Verdantia Approach 3D Render, Digital Artwork by emarukk

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Verdantia Approach

3D Render by emarukk

The room shifted with Doucette's presence the instant she claimed that chair, its metal legs scraping against the wooden decoration of deck plates as she spun it backward and straddled it, arms folded across the backrest. Her face turned toward the navigator, who had expected a different transaction entirely. Gone was the drifting, rootless Spacer girl with hollow cheeks and downcast eyes; vanished was the half-starved survivor who'd haunted the station's lower decks, the ghost of a lost dynasty orbiting the periphery of power like space debris. Now, her spine straightened to military precision, shoulders squared beneath worn leather, jaw set at a defiant angle. Every muscle in her frame radiated controlled fury and command, from her steady trigger finger to the calculated tilt of her head. This was not some lost soul with hunger-bruised lips, ready to barter her body for a few worthless C-Lari and a hot meal.

Her jacket hung open, revealing the unfinished stationer tattoo that curled in jagged black lines beneath her collarbone like a half-formed constellation. The ink had that telltale bluish undertone of station work—done with recycled pigment and makeshift needles in some cramped maintenance corridor between oxygen cycles. On her right forearm, the Exoforming 7 symbol had been branded rather than tattooed, the colored scar tissue raised and glossy under the harsh light, its geometric circuit pattern surrounding a stylized shield. The symbol had become fashionable among would-be rebels in the Inner Ring, who etched sanitized versions into their skin with temporary ink. Still, hers had the unmistakable depth of someone who'd earned it in the poisonous atmosphere of a half-exoformed moon. If these markings were merely suggestions of her allegiance, the pistol in her grip, its power cell humming, was the exclamation point at the end of her declaration.

She caught the room's nervous atmosphere, the sweat-slick palms and darting eyes of a spacer who'd seen too many deals go sour. The stench of Naruska tobacco hung in the recycled air, mingling with cheap synthetic cologne and the metallic tang of fear. She tilted her head deliberately, exposing the tattoo's trailing lines that disappeared beneath her collar, unfinished artwork on unfinished business. Her green eyes, flecked with gold like distant nebulae, glinted under the harsh overhead lights. Her smile spread slowly and dangerously, sharp as a docking clamp with teeth that could puncture hulls. "Let's skip the dance," she said, voice all edge and easy confidence, each word precise as a navigation calculation. "I'm not here for station gossip, hull-patching stories, or speed records. Even less than that, I'm here to please your desires."

She let the energy pistol hang from her fingers with practiced nonchalance, its matte-black casing absorbing the light while the power cell pulsed amber beneath housing. Her trigger finger hovered a millimeter away, close enough to fire in a heartbeat, far enough to signal control. She rotated her wrist in that distinctive figure-eight motion unique to Crimson Nest mercenaries from Avernus Station, where gunplay was as much performance as threat. "We're talking about the Verdantia approach," she said, each syllable clipped like a pilot cutting unnecessary thrust, "and there's only one way this goes. You give me your security codes and trajectory logs, all of them, unencrypted, and maybe you keep your pretty ship in one piece instead of scattered across three sectors like so much space debris."

Doucette's sharp gaze drilled into the skull of the navigator, like an energy bolt would do if he made any unnecessary moves. The unlucky fool had followed her swaying hips and the deceptive vulnerability of her slender frame through three decks of the station, his eyes fixed on what he thought was easy prey. Now sweat beaded across his forehead as the green eyes glowed towards him, revealing hidden cybernetics beneath their surface. Those eyes were scarier than a pistol; they were illuminating the exact moment he realized he'd tracked a predator to her lair.

"I'm a planeteer, but I learned from Stationers, never give away your hull for free." Her smirk deepened, carving a dimple into her left cheek where a thin scar bisected the hollow. The expression transformed her face, half aristocratic hauteur from the high-gravity worlds of her birth, half predatory calculation learned in zero-g corridors where oxygen was currency. "So. Codes and charts. Now." She tightened her grip on the pistol until her knuckles blanched white against the carbon-fiber grip, the weapon's amber glow reflecting in her pupils like twin suns going nova. "Or do I have to start negotiating like a real Sonos daughter? Trust me, we're famous for our... persuasive techniques."

The pistol's amber glow pulsed against her calloused palm, its power cell humming with the distinctive high-frequency whine of military-grade Syndraka tech, a silent promise that atomized flesh would soon follow any bluff-calling. For a heartbeat, she inhabited the Red Ghost persona completely, shoulders squared beneath scuffed leather, jaw clenched tight enough to crack molars, eyes reflecting twin pools of weapon-light. The frightened navigator saw what the Outer Ring elite had glimpsed before their orbital gardens erupted in flames: not some lost Ahstad princess playing at rebellion, but a precision instrument of calculated destruction who rewrote the rules of survival in blood-red emergency lighting, one station at a time.