The city of Neonspire had always been on the brink of something. A rebellion. A technological breakthrough. An implosion under its own glittering weight. It was a place where the light never turned off, where the nights felt like perpetual discos of purple and gold, and where secrets hummed louder than the electric currents that powered them. Almost everyone had something to hide, but few hid better than her.
She was called Velatha. No last name, no origin story, just a streak of purple hair cascading like liquid silk down her back. She lounged in the quiet sanctity of her penthouse suite, looking for all the world like a queen surveying a court of none. The walls shimmered softly, panels of reactive light programmed to mimic a dusk sky, while the white surface she rested on glowed faintly under her weight.
Her outfit—a black latex suit with striking crimson accents running like veins over her body—was more than fashion. It was armor. A statement. A warning. Somewhere on the 88th floor beneath her, Neonspire’s finest hackers, thieves, and private enforcers were trying to figure out how to kill her. But Velatha didn’t care. She stretched, feline-like, a gunmetal claw extending delicately from her gauntlet as she examined it in the dim glow. Someone would come for her, eventually. They always did. That was the game they played.
The Job No One Could Refuse
The knock came at precisely 11:05 PM. Not a second earlier, not a second late. Velatha smirked to herself. Exit protocol broken. Idiots. She didn’t bother standing; her voice cut through the air like a blade.
“Come in.”
It was him. Jeryn Voltaire, who fancied himself some sort of underworld savant. Too clean-cut to be a criminal, too dirty to be a government stooge. His hair was slick, his suit pressed, but his eyes… they were disconnected, always scanning for something Velatha didn’t believe existed.
“You look comfortable,” Jeryn drawled, settling into a chair across from her. He didn’t sit so much as he perched, his body constantly alert. “I’d heard you retired.”
“I did.” Velatha examined her nails. “Yet here you are.”
“This isn’t a social call, I’m afraid.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “We’ve got a… product problem.”
“Speak plainly, Voltaire.” Her tone was ice. “Your time is almost up.”
He didn’t flinch, though she noted the slight tension twitching at his jawline. “Fine. Someone stole it—the Prism Engine.”
The last thread of Velatha’s smirk unraveled. “And you’re still alive?”
“I have my charms.” He grinned wolfishly. Then, more seriously, “We think it’s someone inside the Syndicate. No one else could’ve gotten this close.”
“If you think I’m returning to the Syndicate…”
“It’s not your former employers I want you for.” He locked eyes with her. “It’s the one who has it now. Marix Noven.”
At the mention of the name, Velatha exhaled slowly. Of course it would be her. The star-studded thief who fancied herself a revolutionary. If anyone had the gall—and the skill—to steal from the Syndicate and live to tell the tale, it was her.
“I’m intrigued,” Velatha admitted, brushing a strand of purple hair behind her ear. “But why me? You must have hundreds of mercenaries in your back pocket.”
“You’re not a mercenary.” Jeryn rose to his feet as if in challenge. “You’re an artist. And Marix is the kind of brushstroke only you can handle.”
The Heist That Went Wrong
Two nights later, Velatha found herself crouched high above Neonspire’s largest starport. The Syndicate’s outpost was an unforgiving fortress of titanium and bulletproof glass. If any of her former allies saw her sneaking in, it would be kill-on-sight. She adjusted the crimson accents on her suit; they pulsated lightly as she activated the cloaking tech sewn seamlessly into the latex. A gift from a “friend” long since dead.
Marix Noven was reportedly in possession of the Prism Engine, a device capable of supercharging any power source indefinitely—a dangerous bargaining chip in this city’s delicate chaos. Her intel had indicated that Marix planned to auction it off, right here, in the Syndicate’s own sanctum.
Velatha slipped through the corridors like a wraith, bypassing security grids with practiced ease. She could almost hear Jeryn’s smug voice in her head: “It’s why you were tailor-made for this.” She hated that he was right.
At the auction chamber, Velatha’s heartbeat synced with the thrumming vibration of enclosed voices. Marix stood center-stage, her platinum hair reflecting the soft purple glow above. She was as sharp and stunning as Velatha remembered, but the real centerpiece of the room was the object in her hand: the Prism Engine. A crystal sphere no larger than a fist, pulsating with a kaleidoscope of iridescent colors.
“Who will take the first bid?” Marix challenged, her voice dangerous yet melodic. “Do I hear a hundred million credits?”
Velatha acted fast. Before the first bid could register, she emerged from the shadows, her gunmetal claw pointed directly at Marix. Gasps and stumbles ricocheted through the room as buyers scrambled for cover.
But Marix only laughed. A shimmering, wry laugh. “Velatha,” she purred. “Always lurking where you don’t belong.”
The next few moments were a blur. Marix didn’t hesitate, pulling her own blade from a holster. The two women collided in a symphony of sparks and metallic screeches, their movements fluid yet precise.
Unlikely Allies
The fight ended as abruptly as it began when the chamber door burst open, and Syndicate guards flooded in, guns raised. Both women froze, panting, sizing up their predicament with the shared, begrudging realization:
They were now each other’s only way out.
“Truce,” Velatha whispered through clenched teeth, her eyes darting between Marix and the guards.
Marix smirked, raising her hands slowly in mock surrender. “Fine. But the Prism stays with me.”
“Not a chance.”
“Then this will be fun.”
With no time to argue, Velatha kicked over a stack of auction inventory into the guards’ line of sight. Marix followed suit, throwing a smoke grenade that she hadn’t hesitated to pocket moments prior. The two dashed through the chaos, a reluctant, crackling partnership already beginning to take shape.
The Velvet Rebellion was just getting started.
The source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Unleash Your Inner Heroine: The Bold Elegance of Purple and Latex
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Get Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
Post Comment