Chapter 1 Gallery of Chaos
The bar pulses with a raw, untamed energy, a cacophony of clashing metal, guttural laughs, and the hiss of sparking circuits. The space is a gutted shell of its former glory—cracked marble floors peek through layers of grime, and the skeletal remains of ornate pillars lean drunkenly against walls tagged with glowing graffiti. Neon tubes stutter overhead, bathing the room in a sickly mix of pink and green, while the air hums with the whine of overworked tech and the stench of burnt wiring.
At a table near the entrance, a hulking cyborg raider—his left arm a patchwork of rusted plates and exposed pistons—slams a dented tankard onto the wood, sloshing a glowing amber liquid that sizzles faintly on contact. He roars at a wiry scavenger across from him, demanding payment for a scavenged plasma coil, his optic implant flaring red with each bellow. The scavenger, twitchy and pale, fumbles with a satchel of scavenged creds, his mechanical hand clicking nervously as it sorts the pile.
In the corner, a bounty hunter lounges against a wall, her trench coat patched with scavenged kevlar, a plasma-scarred machete resting across her knees. She sharpens it with a whetstone, the rhythmic scrape cutting through the din, her single glowing eye—blue and unblinking—scanning the room for her next mark. A trio of junkers huddle nearby, their faces smudged with oil, passing a flickering holo-cube between them. It projects a grainy image of a derelict ship, their whispers laced with greed as they plot a raid.
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Across the bar, a glitchy service droid—its torso cracked open, wires spilling like guts—lurches between tables, delivering trays of glowing drinks. One patron, a gaunt figure with a shaved head and a neural jack sparking at the temple, grabs a glass and plugs a thin cable from his skull into the liquid, his eyes rolling back as he mainlines the code-laced brew. Another raider, half his face replaced with a crude metal plate, arm-wrestles a rival, their cybernetic limbs grinding and popping, sparks flying as a small crowd bets scraps of tech on the outcome.
The bar’s centerpiece—a long counter of warped steel—bears the scars of countless fights: burn marks, dents, and a faint etching of some pre-disaster logo, now illegible. Behind it, a cyborg barkeep with a mechanical claw for a hand pours drinks from a jury-rigged still, the liquid glowing faintly as it sloshes into mismatched cups. Amid the chaos, Nyx sits alone at the counter’s far end, her black leather gleaming, purple hair spilling over one shoulder, neon-violet lines pulsing across her skin, eyes locked on a glowing drink.
