The gravity of the moon was off – too light, like he was fighting to stay grounded. Activating the grav stabilizer in his boots helped, but it didn’t combat the sense of slight weightlessness as he walked through the dusty atmosphere. He felt like he was fighting a current. It made him slow and slow meant weak. Not something you wanted to be in a place like this.
The oxygen level was also dangerously low according to the ship’s diagnostics. Fourteen percent oxygen, point zero eightpercent carbon monoxide, and a particulate density beyond what he knew his body could withstand. He may have a death wish,but not this cheap of one. He sure as hell wasn’t about to go out on some backwater moon in the middle of nowhere due to bleeding lungs. He didn’t have many standards, but that was one of them.
He strapped his rebreather over his face, turning it down to a fifty percent mix to conserve the oxygen. It hissed as it locked in place. Breathing in, he let out a hacking cough before it began to filter in breathable air. It had cracked the last time he’d usedit. Perks of the job when you work with criminals and thieves –never know when a punch might be coming your way.
The moon’s red glow came from the natural mineral that made up most of the landscape. Dust hung in the air and attached itself to any surface it could find, almost as if it were aliving thing. Within minutes of leaving his ship, he was covered in a thin layer. It wasn’t toxic, not in small doses. Only if you breathed in too much and too deep.
Killian had heard rumors of this junk moon but he’d never had a reason to visit until now. They called it The Yard. It was where ships, droids, and other pieces of tech went to die. And where enough desperation might take you if you needed a part.
And, unfortunately for him, he was desperate. Couldn’t keep running from ghosts with a busted Quantum Flux Regulator. He’d known it was only a matter of time before it fried. Like with everything else, though, he waited until italmost killed him before replacing it.
So, he found himself stranded on this junk heap of a scrapyard – his ship dead, low on credits, low on stims, and almost totally out of the will to keep going. He was forced to scrape the bottom of the barrel for a somewhat functional regulator – something that would get him to the next job, earn some credits, score some stims. The necessities. He would worry about the longevity of the piece later.
Piles of scraps stretched to the horizon, but amidst the piles was what barely passed as a kind of scattered marketplace.Dozens of aliens he had never seen before rooted in the junk like vacuum beetles.
The market itself wasn’t much better. Raised, angry voices,hard bartering, the sharp hiss of welding torches washed over him before he’d even stepped into it. A faint smell of rot and smoke penetrated through the rebreather – without it, his eyes would be watering more than they already were.
But he had a mission: find the part and get the hell out. He started his search amidst the piles. It took barely any time to realize that he wasn’t going to find what he needed there. Mostly scrap torn from whatever would give – nothing functional.
Straightening, he faced the market like the threat it was, wondering if he should find a drink first. He decided against it. In and out. That’s what he had told himself when he got there. In and out.
With a heavy sigh, he trudged forward, pulling the hood of his jacket up. You didn’t make eye contact in a place like this –not unless you were looking for a fight. And his heart just wasn’t in it today.
Low, mismatched canopies hung from shop to shop, layering an eerie shadow over the makeshift streets. Flickering blue and white holo-signs jumped out from every storefront he passed. Every step he took crunched – he didn’t want to know what from.
He was examining a power coupling on a table in front of a stall when something crashed into his legs, sending him stumbling and almost taking the display with him. Without looking, Killian reached down, fist closing on rough cloth,yanking a small alien up to face him.
“Sorry, didn’t see you–” the little one said. Killian’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t buying it. He knew the trick – it was the oldest in the book.
“Hand it over and I’ll make sure you can at least limp back to the hole you crawled out of,” Killian growled, holding out his hand.
The little alien’s single eye went wide, “I don’t know what you–”
Killian’s hand moved to his blaster, “Wanna try that again?”
The act dropped. A grumble, then the pouch they had nicked hit the ground.
“Good call, kid,” he said, letting go.
“Not a kid, shok’ta!” the little alien shot back – Killian’s translator spitting static over the foreign word – as they skitteredoff, disappearing into the crowd.
Maybe he did need that drink after all.
He didn’t have to go far to find a bar. Sliding onto a stool, he ordered something that would burn and let his eyes wander. They caught on the holo-board cycling above the counter. Faces flickered in pale blue light – smugglers, mercs, ghosts of the system. Then his own likeness stared back.
SPECTRE. WANTED FOR CARGO THEFT AND INTERFERING WITH REGISTERED TRADE. REWARD: 50,000 CREDITS.
Killian huffed a quiet laugh that crackled through therebreather. It was always a little surreal seeing himself wanted by a universe that didn’t even know his name. The reward was flattering, though.
“Could’ve at least made me look less tired,” he muttered to himself.
The bartender slid his drink across the counter. The holoshifted to another face. Killian toggled the feed valve open, jabbed the pressure straw through the port, and chugged. The burn was exactly what he needed.
One drink. Now back to work.
Finding what he needed turned out to be harder than expected. The first couple of hours were a wash. Through the failure, his temper rose and the buzz from the stims faded. He just wanted to be done.
One more stall, he told himself. One more before going back to the Spectre for another hit and better oxygen. The rebreather was running low. Apparently the crack in it was worse than he’d thought. He was getting lightheaded, his vision tunneled.
The last stall was run by a Zerian, a reptilian species known for their money-grubbing, making a scrap moon like this more like its natural habitat. The alien looked up with two sets of eyes, scales rattling threateningly as it took him in.
“Got any Quantum Flux Regulators that actually work?” Killian asked, wasting no time searching.
The Zerian pointed to the pile nearest to the entrance. Without a word, he started digging, feeling eyes on him the whole time. A few minutes later, he found it – a surprisingly decent-looking regulator.
“How much?” Killian asked, holding it up.
“Hundred credits,” the Zerian said, unblinking.
“There’s no way this piece of trash is worth anything more than twenty creds,” Killian told the alien, “And that’s generous.”
It hissed. “A hundred and fifty credits.”
Killian narrowed his eyes. “You said a hundred.”
A razor-toothed grin spread across the Zerian’s face. “Two hundred, then.”
Killian scoffed, sounding robotic through the rebreather.
He tossed the regulator back on the pile and stalked off, blood boiling. Killian was halfway back to his ship – a plan to go back later and relieve the Zerian of the regulator forming in his mind – when the grating sound of metal being ripped from metal made him freeze.
Down the alley to his left, two burly aliens he had no name for were dismantling what looked like a maintenance droid, piece by piece. No tools, just brute force. He scoffed. It was barbaric but none of his business what others did with decommissioned droids.
Killian began to walk away when he heard it: a quiet static and garbled, mechanical plea.
“Still–functioning–Please–do–not–remove–”
“The hell…?” He backed up a few steps.
The droid was still operational. And these lunatics were tearing it apart for scrap.
“You seeing this? Full power core. Intact!”
“That’ll go for fifty creds, easy.”
“System–system mal–mal–malfunctioning–”
“Oy!” he heard himself call out.
Both aliens turned, rising from their predatory crouch over the droid. Killian instinctively stepped back. They were biggerthan he’d realized. His hand went to the blaster at his hip, thumbing the selector down to non-lethal.
Like everything else he owned, it had been faulty for weeks. Just another thing he needed to replace. It was mostly just for show, anyway. Mostly.
The alien on his right caught the movement and, faster than something that big should be able to move, reached for his own blaster. But Killian was quicker. The alien was on the ground before he could blink. Unmoving. Smoke curled from the barrelof his blaster – the selector had ghosted back to lethal. He froze.
The other scavenger roared, charging at Killian with a shard of scrap metal raised overhead. Killian chucked his defective blaster at the alien’s head, utilizing the moment of distraction to grab a rusted pipe from the ground and swinging as hard as he could. The alien fell to his knees. He was down, but not out.
“You’re gonna wish you hadn’t–” the scavenger spat, a loosened tooth hitting the dirt.
Killian didn’t waste time; he swung again, this time hard enough to drop him. He stood over the body, choking out a cough from the exertion and his dwindling oxygen.
Dropping the pipe with a clang, he turned to the corpse with a hole blasted through its chest. His jaw clenched, stomach churning. He’d just wanted them to leave the damn droid alone.But, as always, the universe made even his heroics into a farce.
Killian blinked, looking back up to the reason this happened in the first place.
“System–error–” the droid said again, staring with one bright blue optical sensor. The other was fractured.
“Yeah, you and me both, pal,” Killian scoffed, coming back to himself. No point in dwelling on what can’t be undone. That’s what the drugs were for. “You should get out of here before that one wakes up. Unless you want to be torn apart.”
He’d almost made it three steps when the droid behind him clicked and whirred, servos straining as it attempted to stand. When it finally did, it stood at least a head taller than him, looming as it limped forward.
It looked like an old military model, scrapped together by pieces of alien tech from at least five or six different planets. One arm was gone entirely; the other hung by a few exposed wires. The longer he looked, the more he realized that it was mostly just exposed wiring and patchy plating. It was in rough shape, held together with nothing but sheer will and rust, andsomehow still functioning.
“Sy–system error–” it said again, still moving towards him. “Maintenance re–required.”
That’s when Killian realized what was happening. He held up his hands, backing away. “Oh no, absolutely not. I am in no position to help you. Can barely take care of myself.”
The ugly thing was – it wasn’t a joke. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone a full day without something in his care breaking – a weapon, a ship part, himself.
“Yeah, I heard you the first time, Tin Man,” Killian snapped. “And I need a fuckin’ Quantum Flux Regulator but the universe isn’t kind to those who need.”
The droid paused, almost muttering to itself. “Quantum–Quantum–”
It turned its back on him, making him frown. He was about to turn and leave before the droid could follow when it bent over the bodies that had been assaulting it, rummaging through their gear. A moment later, it straightened.
Killian’s eyes went wide, a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh escaping him. “No shit.”
The droid stood up to its full height, holding a surprisingly clean-looking regulator to him. “Qua–quantum for main-maintenance.”
Killian looked from the regulator to the single working optic, a bark of laughter escaping him. “Are you… Are you trying to haggle with me? To fix you?”
“Maintenance–required,” it said again, as if driving the point home.
This was more than he bargained for. He should’ve left the droid to be scavenged. He was down a blaster – albeit a faulty one – that had accidentally killed someone and still didn’t have what he came to this hellhole for.
All in all, not a great day. The booze and stims on board the Spectre were calling out to him – practically screaming.
The regulator was the only thing keeping him on this rock.And the only thing between him and the regulator was this droid.
He didn’t see much of a way around it.
Exhaling sharply, he scrubbed a hand down his face.“Alright. Fine. You give me the regulator, and I’ll fix you to the best of my ability. After that, you’re on your own. Deal?”
“Okay,” Killian said, shaking his head as he led the way back to the Spectre. He had no idea when being extorted by a barely functioning droid had become his life. This was a new one.
“Add it to the list…” he muttered to himself.
The Spectre was still where he left it. He was half surprised, but mostly relieved. As soon as they were on board, Killian hit the control to close the gangplank. It sealed with a hiss, his ears popping as the pressure normalized.
He tore the rebreather off and tossed it to the side, taking a deep breath that scraped his throat raw. A cough tore through him before his ragged breathing steadied.
“Home sweet home,” he muttered, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it in the same direction as the rebreather.
Killian glanced at the droid. It stood motionless near the bulkhead, watching him. Its servos whirred unevenly as it logged every movement.
“Don’t make yourself too comfortable,” he told it, moving to the pilot’s seat. “You won’t be here for long.”
“Underst–stood,” it replied. Killian snorted.
He popped open the hidden compartment under the throttlewhere he kept the stims – three left. That was going to be an issue sooner rather than later. Grabbing one, he pressed it to his arm. The familiar sharp puncture, a faint hiss, then a fierce rushof adrenaline flooding his veins – like someone scraping his nerves clean with a blade. Too close to a feeling he’d spent years trying to forget.
An echoing voice. A cold, damp cell. Shackles cutting into his wrists.
He pushed that thought away. The Concordant were gone.He’d made sure of it.
Breathing in deep, he exhaled shakily and let his eyes slip shut. When they opened, everything around him was bright, clear, focused.
“Heart–heart–rate elevated,” the droid stated, “Neurotoxinsadmin–min–ministered at dan–dangerous levels.”
“Not fun without a little risk,” Killian forced a grin. He held out a hand. “Regulator.”
The droid hesitated. “Deal.”
“Yeah, I know,” Killian rolled his eyes. “But we’ve gotta get off this moon first. Don’t want that big guy that was after your power core coming after us, do we?”
He didn’t mention the fact that the alien would probably kill him if he had the chance, like he’d done to its partner. Aswith anything, saying it out loud made it real. And he wasn’t ready to face that just yet.
The droid’s functioning optic dilated. “Guilt de–detected.”
“Don’t,” Killian ground out. “Just give me the part so I can get us out of here. Once we’re on the slip, I’ll fix you up and then drop you off at the next stop. Okay?”
A pause – the optic whirring again. The droid handed overthe regulator.
Killian huffed. “Thank you.”
He wrenched open a floor grate and dropped into the heart of the ship. The air was hotter down there, metallic. Replacing the regulator wouldn’t take long – not if the Spectre accepted it.
“Hey lovely,” Killian murmured, his hands moving in practiced precision. “How about we get outta here, huh? I know you hate this place as much as I do.”
He worked in silence, muttering a few encouraging words to the Spectre as he rewired the part into place. When he finished, he waited with bated breath to see if it would take.
The gentle hum deepened into a steady vibration – success.
Killian smiled – a small, rare thing – smoothing a hand against the plating around him. “That’s my girl.”
Climbing back up, he wiped the grease on his pants and moved to the pilot’s seat to take them as far from The Yard as they could get. He plotted a course to Halza Station – the next job – and the Spectre grumbled around him.
Slipstream streaks flared past the viewscreen in long, broken smears of light. He didn’t watch them much anymore; it was too easy to see shapes that weren’t there. Light had a way of forming ghosts, and he’d spent enough nights remembering voices that used to point them out beside him.
Static flicked over the comms. He left the wide-band frequency open – mostly for background noise and possible job transmissions. It was better than silence. Silence was dangerous.
A voice crackled over the channel immediately.
“–opportunity available: temporary asteroid wrangler needed. Hazard pay included. Bring your own tether–”
Killian snorted, muttering, “Hard pass.”
He swiveled in his seat, finally addressing the droid. “Alright. Your turn.”
The droid watched him in perfect stillness, its single optic a steady, unblinking blue. Too focused. Too quiet. It made the cockpit feel smaller than it was.
Killian dragged a hand through his shaggy hair. The stim clarity was wearing thin, leaving that familiar hollow buzz behind – sharp edges without direction. He hated it. Hated how close it sat to memories he tried to keep buried.
He narrowed his eyes at the droid. “Stare any harder and I’ll start charging credits.”
The droid didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Just watched.
Killian looked away first, exhaling sharply. “Okay. Let’s just get this over with.”
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