One
The transport descended amidst a chorus of thruster engines and otherworldly hums, revealing the approaching cityscape through the observation windows. A barrage of holographic advertisements dominated the skyline. Their relentless assault of vivid imagery and flashing slogans carved through the craft's windows. This surge of artificial light, sharp as daggers, pulsed relentlessly into Mo's retinas, compelling him to raise a hand in defense. The inhabitants of the city below had no such relief.
Neon lights powered by Axiom Drills Incorporated’s energy converters bathed the city in a glow that starkly contrasted with the planet's perpetual darkness. Their massive auto-mining machines dotted the city's perimeter, eternally grinding and gnawing into the planet’s crust.
Mo, eyes still narrowed from the barrage of bright lights, focused his thoughts and activated his OptiViz implant. A virtual map sprang to life in his field of vision and he navigated through it with practiced ease. His fingers traced invisible routes through the air in front of him, drawing curious glances from onlookers. As the craft touched down, passengers stirred, eager to disembark. The rear hatch groaned open and its sound echoed through the docking bay. Mo joined the flow of passengers and stepped out into the spaceport.
It was a vast open space, echoing with the sounds of thrusters and the metallic clamor of machinery. Neon signs flickered erratically in the worn gangways. Old model shipping drones, squared and rusted, floated overhead clumsily, uncaring in their paths. He flinched as one roared by uncomfortably close, though he was the only one to react. Notably absent was a Universal Enforcement Agency envoy office, a reminder to Mo that he was on his own here, far from the core sectors.
Receiving only a curt 'Call a car' from the ground staff, Mo exhaled a breath of quiet acceptance. His mental image of Eclipsis’s layout would have to be his only escort. Dismissing the notion of seeking external aid—be it the ESED, Eclipsis's local administration, or the impersonal efficiency of a summoned car—he chose the insight that came from solitary navigation on a new world.
Mo stepped out, now under a sky locked in perpetual twilight. The city unfolded before him— a stark canvas of shadows, bright neon, and dense fog. The fog only thickened beyond the central urban sprawl, rendering most of the planet's terrain a challenge to traverse. The air carried a distinct aroma: a heady mix of ionized particles and the sharp tang of pollution, all laced with an elusive yet musty overtone. En route to his impending appointment, Mo planned to seize the opportunity to acquaint himself with the city.
The dilapidated slums of the port stirred and the city's rhythms began to meet him—the distant but pervasive drumming of the Axiom auto-mining machines, the endless hum of transport drones, the industrial heartbeat from factories in operation.
Outside the port, a vendor spotted Mo’s badge and called out, waving him over. "You're a long way from central command, aren't you? I've got gear that even those Nexus tech-heads don't know about yet."
Mo walked toward the stall, his gaze sweeping over the cluttered displays. "I'm looking for info," he said curtly. "Not merch."
The vendor's expression shifted quickly from playful to serious, and he leaned in. “Ears to the ground?" he murmured, motioning Mo to come closer, before hissing “Fuck off, agency-man,” in his ear.
Mo, unphased, carried on without a retort. He caught fleeting glances cast in his direction, eyes narrowing with suspicion before quickly averting. In a dimly lit alley, a cluster of Eclipsians leaned in close. Their hands discreetly exchanged a small object, the swift movements betraying the covert nature of their transactions. Further along, Mo observed two figures sprawled on the ground. The harshness of the city had consumed them; their bodies twitched sporadically, and unintelligible sounds spilled from their mouths. So far, Eclipsis was as he’d been briefed— shadow-dwellers and all.
Mo began to notice a low hum, separate from the industrial backdrop. It was in the air, the ground, all around him. Pausing, he touched a building's surface and felt the vibrations distinctly, realizing the structures themselves were the source.
"What's this noise?" he asked a passing local, who replied with a mix of surprise and offense, "It's the city, not noise. Helps navigate." the man replied, barely breaking his stride.
As Mo felt the wall's thrum, he watched the man disappear into the distance, undisturbed by the ambient sounds. To Mo, these formed an alien soundscape that stirred a sense of unease within him. His fascination with this new sensory experience was abruptly interrupted by the commands of nearby ESED Enforcers. Harsh voices sliced through the air, and boots stamped in unison as the patrol proceeded through the street.
The locals cautiously gave the patrol a wide berth. The wear on the buildings under the erratic dance of busted neon lights seemed to accentuate a tension that hung in the air. The more dense the city around him became, the more he realized. This place was run down. A detail that his briefings didn’t quite capture. The energy here felt oppressive and negative. Mo’s UEA badge also drew many wary eyes and hostile glances. He continued on quickly, not wanting to draw undue attention to himself.
After an hour, Mo entered a residential area, its walls vibrant with neon graffiti proclaiming messages of change and rebellion. "Change is upon us," one mural pulsed, another proclaiming, "The old era will crumble." Amongst these, a distinctive crescent emblem, its edges jagged like sunrays, recurred—a symbol he recognized as the local cult's mark. Its prevalence amidst calls for upheaval signified more than mere graffiti; it was a clear call to arms.
He paused with a sudden awareness of the danger of his solitary journey. His body tensed, but he pressed on. Nearing an alley, the hushed tones of a huddled group reached his ears. "It's just the beginning," one voice murmured, barely audible. As Mo walked past, a derisive sneer followed him, "Fuckin’ UEA power-man," the words laced with disdain and hostility.
A soft chime and visual alert came from his OptiViz. His appointment. Mo glanced at the display hovering in his peripheral. The map pulsed gently, orienting him. With a subtle flick of his eyes, he zoomed in on a blinking dot, his current location, just a few blocks away from the Central Business District. With deliberate strides, he headed towards the headquarters of the ESED.
The oppressive energy of the city's dense fog pressed heavily upon him, more than he had anticipated. As he moved through the shrouded streets of Eclipsis, Mo found himself contrasting this world with his memories of Horus. There, the endless Red Iron Deserts stretched under open skies, a stark contrast to the confining mist and the relentless hum that now surrounded him. The omnipresent droning of the Axiom machines, a world dominated by corporate giants — it was a far cry from the solitude and quiet of his desert homeworld.
He recalled the Sentinels of the Red Sands, the heroes of his youth. Their legends, symbols of bravery and sacrifice, stood in stark contrast to the reality before him now. Surveying the ESED headquarters, a fortress amidst the cityscape, he pondered if these so-called Enforcers, molded by corporate necessity rather than noble intent, could ever embody the ideals that once inspired him.
The headquarters loomed before him: a monolith of towering walls, stark and squared, its steely gray tones a stark departure from the neon and decay of Eclipsis. As Mo approached, the city's harmonious tones faded, replaced by a monotone, systematic drone emanating from the building.
The ground vibrated beneath Mo's feet as he neared the building, the hum intensifying. It felt like a deliberate assertion of power — the ESED marking their territory, he thought. He stiffened his spine, ready to face Commissioner Harlon, knowing he must tread carefully to avoid any semblance of confrontation.
Crossing into the building, the cacophony of Eclipsis quickly faded. The temperature dropped noticeably, the coldness biting into Mo's skin. His OptiViz alerted him to the presence of sophisticated VigilEye biometric analyzers scanning him. A subtle tightness crept into his chest, the feeling of being scrutinized. A feeling that was hard to escape in this day and age.
Inside, fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on metal and polished floors. The only sound accompanying Mo's echoing footsteps was the occasional murmur of conversation and the distant hum of electric and piping infrastructure in the walls. The personnel briefly eyed him, their gaze quickly shifting away from the UEA Tracer — a symbol of intergalactic oversight, an anomaly in their routine.
A sudden motion caught his eye—a woman of slight stature, moving with haste and precision. Her uniform was impeccably neat, the sharp lines of her face suggesting an officer not to be trifled with. Stopping in his tracks, Mo met her gaze as she tried to pass by unbothered. "Officer," he began, catching himself quickly, "My apologies, Enforcer. I'm Tracer Darin of the UEA. I have a meeting with Commissioner Harlon."
She paused, a fleeting moment of irritation flashing in her eyes, clearly not happy to have her duties interrupted. "Yes, sir. Right this way," she replied, her tone crisp, her steps brisk.
Mo entered the office. Amid the frenetic activity of numerous holosphere displays and the clutter of case files scattered around sat Commissioner Harlon, his face etched with lines that told stories of battles with time and adversity. His gaze was sharp.
Harlon remained seated behind his desk, his posture betraying a weariness that seemed to seep into the very air. As Mo extended his hand in greeting, Harlon's voice cut through the room, gruff and tired. "Tracer Darin, next time, signal your arrival. It might save you some trouble."
Mo's hand hovered in the air for a moment before retracting, a smirk flashing briefly as he adjusted to Harlon's no-nonsense demeanor. "Commissioner, navigating Eclipsis's complexities is part of the job," he replied, his voice steady but carrying a tone of respect mixed with assertiveness.
Harlon's eyes, heavy with the weight of command, met Mo's. "You've just seen the surface on your little walk, Tracer. We're stretched beyond our limits here." His voice was low, resigned. He listed the names slowly, as if each carried a burden, “Caldwell, Renard, Thorne, and now Ms. Vox...” There was a momentary pause, the weight of each name seeming to deepen his exhaustion, a silent testament to the recent turmoil that Eclipsis has faced. "The disappearances," he continued, "they're a symptom, you get me?"
Mo nodded, acknowledging the undercurrent of desperation in Harlon's words. "It sounds like an impasse."
Harlon leaned back, his fingers drumming on the desk, the rhythm a hollow echo in the room. His gaze was distant now. "It's not just the vanishings. There's been a sense of... hopelessness, amongst the people. For a while now. The cult, they're exploiting it. They’re twisting it into something dark, something that's eating away at the city's soul."
Mo felt a twinge of empathy for the man before him. "Ms. Vox's disappearance," he ventured, "it's pushed things over the edge?"
Harlon's nod was almost imperceptible. "Celestium Ore Enterprises, they're one of the pillars holding this place together.” he said, arms motioning as if to indicate the building around him. “Her vanishing.. it's like a signal that no one's safe." He activated a Holo recording, showing the scene where Elara’s car was found, the obvious struggle within the vehicle casting a grim picture. Blood on the seats and on the ground, torn upholstery, cracked rear window.
Mo absorbed the scene, the weight of the case settling on his shoulders. "The UEA stands with you, Commissioner," he offered firmly.
A faint, almost scornful smile flickered on Harlon's lips. "Promises, Darin. Eclipsis has heard too many of them. What we need is action before this hell hole eats itself alive."
Mo's resolve didn't falter. "I've navigated through storms harder than this. I won't let this be an exception."
Harlon passed over a secure datavault drive, heavy with information. "This is what we know about the cult and the vanishings. All four victims. Elara Vox, of course, is the latest, and likely the main reason you’re here. The cult, they call themselves the ‘Ascendents’."
Taking the drive, Mo nodded solemnly. "The UEA restores balance, that’s what we do, Commissioner. Soon you'll find some peace."
Harlon's response, gruff yet sincere, followed Mo out the door, "Good luck, Tracer. For all our sakes.”
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