CHAPTER 1 — THE HEIST
Call me Khaos. No, like, actually call me Khaos—I'll know if you're just thinking it. Privacy's a lie and the sooner you get that through your skull, the longer you'll last out here.
You're in my head now. Don't worry, I keep my dirty thoughts in their own pen.
So here's the deal: Two days out from the last burn, credits at zero, blood pressure at two-sixty, and I'm staring at a scrapyard the size of a dead god's sinus cavity, wondering if I can jack a warship and keep both arms.
Sin—my sinister evil bitch of a sister and less soul than a vending machine—said it was impossible. "You can't just walk onto a repo planet, ghost the royal perimeter, and yoink a six-stack gunship, Khaos. Try not to die like a basic." She's always on my dick about something, but I respect her style. She'd ice me for an extra ration, but it'd be classy. She's not here, though. Neither is Icecold, my cocky frosty-ass tool of a brother, who probably still thinks "subtlety" is a salad dressing. Good. I run leaner solo.
But you're not alone when you got DragonFire. The only true ride-or-die left in my multiverse, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me under the burnt umber clouds of Slagheap Nine, watching the twin moons get shanked by planetary pollution. she got a vibe that's all murder and meditation: brown skin, athletic, beautiful, black battle-braids coiled down her back, dragon tattoo across her chest pulsing like a second heartbeat. She's so disciplined it hurts—like, I saw her meditate through a gunshot once, bullet just rattled around her ribs and bounced out, no drama. Her blades? Twin flame-forged mono katanas. Two strokes, three corpses, clean-up's extra.
We've got a HUD link—she's full bio-circuit, I'm chaos-core. Everything's a game when you're built like us. I get the loading screen first:
KHAOS // HEALTH: 100% // CHAOS: 100% // BLASTERS: FULL CHARGE // ARMOR: ENABLED
I flex my fingers and feel the armor slick over my arms, nano-chains crawling up to hug the delts. It's sleeveless, obviously—gotta show the product. My skin's molten purple-black, moving if you stare at it long enough. My dreads are thick, chaos energy flickering like midnight nebulae between the cords, and my eyes, yeah, they're the kind of red you can only get from a chemical romance with entropy. There's a patchwork of scars, none of them aesthetic. I keep my blasters holstered at the ribs, tuned to my personal frequency, safety off because why pretend.
DragonFire's standing next to me, rocking this dark red tactical mesh suit with zero branding—real silent operator stuff. Her braids are tighter than my paranoia, and when the wind hits, you catch the heat shimmer off her bare arms. She gives me a look, that steady "you gonna fuck this up or what" vibe.
I crack a knuckle. "You see the Wraithfang yet, DF?"
She gestures with her chin, no wasted words. "Four stacks over. They're fueling it with plasma—security's light, but they'll double-up at shift change."
"Cool. I'm jonesing for a challenge. Place your bets: three minutes to breach, or four?"
She almost smiles. "Two, if you keep your monologue under ten seconds."
She's got jokes today. I run a tongue over my teeth, taste the static in the air. "Let's get a move on, then. I owe Sin a drink and a punch in the face."
We slip through the yard like we belong, which is half the trick. People notice you less if you act like you'll murder them for noticing. The scrapyard's a maze of dead ships, busted cargo haulers, and the occasional organ-thief getting creative with a plasma saw. Scavvers huddle around fire drums, voices low, watching us with the wide-eyed hope of the terminally broke.
Wraithfang's sitting on a raised platform, engines still hot, deck crew talking shit in the shadow of the hull. It's a lean, mean bastard of a gunship—maybe three stories tall, lines sharp and hungry. Six-man cockpit, dorsal and ventral turrets, and a hull that's been painted matte black except where the plating's melted from prior fun times. The logo on the nose is a toothy grin with a tongue, classic old-school. I respect that.
We're twenty meters out when DF murmurs, "You see the runner?"
"Yup. He's posted behind the ammo stack, ten o'clock. Pulse rifle's got an overcharge."
Shee nods. "You want the Wraithfang, or you want the runner?"
I laugh. "I'm greedy. I want both."
Three…two…one—
We break. DF goes low, fast, using the burned-out frame of a dropship as cover. I shoot high, my boots kicking up ozone as the chaos core in my chest flashes me forward like a bad idea in a hurricane. The runner clocks me but too slow—I hit him with a neural disruptor round before he can even process his last paycheck. He twitches, drops the rifle, and I scoop it up mid-stride.
The deck crew panics, a bunch of wannabes in mismatched armor, but DF's already in their faces. First guy gets disarmed (literally, arm snapped at the shoulder), second guy gets a flame blade through the hip, third guy just collapses and pretends to be dead. Pro move.
I vault the ammo crate and land soft on the platform. Up close, the Wraithfang's even prettier—panel lines clean, entry hatch already primed for a hard breach. I hook a portable bypass into the lock and start jamming.
Behind me, the world's all noise—gunfire, plasma pops, someone screaming. I tune it out, focus on the sweet tick of the lock as it cycles through codes.
Then I feel the cold steel of a pulse blade at the back of my neck.
"Move and I cut," says a voice like a rusted-out synth.
I grin. "You always this forward on a first date?"
The blade pushes in, not enough to break the skin, just enough to let me know she's serious. "Last chance, asshole. Back away from the ship."
I raise my hands. "Okay, okay. Don't want to get anyone in trouble. Is there a sign-up sheet or do I just bribe the first person with a weapon?"
She snorts, a brief crack in the professional mask. "You got jokes."
"I got more than that." I twist, slamming my elbow into her gut, spinning to face her. She's a head shorter, half shaved scalp, scars crisscrossing her face like a spider web. Eyes are gray and dead. She's good, though—recovers, swings the blade for my throat.
I duck, sweep her legs, but she springs back and comes at me with a backhand slice. I block with the stolen rifle, hear the sizzle as her blade cuts clean through the barrel.
"Nice," I say. "Expensive toy."
"Worth every credit," she growls, then lunges.
I could kill her easy. I don't. Instead, I drop the ruined rifle, grab her wrist, and pivot, using her momentum to slam her against the hull. She's dazed for half a second—enough time to hit the hatch release. It opens with a hiss, and I drag her inside, pinning her to the wall.
We're alone now. She's breathing hard, looking for a weakness.
"What's your name?" I ask.
She spits. "None of your business."
"That's a dumb name. I'm calling you Scars. You can call me Khaos."
Her eyes flick up, surprise and hate in equal measure. "You're Khaos?"
"That's what my parents said before they stopped talking to each other."
Scars tries to break my hold but I'm stronger, even without the chaos boost. "I need this ship," she says. "They'll kill my brother if I come back empty."
I nod. "Family's a bitch. I'll make you a deal—you help me get the Wraithfang off this rock, I'll cut you in. Fifty-fifty."
She eyes me, suspicious. "What's the job?"
"Job is the job. You in or not?"
"Fine." She doesn't shake, but the tension drops a little. "But if you try to double-cross me—"
"Please. I have trust issues too. Let's keep it professional."
Outside, the fighting's dying down—DF must've mopped up. I slap my comm. "DF, bring the package. We're good in here."
Seconds later, DragonFire's silhouette fills the hatchway, blades still glowing, bits of gore smoldering on the edge. She scans the interior, gives Scars a flat look, then nods. "What's next, Khaos?"
I crack my neck, feeling the chaos core rev like a race engine. "Now? Now we see what this girl can do."
HUD flashes:
OBJECTIVE: SECURE THE WRAITHFANG // STATUS: IN PROGRESS
And, to you, my silent accomplice: buckle up. We're just getting started.
If I'd had a chance to gloat, I'd have done it right then—sitting pretty in the Wraithfang cockpit with DragonFire polishing off the last of the opposition. But the universe's sense of irony is bulletproof, and it loads fast.
She lands on the hull with a sound like a debt collector's knuckles rapping on bone—no warning, just impact, crisp and absolute. Through the viewport: a girl in a suit so black it bends the light, white skin with that slick mood shimmer you only see on speed junkies or hyper-evolved apexes. The color is violet. That's danger, and, if you've got a death wish, a little bit of fun.
Her hair is short, punk, sprayed in angry streaks of blue, pink, and radioactive green. Face: sharp, feral, too pretty to be legal. She looks at the cockpit like it's her bathroom mirror, then slides down the canopy and punches the access panel. The whole ship hisses.
I jab DF in the shoulder. "You see this?"
She grunts, unimpressed. "We got company."
The airlock cycles, and then she's inside, not a hair out of place, boots hitting the deck with that deliberate "fuck your house rules" stride. She's all business, except for the lazy way she scans the compartment—zero fucks given for personal space, social contracts, or imminent violence.
She sees me, then DF, then Scars—barely a flick of the eye. She smiles.
"Cute ship," she says, voice syrupy and dangerous. "You here for the afterparty?"
I don't flinch. "You lost, Sketch? Or just late?"
She doesn't answer, but the mood shimmer on her skin pulses, violet going deeper at the edges. She sidles up to the pilot chair and lounges against it, hands on hips. Her suit is tight enough to read her heartbeat, and every muscle is ready for something—fight or flight, dealer's choice.
DF steps forward, all muscle and dragon ink. "You with the crew outside?"
She laughs, one sharp note. "Please. You think I roll with third-rate rent-a-goons?" She hooks a thumb at the carnage on the landing platform. "They're not even worth the cleanup. I'm here for the ship."
"Not happening," I say, casual, keeping my hands where she can see them but one flex away from going hot. "First come, first served."
She gives me a look that could scrape paint. "Did you call dibs? I don't remember hearing a dibs."
"I didn't see your name on it either."
She leans in, eyes sharp as blades. "You pointing that gun 'cause you scared, or you compensating for your…lesser assets?"
I grin. "You really wanna check my inventory?"
She's in my face now, eyes like twin ultraviolet LEDs, breath spicy-sweet and predatory. "You couldn't handle me."
"Try me."
DF interrupts, fire in her eyes. "Back off. No one's taking this ship."
Sketch turns, slow and deliberate, giving DF a once-over. "And you must be the hired muscle. Let me guess—'silent but deadly'?"
She steps forward, and it gets warm in the room. "You about to get burned, bitch."
She doesn't move, but her suit does—shimmering, tight, crackling with suppressed motion. "You want to throw down, do it outside. I don't want to get blood on the upholstery."
DF's hands curl into fists, the flame dragons in her tattoos coiling, getting ready. I raise a hand, half for show, half 'cause I'm enjoying the tension.
"Everyone chill," I say. "Let's not trash the ride before we even take it for a spin."
Sketch glances at me, amusement flickering. "Big words for someone who just got here."
DF's not impressed. "We beat you to the ship. End of story."
She cocks her head. "That's the thing about stories. I always rewrite the ending." She moves, a flicker of speed, and she's sitting on the arm of the pilot seat, one leg crossed over the other, looking every bit the queen of fuck-you.
I sit opposite, casual as hell. "So. You gonna fight us, or talk us to death?"
She licks her lips, slow. "Wouldn't want to break you before the fun even starts. I heard you were a little more…chaotic."
I lean in, close enough that her mood shimmer picks up a red tinge from my own chaos core. "You don't know the half."
She holds my gaze. "I know enough to call bullshit. I know you blew the East Gate on Sovereign, I know you ghosted the Neversleepers, and I know you got a bounty the size of my ego."
I tap the side of my nose. "People say a lot of things. Some of 'em might even be true."
DF cuts in, voice dry. "Can we focus on getting out before backup shows?"
Sketch leans back, stretches, and every motion is deliberate. "Fine. Pilot's seat is mine, though. You can copilot, but only if you keep your hands to yourself."
I arch a brow. "No promises."
She throws me a smirk. "Didn't think so."
We power up the ship, the console blooming to life under her touch. She's a pro—fingers dancing over the controls, systems responding like trained dogs. She pilots us off the platform with barely a bump.
"You want a destination," she says, "or should I just point us toward trouble?"
DF says, "Anywhere but here."
I nod, settling in next to her. "Set a course for the biggest mistake you've ever made."
She smiles, and the violet is back, deeper, richer.
"You sure about that?"
"Never been more sure."
And as the Wraithfang roars into the polluted skies, the three of us jammed into a cockpit built for two, I realize: this is exactly how it's supposed to be. Tense. Loud. No one in control.
Just the way I like it.
The best thing about being a chaosborn bastard in a universe that hates you is you never get bored. If things get slow, you just wait five minutes—someone's always dumb enough to take a swing. Sometimes you pray for it, just for the flavor.
It's like Sketch heard my inner monologue.
Because as soon as the ship's atmo seals and we're coasting, she throws down. Not words—she just moves, a blur of neon and violence, and a split second later DragonFire's back hits the bulkhead hard enough to dent the metal. She recovers on instinct, lashing out with a low sweep, but she's already six steps ahead, flickering around the cockpit in a loop only a hyperdrive could plot.
DF's not new. She reads the pattern, baits her close, then lets the dragon loose—literally. The ink on her chest flashes white-hot, and a whip of living flame bursts off her skin, snapping at her with a dragon's snarl. The fire cuts the air, and Sketch barely ducks in time; a chunk of the control board explodes into glass splinters.
"Goddamn," I say, flattening against my seat. "You two gonna fuck or kill each other first?"
Neither answers. All I get is heat and static. The entire cockpit is a warzone—her speed blurring into double images, DF's flames chewing up oxygen and sanity in equal measure.
DF lands a punch—open palm, full chi. The sound is like a grenade going off in a metal trash can. Sketch takes it on the shoulder and staggers, but her smile gets sharper. She vanishes for a fraction of a second, pops up behind DF, and jams two fingers into the base of her neck. There's a shimmer, a micro-flash—must be her reality-glitch routine—and for a tick DF's body spasms, muscles locking up like a seized engine.
"Ticklish?" she whispers in her ear, then knees DF in the spine and sends her sprawling. She's loving this, feeding off the pushback.
DF rolls and gets up faster than she expects. Now it's a rhythm—step, swing, duck, burn. Every move's got weight, every block a backstory. DF's punches have thunder in them, but Sketch is made of secrets; she bends time and steps out of the way, only to snap back in and smack her with something harder.
I'm watching, trying not to get in the crossfire. That's a first for me, but hey, I like my face where it is. Plus, this is entertainment. You ever see two broken gods try to one-up each other in a space smaller than a rich kid's coffin? You should. It's biblical.
DF lands a hit that would've crushed a normal girl. Sketch just blurs and laughs, blood on her teeth, eyes gone white. She snatches one of Df's flame blades out of the air, flips it, and nearly takes DF's ear off with the return swipe. DF dodges, barely, but she scores a cut along her jaw.
DF wipes the blood, looks at her, and grins. "Was that supposed to hurt?"
She cocks her head, tongue flicking at the wound. "You got more than that? Or did your daddy not love you enough?"
The blade glows hotter, DF's tattoos crawling up her arms now, flickering like serpents. "My father was a war criminal. And he still loved me more than you'll ever love anything."
Sketch softens, just for a tick. "Sucks, doesn't it? All that training, and still not enough."
Then she goes in, fists first, speed cranked to max. This time DF's ready—she channels the dragon, her own body liquifying into streaks of fire, matching her glitch for glitch. The two of them phase in and out, burning holes in the fabric of the moment.
They lock together in the air, spin once, and crash through the back of the cockpit into the armory. Explosives and weapons fly everywhere, but neither even flinches. She slams DF against the wall, DF throws her across the room, and every punch is an essay on why love hurts.
I break the fourth wall, because if I don't, who will?
Look at this—Bad Girls Club: Galactic Edition. Place your bets, kids.
She's on top now, knees on DF's chest, raining down blows with hands that blur into afterimages. DF grabs her wrists, twists, and flips her over—now she's pinning her, but only for a breath. She knees DF in the pussy, headbutts her, and they both tumble off the ammo crate.
They're both bleeding—her nose is broken, DF's cheekbone split. Sweat and blood spatter the walls, hissing on contact with the still-hot metal. But their eyes—man, you ever see two black holes fight for who gets to swallow the light? Like that.
"You tired yet?" DF pants, voice raw.
Sketch wipes her nose, checks the blood, shrugs. "I've had rougher sex."
DF barks a laugh, then grits her teeth and grabs for her throat. She lets her, then bites down on DF's forearm, hard enough to draw more blood.
"You're sick," she says, half-admiring.
She licks her lips. "You want a turn?"
I can't help myself. "Hey, lovebirds, maybe finish this off before the ship explodes? I'd hate to die from secondhand sexual tension."
They both freeze. Not at my words—at the whine coming from the engine core.
"Shit," I say, all the fun draining out of my face. "You broke the regulator."
Sketch laughs and pushes DF off her. "Only thing I break are hearts."
She sprints for the control panel, flicking switches and rerouting power with a speed that's more dance than engineering. DF lumbers over, holding her ribs, and tries to muscle her out of the way. It's a slapfight in miniature—petty, stupid, and somehow endearing.
I look at the HUD. "Uh, unless you two patch this, we're gonna blow in sixty seconds."
Sketch whirls, eyes wild, and yells, "Just keep her off me, I got this!"
DF growls, "She's lying, she'll fry us all."
I grab DF's arm and yank her back. "Hey—let the pro do her thing. You wanna get cooked, or you wanna win?"
He hesitates. For a girl with literal dragon in her DNA, she's not as hot-headed as you'd think.
Sketch jams a dataspike into the nav, overrides the safeties, and for a second I swear I see her skin flicker from violet to ultraviolet, then back. She slams her palm onto the manual override and the engine core settles, whirring down to a purr.
The tension drops. For a heartbeat.
Then Sketch turns, all business, and aims DF's own flame blade at her chest.
"Ship's mine," she says. "Get out."
DF looks at me. "You serious?"
I put my hands up. "I respect the hustle."
Sketch glares at both of us. "You want me to die, or you gonna walk?"
DF steps forward, but I yank her back, whispering, "Let it go. She's got us."
DF grits her teeth, but the dragon dies down. She limps out, and I follow, keeping my eyes on Sketch. She watches us, all cold and perfect and somehow sad.
We hit the airlock. The last thing I see is Sketch at the controls, her hair a mess, blood still dripping