Welcome to the Drift - Issue #1.

Berk’s visor flickers faintly as his suit’s uplink pings against the local network, silently slicing through encrypted layers of the bounty boards. A low chime hums in his earpiece as the feed finishes syncing—streaming names, faces, and digits in a dull red glow across his HUD.

He filters the list, narrowing in on one familiar face.

Vask Talro.

The image that loads is grainy but unmistakable: the same wiry, sharp-eyed trader Regex is meeting for the exchange. Beneath the mugshot scrolls a list of offenses—arms smuggling, hijacking, suspected slave trades, and two counts of murder-for-hire. He’s wanted across at least four sectors, but most of the warrants are distant—political red tape, territorial disputes. Except one.

The closest bounty marker pings from the Ghaul System, just three warps out from the current sector. A backwater Verdari outpost there is offering 15,000 credits for his live capture, with extra payout if he arrives uninjured.

But there’s a catch: the bounty must be turned in in person. No automated drone drop-offs, no proxies. That means they’d have to somehow subdue Vask, get him off-world without alerting his crew or drawing too much attention, and warp him to Ghaul themselves.

The walk back to the ship is quiet but purposeful, the kind of silence where both minds are turning over the same calculations. Inside the hold, the pair work with practiced efficiency—rifling through crates, pulling out components, and piecing together a portable containment rig. It’s not pretty—weld lines still visible, power couplings scavenged from two different models—but it hums with a low, predatory purr when they arm it. The trap’s field is tuned tight, just strong enough to hold a struggling humanoid without cooking them alive. Perfect for snatching a certain slippery trader.

By the time they head back out, the twin moons have dipped lower in the sky, casting the streets in deep violet shadows. The air is thick with the scent of hot oil and ozone, and the ever-present hiss of distant vents paints the industrial quarter in constant background noise.

The "warehouse" turns out to be exactly what the name implies—an old, rust-flaked bulk structure sagging against itself, its corrugated siding patched in mismatched metals. The main entrance is a set of half-broken blast doors, one panel stuck halfway open like a crooked grin.

And they’re not alone.

Leaning casually against the doorframe is one of Regex Xil’s crew—the Vellari. Even in the dim light, their armor is an unsettling blend of polished plating and scarred metal, built for both intimidation and function. The faint glow from their eye implants pierces through the shadows, each blink like the sweep of a targeting reticle. They’re not just standing guard; they’re watching, every subtle movement in the alley seemingly measured and filed away.

The Vellari doesn’t move when the duo approaches—just tilts their head slightly, the gleam of those artificial eyes locking on.