The scent of blooming night-wort, thick as syrup, clung to Mezri’s clothes as she moved through the rows. It was meant to be a distraction, a cover for the subtle hum of her wrist-mounted scanner. Her smile, wide and carefree, felt stretched taut across her face, a carefully constructed mask. She twirled a strand of vibrant teal hair, a tourist admiring the luminous flora of Rustbloom Orchard. But her eyes, the color of storm-swept coastlines, tracked the barely-there glint of a polished alloy boot deep within the bioluminescent stalks. “Oh, just divine!” she chirped, a little too loud, to an imaginary companion. Her hand drifted to the small pouch at her hip, her fingers brushing the cool, ridged handle of her bio-harvester blade. It wasn’t meant for picking glowing fruit. It was a tool of her old trade, sharp enough to sever bio-electrical conduits, laced with a potent neurotoxin. The brass band on her wrist buzzed, a faint tremor against her skin. *Tracker.* She knew the signature, the particular frequency of a Gallowglass Syndicate locator beacon. They were faster than she’d anticipated. She veered off the main path, feigning interest in a particularly vibrant cluster of crimson-scaled vine berries. The stalker, confident in their invisibility, followed. Mezri dropped her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. *Fool.* In one fluid motion, she drew the bio-harvester, its crystalline edge flaring with a soft viridian light. She pivoted, not to face the tracker, but to swing low, a blurred arc beneath the thick, bio-engineered foliage. The blade connected with a soft *thwip*, severing the tracker’s ankle transponder with surgical precision. A muffled gasp, a heavy thud as the hidden operative stumbled. Before they could recover, Mezri was upon them, a knee to the chest, the blade pressed to their throat. The viridian light pulsed, reflecting in wide, terrified eyes. “Enjoy your vacation,” she whispered, her voice losing its manufactured cheer, a chilling undertone of steel. She wasn’t here for a fight, not yet. This was just a necessary, unpleasant interruption. She twisted the blade, not enough to kill, but enough to deliver a paralytic shock that would keep them still for a good long while. The syndicate operative went limp, a faint tremor running through their body. Mezri straightened, a small, weary sigh escaping her lips. *One down. Too many more to go.* She wiped the blade on a glowing leaf, its light dimming as the foreign residue neutralized. The bubbly tourist smile returned, a shade too bright. Later, the air inside the ‘Rustbloom Roost’ tavern was a comforting balm after the orchard’s humid chill. The low, guttural thrum of a plucked bass-lute vibrated through the floorboards, a dark counterpoint to the raucous laughter and clanking tankards. Mezri found a stool near the back, ordering a ‘Glow-brew Grog’ – a local specialty that shimmered with faint phosphorescence. Her bio-mechanical glider, Pip, a compact bundle of copper scales and whirring gears, perched on her shoulder, its large, intelligent eyes scanning the room. Her gaze snagged on the musician. He sat hunched over a heavy-stringed, fretless instrument that looked like a cross between a cello and a cannon. His profile was sharp, severe, etched with a kind of weary resignation. Dark, unbound hair fell across his brow, shadowing eyes that carried the grimy soot of Pelagosa’s smog cities. His fingers, long and calloused, moved with an effortless grace across the strings, coaxing out a melody that was both mournful and fiercely beautiful. Kevral, she’d heard someone call him. The name felt like a rumble in her chest. A strange, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in Mezri’s gut. It wasn’t the heat of the grog. It was something deeper, a spark igniting in the ashes of her carefully constructed detachment. Pip, usually a picture of stoic vigilance, suddenly let out a high-pitched trill, its copper scales vibrating rapidly. It leaned forward, antennae twitching, pointing a tiny claw directly at Kevral. Mezri gently nudged Pip back, a nervous laugh catching in her throat. “Easy there, little copper-scale,” she murmured, her gaze still fixed on the brooding musician. He met her eyes then, just for a fleeting moment, and an odd static prickled against her ribs. There was an ocean of sorrow in his gaze, mirroring her own, hidden beneath layers of defense. She looked away, forced the bubbly tourist persona back to the forefront. “Well, this place is absolutely charming!” she announced, a little too loudly, catching the attention of a grizzled farmer nursing a tankard of murky cider. “I’m Mezri, by the way! Just traveling through, you know? Completing my best friend Jolla’s bucket list.” She held up a small, worn datapad, its screen displaying a crudely drawn map of Pelagosa with ‘Rustbloom Orchard – Taste the Glow-brew!’ circled in bright pink. “Jolla always wanted to see the glowing harvests. Such a shame she couldn’t make it.” Her voice remained light, cheerful, but the words were a shield against the jagged shard of grief that always threatened to pierce through. The farmer offered a sympathetic grunt and turned back to his cider. Mezri took a long sip of her grog, the warmth spreading through her. Kevral’s melody shifted, growing darker, more complex, as if he’d caught the undertone of her carefully curated sorrow. She could feel his eyes on her, a silent, weighty presence. The strange attraction pulled at her, a moth to a dangerous flame. This was what Jolla would have wanted. Adventure. New experiences. A sliver of peace. Suddenly, Pip stiffened on her shoulder. Its internal mechanisms whirred, a sound Mezri knew intimately – the sound of data decryption, of a core processing unit working overtime. Then, with a sharp *clack*, Pip’s optical lens flared. A shimmering, crimson crosshair, holographic and precise, bloomed in the air, projected from Pip’s lens. It hovered, unwavering, directly over Kevral’s chest. Mezri froze. Her forced cheer vanished, replaced by an icy dread. Pip had never done anything like this. The crimson crosshair pulsed, and a synthesized voice, metallic and calm, spoke from the glider’s internal speaker, loud enough for a few nearby patrons to hear, for Kevral to hear. “Asset identified: Kevral. Former Gallowglass Syndicate operative. Designation: ‘Strikebreaker’.”

The Smuggler's Vacation