My name's Jax Harlan, and if you asked anyone in the undercity of Nebula Prime, they'd tell you I'm just another ghost in the machine—a 20-year-old scrapper with a knack for slipping through the cracks. Born human, raised Nebulari. Or so they say. I don't remember the crash; hell, I was just a baby in a cryo-pod when it happened. The elders spun tales pieced together from the wrecked ship's scraps—a "great exodus" from a dying world called Earth, where my kind—Pureblood Humans—fled some invisible plague. Three ships scattered across the stars, one smashed into this godforsaken Nebula. Mine splintered, pods ejecting like seeds in a storm. I landed in the slums, the grit and grime of Lower Hive. They say I'm the only survivor they found, stronger and faster than the blue-skins, with an edge no Nebulari can match. But down here, it's just survival.
Right now, I'm mid-heist, heart pounding like a warp core on overload. The market bazaar in Lower Hive is a chaos of glowing stalls, Nebulari vendors hawking cyber-implants and exotic fruits that pulse with faint auras—their innate energy control, I guess. They don't even know what it is; just instinct, like breathing. Me? I feel something deeper when I sync with machines, like the bio-scooter I'm hotwiring under this flickering neon sign. Vital Flux, or whatever the black-market whispers call it—my human blood makes tech sing. The scooter's engine hums to life, smoother than any Nebulari rig, feeding off my adrenaline. Or maybe something more... intimate. I've felt it in scraps with rivals, that rush when things get heated. But who has time for philosophy when you're dodging patrols?
My "family" waits back at the hideout—a ragtag crew of outcasts like me. Kira, the sharp-tongued hacker with a cyber-arm that could crush steel; Milo, the kid mechanic who's more machine than flesh now; and Lena, the tough-as-nails scout who's saved my ass more times than I can count. No blood ties, but they're mine. We steal to eat, hack to survive—never cross the line into murder or worse. That's my code. Red lines keep you human in a world of aliens.
I weave through the crowd, blue-skinned Nebulari towering over me with their ethereal glows, oblivious to the human "refugee" in their midst. Spot my mark: a merchant's stall loaded with energy cells—prime for resale. Slip in, palms sweaty, grab a handful. Easy. But then, movement up high catches my eye. The skybridges connecting the Upper Spires, where the elites float in their anti-grav pods. A group of them—Nebulari nobles in shimmering robes, auras flaring like controlled storms. They know more about "energies" than us down here, tinkering with hybrids and artifacts. Rumors say they sense life forces, manipulate them in secret labs, but it's all half-truths.
And there she is, among them. A woman—no blue skin, just pale perfection, long raven hair whipping in the artificial wind, emerald eyes scanning the void like she owns it. Her suit hugs curves that could launch a fleet, cyber-implants glowing faintly on her arms and collar. Something stirs in me, a pull like gravity. Vital Flux? Her eyes lock on mine for a split second, and it's electric—desire, curiosity, something raw. She's dominant, untouchable, with that edge the elites seem to breed into their own.
Too long. I stare too damn long. The merchant spots me, bellows in Nebulari tongue. "Thief!" A heavy pan swings—clang—right to my skull. Stars explode, world tilts. As I crumple to the grimy floor, her face lingers in my fading vision.