The acrid tang of ozone still hung in the air of Surna’s apartment, a metallic ghost of violence. Tavos Ren stepped over a shard of synth-glass, his boot crunching softly. The Vellator Conglomerate’s kill-squads were professionals, but this scene… this was art. Or, more accurately, a statement. His optic implant zoomed, detailing the trajectory of the heavy trooper’s fall from the window ledge. Too precise for a panicked leap. He moved to the remaining enforcer, still a twitching heap in the corner, a crude tourniquet of torn fabric around his thigh. The bite marks, deep and jagged, matched reports of a rogue bio-synth hound circulating through private mercenary channels. “The subject, Surna Krell, a Grade-9 data-scourer with no combat training, managed this?” Tavos’s voice was a low rasp, more a thought than a question. His subordinate, a fresh-faced operative named Kalla, consulted her wrist-mounted slate. “Her profile is clean, sir. Minimal infractions. No known affiliations.” “Clean profiles are the dirtiest, Kalla.” Tavos ran a gloved finger along a scorch mark on the wall, a residual blast from a plasma charge. The way the subject had used the apartment’s flimsy architecture against the enforcers, turning tight corridors into choke points, exploiting structural weaknesses… it was all too familiar. Tavos wiped copper dust from his cheekpiece, gauging the kill angles. He knelt, examining the barely visible scuff marks on the floor, the minute abrasions on the doorframe. The movement patterns weren’t just efficient; they were… fluid. Predator-like. He stood, slowly turning to survey the wrecked room again. The air thrummed with the ghost of a ghost. The legendary 'Ghost of Tarakhan,' an operative who’d vanished five years ago after leveling three sector hubs. Her file had been purged, marked ‘Clean Slate Candidate.’ But the Ghost had never truly died, had she? She’d just gone dormant, a viper coiled in the heart of the Rust Grids, only to be reawakened by a kill-squad’s clumsy hand. “No, not a slum rat,” Tavos murmured, his gaze sweeping over the chaos, landing on the shattered cradle. “A phantom.” He accessed his drone, a sleek obsidian beetle, and dispatched it with a silent command. “Find me a power spike. An anomaly. Anything that doesn’t fit.” *** Below, in the bowels of the Rust Grids, the air was a greasy blend of stagnant water and ozone. Surna coughed, the movement sending a fresh throb through her cracked ribs. Talin, bless his unnerving calm, was drawing intricate patterns in the damp grit of the sewer tunnel with a discarded power-conduit shard. Grit, a six-legged shadow, occasionally nudged Talin’s hand with its snout, a soft whine rumbling in its chest. “It’s like we’re on a secret adventure, Mama!” Talin announced, holding up his latest masterpiece – a crude rendering of Grit chasing a stick-figure enforcer. “A super-secret camping trip!” Surna managed a tight smile, the corners of her mouth pulling against the ache. “Right, ‘camping.’ In a tunnel that smells like a dying bot’s armpit.” The ribs were bad, a sharp stab every time she shifted. The adrenaline from the escape had worn off, leaving behind a raw, bruised reality. [Mission: Steal Municipal Power. Objective: Tap into the Vellator Conglomerate’s primary circuit to restore critical bodily functions. Failure to comply will result in a 20% Menace Point penalty and prolonged discomfort. Reward: One spin on the Infamy Roulette.] “Wonderful,” Surna muttered, glaring at the floating text. “Just what I needed. A side quest for my suffering.” “What’s a primary circuit, Mama?” Talin asked, his head tilted. Grit thumped its tail against the concrete, a rhythmic counterpoint to the distant rumble of the city. “It’s how the fancy people up top get their lights, kiddo,” Surna explained, pushing herself up with a grunt. “And how we’re going to get some… medicine.” Her gaze landed on a junction box embedded in the grimy wall of the tunnel culvert. It hummed faintly, leaking raw wattage. Accessing the grid required delicate work, bypassing Vellator’s hardened encryption and power-flow regulators. But Surna’s fingers, despite their current tremor, remembered. Her past self had known this system intimately. She found the main conduit, a thick arterial cable, and with a scavenged multi-tool, began to strip its insulation. Sparks flew, small blue flares in the oppressive gloom, illuminating Grit’s amber eyes, fixed intently on her. “Hold still, little scoundrel,” she grumbled, carefully bridging a connection with a jumper cable she’d found. The junction box gave a shuddering whine, then the humming intensified. Small, localized lights flickered to life deeper in the culvert, an indication she’d successfully siphoned juice. A faint warmth spread through her, a pulse of synthetic current that eased the sharp bite of her ribs. Not a full healing, but enough to dull the pain and stave off collapse. [Villainy Achieved! +50 Menace! Current Menace: 100!] [Infamy Protocol Reward: One spin on the Infamy Roulette! Spin now?] “Might as well,” Surna sighed, pressing the holographic prompt with a mental command. “Maybe I’ll get some actual med-gel this time. Or, hell, a decent meal for Talin.” The roulette spun, a blur of colors and obscure icons. Surna braced herself, half-expecting a crate of expired rations or another bio-synth monstrosity. Instead, a localized trans-mat portal shimmered into existence a few feet away, a perfectly symmetrical tear in the air. From its emerald depths, something large and impossibly red began to descend. It settled on the damp concrete with a soft *thump*. A couch. A gloriously, ridiculously plush, blood-red velvet couch. Its ornate wooden frame was polished to a high sheen, the cushions plump and inviting. It looked utterly out of place, an alien artifact of comfort dropped into this subterranean hellscape. Surna stared at the tasseled armrests. “Are you… kidding me?” Talin bounced on his heels. “Mama! It’s a sleeping cloud! Can I touch it?” He scrambled towards it, his small fingers tracing the rich fabric. Grit sniffed at it, then with a surprisingly graceful leap, curled up on one of the cushions, its six legs tucked neatly, a low purr rumbling in its chest. It looked absurdly comfortable. Surna poked the velvet with a hesitant finger. It was soft, yielding. A memory, fleeting and indistinct, of something equally soft and red, flickered at the edge of her awareness, then vanished. This was the antithesis of everything in her life – luxurious, impractical, utterly unnecessary. Yet, the thought of its plushness against her aching back… She looked at Talin, who was now bouncing gently on the cushions, a wide, joyful grin splitting his face. “Best camping trip ever!” he chirped. “Now we have a super-comfy tent!” Surna let out a short, humorless laugh. “A tent. Right.” She eyed the impossible object, then the grime-streaked walls. “Alright, fine. A super-comfy, incredibly conspicuous tent.” She sank onto the edge of the couch, the velvet sighing under her weight. It was heavenly, a shocking embrace of softness in her brutal existence. A bitter warmth spread through her, a grudging acceptance of this bizarre, luxurious gift. Just then, high above in the perpetual twilight of the Rust Grids, Tavos Ren’s drone gave a sharp, triumphant ping. A power spike, anomalous and potent, had just flared in a forgotten drainage culvert. A signature that shouldn’t exist. A phantom, indeed.

Velvet and Violence