Sol strolled past the security checkpoints with ease, his illusions wrapped around him like a second skin. To the officers and scanners, he was just another unremarkable traveler, a face so unimportant their eyes slid right over him. The process was seamless, a quiet game of deception he had perfected over the years. No alarms, no second glances. He was through before they even had the chance to suspect anything.
His system chimed softly in the back of his mind, a quiet alert that went mostly ignored. Sol sneered internally. It was almost comical how predictable they were—DreamCorp troops scattered everywhere, pretending to be subtle while their presence screamed otherwise. They were searching for someone. Maybe him, maybe another target, but the sheer number of boots on the ground spoke volumes.
His chest tightened slightly as a familiar bitterness crept in, his thoughts inevitably drawn to his teacher. DreamCorp. His hands clenched unconsciously. He despised them. Every fiber of his being bristled at their insignia, the polished uniforms, the corporate arrogance they carried with them. But beneath the anger, guilt gnawed at him—a quiet, relentless thing. His teacher had died because of them, but Sol couldn't shake the knowledge that his own actions had played a part too.
Shaking the thought away, he stepped through the final gate and out into the station proper—only to stop short, stunned by the sight before him.
Zenith-5 was massive, but the sheer scale of it was something even he hadn't fully anticipated. The entire wayward station was housed inside a colossal energy bubble, its size comparable to a small moon. It was a world unto itself, a thriving metropolis floating in the void. But what truly made it breathtaking were the secondary bubbles orbiting around it.
Like celestial satellites, smaller bubbles drifted around the main station, each one housing entire districts of its own. Some held towering castles built of shimmering glass and steel, bastions of wealth and excess. Others contained lush parks teeming with alien flora, waterfalls suspended in artificial gravity, their mist catching the ambient glow of the bubble's internal sun. The largest bubble, the central hub, pulsed with a dazzling array of neon-lit buildings, spiraling skyscrapers, and twisting pathways that interconnected the floating sections like an intricate web of light.
Ships wove between the floating districts, sleek and streamlined, zipping through the sky on designated flight paths. Enormous banners advertising everything from high-stakes gambling halls to underground fight clubs flashed across the sides of massive digital billboards. The air itself thrummed with energy, the mingling of thousands of voices, music spilling from cantinas, and the distant roar of engines forming a chaotic symphony.
Sol let out a low whistle, taking it all in.
"Damn," he muttered, his smirk returning. "This place is something else."
His eyes scanned the layout instinctively, mapping out possible escape routes and noting the areas where DreamCorp seemed to be clustering. He pulled himself from his momentary awe. Right. He wasn't here to gawk—he had work to do.
A smirk played at his lips as an idea formed. He wanted to see just how sharp DreamCorp's forces really were. A test run, something small but disruptive. Just enough to put them on edge.
He casually adjusted his coat as he walked, letting his illusion weave itself into reality. To any outside observer, nothing changed. But to those already suspicious—the nervous officers, the stiff-backed operatives scanning the crowd—things would shift subtly, just enough to make them uneasy.
A DreamCorp enforcer near the main plaza stiffened, eyes flickering to the side. The subtle movement had worked. He thought he saw something—a shadow darting past him, just at the edge of his vision. Another guard turned his head, brows furrowing as his grip on his weapon tightened. Sol layered the effect, playing with perception, making it seem like someone was watching them. A figure moving just out of sight. A whisper in the air.
Tension spread like wildfire. Murmurs sparked among the guards, one of them muttering into his communicator. Sol held back a chuckle. Pathetic. They were already on edge, and I've barely done anything.
He let the illusion build to a crescendo—just as one of the guards spun around, gun raised, shouting, "There!"
Except there was nothing. Civilians turned, startled, murmuring in confusion. The enforcer cursed under his breath, face flushing as his colleagues stared at him in disbelief. The tension remained, but it had been redirected—now, instead of searching for an external threat, they were questioning each other's judgment. Just as planned.
Sol kept walking, pleased with himself as he stepped deeper into the station's labyrinthine underbelly.
---
Sol slipped through the shifting streets of Zenith-5's underbelly, his thoughts already on the next step. He had a map—detailed and precise—outlining every major DreamCorp base and facility on the station. The locations were spread across multiple bubbles, each serving a different function. Some were supply depots, others were corporate offices, and a few, he suspected, were hidden research facilities.
He needed to prepare. Chaos wasn't just about brute force; it was about precision, timing, and execution.
Finding a quiet, dimly lit alley, he ducked into a secluded spot between towering structures and pulled up his map on a small holo-device. His eyes flickered over the highlighted locations, mentally prioritizing which targets were worth hitting first. Some were heavily fortified, meant for high-security personnel. Others were more exposed, relying on anonymity rather than force.
His lips curled into a smirk. Amateurs.
[DreamCorp facility priority list updated. Potential entry points identified.]
His system chimed, feeding him the latest scan results. Sol adjusted his coat and tucked the device away. He needed supplies, a solid escape plan, and—most importantly—contingencies. DreamCorp wouldn't take kindly to his interference, which meant he had to stay three steps ahead at all times.
With that in mind, he made his way toward the first stop on his list—an underground arms dealer that Lloyd had pointed him to.
Tonight, the game would begin in earnest.
Sol followed the winding paths deeper into the underbelly of Zenith-5, where the glow of artificial lights flickered and the hum of life took on a more dangerous edge. This part of the station was different—less polished, more volatile. The neon signage above the tightly packed buildings was dim and cracked, some of them barely flickering, while alleyways were littered with old tech scraps, discarded stim-inhalers, and the occasional flicker of red eyes watching from the shadows.
The air was thick with the scent of machine oil, sweat, and something metallic—blood, perhaps.
As Sol moved through the narrow corridors, he felt eyes on him. Goons, enforcers, and gang members lingered in the shadows, watching newcomers like hungry predators waiting for an excuse. Some leaned against rusted-out railings, puffing on strange-looking cigars. Others openly carried weapons, either too confident to care about consequences or too desperate to afford subtlety. Sol could see it all—knife sheaths strapped to thighs, concealed firearms bulging under coats, and cybernetic enhancements glinting under the poor lighting. This was a place where deals were made in whispers and lives were taken in silence.
He kept his stride relaxed, but purposeful, as if he belonged. Hesitation or uncertainty would be a beacon for trouble.
Eventually, he arrived at the location Lloyd had given him—a decrepit storefront wedged between a neon-lit gambling den and a shady repair shop that specialized in unlicensed augmentations. The store's display window was a joke, showing old mechanical parts and rusted tools as if it were some harmless junk shop. The entrance was guarded by two burly men, their arms lined with cybernetic plating, their expressions unreadable. One of them, a bald brute with a jagged scar running down the side of his face, flicked his gaze over Sol before stepping in his path.
"No browsing," the man grunted, his voice rough like gravel. "State your business."
Sol tilted his head, his smirk widening just slightly. "Came to make a purchase. Lloyd sent me."
The man's eyes narrowed, studying him for a moment before jerking his head toward the door. "Inside. Don't touch anything."