mix thumping through the club. She tailed off toward the bar, leaving me to sink back into my seat.
Across the dance floor, another VIP booth caught my eye. A group of patrons was toshing it up with an atomizer, handed to them by a bouncer who grinned like it was part of the premium package. Taking that as my cue, I pulled out my own atomizer and loaded up a mango cartridge.
With a click and a soft hiss, I primed it and noz-binged half the cartridge in one go. “Mango fabuloso~…” I cooed, the rush hitting me like a tidal wave. The club’s visuals began to trail, and the beat of the music became infectious, sinking into my very bones. Before I knew it, I was bobbing along, completely entranced. The dance floor transformed before my eyes into a surreal garden party—a kaleidoscope of oversized flora and fauna.
And someone was giving booze to these fucking things! “Holy shit, look at the size o—”
“Here.” Rachel shoved a Saivereki Ale in my face, cutting me off mid-exclamation.
Grabbing it, I looked up, blinking as the dance floor snapped back to its usual state—just a sea of gyrating people again. But the lingering effects of the music and the tosh left me buzzing.
“Thanks, Chel! Cheers!” I grinned.
“Cheers!” she replied. We clinked glasses and took a hearty swig of the creamy Strexian brew.
That’s when I felt something wedged between the cushions of the VIP couch.
Now, any sane person knows not to go digging around in club couch cushions unless you want to discover just how often they’re cleaned. But curiosity got the better of me. My fingers brushed something small, and I pulled it out—a matchbox.
“So what?” you might say. “Big deal. You’ve got a cigar box full of them at home.”
But this one? This one had a mid-20th-century-style logo emblazoned across the front, boldly proclaiming: The Casino @ The Edge of Existence. It even had a depiction of a Class 8 space station designed like a poker table.
Did I really just stumble across a piece of fucking memorabilia here, of all places? Possible proof of its existence? It was stupid, sure—but I’d be just as stupid to ignore it.
I turned to show Rachel, but she was gone. All that remained was a Rachel-shaped outline where she and her drink had once been.
Scanning the room, I spotted the back of a head I instantly recognized: Verrick El-Najjar, the enigmatic enby who ran the entire venue. They were mingling with the crowd on the ground floor, toasting with regular patrons while weaving through groups like a conductor directing the symphony of chaos.
Staff members leaned in constantly, whispering things in their ear, but Verrick waved them off with an effortless charm. VIP booth patrons clamored for their attention, but the most they got was a polite wave. A club owner who wasn’t above sharing a drink with the average crowd, rather than exclusively catering to the rich assholes dropping fifty grand on a VIP booth? Now that’s class.
There was something magnetic about their energy, even from afar. I felt an urge to march right over and introduce myself—though I’d have to scour subspace on my optics first for a solid icebreaker. No way was I risking embarrassing myself in front of them.
Finally, I spotted Rachel again. She was at the DJ booth, whispering something to the DJ on deck. A grin spread across the DJ’s face before they handed over the controls and disappeared into the crowd.
That’s when I saw it: Rachel pulling her optics out of her pocket, setting them on the deck’s holo-access pad.
The turntables and mixer immediately reconfigured to her custom settings.
“Holy fuck,” I muttered, my jaw dropping. “The return of DJ Chel in a Cell.”
Right then, the club was swallowed by a deafening silence as the previous DJ’s mix faded out. A round of applause erupted, and the DJ—now posted at the bar—raised their drink with a satisfied smile.
Slowly, the sound of a classic deep house e-piano whirred into existence, a pulsating beat setting the vibe. My mind flashed back to the last time I saw Chel in a Cell perform, back at The Alto Lounge in Ginsburg Square on Titan. That night, she transformed a room full of jazz purists into house music fanatics with a perfectly crafted jazz-house mix that even the snobbiest sax nerds couldn’t resist.
Had Rachel not been so damn good at arguing, she might’ve had a promising career as a house DJ.
Finally, the beat dropped. The crowd roared in unison, a wave of movement sweeping across the dance floor. Strangers became silhouettes, their bodies moving as one to Rachel’s hypnotic rhythm. Even Verrick, usually so composed, nodded along with a grin.
“Candied-nose queen of the courtroom by day, Tosh-fiend master of the decks by night,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Who’d’ve thought?”
Fuck.
Chel had the audacity. The tosh was good. The vibes were immaculate. And now I had a clue in the form of a slightly yellowed matchbook that almost certainly came from a casino.
I sighed, channeling the spirit of that Nostrotorian sleeze Leon.
“A la chamba, carajo!” I said, my accent horrifically butchered.
I was off.
Here was my line of thinking: We were close to Autonomous Frontier Space, prime territory for folks who might’ve taken their chances on the casino. It was still early enough in the night that people weren’t completely obliterated, meaning coherent answers were still a possibility.
But I’d have to tread carefully.
Clubbers weren’t exactly accustomed to being badgered by the press. Fortunately, I’m not your average journalist. No stupid little photography drone following me around. No generic, Quantum Pulse Network-branded holopad to take notes on.
I work with the same two tools I’ve always used: my optics and my trusty Smith-Corona typewriter, which never leaves Gonzo. (If I’m being honest, though, that beautiful piece of mechanical engineering is showing its age. After a century and a half of scribing the musings of writers—many probably far more talented than I—it’s finally starting to feel the strain. If you’re on Titan and know how to repair antique mechanical devices, send some subspace correspondence my way, care of Quantum Post Network HQ in Ginsburg Square.)
As far as these folks were concerned, I was just an overly friendly tosh fiend, always willing to share in exchange for a good conversation. After all, people will tell you everything if they don’t think you’re listening too hard.
I sidled up to one of the mixologists, striking up a casual chat. After some small talk, I pressed him about the casino.
“My buddy,” he said as he worked, his tone dropping to something darker, “a talented but foolhardy explorer, went looking for it. Came back a husk of himself. Stripped of his voice and identity. In writing, he told us he saw things no one should ever see.”
I leaned in, intrigued. “Like what?”
The mixologist’s hands paused mid-pour, his expression shifting to something akin to terror. “Whenever he tried to write it down, he’d either spasm into scribbles or bash the keypad with a silent scream. Whatever’s over there… it’s bad news.”
He slid a glass across the counter, setting it down on a coaster in front of me. The drink was dark purple, the rim crowned with a flaming sprig of thyme.
“Here we are—Stellar Distortion,” he said.
I picked it up, curious as to what he thought my vibe tasted like. The thyme’s smoke hit my nostrils first, earthy and aromatic, before the drink hit my tongue. Immediately, notes of mezcal, absinthe, blackcurrant, lime—and something else I couldn’t place—flooded my senses. I raised an eyebrow.
“Wait. Is that… lavender?” I asked, taking another sip.
The mixologist nodded.
“Well,” I said, savoring the next taste, “this is a fuckin’ vibe. It’s like drinking the aftermath of a really good bad decision.”
He smirked as I continued. “And then there’s this sharp bite—lime, right? Feels like it’s telling me, ‘Get your shit together, Lawrence.’ But then the absinthe kicks in, and suddenly, I don’t give a shit about getting it together anymore.”
I tapped my optic ring, tipping him 2,000 G//C.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice lightening. “If you want me to freshen that drink up, just let me know. Name’s Sven.”
“Thanks, Sven,” I said, raising my glass in acknowledgment before moving on to the next person.
“The casino? Psh, that’s just a metaphor wrapped in a tall tale,” a Harvaxi woman said, her tone dismissive as she adjusted and preened the vibrant plumage-like hair crowning her head.
“How do you figure that?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Easy,” she replied, smoothing a feather-like strand into place. “The stories about the casino only started popping up when humanity entered the galactic community. Pair that with the rampant rise in free-market economies across the galaxy, and the arrival of hyper-capitalists from that same universe forsaken planet” She clicked her tongue. “The casino is definitely a metaphor. It’s a cautionary tale about greed, ambition, and the endless cycle of exploitation. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was cooked up by some human executive in a boardroom somewhere, scheming ways to divide the lower classes and keep them obedient to the upper crust.”
I took a slow sip of my Stellar Distortion, mulling over her words. It was a very logical way of thinking about it—pragmatic, even.
I went to take another sip of my drink, only to realize I’d already drained the whole glass. With a small sigh of disappointment, I nodded a farewell to the avian preening in a wall mirror. She seemed entirely uninterested, as though I hadn’t been there asking questions to begin with.
Remembering Sven’s promise of a top-off, I made my way back to the lounge’s bar. As I approached, I caught the shadowy silhouette of Verrick standing on the balcony above, overseeing the venue like an androgynous Jay Gatsby. For a moment, I thought it was the tosh messing with me, but I could’ve sworn they were looking right in my direction.
Breaking my gaze, I turned to Sven, who was already poised with bottles of mezcal and absinthe in hand.
“Freshen up your drink, Tracy?” he asked with a grin.
“Yeah,” I replied, glancing back up at the balcony—only to find Verrick had vanished. I arched a brow and looked back to Sven. That’s when I noticed Verrick standing behind the bar, right next to him.
They gave me a warm, knowing smile and placed a hand on Sven’s shoulder. Their voice was as smooth as the beat reverberating through the club. “Sven, darling, go ahead and take that break. I’ll handle our guest’s refreshments.”
Sven nodded, stepping back from the cocktail station with a small bow. “Of course, Mx. El-Najjar. Thank you.” With that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving me face-to-face with the head honcho of the club, themselves.
Verrick was a masterpiece of Enby Elegance. Their layered platinum hair, shimmered under the club’s UV lighting. They wore sheer tights and a black bodysuit accentuated with a green harness, topped by a crisp white suit jacket with black trim. Every detail was intentional, effortless, and flawless.
They tossed ice cubes into the cocktail shaker with practiced ease, flashing me a sly smile. “Ms. Lawrence, you don’t strike me as the type of woman to wait for the mountain to come to her.”
I was caught off guard by the comment, pleasantly surprised. “Funny,” I said, leaning on the bar, “when I saw your face on the side of the venue, I didn’t expect you to be such an enby of the people. And yet here we are.” I gestured to them shaking the cocktail. “Not above mixing a drink for—not even a regular—patron.”
Verrick shrugged, a small, graceful motion. “Of course not. These are my people. The adventurers, the dreamers, the dancers, the artists, the writers~” Their eyes sparkled with amusement as they pulled out a physical print edition of my story on the 2096 Skate-Headz Invitational and held it up for me to see.
Fuck. Looks like I’ve been found out.
“Romantics,” Verrick mused, pouring mezcal and absinthe into two glasses, their hands steady and deliberate. They set the drinks ablaze with a sprig of thyme, the flames licking upward briefly before settling into a smolder.
“Much better company than the high rollers in those VIP booths, I’d imagine,” I said, watching as they slid one of the glasses toward me.
Verrick raised their own glass, giving me a look that seemed to say, You have no idea.
“To the Romantics of the Void,” they said, their voice low and intimate.
“I'll drink to that, Cheers.” I replied, lifting my glass and clinking it against theirs.
We both sipped the drink, Verrick tilting their head slightly as though pleasantly surprised—like they weren’t the one who’d just made it.
“So, this is what Sven thinks of your vibe, huh~?” they mused, swirling the cocktail in their glass. “A bold spirit with unwavering curiosity.” They took another sip, pausing as if to analyze it further.
“Alluring,” they continued, “but potentially dangerous.”
Wow. Sven thinks I’m dangerous. The guy really knows how to butter a gal up.
Verrick set their drink down, their gaze briefly sweeping the room. “But the best sorts are,” they said, their tone firm but playful. “There’s almost nothing interesting about those who take the road most traveled. Like those so-called elites still in their boardroom suits down there, pining for my attention just so they can brag about knowing me.”
“A vast departure from your fellow promoters and venue owners, I must say,” I remarked, taking another swig of my Stellar Distortion. “Most of them seem to bend over backward for those corporate windbags just because they dropped over 100k credits. From what I’ve observed, you treat it like the moron tax it is and give them little to no exclusivity.”
Verrick chuckled, their expression somewhere between amused and approving. “Exclusivity is a currency, Ms. Lawrence. And, like most currencies, it devalues when spent frivolously. I’d rather invest in the collective—the heartbeat of the club.”
With that, they hopped effortlessly over the bartop, their movement smooth and practiced, and strolled toward the railing overlooking the dance floor. Below, a kaleidoscope of people swayed and spun to Chel in a Cell’s hypnotic mix, their bodies moving in perfect harmony with the beat.
“That’s where the magic happens,” Verrick said, gesturing to the vibrant, swirling crowd. “Not in some velvet-lined booth.”
They made sense. Despite looking about my age, it was easy to tell Verrick was much older than they appeared—wise beyond their years. A common trait among Starchildren.
“So, had you always been into the club scene, or did you have a different career in mind?” I asked, genuinely curious. Most of the time, club owner stories were cookie-cutter. Rich kid gets really into club culture during their time at Bay City University, starts neglecting their classes to run promo gigs or whatever grunt work their promoter mentors threw their way. Eventually, they gain enough sway to open their own venue, usually financed by—you guessed it—their corpo parents.
But Verrick? They didn’t fit the mold.
“No,” they said, their tone thoughtful. “I wanted to be an astronaut. An adventurer, like in those old stories. And for a very long time, I was.”
They leaned against the railing, their gaze drifting over the crowd below. “I explored and charted the AFS back when the AFS still included the Beldasian system.”
Fuck me, I thought, trying to keep my composure. I was right.
If anyone was going to know anything about the casino, it was an old AFS astronaut like Verrick. I saw my chance and prepared to press further.
“So, I imagine you’re aware of The Casino at the Edge of Existence,” I said, trying to sound casual, though my curiosity practically burned through the words.
Verrick gave me a knowing look, one that sent a shiver up my spine. “I had a feeling you were going to ask me that.”
They reached into the interior breast pocket of their suit jacket and pulled out an etched cigarette case, retrieving a joint wrapped in green rolling paper. Placing it between their lips, they spoke around it, their voice low and deliberate.
“I’m more than aware of it. Unlike the idiotic popularity game here in the Neon District, out there, it’s not about status or influence. It’s about survival—and curiosity. When I started out, I was chasing answers. And when I heard the legend of the casino, I had to find out if it was horseshit or not. I searched for months, thinking I’d uncover something profound.”
They flicked open a gold side-slide lighter and lit the joint with a practiced swipe, taking a deep drag before continuing. “What I found wasn’t answers. It was a void, warped space twisting reality into something unrecognizable. Starlight flickered like a failing holo display, and for the first time in my life, I felt utterly small. And I wasn’t alone“
They passed the joint to me, and I took it, hands shaking slightly.
“So it exists?” I asked, taking a cautious hit.
“That’s right.”
I was floored—a shred of confirmation, and from someone as credible as Verrick, no less.
“So did you press on? Did you go inside?” I asked, my words tumbling out in my excitement as I handed the joint back.
Verrick shook their head. “No. I turned back almost immediately.”
“You what?!” I exclaimed, incredulous.
They exhaled a plume of smoke, calm and measured. “It wasn’t fear that turned me back—it was knowing I wasn’t ready for it.”
I frowned, leaning forward. “Not to question your cosmic wisdom, but you don’t strike me as the type to walk away from a mystery.”
A faint smile tugged at Verrick’s lips as they held the joint between their fingers. “Let me put it this way: some doors shouldn’t be opened until you’re certain you can handle what’s on the other side. And I wasn’t. Not then. Not now.”
They leaned in slightly, their voice dropping lower. “What really got me wasn’t the anomaly itself. It was the comm channels. Active comms near the casino. I intercepted them. They were scrambled beyond any known decryption.”
“That doesn’t happen naturally in deep space,” I murmured, my breath catching.
“Exactly,” they said, locking eyes with me. “Something—or someone—was trying to communicate. But the signals weren’t meant for me. They weren’t meant for anyone.”
I opened my mouth to press further, my hunger for details threatening to spill over, but Verrick held up a hand, stopping me mid-thought.
“Before you ask, no—I don’t know who or what was out there. All I know is that it’s real. And it’s not just a casino. It’s something more.”
As their words hung in the air, DJ Chel in a Cell finished her set, the club erupting into applause. Club patrons, their optics aglow, began sending out AR snowflakes toward the DJ stand like flying confetti—a quintessential Neon District stamp of approval.
“You just witnessed the return of a DJ who’s been on a five-year hiatus,” I mentioned casually, finishing off my drink.
Verrick raised their eyebrows, giving a side nod of impressed approval. “I had no idea she’d DJed before. I figured it was some recent secret hobby she’d stashed away and told no one about.”
It struck me that now might be the time to ask. “So, you know my attorney-slash-ride-or-die?”
“Know her? Pshh, I hired her. I’m a client. She saved my ass when the Imperium tried to arrest me for allegedly coercing one of their officers into debauchery.”
I blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all,” Verrick said, their tone calm but amused. “Because of her, I wasn’t extradited to a Legusian forced labor camp.”
Fuck me. I remembered that incident. It was all over subspace: the Imperium’s attempt to make an example out of Verrick after one of their officers decided, for one glorious night, they didn’t want to be a fascist anymore. Video surfaced of the officer doing a keg stand and tearing it up on the dance floor, and the Imperium lost their damned minds. They immediately put in an extradition request, framing it as a breach of discipline instead of what it really was—a chance to punish someone for offering one of their own a taste of freedom.
It still blows my mind how the galaxy’s major governments let the Imperium push them around. All to avoid trade embargoes, since most exotic matter mines are on Legusian claims. Literal fascists dictating policy. Talk about selling out.
Rachel had made her way up to us, her energy buzzing. “Did you see me, Lawrence?! Am I gonna show up in your writing, or what?” she asked, clearly riding the high of tosh and whatever nose candy had been passed her way.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said with a smirk. “I’ll make you more than a footnote if you pay for a cab back to the Historical District.”
She nodded enthusiastically, gathering her handbag.
Verrick smiled at us both, their expression warm and genuine. “Farewell, Tracy and Rachel. You’re fiery spirits who can’t—and won’t—be held down. Never change that.”
“Thanks, Verrick. I appreciate everything you’ve told me,” I said sincerely.
They nodded, their tone turning thoughtful. “Remember, in the AFS, things aren’t always as they seem. Face value and such.”
With a wave, Verrick turned their attention to an employee who had approached with a wooden case. They opened it to reveal a sleek pair of studio headphones. It seemed the monarch of the zeppelin rave was about to take the decks themselves. Too bad we weren’t sticking around to see it.
Rachel and I made our way back down the tractor beam and onto the streets below, now quieter than they’d been earlier in the night. Rachel kicked off her pumps, holding them by the heels in her left hand as we walked.
My optics suddenly lit up with a subspace correspondence. Attached were tickets and pit lane passes to the F.M. Grand Prix. At first, I assumed The Pulse had sent it, but something was off—there was no press pass included, and the subspace address didn’t match anyone in my contacts.
“Huh,” I muttered, stopping in my tracks. “I just got tickets and pit lane passes to the Grand Prix… from someone who isn’t in my contacts.”
Rachel, leaning against a wall in a daze, glanced at me. “Maybe it was The Pulse, wanting you to do some coverage while you’re here,” she suggested lazily.
“I thought the same thing, but there’s no press pass,” I replied, scrolling through the attached message.
“It’s from an F.M. racing team,” I added after a moment of reading.
Rachel snorted, suddenly laughing. “Which F.M. League team have you been cozying up to? Let me guess—a team of butch gals in fitted leather?”
I turned my head slowly, arching a brow. “First of all, that’s not even my type. Second, I know exactly who sent it.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense—who?”
I stared at the message again, a photo of the senders now floating in my periphery. A group of familiar faces stared back at me, all wearing oil-stained team coveralls. Cassiopeia and Gemini stood out in their racing flight suits, adorned with pictograms of moons and stars, Joyriderz inscribed on their lapels.
“The Joyriders,” I said, a grin spreading across my face. “I met them at the start of my journey. Turns out, they’re an F.M. Racing team.”
Hey Tracy~
I hope this message finds you well. I want to thank you for helping tow the Void Sailer to Bay City. As a thank-you, we’d like to give you these tickets and pit lane passes. You can get a glimpse of what it’s like to be in an F.M. pit crew!
Your friend,
Cassiopeia
Team Captain of Joyriderz FMC