Thane

NOTE: This may not be the final revision, published form may vary.

The jalopy lurched forward like a beast with a bad hip. Its rust bitten chassis groaning in protest with every pothole it devoured. The thing had no right to still be functioning, but by some miracle—or stubborn engineer's last curse—it kept dragging itself down the winding jungle road like it had something to prove.

Behind the wheel sat a man carved from time and temper. Leather skin wrapped tight over bones, a bristled jaw clenched with habitual fury. The lines on his face told stories of too many nights on too many of the Oasis' worlds. His gnarled hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled disdain for both the road and his passenger.  His eyes darted to the rearview with suspicion.

In the back seat, draped like a lounging cat across the battered upholstery, sat Taz de Fae.

Dressed in a matte-grey shirt with adaptive fibers rolled up to the elbows, jungle fatigue pants and a watch worn above wrist wraps.  Taz looked impossibly out of place in the rickety transport. He wore discomfort like a second skin—stylish and with detachment. He drummed strong, fingers on the armrest as if keeping time with some internal rhythm only he could hear.

"This," he said, with theatrical flair and lazy dissonance, "is, without a doubt the most tumultuous journey I've ever embarked upon."

The driver's teeth ground audibly, "Well, the storm's cleared at least."

A pause as he deftly slid the heap around a pothole that would have swallowed it completely.

The driver’s face contorted with barely contained rage. “And if you mention that damn hover bike and its silky-smooth ride one more time, I swear on all the engines in the galaxy—I’ll eject you and I won't even brake.”

Taz’s eyes crinkled with the amusement. He raised both hands in mock surrender. “Perish the thought, good sir. I’m nothing if not compliant. But may I ask—purely academicly—what prompted such animosity toward my beloved bike?”

“It’s the juxtaposition,” the driver growled, gripping the wheel as they veered around a half-submerged tree root. The vehicle groaned in protest. “That flying couch of yours—smooth, quiet, dignified—and this bolt-stuffed nightmare? Offends my very soul.”

“Ah,” Taz nodded sagely. “Aesthetic dissonance. Tragic. Quite the moral offense indeed. But isn’t it contrast that breathes meaning into experience? Valleys to praise the peaks. Chaos to savor serenity.”

The old man grunted. “Give me working shocks over poetic drivel any day.”

Taz laughed as much as the jungle road shook and howled around them, a green storm of ancient trees like cathedral pillars, Blossoms opened to spill iridescent spores into the air, and tangled bioluminescent vines that swayed like dancers in the dusk. The jungle of Kishar asserted itself, wrapping the planet in a slow, humid stranglehold.

Taz pressed his temple lightly to the glass. “It would indeed be far smoother,” he murmured.

“What was that?” the driver barked.

“Oh, nothing of consequence,” Taz replied, eyes fixed on the riot of flora beyond the cracked window. “Merely marveling at nature’s refusal to be tamed.”

The jungle ended in a flash of transition—ferrocrete underfoot, polished smooth and clean of moss. The jungle hadn’t just been cut away, but force back. Sculpted gardens marked the city’s edge, vibrant with native flora shaped into elegant spirals and walls of breathing color. Drone birds chirped from silksteel branches. Holographic butterflies danced above mirrored pools that filtered runoff into luminous fountains.

Towering structures rose in fractal harmony, their forms inspired by nature—arcing spires, curling terraces, balconies laden with greenery. Most of the buildings were wrapped in a pale, opalescent alloy that caught the fading sunlight and scattered it like diamond dust.

Hover cars buzzed overhead in orderly lanes. No chaos. No grime.

Amity flowed.

“I do appreciate a city that dresses for the occasion.”

“You should go back to that dig site. You don’t belong here.” the driver muttered, slowing the clunker as they approached a gated plaza trimmed in gold light.

“Story of my life,” Taz replied.

The vehicle lurched to a stop. The driver hit the brakes harder than necessary. “End of the road, pretty boy.”

Taz blinked, Pretty boy, kind of a stretch, he thought reaching into his pocket, pulling out a credstick, and slotting it into the rear console. “How much do I owe for the pleasure of this massage-in-motion?”

“Three hundred,” the man replied without looking back. “Jungle surcharge.”

“Of course.” Taz completed the payment. The door hissed open and caught halfway, he pushed it further and stepped onto the polished stone of Amity’s arrival terrace.

There was a faint scent of jasmine and some floral native to Kishar. 

An aesthetic city, designed to seduce. Taz thought

The old clunker rumbled back into the jungle, as if eager to vanish before the city swallowed it too.

Taz paused beneath the silver leaf arbor, the hanging branches brushing his shoulders. He closed his eyes, then he let his thoughts open, felt the tether unwind from behind his mind like a soft click unlocking an invisible door.

“You rang, boss?” came the Banshee’s voice through the mind link, playful, teasing, and just this side of irreverent. Sheila’s tone reminded him of a child—bright and defiant. “I see you traded mud for marble. Didn’t think you’d be back this soon.”

“Even I deserve a little glamour now and then,” he replied, falling into an easy rhythm with her as he followed the trail past sculpted hedges and bioengineered flora that would never wilt or fade.

“Fair enough,” she said. “So… what dragged you back into the pretty part of Kishar?”

Taz exhaled through his nose, watching a pair of crystalline dragonflies dart over a rippling pond. Their wings beat with a soft whine, throwing up tiny motes of light as they moved between the glowing jelly-lanterns drifting on the surface.

“Got a call. Coordinates too. From someone named Sage. She claims to be one of Guido’s people.”

That name sat on his tongue, Guido wasn’t someone you went looking for. If he wanted you, he found you. If he sent someone... well, you listened. Or you disappear.

“Guido?” Sheila’s said, a shade more cautious. “I’ve had a few dealings with him as of late. Always through go-betweens, never face-to-face. Slippery type. Smart, though. Has pull in all the places that matter—especially the ones that shouldn't.”

“Yeah. Good to know. This meeting is at a quiet lounge, tucked into the lower levels of Tower Seven. Invitation only. Apparently, there’s still such a thing as discretion—even in cities that preen and polish themselves.”

A hover-taxi whispered above, its reflection slicing across the vertical glass skin of a nearby tower. A second self caught in the mirrored heights racing with itself. Amity reflected everything and revealed nothing. It was beautiful the way predators were—sleek, poised, hiding fangs behind designer smiles.

Beneath the glamour, though, Taz could feel it: the churn of secrets, the taste of controlled danger. It pressed at the edges of his awareness.

“Want me to tag along?” Sheila offered, and her tone shifted—lighter again. “I’m not doing anything urgent. Just playing chess with the Night-Mare, and I think it’s cheating. Moved the bishop twice when I wasn’t looking.”

Taz cracked a grin, genuine and fleeting. “I’m good. Just figured you should know—I’m in Amity. I’ll be back on the Night-Mare tonight.”

The link was quiet for a moment, as if she were thinking.

“You gonna need me to round up the crew?”

He thought about that, Jaxon was off on Inquisitor business, Isabella at her father's place on Haven, only the gods knew where Tibor had went with his shattered mind. As crew went it was sparse, but they had become like family to Taz. 

“Maybe,” he said at last. “Well, not yet. But let them know what's happening. Something tells me this isn’t just drinks and polite whispers.”

“Copy that,” she murmured. Then, after a pause that bordered at the edge of concern: “Watch your back, Taz. We both know Amity smiles with teeth.”

He cut the link with Sheila, stopping for a moment, just long enough to hear the way the wind shifted, then stepped back onto the glowing path. The towers awaited. The walk was short but rich in spectacle.

Taz passed a gravity harp ensemble performing in a sunken amphitheater, their music lifting through the air like strands of glass. Children in silk school uniforms played with programmable pets along the plaza’s edge. A vertical aquarium climbed one side of a building, full of Oasis' sea-creatures gliding behind sapphire glass.

Amity was wealth made manifest—every inch of it screaming of curated peace. But Taz knew better. Beneath every pristine surface, rot could be found if you looked long enough.

His destination came into view: The Silver Vine Lounge. Even the watering holes wore finery and it catered to a certain kind of clientele.

It was an elaborate place carved from volcanic stone and glass. A vertical garden grew over its arched entrance, with slow-moving lights intertwined. Its name glowed on a subtle white sign, along with the specials of the day from their illustrious kitchen.

Inside, the air was warm and scented with aged wood, citrus oil, and a hint of vanilla spice. The lighting was soft and golden, flickering from floating lanterns. Brass railings glinted beside curved booths of crushed velvet. Patrons; draped in flowing robes, smart fabrics, or mercenary gear upgraded for style murmured over expensive cocktails.

Taz paused at the entrance, letting the conversation and atmosphere wash over him.

Behind the polished chrome bar, a slender woman with strands of dirty brunette hair escaping a tight ponytail meticulously polished a glass. Her movements were fluid, the moment Taz stepped across the threshold, her bright blue eyes moved towards him. He knew her augmented vision, the holoviz display she wore, was already dissecting him – the fabric of his shirt, the set of his shoulders, probably even the faint outline of the knife inside his waistline.

Taz tilted his head in greeting.

“What can I get you?” she asked, her tone neutral.

“Aged Scotch,” Taz replied, his stare meeting hers. “Neat.”

She gave a curt nod, her gaze shifting briefly to a shelf lined with gleaming bottles before settling back on him. She reached for a heavy, square bottle near the top, the label faded. She poured a generous measure, her attention never fully leaving him, then slid the drink across the smooth surface of the bar. 

As he reached for the glass, he noticed the subtle way her gaze lingered on him – curiosity, perhaps, but definitely not hostility.

“You don’t strike me as the sophisticated type,” she said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips as he took a sip.

Taz swirled the scotch in his glass, let the rich aroma fill his nostrils. “It’s the accent. Makes everything sound posh.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “And I prefer to disappoint expectations.”

A soft snort and a brief flash of amusement across her face. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

Taz's grin was the real deal. "Hate to disappoint yet again, but I am meeting someone else." He reached into his pocket and dropped a small, coin-sized credtoken onto the polished counter. It landed with a soft clink, the denomination clearly visible – more than enough to cover the cost of the drink and signal his intention for a quiet evening.

"Pity, let me know if it doesn't work out."

He gave her a nod then drifted to a curved booth in the corner, seating himself like a prince, arms outstretched. From there, he could see every entrance, every movement, every reflective surface. He sipped at his drink.

Good stuff. He thought.

A man sat alone near the far end of the lounge. Viking tattoos on one arm, markings from a forgotten clan that once ruled on ancient Earth, cybernetic hand at the end of the other arm, olive grey eyes laced with boredom, traced rings in a pool of spilled whiskey. He didn’t look over, but Taz could feel his attention.

Whether he was the contact or just another well-armed observer, Taz didn’t care.

He checked his watch.

His gaze wandered to the door. Still no sign of this Sage or her employer Guido. Late. Not usually a good sign.

Ten more minutes. I'll give them that.

Taz sipped again and let his mind drift.

“You’re getting soft, Taz. Sitting in booths, waiting for ghosts. Used to be, you found them. Now you drink expensive spirits like you’re trying to remember who you were.”

The voice wasn’t cruel, just an echo of who he’d been before his hops through time, before he ended up in the Celeste Oasis. Before memory became a mosaic of stitched timelines and split identities.

“But change makes for stories… and loud thoughts keep me company,” he murmured.

Outside, a man detached themself from the wall and walked to the lounge entrance.

Taz straightened.

The door open.