Drift Rats

The doors slid open with a hiss of tired hydraulics.

A wave of noise hit them first—shouting, laughter, the clatter of metal mugs on rusted tables, the growl of engines echoing from the hangar pits below. The air smelled of fuel, smoke, and cheap liquor.

Below the grated catwalk stretched Outpost K-77, a hollowed-out meteor colony that had long since outlived its original purpose—its hull still etched with the old runes miners carved for luck before they drifted into the void.

This was a den of thieves in the stars—a drifting hub for the unlawful and unwanted. Mercenaries, smugglers, bounty jumpers, and shipjackers packed the taverns that ringed the maintenance bays. The Anima were everywhere—fox-faced pilots with luminous eyes, scaled engineers with hydraulic tails, birdfolk traders arguing in shrill bursts of language. Humans were the minority here, though they carried themselves like they still ran the galaxy.

Then there were the Mers—Dunmer, Bosmer, Orcimer, and all the half-breeds in between, descendants of the world-seeds the Old Suns scattered before the First Exodus.

The colony was a melting pot of ash and bone: Dunmer with skin like cooled lava and eyes that caught the light like coals; Bosmer traders wrapped in hide, selling contraband grown from living wood; Orcimer mechanics with arms thick as pistons, arguing over fuel prices. You could tell who came from which world by the smell of their clothes and the scars on their hands.

Mythren walked ahead, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, his expression unreadable. The crowd parted around him like static around a signal—half from respect, half from habit.

Kade followed close behind, muttering as he tapped numbers onto a cracked handheld display.
“Should’ve got triple. That buyer fuckin’ lowballed us, I’m tellin’ you. Next time you try outrunnin’ the laws, try not doin’ like a damn stunt pilot—”

Myth wasn’t listening.

His eyes drifted over the crowd—faces lit by neon, arguments over cards, and a gun deal happening half-hidden by steam vents, the buyers whispering over a charm forged from a star-shard as if it could bless the bullets.

Then he bumped shoulders with someone. Solid. Deliberate.

The figure turned—a dark elf, taller than Myth, his expression carved from obsidian. Braided hair, high cheekbones, and eyes like volcanic glass. Beside him stood a woman with the same sharp lines, her features nearly identical except for the scar tracing her jaw.

They looked at him. Not with anger. Not with surprise. Just with that quiet, cutting recognition of what he was not.

Mythren met their gaze. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t bow. He just stood there, silent amid the noise.

After a long heartbeat, the woman exhaled sharply through her nose—a scoff, barely audible—and the two of them walked on, climbing the stairs toward the upper decks where the powerful crews drank.

Kade caught up, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Whoa. If looks could kill, you’d be spaced and buried. You know those two or somethin’?”

Mythren watched them go, his voice low.
“…Yeah.”

Kade blinked. “Wait—those two? The Vaelrin Twins? You’re telling me you know the fuckin’ twins. They’re the most wanted pirates in the sector. Some even say the brother’s gonna challenge Captain Halix for the Black Fleet throne soon. Wait—how the hell do you—?”

Mythren exhaled—cutting off Kade’s question.
“They’re my older brother and sister.”

Kade stopped walking. “You’re shitting me.”

Myth said nothing. The twins disappeared into the haze of the upper decks—into a world he no longer belonged to.

“They didn’t even say a word to you…” Kade murmured.

Mythren pulled his hood up. “They don’t know me. And they wouldn’t claim me until I make a name worth claiming.”

He started walking again, boots clanging on metal.
“No point talking to ghosts before you become one.”

Kade stood there a moment, staring after him. Then he followed.

Above them, the upper deck lights flickered—red, gold, gone. Somewhere in that darkness, the Twins drank to their next conquest, while Kade and Mythren shuffled through the crowd of street rats into the bar below.

The pub was dark and crowded, a half-sunken box of smoke and neon. Screens covered every wall, flickering with noise—race feeds, bounty notices, corporate news. The air was thick with voices, laughter, and the hum of faulty fans pushing recycled air.

Kade and Mythren sat at the far end of the bar, half-shadowed by the screen glare. Behind the counter, a ram-horned Anima woman worked a rag over a glass, her sleeves rolled high over strong arms. Her curls framed a face both tired and beautiful, the kind of beauty earned through years of telling drunk pirates to pay their tabs.

Her name was Dessa. She ran the place with the same authority as a ship captain.

Mythren swirled the amber liquid in his glass, gaze fixed upward. On the top level, through the mesh floor grating, he could see movement—his siblings, the Vaelrin Twins, laughing with their crew, toasting with raised cups. The sound of their celebration barely reached him, muffled by smoke and distance.

He didn’t join in. He didn’t even drink. Just watched, eyes unreadable.

Then Kade elbowed him hard, nearly spilling his glass.
“Hey—look at this!”

One of the overhead screens flashed with the news logo.

“Breaking report from the central colonies. The son of CEO Khi’larh Voss—Rylan Voss—was ship-jacked earlier today at a local maintenance bay. Authorities are searching for a young Duskborn male wearing a pilot suit. Witnesses claim he escaped aboard a Helios-class vessel.”

Kade barked a laugh and slapped Myth on the back again.
“Ha ha! Those corporate bigwigs are shittin’ themselves over one tiny fuckin’ Helios!”

Dessa turned toward them, raising her voice over the noise. “Not just any model, sweetheart—a StarCutter. Ain’t no run-of-the-mill ship. They’ve only made a hundred of those beauties, if that.”

Kade pointed at the screen, grinning wide. “That’s you, kiddo. You’re a right thorn in their side now.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the pub went still. The laughter, the noise—all of it dimmed into a low murmur. Eyes turned. Heads tilted. The glow of a dozen holo-screens flickered across faces now angled toward them.

Dessa froze mid-polish, eyes wide. “You?” she said, voice half disbelief, half awe. “You stole a StarCutter… and got here alive?”

Mythren’s jaw flexed. Heat crawled up his neck. He wished Kade would shut the hell up sometimes. All eyes were on him now, the air thick with unspoken calculation.

Then came the smoke—curling over the counter from behind them.

A large shape loomed through the haze: an Anima, fur black as engine soot, shoulders filling the aisle. The wolf-faced brute leaned in beside Myth, cigar glowing between his teeth, smoke snorting from his nostrils.

“Well now,” he rumbled, voice deep enough to vibrate the counter. “That’s one hell of a story.”

He grinned, showing teeth. “Tell me, kid—where’d you stash it?”

Mythren didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

The click of a safety release cut through the silence. The wolf had drawn his pistol—matte black, heavy caliber—and pressed the muzzle against Myth’s temple.

Kade reacted instantly, pulling a long-barreled revolver from beneath his coat.

“Easy Fido—Easy…”

But as he put his steal to the wolf, three other patrons—Anima and human alike—had already drawn weapons and aimed them his way.

He sighed in frustration. “Fuck me.”

The room teetered on a knife’s edge.

Dessa slammed her glass down and reached under the counter, pulling out a compact energy shotgun that hissed as it powered up. Her voice was thunder.
“You know the rules, Esha! You take your disputes outside—away from my customers!”

The wolf raised a free hand in mock surrender, though the gun at Myth’s head never wavered.
“No need for trouble, darlin’. Nobody’s gotta get hurt—as long as the boy tells the truth.”

He pressed harder. The barrel dug into Myth’s temple.

Myth didn’t flinch. His red eyes slid toward Esha, calm but burning.
“I didn’t steal it for myself, genius,” he said quietly. “It was for a client. Dropped it off. Got paid.”

Silence.

The bar seemed to hold its breath.

The wolf’s nostrils flared as he studied Myth, cigar smoke curling from his grin. Then his expression shifted, from amusement to something hungrier.

“Bullshit,” he growled—and shoved the pistol harder, forcing Myth’s head down toward the bar.

Esha’s finger wrapped tighter around his trigger. Kade’s jaw tightened. Every soul in the room leaned in, waiting to see who would fire first.

Then a voice cracked through the noise from above.
“OY!”

Every head turned.

A shape dropped from the catwalks—a blur of motion and coat—and slammed down hard on the bar. The impact shook the room, spilling drinks and rattling glass. Myth’s face hit the counter, the taste of copper and alcohol mixing on his tongue. A pair of boots landed on either side of his head with a thud, close enough for him to feel the vibration through his skull.

The bar went dead silent.

Through Myth’s half-lidded gaze, he saw the figure crouched above him—Kael Vaelrin, his brother.

A fuchsia ember burned at the end of the strange cigar hanging from Kael’s lips, its smoke curling upward in slow, shimmering trails. His eyes glowed faintly with the same hue, predatory and bored. The man didn’t just command attention—he bent it toward himself like gravity.

Esha stepped back, muzzle lowering by instinct. Even his size didn’t matter now. Not against him.

Kael’s gaze swept the room, lazy and cold. It moved from face to face, assessing, discarding—nothing here worth his attention. Not even the brother pinned beneath his boots.

He exhaled smoke, then hopped down from the bar, landing with a heavy thud.
“I swore I heard the lady say take it outside,” he said, voice smooth, almost amused. “Or maybe I’m mistaken.”

He took a few slow steps forward, grin widening.
“Hard to tell from all the squeaking…” His tone rose, sharp as a blade. “From all you FUCKING RATS!”

The shout hit like a shockwave. The crowd flinched as Kael closed the distance to Esha, stopping just short of his muzzle.

Then, just as quickly, he smiled again. Calm. Charming. Deadly.

“Now,” he said softly, arms wide, “does anyone know what tonight is?”

No one answered.

Kael’s grin spread wider. “It’s the anniversary of our dear Captain Halix—the Hunter himself. We pulled a score today to top it off, we did.” He nodded to himself, like agreeing with some private thought. “We’re havin’ a good day. That’s all I’m trying to convey here.”

A nervous laugh rippled through the room. Kael joined them, chuckling under his breath.
“And now,” he continued, “my dear Captain’s trying to enjoy a celebration in his honor… but you animals just don’t know when to shut the fuck up!”

His voice cracked like thunder. The silence that followed was absolute.

Myth pushed himself upright, rubbing his jaw.
“Thanks,” he muttered, stepping forward, one arm out between them, tapping Kael lightly on the arm. “But I can handle this on my own.”

Kael froze.

Something in him snapped like a cable under pressure. The smirk fell away. His lip twitched.

Then he grabbed a glass jar from the counter and smashed it across Myth’s head.

The sound was sharp and wet. Myth hit the floor, dazed, shards of glass glittering in his hair.

Kael loomed over him, eyes burning. “Don’t ever touch me again, fucking drift rat.”

He dropped the handle of the broken jar, straightened his jacket, and turned to Esha, who hadn’t dared to move. “We’re trying to enjoy ourselves tonight,” Kael said calmly, almost conversational. “It’s real important to us.”

He picked up a stool from the floor, tested its weight.
“SHOW SOME FUCKING RESPECT!”

Then he hurled it.

The stool shattered. Esha went down. Kael didn’t stop. He grabbed a splintered leg and swung until the bar echoed with the sound of bone and wood breaking.

The bar echoed with every hit. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the crunch and Kael’s breathing—ragged, wild, full of something too close to joy.

When it finally stopped, Kael stood there, chest heaving. Blood spattered his jacket, the splintered stick dangling from his fingers. He dropped it, exhaled, and straightened his collar again like nothing had happened.

His gaze found one of the barmaids. She froze.
“Don’t you fucking clean?” he snarled. “Clean this the fuck up, would you.”

He stepped over Esha’s broken body, boots leaving dark prints on the floor, and walked out—back toward the stairs, toward the upper decks.

The silence left in his wake was suffocating.

Myth stayed on the floor for a long moment, the side of his face slick with blood and whiskey. The only thing he could hear was the soft hum of the newsfeed still running above them.

Rylan Voss—heir to the Voss Corporation—Ship missing.

Mythren exhaled, the copper taste still on his tongue.
For the first time in a long while, he felt something close to shame.

The alley behind the pub reeked of oil and rain. Neon from the upper decks leaked down in streaks of red and blue, painting the puddles like bruises.

Mythren sat on a rusted crate, a rag pressed to the side of his face where the bottle had split skin and pride alike. Blood ran through the white filigree tattoo on his cheek, turning the pattern into something jagged and raw.

Dessa knelt beside him, the soft clink of glass vials in her apron the only sound. She dabbed at the wound with practiced hands.
“Hold still, kid. You’re lucky he missed your eye.”

Myth hissed as the antiseptic bit deep. “Feels like he didn’t.”

She gave a small, crooked smile. “You’ve got eyes on you now, you know that? The law’ll want to hang you, the pirates’ll want to gut you, and the smart ones’ll just want what you’ve got. Fame don’t come free out here.”

He didn’t answer. He just watched the rain slide down the metal wall opposite him, the neon trembling inside every drop.

Dessa tied off a strip of synth-cloth and stepped back to admire her work. “There. Try not to open it back up.” She wiped her hands on a towel, hesitated, then added quietly, “Be careful out there, Mythren. You’re starting to make waves—and waves get people drowned.”

When she left, the door sighed shut behind her, leaving him alone with the hum of distant engines. He pressed the ice pack to his cheek and exhaled, slow and shaky. Why did his first real meeting with Kael have to end like that? He’d waited years to see his brother again. Now he wished he hadn’t.”

Shorter, but heavier.Footsteps clicked across the puddles—heels. Myth looked up. A tall silhouette stepped from the shadows: white hair, eyes like tempered glass. Veyra Vaelrin.

He froze. Part fear, part disbelief. If Kael was fury, she was the calm that followed—the kind that still carried thunder.

She stopped in front of him, studying his face. Without a word, she caught his chin and turned it, inspecting the cut.

“Ow, ow—hey,” Myth muttered, pulling back. “What’s your deal, lady?”

She sighed through her nose, the sound halfway between annoyance and amusement. “Yeah. He got you pretty good.”

Myth pressed the ice pack back in place, avoiding her eyes. “It’s nothing. I’ll live.”

Veyra folded her arms, gaze drifting upward to the freighters crawling across the sky. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s my brother.” A beat. “Believe it or not, that was his version of diplomacy.”

Myth snorted. “Yeah, well… A fuckin’ plus for effort.”

That earned a laugh—soft, unexpected. She covered her mouth, eyes bright for a heartbeat. Myth found himself smiling despite everything. Up close, she didn’t look like the monster the stories painted—just tired, sharp, and more Mer than monster.

“Anyway,” she said, tone easing, “I came to apologize. No hard feelings, yeah?”

He finally met her eyes. They were steady, genuine. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “No hard feelings.”

“Stellar.” She turned to leave, then paused. “By the way… you’re the one who made off with that StarCutter, right?”

Myth blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. That was me. You gonna put a blaster to my head about it too?”

She chuckled. “You’re funny, kid—you know that?”

He smirked faintly. “Headlinin’ all over this sector, you should come check me out sometime.”

Her eyes widened, amused. For a moment, she almost believed him. Then she laughed into her hand again. “Who are you, StarCutter thief?”

He almost moved to tell her. The truth sat right there, heavy on his tongue—I’m your brother. But the thought of Kael’s voice, Kael’s boots slamming beside his head, stopped him cold.

He looked away. “I’m nobody,” he said. “Just a lowly drift rat.”

Veyra smiled at that, a hint of something sad behind it. “Strong, silent type, huh? I respect it.” She started toward the alley mouth, neon glinting off the curve of her blade holster. “Guess I’ll see you around… drift rat.”

She raised a hand in a lazy wave and disappeared into the light.

Myth watched her go. Above, freighters crossed the sky, their engines carving trails through the stars—thin, burning lines that cut the darkness in half.

He sat there a while longer, listening to the rain—each drop tapping the rhythm spacers call “the Pulse,” said to be the heartbeat of the first world. Then he stood, pulled his hood over his head, and walked into the night.

Chapter End—