With each step through the sand and blistering wind, Citrio thinks over the string of events that led him into this desolate corner of the Octant. The HUD on his OptiVision indicates the gravitational pull on this planet is close to 4 times higher than what he’s used to.

Dragging the strange payload behind him on his hover-sled, Citrio remains uninterested in its purpose. Curiosity is a luxury in his trade, one he can’t afford. However, neglecting to inquire about its weight fills Citrio with regret at this moment. An angry scream pierces through the sandstorm from behind him.

Damn, I thought I lost him.

His CommLink crackles to life, a distorted voice struggles through the static, “MIN 1..static noise…9, pl..static noise… report.” The message, despite being shredded by interference, carries Sophie’s unmistakable tone. He always marveled at how calm the ship's AI managed to sound in times of stress. In a strange way, this comforted him. A constant amongst the chaos of his occupation.

But this storm, this fucking storm, is messing with the signal. 

Citrio tries to patch out a response, “Sophie, if you hear me, get the starboard door open, please.” 

The wind carries screeches and muttered curses in foreign tongues to Citrio’s ears—his transaction “partner” evidently was still unhappy with Citrio collecting his client's payload. Citrio reaches his left hand to his waist.

Where’s my blaster?

Discovering his firearm’s absence sets a cold sweat on his brow, but the glimmer of his ship in the distance reignites his hope. The cargo door lowers itself, a silent cheer for Sophie’s vigilance.

Thank god. She heard me. 

With a burst of last-ditch energy, Citrio picks up his pace. Now close, he detaches the straps of his hover-sled and lunges toward his ship. His fingers clasp onto the cold metal doorframe and he pulls himself inside, grabbing the backup blaster from the rack on the wall he spins, and fires—silencing the raucous cries of his pursuer, whose body now succumbs to the brutal gravity of this planet with a thud.

He takes a moment to breathe. Another cycle survived, he thinks to himself, marking a check mark in the air with his fingers. He stands, his knees cracking, and maneuvers back out the door to collect his hover-sled carrying his client’s payload. Bending slightly to holster his backup blaster sends a sharp sting through his side.

He manages, with much struggle, to get the thing into the ship. He walks into the cockpit and flips on the ships’ main power generators. The displays all thrum to life with information. He is prompted to take his ship somewhere for maintenance, warnings which he once again ignores.

Sophie’s voice fills the cockpit, “One again, you’ve managed to irritate someone. You said this job was to be simple earlier, did you not?”

Citrio replies with a roll of his eyes, “Only one guy died, it was a simple job.”

Sophie brushed over his remark. “A class 6 delivery job came through. Looks like it could be a pretty significant payout, barring complications.”

The promise of another job catches his attention, briefly overshadowing the fatigue.

“Deets?” he prompts.

“Client needs a seismic device planted on SB-125B, a small moon in sector 465A of Helix Reach. Device needs to be picked up from Cevine Station—a local trade federation territory,” Sophie reveals.

“Payout?” Citrio inquires.

“75,000 credits.” Sophie replied.

“Catch?” Citrio inquired again.

“As far as I can tell, none. According to records, SB-125B is a mostly uninhabited world, known locally as ‘Kharth’. No intelligent life settlements found on the most recent scans. That’s all the information the transmission contained. Do you want me to accept the job?” Sophie inquires.

“Hell yes, ’bout time we had an easy payday,” Citrio exclaims. “I’m gonna lie down. Set course for Cevine Station,” he orders, his voice easing into a casual tone. “Also send Ralph a message, I have his package, I’ll deliver it to him after we pick up the new job.”

“Of course. Setting course for Cevine Station,” Sophie replies.

Citrio lifts the visor on his helmet before removing it entirely. The touch of cool air against his face is a fresh relief he hasn’t felt in hours. He slumps onto the bed in the rear of the ship, the ache in his body yielding to the comforting embrace of the cushion. “How long’s the trip, Soph?” he asks, his eyelids growing heavy.

“Approximately 28 hours. Your ZenoZzz Facemask’s battery is fully charged” Sophie replies.

He looks down at the device, briefly glancing at the whimsical label adorned with a cartoon cloud, from which playful 'Zzz's drift off. Slipping on the mask, he sets the hypersleep timer. Gradually, he drifts off, the events of the past few days replaying in a feverish montage of images and sounds. What might be nightmares for some are just dreams for Citrio.

Awoken by Sophie’s voice after 28 hours of euphoric, undisturbed hypersleep, Citrio rises to a new cycle, a new task. “Approaching landing bay 47. Your landing permit has been secured,” informs Sophie. “Your permit is strictly business, so once you meet the contact and complete the task, we depart. No room for detours.”

“Sure thing,” he groans, his voice gravelly from the long sleep. “Client got a name?”

“If he does, he isn’t sharing it. You’re to ask for ‘the broker’.” Sophie remarks.

“Okaaay… How long till we dock up?” Citrio asks.

“Approximately eight minutes.” Sophie answers. Citrio drifts to the observation window to behold Cevine Station.

The colossal structure sits far from any celestial body, it’s backdrop is only the emptiness of space. A long central spire binds five independent halos of structure, shimmering in reflective white. It was one of the biggest stations Citrio had ever seen, and for a moment, he was lost in its grandeur. 

“Docking is being initiated.” Sophie called out. This sudden alert snaps him back to the present.

“I thought you said eight minutes?” Citrio questions.

“I did, but we’ve been granted priority landing. This ‘broker’ must be someone of importance.” Sophie responds as the ship’s autopilot eases them toward the monumental station. Citrio peers out, hoping for a closer glimpse of the exterior. The flawless condition of the outer walls, untouched by radiation corrosion, catches his eye. He breaks away from the window and gets himself ready, dressing and holstering a blaster pistol at his side.

As the ship's elevator platform gradually descends to the landing pad, Citrio is struck by the high-flyer nature of Cevine Station. The pristine structures glisten under artificial lights, and the people, impeccably dressed, all exude an almost eerie aura of perfection. A stark contrast with the rough-and-tumble environments he's accustomed to. Even the landing bay personnel are well-dressed and well-groomed, a rarity in that line of work. A sense of unease, a foreign feeling of intimidation, begins to brew within him. The station, devoid of visible weapons, radiates a sense of fortified security.

Stepping off his ship’s platform, he’s greeted by a strikingly attractive attendant.

“MIN 1449?” she inquires with a practiced elegance.

“Last I checked,” Citrio responds, masking his discomfort with his usual bravado.

“And you are here to see ‘the broker’, correct?” she continues, her gaze steady.

“That’s right, I’m your guy,” he confirms, though a hint of hesitation creeps into his voice.

The attendant offers a slight bow. “Welcome to Cevine Station. We’re honored you’ve chosen to conduct your business here. Please, follow me, MIN 1449,” she says with a grace that seems rehearsed.

Citrio can't help but smirk at the formality, “Call me Citrio.”

As he speaks, Sophie’s voice comes through the CommLink, stern and laced with concern, “Remember, NO DISTRACTIONS.”

“Understood, Soph,” he mutters, swiftly ending the call with his ship.

The ensuing several hours are a blur, and Citrio’s next conscious moment is to the attendant’s crisp greeting. “Good morning, Mr. Citrio,” she says, her voice impeccably modulated, almost unnervingly perfect. She stands beside him, motionless and poised, her stillness unsettlingly unhuman.

The realization hits him suddenly; she’s an android. Her unwavering patience, her flawless demeanor – it all makes sense now. He briefly contemplates asking for a recount of the past hours but then quickly dismisses the idea. Probably best he doesn’t know.

Rising, Citrio notices an outfit laid out for him, each piece meticulously chosen. He quickly dresses, noting the perfect fit. Approaching the attendant, her movements precise and fluid, he braces himself for the meeting ahead.

“Are you ready to meet ‘the broker’, Citrio? He eagerly awaits your arrival. Let's not keep him waiting,” she says, her tone as flawless as her appearance.

Citrio's footsteps echo softly as he walks through the labyrinthine corridors of Cevine Station, his eyes occasionally darting to the android attendant gliding effortlessly beside him. They stop in front of a grand door that silently slides open, revealing a lavishly decorated office bathed in the soft glow of ambient lighting.

The broker stands by a large, panoramic window overlooking the depths of space, his silhouette framed against the cosmic backdrop. He turns, greeting Citrio with a practiced smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "MIN 1449, I presume? Please, call me Varren," he says, extending a hand that Citrio warily shakes.

Varren ushers Citrio to a seating area, where a sleek, metallic case rests on the table. "The task at hand is straightforward," Varren begins, his voice smooth and confident. He opens the case, revealing the seismic device within. Its surface is a network of intricate circuitry, pulsing with a faint blue light.

"This is a precision instrument designed for a controlled geological restructuring of SB-125B," Varren explains, his fingers hovering over the device with evident pride. "It's set to activate remotely, but you'll plant it at the specified coordinates. Discretion, as always, is paramount."

Citrio nods, his gaze fixed on the device. The promise of a substantial payout battles with the unease gnawing at the edges of his conscience. "Seems simple enough," he replies, trying to sound nonchalant.

Varren's smile widens slightly, sensing Citrio's internal struggle. "Of course, the reward reflects the importance of this task. Seventy-five thousand credits, transferred upon successful completion."

Citrio's eyes flicker with a mix of hesitation and greed. The sum is more than enough to sway him. "You've got yourself a deal," he says, finally breaking his stare from the device to meet Varren's gaze.

"Excellent," Varren responds, his smile now fully blossoming. "I knew you were the right man for the job. I look forward to hearing of your success."

As Citrio stands to leave, the weight of the impending task settles heavily upon him. The android attendant silently motions for him to follow, escorting him out of the office. The door slides shut behind them.

Citrio makes his way back to his ship and undocks. His next stop, to drop this thing off to Ralph. The coordinates lead Citrio to a small, nondescript outpost on the fringe of a bustling asteroid belt. As he docks his ship, he can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia; places like these were more his style, far removed from the sterile opulence of Cevine Station.

Ralph's workshop, a chaotic array of machine parts and tools, buzzed with the energy of a man deeply passionate about his work. The door creaked open, announcing Citrio's arrival. Ralph looked up, his face a mix of anticipation and concern.

"Citrio! You got it then?" Ralph asked, eyes darting to the package in Citrio's hand.

"Yeah, got your payload right here," Citrio replied, setting down the package on Ralph's cluttered workbench. "Wasn't exactly a walk in the park, though."

Ralph's expression turned sheepish. "Oh.. Sorry about that. Didn't expect it to get messy. How bad was it?"

Citrio shrugged, masking the ordeal's intensity. "Had to deal with some unexpected company. It's part of the job."

Ralph winced, a tinge of guilt crossing his face. "I owe you one, Citrio. Really. This means a lot."

The two chatted briefly, with Ralph skirting around the details of the package's contents. Citrio didn't press; he preferred it that way. As he turned to leave, Ralph's voice stopped him.

"Hey, Citrio, be careful, yeah? Heard things are heating up out there. Don't want to hear you've gotten yourself killed."

Citrio nodded, offering a wry smile. "Always am, Ralph. Thanks."

The surface of SB-125B was barren, a landscape of rocky terrains and deep crevices under a pale sky. Citrio landed his ship in a secluded area, near the coordinates Varren had provided. 

He trekked across the rugged terrain. Finally reaching the specified location, Citrio set the device down, his hands working to activate it. The timer was set to give him enough time to return to his ship and leave the moon's orbit. He stood back, looking at the device – a small, innocuous object that held the power to reshape a world.

As Citrio turned to leave, a sudden rumble underfoot stopped him in his tracks. Confusion turned to shock as he realized the seismic device had activated prematurely. The ground shook violently, fissures opening as the moon's surface began to tear itself apart.

Idiot.

At that moment, Citrio cursed himself– this was no accident. Varren had betrayed him, and activated the device early. The so-called broker never intended for him to leave SB-125B. He knew something was off, and he ignored it. Panic surged through him as he sprinted back to his ship, the ground breaking apart around him, geysers of dust and rock erupting into the air.

The tremors grew more violent, and Citrio witnessed a sight he hadn't expected – indigenous fauna, terrified and disoriented, stampeding in a desperate bid for survival. Among the chaos, he also spotted a group of people. The supposedly nonexistent inhabitants of SB-125B – closest to him, he saw a young boy, looking lost and terrified, running for his life.

As the seismic shockwaves intensified, Citrio's survival instincts kicked in full force. He sprinted towards his ship, dodging falling debris and unstable ground, his mind singularly focused on escape. Upon reaching the ship, he sealed the hatch behind him, his breath ragged, his heart pounding in his chest.

Sitting in the cockpit, Citrio's hands shook as he prepared for takeoff. But as he looked out at the chaos unfolding on SB-125B, guilt gnawed at him. He'd caused this, unwittingly or not. The image of the boy, alone and frightened, haunted him. In a moment of decisive clarity, Citrio unsealed the hatch and stepped back out into the pandemonium.

His body protested with every step, pain and exhaustion vying for dominance, but his resolve was unyielding. He pushed through the chaos, his eyes scanning frantically for the boy, for anyone. Finally, with the aid of his OptiVision, he found him amidst the chaos. He was on the ground, fear stricken. He was going to die here. Citrio didn't hesitate. He ran with everything he had and scooped up the boy just as a massive creature bore down on them, its horn piercing Citrio's side in a burst of agony.

Ignoring the searing pain, Citrio used his remaining strength to get both himself and the boy to the safety of the ship. As he dragged himself into the cockpit, leaving a trail of blood, he managed to secure the boy in a seat.

"You'll be okay," Citrio gasped, his voice barely a whisper. He looked at the boy, he tried to make his expression one of reassurance.

Sophie's voice, now tinged with a rare hint of concern, broke through. "Citrio! Hang on. Initiating emergency takeoff."

The ship lurched upwards, leaving the crumbling world behind. Citrio's vision blurred, pain and regret mingling in his fading consciousness. His last thought was a small comfort – the boy was safe