The sky above the Citadel gleamed with shifting hues of green, gold, and shadows—a kaleidoscope painted by the artificial nebula generator that surrounded the thriving city. The Citadel was humanity’s most ambitious achievement, a self-dependent metropolis orbiting Proxima Centauri, far from Earth yet alive with ambition and style. For Eira, today was supposed to be a simple job. But destiny often has other plans.
Eira’s olive green top clung to her, intricate crisscross cut-outs revealing fragments of constellation tattoos on her arms. Her black skirt flowed like liquid obsidian, a mark of understated elegance against the light-embedded, textured titanium floor. Her makeup, like her reputation, was dramatic—her bold eyeliner slashing across her face like comet trails, neutral lips grounding her in the chaos of the universe. Her wavy dark hair framed her face, not so much styled as if it were caught mid-galactic storm. She was fashion incarnate—but in the Citadel, being fashionable wasn’t just a choice. It was survival.
The gala swirled around her in a chaotic buzz—high-pitched laughter, clinking of gravity-stabilized flutes, whispers of hushed corporate deals. Every guest in the room was clad in avant-garde attire designed to outshine the stars. Eira moved through the crowd with quiet precision. She wasn’t here to impress. Not really. Beneath the confidence, her fingers twitched. The target was near. She could feel it.
The Mark
He appeared unassuming at first glance, leaning casually against the bar’s curved form. Stark in contrast to the vivid colors surrounding him, his attire was functional—an old crew jacket from the now-defunct Lunar Mining Fleet, over dark cargo pants. But Eira’s eyes zoned in on him immediately. His hair was shock-white—not dyed, not styled—warped by years of unprotected radiation exposure. His face reflected the hard plains of a survivor, but his hands, resting on the bartop, were too pristine, too perfectly augmented with sleek cybernetics usually reserved for high-tier executives.
The name he went by was Dax Relion. Black-market broker, whistleblower of untraceable tech, and the Citadel’s most dangerous criminal. The oligarch who’d hired Eira claimed Dax had “stolen something of high value.” What that something was… well, the brief had conveniently left out those details.
“I didn’t expect them to send you,” came his voice—a husky mix of cynicism and charm. Eira froze. He hadn’t even turned around. His golden, cybernetic eye reflected in the polished surface of the bar. “Olive green doesn’t quite scream ‘assassin,’ does it?”
The Hunt
“I’m not the one you should be worrying about,” she shot back, her hand instinctively brushing the edge of her concealed pulse dagger. Smooth, calm, neutral—standard protocol for situations like these.
Dax chuckled and finally faced her, casually picking up a drink that had mysteriously manifested in his hands. “Relax. You’re not here to kill me—at least not yet.” His gaze dropped to the tattoos on her arms, lingering like he recognized the constellations. “Do you even know why you’re here?”
Eira hesitated, her professional mask almost cracking. That was her first mistake. Dax moved faster than any record she’d studied, his cybernetic fingers gripping her wrist in an iron hold. Her pulse dagger clattered to the ground—something that hadn’t happened since her training days. He leaned closer, his voice dangerously low. “They didn’t tell you what I have, did they?”
The room around them pulsed, shifting from the holographic equivalent of a glittering nebula to a crimson hue. Someone had tripped the Citadel’s panic protocols. Eira yanked her wrist free and spun to avoid Dax’s retaliatory strike, but unlike most machines, he didn’t over-rely on his enhancements. His movements were fluid, alive—and aggravatingly human.
Amid the whirling bodies of the panicked crowd, Eira snatched a drink tray off a passing drone and hurled it toward Dax’s head. He deflected it effortlessly, but the action gave her a half-second she desperately needed. She dove behind the bar, her neural interface pinging. Someone, somewhere, had accessed her personal relay network.
Her vision flickered. Then, with a jarring sense of vertigo, she saw it—images implanted directly into her brain through the stolen connection. Blueprints. No… not blueprints. Memories reconstructed as data. Of Earth, long abandoned. Of her mother, the one connection she’d buried deep under layers of deflection. And of her tattoos—constellations that mapped a hidden gateway locked within the Citadel’s core.
The Revelation
Dax halted his attack, his golden eye dimming almost sympathetically as he scanned her faltering, frozen form. “Yeah. Now you get it,” he murmured, his tone a complex mix of cocky triumph and guarded remorse.
“What… what is this?” Eira’s voice cracked. Her hands clutched at her temples as the memories swarmed her. Her employer, the one who had hired her, didn’t want the information Dax stole. They wanted her—her memories, her blood, her body’s intrinsic map to a wormhole that could make Earth habitable again. She was never the hunter. She was the prize.
“I wasn’t the one who started this,” he said quietly, stepping closer but stopping just short of where she could strike him. “I was just trying to keep it away from them—to keep you away from them. Your employers? They’d trade Earth’s revival for control over the Citadel. Do you really think they’d let you walk away, Eira?”
The Choice
Her pulse quickened, her neural HUD flashing red as the security systems closed in. Behind the alarm’s wails, her thoughts buzzed. Dax wasn’t her enemy. Not today.
“I hate this dress,” she muttered, kicking off her heels. “You better have an exit strategy.”
Dax flashed a grin and extended his hand. “I always do.”
Together, they bolted through the chaos, weaving between panicked elites and clunky security drones. The Citadel’s sky shimmered with darker greens now, a storm of stars and electricity cascading beyond the dome. Whatever was waiting for them on the other side of the wormhole, Eira knew one thing for certain: It had to be better than the betrayal waiting behind.
The source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Crushing Modern Minimalism with an Edge: Styling the Olive Top & Black Skirt Look
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