Lucky Rabbit’s Foot

[3 days later]

The lower bands of The Stack clung to the world like scaffolding that had forgotten its purpose. Built in layered rings around a scarred, over-mined planet, the station thrived on movement—cargo, labor, credits—and ate the ones who couldn’t pay their debts. Most people were passing through on their way to somewhere better, while the wealthy stayed above, close to vacuum and glass. It wasn’t a slum—not officially. It was a commerce zone. A place where debts were worked off, identities blurred, and the unwanted were tolerated.

The gravity chamber hummed softly as it rotated, bolted into a room that felt more like a bunker than a studio. The walls were layered in overlapping street art—neon glyphs, crude murals, half-faded tags—sprayed over old impact scarring and exposed conduit, color bleeding into color with no clear order. Sleek medical-grade machinery threaded through the chaos on ceiling rails and floor mounts, polished chrome and cold light clashing hard against the grime, as if high-end tech had been forced to survive in a place that hated it.

Myth floated at its center, suspended in a loose cradle of counter-gravity while articulated arms worked over his side with mechanical patience. Needles buzzed in tight, precise bursts—too fast to count, too deliberate to rush.

“Arrrgh… FUCK,” Myth muttered through clenched teeth. “Do you have to keep hitting that spot?”

The tattooist didn’t look up from his console. He sat reclined in a worn chair, boots hooked under a rail, one hand lazily adjusting depth and pressure as the chamber turned Myth another few degrees.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Or else why would I? Hold still.”

The machine bit deeper. Myth hissed, jaw tightening as white heat lanced across his ribs. The design bloomed beneath the surface—white curving lines, flowing filigree that matched the tattoo on his neck and jawline.

“Admit it—you enjoy the suffering,” Myth said.

The artist snorted, glancing at another floating screen, lifting two glowing fingers to rotate Myth just a bit more. “No. You do. Paid me to do this, remember?”

The arms retracted with a soft click. The chamber slowed, then released him gently to the deck.

“All done,” the tattooist said. “Skin’s already healed up. It’ll be a bit sore though. Just don’t get blasted anytime soon.”

Myth rolled his shoulder, wincing as gravity reclaimed him. “No promises.”

He pulled his jacket back on and took one last look around the room. “How’d you even get the permits for all this shit?”

The artist never looked up as he started the reset on the machine. “Permits?”

Myth thought about it as he opened the door, then smiled. “Right. See you ’round.”

“Lock it on the way out, would ya?” The artist waved a hand as Myth stepped out into the street.

The market was already alive—fabric canopies snapping in the artificial breeze, vendors calling out in half a dozen languages, steam rising from food carts and coolant vents alike. Color everywhere. Noise everywhere. Normal.

Myth adjusted his jacket, fingers brushing the fresh ink beneath. Still sore. But then…

Something felt… off.

He couldn’t place it. No alarms. No sudden silence. The crowd flowed the way it always did.

Then his right side went hot.

Burning.

Air screamed—like a pulse engine hurtling right at him.

For a single heartbeat, the world stalled.

A metal leg shaped like a rabbit’s foot hung inches from his face—sleek plating, compressed air flaring white-blue from vents along the calf. No windup. No shadow. Just there, frozen mid-execution, momentum coiled tight enough to shatter bone.

Instinct took over.

Myth twisted.

Time slammed back into place.

The kick missed his head by centimeters and detonated into the pavement behind him. Concrete burst apart in a violent bloom of dust and debris, the shockwave knocking vendors off their feet and tearing a crater a few feet from where he’d been standing.

Myth hit the ground hard, rolled, came up coughing—and saw her through the settling dust.

Rabbit ears. Helmet. A bodysuit with enhanced leg augments.

He knew of only one person that used that kind of tech, and she wasn’t the type you waited around for.

Vire the bounty hunter.

He didn’t know why she’d just tried to take his head off, but it was clear he was a target.

He didn’t wait to confirm it.

Myth was already moving as the dust finished falling.

He cut hard into the crowd, shoulder-checking past startled vendors and wide-eyed bystanders, boots slamming against uneven plating as the market swallowed him whole. Someone shouted. Someone else swore as he vaulted a produce cart and hit the ground running again. Color and fabric tore past in blurs—canopies snapping, steam hissing, bodies scattering just fast enough to keep him from bowling them over.

Above him, something moved.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.

She wasn’t chasing him through the crowd. That wasn’t her game. She stayed to the rooftops, pacing him from above—silent, patient, waiting for the moment the city forced him into the open.

Myth ducked into a narrow corridor between stalls and slammed a hand against the side of his comm.

“Kade,” he breathed, sprinting. “Kade, are you there?”

Static.

He tried again, harder.

Nothing.

“Perfect FUCKING timing.”

Thoughts collided and scattered as fast as the crowd around him. A thousand questions tried to surface, but only one mattered—Is this about the StarCutter? He’d known the job would draw eyes eventually. He just hadn’t expected teeth this soon.

Standing still meant answers he couldn’t afford. Hesitation meant death.

So he ran—pushed harder, cut sharper—letting motion drown out panic.

For half a second, he let himself believe the city might lose her.

He forgot she was watching from above.

That was the mistake.

He dashed out into a clearing, and that’s when he got his reminder.

The impact came from behind.

The ground didn’t so much explode as give up—a crack of thunder, a flash of white, and then she was there. Vire slammed into the street like lightning made solid, concrete disintegrating outward in a perfect violent ring. Electricity crackled along the length of her leg augments, blue arcs snapping and crawling over scorched plating as dust and debris rained back down around her. She didn’t move. Didn’t rise. She simply stood in the crater she’d made—still, coiled, predatory—while the shockwave punched the air from Myth’s lungs and sent him stumbling forward.

He slid, just keeping himself from falling. That’s when he noticed the building off in the distance. He made a break for it.

The market gave way to exposed steel and open spans as he veered toward a public parking deck—an ugly, stacked structure of ramps and platforms packed with docked cruisers and Aether Runners. Engines hummed in idle rows. Grav-fields flickered along guide lanes.

Myth vaulted the barrier and disappeared inside.

Vire didn’t follow.

She landed lightly on the roof of an adjacent building, rabbit ears angling as she scanned the interior through metal walls. He should’ve come back out by now.

He didn’t.

Inside, Myth hurried through the lower level of the parking deck. He knew he was trapped, and that she was waiting for him to resurface. Sweat rolled down his face as he looked around the deck—chest pounding from exhaustion. That’s when he saw his ticket out.

Vire didn’t move from her perch.

A beat passed.

Then another.

She stood up straight. Her arm shifted.

Panels slid back along her forearm with a muted click as the cannon charged, energy building in a low, hungry whine. She sighted the deck, adjusted for structural spread, and fired.

The side of the parking structure ruptured in a thunderous detonation, one entire face tearing away as steel beams screamed and concrete sheared outward, leaving the rest of the deck standing but gutted and collapsing inward.

Steel tore free. Concrete folded inward. Fire and dust roared outward in a choking wave that ripped through the lower levels.

For a moment, she watched the carnage she’d created. She began scanning the debris.

Then…

And out of the heart of the explosion—

A streak of blue-white light.

Myth burst through the smoke astride an Aether Runner. A Mana-Ray. Not top of the line as far as runners go, but they were notorious for their speed. He gunned it to full throttle, swerving madly as he headed toward the highway. The bike skimmed inches above the ground, grav-field howling as debris clattered harmlessly beneath it.

Her head panned slowly, watching as Myth attempted to escape. It didn’t seem to matter. In one blink, she disappeared in a burst of wind and electricity.

Myth heard the blast from the jump, but when he looked back, she was nowhere in sight.

“Kade, where the fuck are you?” he hissed, aggressively weaving through the highway traffic.

The Mana-Ray purred like a charm. If his life weren’t in danger, he might actually feel bad for stealing it.

Now, the chase had changed. That’s when he saw her again—in the rear-view screen. It was a person leaping from vehicle to vehicle, getting closer with every jump.

“Not enough,” he spat. “Not gonna lose her like this.”

He reached for an object in his coat. It looked like the handle of a sword, with a thin spike jutting from the hilt. He then grabbed a blue crystal out of the pouch on his waist. He loaded it into the sword handle just as Vire leapt overhead. She was preparing another drop.

He felt it again—that burning sensation. His back went hot just like before, but this time he was ready.

He hit the clutch, spinning the Aether Runner around with a tight drift just as she made her descent.

The spike at the sword’s hilt pulsed once.

Blue frost crawled outward in a violent bloom, ice crystallizing mid-air with a sharp, ringing crack as mana vented all at once. Fractals of frozen light snapped together in the space of a breath, growing forward from the handle—edge first—until a full blade screamed into existence, raw and unfinished, vapor spilling off it like breath in winter.

The ice solidified a heartbeat before impact.

Vire’s attack struck, but to her surprise, it was blocked.

Myth held the blade firm in front of him with gritted teeth, struggling to fend off the attack as the runner screeched down the road. In that moment, his eyes met the visor of her helmet. She glared back at him, cold and unreadable. Then, she pushed off, sending the runner spinning away from her with great force.

Myth quickly wrestled the Mana-Ray back under control, barely keeping it from clipping the barrier as he shot between two cruisers, ice blade still clenched in his grip.

Then she was beside him.

Not behind. Not above.

Running.

Vire matched the Runner’s speed stride for stride, boots striking the roadway in rapid, thunderous impacts. Each step cracked the surface beneath her, electricity flaring and snapping along her legs like living veins of light. Traffic scattered ahead of them—vehicles swerving, braking too late, metal screaming as collisions rippled outward in their wake.

Myth’s eyes widened.

She leapt.

Her body twisted midair with terrifying grace, flexible and precise, one leg arcing up and around in a smooth, balletic motion that carried lethal intent. The kick swept toward his head in a perfect curve—beautiful, controlled, final.

Myth ducked hard, wrenching the Mana-Ray sideways as the strike passed inches above him. The impact missed—but the landing didn’t.

Vire struck the roadway behind him like a lightning bolt.

The ground detonated in a blinding flash, electricity exploding outward as the pavement collapsed into a fresh crater. Myth swerved violently, teeth rattling as the shockwave shoved the Runner sideways. Another leap followed. Then another.

Each missed strike thundered down like a storm chasing him—cracks of light, bursts of force, the road tearing itself apart beneath her precision. Myth weaved through traffic on instinct alone, threading gaps too narrow to think about, fighting the Runner as much as riding it.

Vehicles weren’t so lucky.

A cruiser clipped a collapsing section of road and cartwheeled into a barrier. Another slammed sideways, skidding in a shower of sparks before disappearing in a plume of smoke. Sirens began to wail somewhere in the distance—faint, but growing closer.

The city was changing.

The grime gave way to cleaner lines. Wider lanes. Brighter lighting. He’d run out of places where chaos could hide him.

Ahead was a ramp—part of the upper-ring expansion—one wrong turn from the glass districts.

Half-finished. Barricades pushed aside. A half-built artery to the upper rings, suspended over open air.

Myth didn’t slow.

He gunned the Mana-Ray straight toward it.

Vire’s arm rose.

Panels slid back. The cannon charged, its whine rising to a shrill scream as she sighted the ramp’s edge—not him.

The blast hit the roadway directly in front of the Runner.

White light swallowed everything.

The Mana-Ray vanished in a violent explosion at the very lip of the ramp, fire and debris erupting outward into open space. From Vire’s vantage point, it looked final—metal tearing apart, flame blooming, nothing left to escape.

She stood at the edge, watching smoke and fire twist upward.

Sirens were close now. Too close.

Her ears angled, listening. Assessing.

Then she stepped back—and was gone in a crack of wind and electricity.

Below the shattered edge of the ramp, far from the smoke and fire—

Myth hung from a broken slab of pavement, fingers digging into fractured concrete as waves from an artificial beach crashed far beneath him. His breath came in ragged pulls, arms screaming, the city roaring on above as if nothing had happened.

He was alive.

For now.

His grip tightened as a fresh sting flared along his ribs.

Myth glanced down.

The jacket had torn open in the blast. Beneath it, the new tattoo—still faintly luminous where the machine had sealed it—was smeared with blood, the skin around it scraped raw and angry. Nothing lethal. Nothing clean either.

He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a groan.

“Of all the fucking…,” he muttered under his breath. “I just got this.”

[HOURS LATER - UPPER RINGS OF THE STACK]

Grand City—crowned into the Stack’s upper rings—glittered beneath a war-shattered moon.

The streets were alive with movement and noise for the event happening at the Grand Embassy—a large and extraordinary building reserved for the richest and most influential.

Light poured through the ceiling in sheets, refracted by suspended panes of glass that turned the entire hall into a prism. Gold trim lined everything that mattered: the balcony rails, the private boxes, the champagne towers that floated from table to table on silent grav-discs. Below, rich fucks lounged like they owned oxygen—wrapped in clean fabrics and colder smiles, laughing too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny because the room expected it.

The stage was a cathedral of spectacle.

Music throbbed through the floor in perfect, engineered waves, each bass hit measured enough to feel expensive. Above the crowd, elven girls in shimmering harness rigs slid down from the rafters like falling stars—bodies spinning in slow, controlled arcs as glimmering magic trailed from their fingertips. Glittering ribbons of light braided around them, forming brief, impossible shapes—wings, halos, blooming flowers made of pure luminescence—before dissolving into sparks that rained harmlessly over the audience.

The crowd ate it up.

Hands clapped. Voices cheered. Credits flashed in the air as people tipped the performance like it was religion.

And then the screens changed.

A face filled the massive holo-panels that wrapped the hall—perfect angles, white hair like poured moonlight, brown skin glowing under studio lighting that could make sins look holy. Her smile was practiced, effortless, lethal.

The room erupted.

“NYVARA!”

“NYVARA!”

“NYVARA!”

Her name rolled through the hall like a chant, amplified, fed back, made bigger than any single person had the right to be.

For a moment, she stood at the edge of the stage—framed by gold and glass and the worship of strangers—then turned and slipped through a side door without breaking stride. She stepped past her security guard who held the door open. Breaks like this were normal for her. He knew the procedure.

“Thanks Varin,” she said with a tired smile. “Won’t be long. Promise.”

The noise died behind her as the door sealed.

Outside, the upper city breathed differently.

The rooftop terrace was quiet, insulated—an engineered silence with soft wind and distant traffic hum far below, like the ocean made of light and money. Towers rose around her, faceted and gleaming, their surfaces catching the star-glow and throwing it back in blinding shards. The air smelled clean out here. Expensive. Filtered.

Nyvara exhaled, shoulders loosening by a fraction.

For the first time in hours, she looked like a person instead of an idea.

She reached into the inner seam of her elegant dress and pulled out a slim case, slid a cigarette free with two gloved fingers. The contrast was wrong in a way she enjoyed—beauty wrapped in vice, a perfect face doing something ugly on purpose.

She lit it.

The ember flared, painting warm orange across her sparkling white lips for a heartbeat. She took a slow drag, eyes half-lidded as if savoring the small rebellion of it, and let the smoke curl from her nose into the night.

Then—

footsteps.

Not the polished glide of security. Not a patron looking for a private moment. These were heavier. Uneven. A little too real for this place.

Nyvara didn’t turn right away. She just listened, expecting the call of a fan or an admirer any moment now.

The steps came closer, and with them—something else. A faint scrape of fabric. A quiet cough. The sound of someone dusting themselves off.

She finally looked over her shoulder.

Nyvara’s cigarette stalled halfway to her lips.

For a second, the world didn’t make sense.

Her brows lifted just slightly, not in surprise the way fans surprised her—no, this was different. This was something that hit old, buried places.

“…Myth?” she said, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say it out loud. “Is that you?”

He froze mid-step.

His head lifted toward her voice, slow, wary.

His eyes met hers, then they went wide.

The surprise on his face wasn’t polite.

It was raw. Vulnerable.

They stared at each other across the clean, quiet rooftop, the city glittering behind them like a lie.

Nyvara held the cigarette between two fingers, smoke threading upward. Myth stood there, covered in soot and dirt, bleeding from his head. He looked wrong in this place.

He stood frozen—unprepared to see a familiar face. Finally, after a long moment of silent surprise, he opened his mouth.

“…Nyvara?”

Chapter End—