By the early 2150s humanity had developed sort of a hobby: activating inactive relays. They started spreading through the galaxy, establishing presence on worlds unreachable since the ban after the Rachni Wars. That meant they were able to reach places where no other alien races had gone. So whatever garden worlds they found were mostly a humans-first vibe.
One of those worlds was Elysium. A very wonderful garden world—lush and very Earth-like. Naturally it became the prime target of civilizations. Alliance-chartered corporate company towns rose up. Frontier-space wild west boomtowns followed.
After the First Contact War even aliens started to move in. Talks were going on to make it an official Alliance colony, but that wouldn't happen until the later half of 2160.
By 2159 it was a true melting pot — traders, raiders, smugglers, pirates, all crammed into lawless hubs. Funny thing about Elysium in 2159: what it was depended entirely on who you asked.
To the bright-eyed colonists — families who signed up on glossy recruitment vids — it was Eden. Rolling green valleys under a wide open sky, air so clean it made you dizzy, oceans that didn't boil you alive or choke you with sulfur. They called it the Jewel of the Verge. A miracle world, practically gift-wrapped for humanity.
To smugglers, it was chum in the water. A brand-new port sitting on the edge of nowhere, no Alliance fleet yet to police the lanes, no customs scanners worth a damn. Every freighter limped in bloated with contraband, refugees, salvaged eezo, guns ripped off the back of turians — you name it, someone was selling it. Fortunes minted overnight, funerals dug just as quick.
To mercs, it was a pay-day with a pulse. Streets clogged with off-worlders, markets buzzing, everyone armed or hiring someone who was.
Ask the batarians, though, and the answers turned into a sneer. They didn't see a paradise, or a frontier, or even a boomtown. They saw stock. Colonists for chains. Kids for cages. The Verge was their hunting ground, and Elysium was fresh meat, still stupid enough to think it was safe.
The truth? None of them were wrong. Elysium wasn't paradise, wasn't hell. It was a planet still slick with birth, everyone clawing for their slice.
But if you zoom out far enough, look at it from orbit?
It looked like Earth's younger, prettier cousin — the one that got all the good genes. Oceans spilled across its surface in wide sapphire sheets, light bending off them like molten glass. Continents draped in deep green sprawled lazy under streaks of white cloud, valleys and mountains rolling together in shapes that almost felt familiar, like echoes of home continents you couldn't quite name.
From space, the planet almost seemed to glow. Not like Therum's red furnace, not like the dead gray rocks of half the colonies scattered through the Traverse. No. This was a living world. A place that seemed to breathe. Friendly. Inviting. The kind of view that sank a hook in your chest and pulled, whispering come down here, this is where you belong.
And it didn't shine alone.
Elysium had two moons.
Selene a small metallic sphere racing its orbit, circling the planet three times before you could finish a shift. In its shadow, Phoros loomed — massive, pale, deliberate. The kind of moon that made you feel small just looking at it. Together they framed the world like twin crowns: one restless, one eternal.
Another paradise. Another start. A land swollen with opportunity.
That's what it looked like.
And that's exactly what Caden saw through the cockpit glass when the raider ship punched out of FTL, drive core still rattling from the jump, and the viewport opened up to the Jewel of the Verge.
The planet and its moons filled the frame, so close it swallowed the stars.
Caden leaned forward in the pilot's chair, one elbow propped lazy on the armrest, his grin stretching wide as the blue-green giant rolled beneath them. His visor caught the reflection, faint glow bleeding out from his eyes, ghosting against the glass like a second sun.
All that chaos on Therum — the raids, the lava, the Alliance turning rifles on him — it already felt like another lifetime. Another world. And maybe that's exactly what it was now: burned up behind him in the dark.
Ahead was bigger. Richer.
The kind of world a man could carve his name into.
After a few seconds of taking it all in Caden slouched back in the copilot's seat, boot tapping against the console. He tilted his head toward the Volus.
"Where are we landing again?"
The little bastard wheezed through his mask valves, voice sharp with that constant hiss.
"...psss… Aurora Market."
"Sounds fancy."
The ship angled forward, thrusters humming as the nose dipped toward the jewel below.
At first it was silent glide — the velvet dark of space giving way to a swelling world that filled every inch of glass. Selene zipped past first, a silver coin sprinting its orbit so fast it blurred against the clouds. Phoros followed slow, pale and colossal, etched with scars big enough to swallow continents. From orbit it looked patient. Eternal.
Then the hull caught atmosphere. The silence cracked into sound — a steady roar as air peeled against plating. Heat flared golden at the edges of the viewport, streaks of fire burning away as they pushed lower.
Elysium's curve sharpened into detail. Blue seas faded into green coasts, then into jagged ridges and cloud-choked valleys. The clouds boiled, smeared with color, ripped by winds that never died. Above them, auroras bled green and violet, a sky that never slept.
That was the Market's home.
Aurora Market had been staked right into the planet's twilight zone — in the higher latitudes. That meant the sky was never still. Auroras shimmered overhead almost every hour, bending against a backdrop of orange, red, and gold haze where the low sun clung to the horizon. Scattered white clouds caught the same fire, shining with bruised colors as if painted from below.
The ship dropped lower, piercing the weather layer. The horizon spread wide, plains stretching open beneath aurora light.
And nestled in that glow, Aurora Market came into focus.
The light on the console in front of Sodacan blinked, orange text crawling across the glass:
[ Incoming Transmission. Designation: Aurora Market Dock Control. ]
The ship slowed, inertial dampers groaning. Sodacan tapped the comms.
"Unflagged vessel, this is Aurora Market Dock Control, you're approaching Aurora airspace. State business."
His reply came with that familiar hiss.
"psss… Trade run. Requesting standard berth."
"Copy. Dock fee's three-fifty. Transfer now or find another sky."
"psss… Transfer complete. Stall assignment?"
"Copy. Stall Forty-Two's open. The Lot'll check you in. Don't block lanes."
The line cut dead with a hollow click.
"Caden slouched in the chair, mouth twisting into a smirk." "Friendly bunch, huh?"
The Volus didn't answer. He was too busy guiding the raider ship into descent.
Engines roared as the nose tipped forward. Clouds peeled away and the ground came rushing up to meet them.
The Dock spread wide across the plain — a scar of flat land hammered into order. Dozens of freighters and shuttles hovered or squatted in crooked rows, crammed together like cars in a bad neighborhood. Mass effect fields thrummed under their bellies, blue glows flickering in uneven pulses. Some ships had pristine paint, but most were patched junk: plates welded over holes, scorched thrusters, hulls so rusted they looked more barnacle than steel.
Floodlamps stabbed cones of harsh light across the lot, throwing shadows long and crooked over stacked cargo crates and scaffolding. Between the landing struts, stalls and shacks had bloomed — tarp roofs, neon signs, oil drums turned grills. The air above the field shimmered with heat haze and smoke, a restless ceiling beneath the auroras.
It wasn't a port. It was a parking lot for giants, alive with sparks, grease, and the constant stink of ozone.
Two figures approached.
One human, clipboard datapad in hand, wearing black security gear with a rifle slung easy across his chest. The other, a krogan, bulk wrapped in the same armor, scarred mandible-plates twisting when he grunted.
The human didn't even look up, just recited lines in the voice of a man who'd said them a thousand times today already: No weapons in the Core. No violence without clearance. Dock fees paid, peace fees enforced. Blah blah – Caden stopped listening after the first few words.
Behind him, the krogan rumbled a noise halfway between a chuckle and a threat. "If you're itching for a fight, plenty to find in Thruk's ring. He pays good for blood on the sand."
The krogan stared at Caden like he was already picturing how fast he'd bleed. Caden just smirked.
Paperwork done, the guards moved on.
The stall ramp lowered behind them with a hydraulic hiss. Beyond it stretched the sprawl: rows of mismatched freighters and shuttles parked shoulder-to-shoulder, cargo vehicles crawling between them like ants, engines whining, floodlamps cutting sharp lines through the haze. Crews shouted orders, lifting crates, strapping loads, swearing at jammed hydraulics. Security in similar to earlier black armor loitered at choke points — not intervening, just watching.
They offloaded the raiders' haul at a pawn depot. Fifteen bodies' worth of guns and equipment and cargo melted down into clean credits.
A utility crawler waited at the edge, plating stained with oil, engine coughing like a smoker. The driver, a tired man in coveralls, didn't pitch or hustle. Just leaned out the window, flat as the gravel under his wheels.
"Where to?"
"psss… Cinder Commons," Sodacan answered immediately.
The man nodded once and said nothing else.
They climbed into the back. Metal benches bolted to the frame, suspension rattling with every idle shake. The smell of fuel clung to the walls, sharp enough to sting. The driver didn't look back, didn't care who or what they were — just drove once the door clanged shut.
Caden leaned back, smirking across the bench.
"Look like you've been here many times?"
"psss… Yes," Sodacan replied, flat and resigned.
"Good. Then you're my guide until I figure this place out. After that…" Caden shrugged. "…maybe I let you go."
Sodacan sighed, mask hissing.
Caden tilted his head. "What's your actual name though?"
The Volus drew in a breath, valves hissing louder as he prepared to answer —
"…psss—"
"Yeah, fuck it," Caden cut in with a grin. "I'm sticking with Sodacan."
The crawler rumbled off, bouncing over grit, the docks fading into the aurora-lit haze behind them.
They found a room in the Commons. Nothing fancy — prefab walls, two beds, a table that wobbled if you breathed on it too hard. But after three big fights in a row, Caden didn't care.
They ate first. Food was fuel, nothing more. Some gray stew, some flatbread, none of it memorable. It just went down and dulled the edge in his gut.
Sodacan got caged in a forcefield at the foot of Caden's bed, glowing lines wrapped tight like bars. The Volus hissed complaints, but Caden ignored him, kicked his boots off, and sprawled into his own bunk. Sleep took him fast.
When he woke, it was like a pressure had lifted. A headache he hadn't noticed until it was gone. The kind of relief you only realize in hindsight.
Breakfast was worse than dinner, bland enough that he forgot the taste the moment he swallowed. Didn't matter. He wasn't here for food.
He turned to Sodacan, stretched and smirking.
"Alright, sodacan. Time to earn your keep. Take me for a walk. Show me what this Aurora Market's really about."
Cinder commons was in the residential area of Aurora Market. Another Crawler ride later and now they were on the street of the Market.
"Smells like fried food, gun oil, and bad decisions. I feel at home already."
The avenue opened wide, prefab storefronts lined in neat rows under the aurora glow. Banners flickered in three languages at once, selling everything from steaming skewers to glittering fabric to salvage still smoking from re-entry. Crowds pressed in on all sides — turians haggling sharp, volus waddling steady with carts of wares, krogan moving like battering rams through the flow. Neon signs pulsed against the prefab walls, the whole street humming with a thousand small hustles at once.
Caden craned his neck like a kid in a toy store, playing his own private game of, I spy with my little eye.
"That's a krogan. A vorcha? That's a turian if I've ever seen one. Hey, Sodacan, you think they preen their mandibles?"
Sodacan didn't answer, just hissed, waddling alongside like ballast.
Caden grinned, spinning on his heel to take in more. "Yeah, figures."
A few steps later, something caught him cold. He stopped dead in front of a shopfront where a massive slab of gray hide stood motionless, broad shoulders hunched, tiny eyes blinking slow above crates of glittering omni-tools.
"WHOA. What the fuck is that!!?"
"…psss… Elcor. Most of their kind end up merchants."
The creature shifted its bulk, voice rumbling out slow and flat.
"Cordially. Welcome to my shop, human. Flatly. I sell certified omni-tools."
"Holy hell, your voice just shook my spine. Alright, omni-tools, huh? Perfect timing."
"Evenly. I stock certified omni-tools, multi-core upgrades, repair kits, and interface modules."
Caden leaned sideways and whispered toward Sodacan. "Yo, Sodacan, why the fuck does this guy talk like that?"
The Elcor blinked slow, massive chest rising and falling.
"Patiently. Our speech is monotone to your ears. Other species cannot read our posture cues. Without emotional qualifiers, intent is often misunderstood."
"Ohhh, I get it. Alright then, I ain't about to be a rude asshole."
He turned, spread his arms grand, and bellowed back in the same rhythm:
"Excitedly. Holy shit, that is hilarious."
"Curiously. How much for one of these, big guy?"
A couple of passersby turned to stare. Sodacan just hissed louder. Caden didn't care though.
"Approvingly. You are a peculiar human, but I appreciate the effort."
The Elcor shifted, pulling a sleek omni-tool from under the counter and setting it down with deliberate care.
"Evenly. This is a Helix Interphase Series Nine omni-tool, jailbroken to Terminus standard. Calmly. It carries expanded power draw, extended modular compatibility, and concealed interface hooks. Flatly. Supports shipboard telemetry, exotic alloy fabrication, and field medical and fabrication well above civilian spec. Gravely. It is the best item in my possession, and also a liability. I will not part with it at a loss. Concludingly. The price is one hundred and ten thousand credits."
Caden looked at Sodacan. The Volus gave a tiny nod. Caden's grin sharpened. "Decisively. I will take it. Pleasure doing business, big guy."
"If I find out you're lying to me, Sodacan, I'll make it the most painful end you can imagine. Not just a pop." Caden's grin stayed sharp, but his voice dipped sweet and dangerous.
The Volus hissed what sounded suspiciously like a gulp. "…psss… I couldn't lie here even if I wanted to. The Elcor won't allow it."
The merchant's bulk shifted, chest rising in a slow rumble that almost sounded like a purr. "Gravely. Our kind do not deceive." The Elcor gave Caden a deliberate nod.
Caden flashed teeth, grin widening again. "Happily. Well then. It's a deal."
The Main Market of Aurora wasn't one street, wasn't one plaza. It was a beast with organs — each district its own pulsing vein.
The shopping district was the heart. Fashion stalls flapping under neon banners. Salvage and tech stacked in greasy piles, sparking when you touched the wrong corner. Omni-tools and mods glittering like treasure in glass cases. Antiques and curios tucked away in dim-lit corners, half of them junk, the other half cursed.
That's where Caden was now, drifting through it like a tourist with a credit chip.
Caden grabbed some new clothes. To look less like a half-burnt raider and more like someone who belonged in a crowd. "What do you think, Sodacan? Makes me look rich enough to get mugged?"
Then they went to Gun Row. As the name implied, this was where the real shine lived. Stalls lined with weapons and racks of gear, lights catching on metal and mesh.
Caden stocked up — new visor with faint HUD glow, a combat jacket that fit sharp across his shoulders, leggings and boots that didn't squeak like cheap plastic. A few light armor plates slipped underneath. You could call it light armor, but every piece was top of the line.
He'd had enough of claustrophobic bargain-bin crap. Heavy armor was for soldiers who wanted to die slow. Guns were for weaklings who needed steel to back their bite. Caden wanted gear that moved when he moved — he didn't intend to get hit anyways.
From there they roamed through the other districts, hitting stalls like a storm. More gear, more gadgets, more whatever caught Caden's eye. Sodacan shuffled along behind him, buried under bags and crates, the designated glorified porter for the day.
Caden clapped him on the dome. "Feel honored, Sodacan. You're basically my squire."
"…psss… Squires were paid." The Volus hissed under breath.
"You get the honor of my company."
By the time they cut into the entertainment district, the air changed. Hotter, noisier, lit by gambling dens spilling dice and holo-cards into the street.
Finally, they gambled for a while in the entertainment district and then decided to find a restaurant for lunch...Or was it dinner? You never know with the permanent twilight.
"Okay, so—newsflash—the asari are hot as fuck. Like, distractingly hot. And they come in shades of blue. Sodacan, guess what? Blue is officially my favorite color in women." Caden dug into a plate of something greasy, talking around the bite like it didn't slow him down.
Caden ate like a man who hadn't seen a decent meal in months — because, well, he hadn't. Sodacan wheezed and waited, muttering about a shipment of his "special organics" being delayed a few minutes.
A few minutes later Caden leaned back, plate clean, hands on his stomach like a king who just conquered lunch. "Alright. I am officially thriving."
Across the table, Sodacan still sat with his stubby hands folded. His meal wasn't ready yet.
"...psss… High-density organics take longer to prepare. It will arrive shortly."
Caden snorted. "Dense organics." He pushed out of his chair, restless. "Enjoy the suspense. I'm gonna stretch my legs."
Caden drifted between tables until one mountain of scarred hide near the bar caught his eye. Curiosity lit him up. Guy was massive, scars like map lines carved into his hide.
He swaggered closer. "So, big guy, you from around here or just visiting to scare the locals?"
The krogan turned his head slow, like a tank turret lining up. His eyes narrowed, mandibles twitching. "Who the fuck are you supposed to be?"
Caden blinked, grin twitching at the edges. For once, no comeback landed. He gave a half shrug and retreated, hands up like he was only kidding.
Gut-check. The Krogan wasn't wrong. Out here he was just another human in boots. No name, no weight. Nothing. Yet.
Back at the table, Sodacan's order had arrived — a sealed canister now venting hot mist. The volus hooked into it with tubes and started slurping the thick green sludge like it was fine wine. It smelled like battery acid.
"Yo, Soda Can," Caden said, sliding into his seat again. "We got a problem." He didn't wait for the wheezing reply. "I'm a nobody."
The Volus just stared at him, slurping.
I'm nobody. Not famous, not infamous. No one gives a shit who I am." He flopped back, snorting. "Nobody knows the name Twist. That shit's gotta change man."
A shadow fell across the table. Then the waiter came by, a bored human in a stained apron, holding a datapad, numbers glowing bright.
"Here's another problem," Caden muttered, spinning the pad around with a finger. "We're out of credits."
The waiter stiffened.
But Caden just grinned wider, leaning in close. "So here's what you do. Put it on my tab. Name's Twist. Make sure you remember it. In fact—" he tapped the datapad with a greasy finger, "—note it down. You'll be hearing it again."
Silence, thick and uncomfortable. Sodacan's tubes hissed. The waiter stared like he couldn't believe the shit that was happening.
Caden just leaned back and smiled, like the universe already agreed.
He stood up wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The waiter was still glaring daggers, but he didn't press it. The pressure came at the door instead.
Two shadows moved as he stepped into the neon wash of the street: a krogan in black dented armor, broad as the doorway, and a turian in black plates, arms folded. Security muscle. The kind that didn't care about fairness, just balance sheets.
"The rules of the market are you eat, you pay. No tabs." the turian said flatly, blocking his way.
The krogan just cracked his knuckles, leering like he wanted a warm-up before dinner.
Caden sighed, exaggerated, like the whole thing was a goddamn inconvenience. "See, I knew you were gonna say that." He spread his hands, grin back in place. "Lucky for me, I got another way of settling debts."
Then he moved.
The krogan surged first — mistake. Caden's shockwave lifted him like a toy and slammed him into the wall, lights rattling.
The turian went for his sidearm, but Caden's pull ripped it free and crushed it in midair before slamming the owner into the opposite wall. Two broken piles left groaning in neon shadow.
Gasps rippled through the Market street, heads turning, conversations stalling. Caden brushed his hands off like dusting crumbs.
"Give me a week," he said, voice carrying, casual as hell. "And half this Market'll be saying my name." He tapped his chest with two fingers. "Twist. Remember it."
He didn't wait for a response. Just strolled back into the current of the crowd, Sodacan wheezing along behind him, auroras bleeding color across the orange market skies.
Back on Earth, he'd been just another rat in the gutters. In training, just another conscript. On Therum, just another grunt. He wanted that life buried and forgotten. He wanted more. He wanted to be a legend. Young, reckless, ambitious —he knew it and he embodied it fully now. And with power like this, why the hell wouldn't he?
-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-
The krogan rolled off the broken wall with a sound halfway between a groan and a growl. Armor plates hung loose where the impact had bent them. The turian wasn't much better — blood dribbling from his mandibles, omni-tool flickering static where Caden had crushed his gun midair.
They exchanged a look. No words needed: they'd just been folded like scrap by some human nobody.
The turian rasped into his comm, voice shaky but sharp.
"Command, come in. We need backup. Heavy backup. Target's a human male, called himself Twist. Biotic—" he swallowed hard, "—a powerful one. We'll need a lot to put him down."
Static hissed. Then the flat reply:
"Copy. Squad en route. Hold position."
The krogan spat a tooth onto the pavement, rage burning hotter than pain.
"Hold position, my ass."
They limped toward the street, following the trail of aurora light and the human who'd just made himself a problem.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Meanwhile Caden and Sodacan were halfway down Central Avenue, strolling towards the crawlers, when the shout came from behind.
"Stop. Both of you."
Caden turned. A squad was fanned across the avenue — ten humans, a couple of krogans, one turian — all in black plates scuffed from work. Guns slung casual but ready.
One of them, the human in the lead, raised a hand.
"Human. Volus. They match the description." His eyes narrowed. "Which one of you is Twist?"
Caden didn't even blink. He glanced at Sodacan instead, jerking his thumb toward the group.
"Who are these clowns actually, bruh? I'm seeing 'em everywhere."
The volus shifted uneasily, respirator hissing. "…..psss….. Massani's Lot. An earth clan named Zaeed Massani runs neutral security here….psss….. All major powers pay him…..psss….. They… keep the peace."
"Uh huh." Caden scratched his jaw, eyes dancing over the squad. Krogan cracking their necks. Humans gripping rifles a little too tight. One human in the back already muttering into his comm.
Caden smirked. "Cute."
-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Rifles spat red lines down Central Avenue, but the shots shattered uselessly against a shimmering barrier wall. Caden strolled behind it like he was out for a walk.
He flicked his wrist and the barrier collapsed outward — the shockwave picked up two humans and slammed them into a food stall. Fry oil and splintered wood rained down as they crumpled, groaning in the wreckage.
A krogan roared and charged. Caden didn't even move his feet. A pull yanked the brute off course mid-sprint, lifted him a meter into the air, and hurled him through a row of neon signs. Glass and light cascaded over the street, sparks dancing on his carapace.
Sodacan was crouched behind a noodle cart, tubes rattling, voice wheezing in panic.
Caden laughed as he raised a hand. Three rifles ripped themselves from turian claws and human hands, clattering midair before folding in on themselves like tin foil. He tossed the ruined metal aside, casual, and barriers bloomed again to catch the next volley of fire.
Market stalls emptied. Aliens and humans alike watched from doorways, eyes wide, whispers buzzing. Nobody dared interfere.
And still the men in black armor fell, one after another, into the street.
The human at back of the squad with the comm link to his ear froze. His rifle hung forgotten at his side. His voice cracked as he shouted, desperate, into the mic –
"It's him, boss, it's bad—he's tearing through us like—"
The human on comms choked as two of his squadmates screamed, lifted clean off their feet by an invisible hand. Caden barely looked their way. A twitch of his fingers and they collided midair, armor crunching together before both bodies hit the ground in a heap.
The comm guy's voice cracked. "Oh, fuck—"
Caden turned his head slow, eyes narrowing, aura flaring just enough to make the air ripple.
That was enough. The merc dropped his rifle, clattering loud against the street. Hands shot up, palms out. "Wait! Stop! We surrender! Just—just stop, alright?"
The rest of the squad froze mid-struggle as Caden's psionic pressure held them in place — rifles stuck in the air, krogan pinned to the pavement like bugs under glass. Caden tilted his head, studying the one who still had the sense to talk.
The human swallowed, words tumbling fast. "Look… you want this to end clean? My boss—he wants to see you."
For a beat, nothing moved but the auroras bleeding over the rooftops. Then Caden let the pressure ease. Guns and bodies dropped to the ground, groaning, too broken to fight back. The aura faded, leaving only smoke, glass, and silence.
He smirked, low and sharp. "Now we're talking. Should've led with that, champ."
Turning back toward the noodle cart, he threw Sodacan a grin. "Guess my name's spreading already."