Chapter Text
Leandro emerged from a grimy alleyway, immediately spotting the blinking neon sign of his favorite hole-in-the-wall joint in all of Terra -- Balmera Bar. Between the good drinks, great vibes, and the excellent bartending, there wasn’t much to not like about the place.
Actually, he could think of one thing.
He patted the pockets on his favorite duster coat, checking for his dual laser pistols out of habit before waving hello to the hulking bouncer guarding the Balmera’s door.
“Hey, Rax, what’s up?”
“Not so fast,” Rax grumbled, stopping Leandro from slipping past with one of his giant hands. “Got a permit for that piece?”
Leandro glanced back at where the handle of a sword he’d just lifted from a goon in the Galra district was peeking over his shoulder. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He gave a nonchalant shrug.
“‘Course I do, who do you take me for?” Rax just raised an unimpressed eyebrow as Leandro made a show of rummaging through his pockets. Gum, flask, guns, another flask, loose GAC, a… screwdriver? No tablet, no phone, and certainly no papers. “You know what, I think I must’ve left the, uh, the permit on my bike.”
Leandro was about to turn heel, already hatching a plan to sneak into the bar through the back entrance when the doors swung open and then the superior bouncer, in his humble opinion, was standing before him.
“Rax! Thanks for taking over for a-- Oh, hey Leo! It’s been too long!”
Then Leandro was being enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. He patted the enormous biceps that were squeezing the life out of him affectionately.
“Nice to see you too, Shay. Ease off a little, I can’t-- agh, can’t breath.”
She finally released him, gripping his shoulders as she pushed him away to give him a once-over. Leandro wasn’t surprised when she clicked her tongue.
“Not enough meat on those bones these days, huh? You go on in and Hunare will get you some grub.”
“I’ve told you before, I’ve just got a lean build!” Rax snickered at that, and the power of the twin glares he received from his sister and Leandro was enough to have him tucking tail and slinking back into the bar to sulk. “Thanks, anyways, Shay. I could never say no to a home-cooked meal from Hunare.”
“No one can,” she replied, clapping him on the back and ushering him into the Balmera. “I better not be seeing you again tonight, except for the back of that bald head when you’re leaving.”
He chuckled, recalling the last time he had gotten into a drunken fight (something about defending Hunare’s honor) that had resulted in multiple patrons with broken bones and a few new laser holes in the bathroom door, courtesy of Leandro.
“First of all, it’s an undercut! It’s fashionable! Second of all, I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from seeing this pretty mug.”
Shay laughed good-naturedly and then he was finally in the dimly-lit bar. Leandro inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of alcohol, smoke, and debauchery. This was one of the only good parts of doing what he did.
Leandro shouldered his way up to the counter, waiting patiently for his friend to wrap up whatever conversation he was having with the willowy girl to his right. Eventually, Hunare’s eyes landed on him and his smile morphed from one of pleasant disinterest to the genuine article. Leandro wore a grin to match.
“Buddy! Feels like I haven’t seen you since the whole car-jacking fiasco in the Upper Sector!” Hunare said, grabbing a bottle of cheap nunvill and sliding it over the counter to Leandro. “Where’ve you been?”
“You know… around. I’ve been meaning to come back sooner, but I’m pretty busy these days. Racing’s turned out to be pretty lucrative, and I’ve got a few side hustles going, too,” he answered, taking a swig of the nunvill and grimacing.
This particular batch was on the bitter side, but he could never be too picky with his liquor.
Hunare nodded appreciatively, taking a swig from his own bottle as he slung a dirty towel over his shoulder.
“How’s that coming, then? No sign of your family still?”
“Nope. All of my leads have turned into dead ends and no one in the Galra district is willing to talk,” he said, dragging his finger through a sticky puddle on the counter. “I’m picking up as much work as I can, but it’s rough out there.”
“You know, I’m always saying that--”
“Hunare, I’m not taking your money. We talk about this every time! You have the bar and Shay and a baby, for quiznack’s sake. I’m taking care of myself just fine.”
“...Alright, dude.”
Someone at the other end of the bar called for the bartender and Hunare gave Leandro an apologetic look as he hurried off to take care of his customer. Leandro took another swig of his nunvill, spinning in a slow circle on his stool to observe the various patrons.
He recognized most of them -- a collection of lowlifes, ex-cons, and some Alteans and Galrans who liked to moonlight as street rats but stuck out like sore thumbs. He would consider half of them mild acquaintances, the other half occasional enemies. No sign of Rowan. She happened to fall into both of the aforementioned categories.
If he was going to sell the blade slung over his back, he’d have to venture into the smoky cloud that obscured the booths in the back, where all the big players liked to hang out.
Hunare was desperate enough for money that he wouldn’t refuse any customers -- his only policy was no fighting, a rule that Leandro broke more often than not. He was lucky they’d grown up together in this town. Without Hunare and Shay, Leandro would probably be well and truly alone out here. Not to mention banned from the Balmera.
He dug some GAC out of his pocket, left it on the counter, and made his way to the booths to try his luck as a businessman. Hunare would’ve let him have the drink for free. Actually, he’d taken several free drinks at this point, plus there were the hundreds of drinks he’d put on his tab. Someday, he’d pay his friend back for his kindness, and until then he left a little money whenever he had enough to spare.
Leandro ran through the names of people he was likely to encounter in the booths. On a Friday night, the odds were pretty good that Rolo and Nyma would be hanging out. Sendak, maybe, though trying to sell that man a stolen Galra blade would be a truly idiotic idea. Dayak could be around, though she was more into antiquities. If he got lucky, Ryner might even be there -- she was the most reasonable criminal he’d ever met, and she knew her way around all of the latest tech.
Now that he thought about it, Leandro realized this weekend was one of those big Upper Sector functions, a gala or some shit. Rowan had mentioned something about it a few nights ago, and it would make sense -- the Balmera wasn’t filled to capacity with patrons like it would be on any other night.
He didn’t cough as he stepped beyond the cloud of smoke, too used to it by now. Leandro found his way to the first booth, taking in its occupants. This could work.
“Lubos?”
“That’s King Lubos to y-- oh. Leandro.”
Leandro grinned, sliding into the empty seat opposite the heavy-set man and the two thin women he had under each arm. Ugh. Lubos was… well, he was a little bitch, but he paid well. Leandro had done the odd job for him every once in a while.
“Got something you might be interested in.”
“Alright, little one, let’s see it.”
Leandro rolled his eyes as he pulled the sword from where it was sheathed at his back, setting it on the table. The blade glowed a dim purple and the hilt was wrapped in leather, probably yalmor hide. Leandro had nabbed it off of one of the guards to Zarkon’s estate when he was trying to break in to find more information about his family. Needless to say, he hadn’t been particularly successful apart from acquiring this blade.
“It’s an X-Gen Galra sword with all of the latest mods. Even has auto-balance.”
He demonstrated by picking up the blade, expertly swinging it around in an overly-complicated pattern, bringing it down sharply so that the tip floated directly over Lubos’ left eye. He flinched.
“I’ll admit that you find yourself with a rare piece,” Lubos said slowly, scooting away from the blade and tenting his fingers. “Six-hundred GAC.”
Leandro scoffed.
“Are you kidding me? I risked my hide for this thing! Nyma will give me at least a thousand GAC for it. If you want it, you’re gonna have to up the ante, your highness.”
Lubos gulped. The blade was a good find and Leandro knew it. He set it back on the table, relaxing into the worn leather of the booth and waiting. He knew Lubos would cave. He liked rare things and also happened to have beef with Nyma.
“Fine. Twelve-hundred GAC. Final offer.”
“Excellent,” Leandro crowed, rolling up his sleeve to reveal his Sincline-band and holding his arm out. Lubos held his own out, tapping their bands together and wiring the GAC to Leandro’s account. “Nice doing business with ya, big guy.”
Lubos grumbled, turning back to the blond woman on his left and ignoring Leandro as he slid out of the booth, feeling pretty good about his sale. He decided to stop by the bar again before he headed out.
“Hey, Hunare, I think I’m gonna call it a night!”
“After one drink? Seems out of character.”
“You know me. I like to keep you on your toes. Plus, there’s a big race this weekend.”
“Whatever you say. Oh, and speaking of racing, I finally got that part we were talking about for your bike. Come back in… say, a week and I can install that for you.”
“No way,” Leandro laughed, fist-bumping his friend. “You’re the best, dude. See you in a week, then.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Leandro skipped out the front door, making a point to make direct eye-contact with Shay as he blew her a kiss, and turned back into the alley.
Sunday's race was a big one. With all of the Galra in one place, there would no doubt be plenty of betting going on. If Leandro could win, he’d be well on his way to getting the fuck out of the Lower Sector.
Then he could kiss racing, petty crime, and alcoholism behind (though he really didn’t mind any of the above). He was on the home stretch.
Another day, another drink, and a few GAC closer to getting out of Terra so he could track down his family.
Socialising was an art. It took great strength and creativity to hold up a conversation, masterfully weaving it in a direction that one deemed prudent. The finer points of a discussion never came naturally, for one had to learn how to spin a tale and regale others with fissured words dipped in honeyed truths.
Akira certainly wasn’t one for socialisation, which was probably why he was standing in the corner of a decadent room, ignoring everything but the alcoholic drink in his hand. He swirled the burgundy liquid a couple times before downing it all in one go, wincing at the bitter aftertaste. Usually, he’d go for something a bit stronger, but this wasn’t the function to get smashed at.
Unfortunately, once again he’d been forced to attend the bi-annual gala dedicated to the businesses of the Galra and Altea families (and their many, many branches). Born from a small offshoot of the Galra clan, Akira’s formative years had been spent being paraded around similar balls all in the name of representing the Kogane family. The only good thing that ever came out of events like these was being able to catch up with the select few he had bothered to get close to.
Looking up from his now-empty glass, Akira glanced around the room, searching for a particular someone in the crowd. It only took a moment for his eyes to lock onto a familiar face towering above the masses.
“Akira!” the man called, starting to walk over to him. He stood a head taller than Akira, handsome features marred by a rough gash across his nose and a shock of white hair in his once-black bangs. “Are you brooding in the corner again?”
Akira raised an eyebrow. “It’s good to see you too, Hachiko.”
The man -- Hachiko -- laughed heartily, slapping a large hand on Akira’s back. Akira winced, though he wasn’t uncomfortable with the close contact.
“How’s Dante? Is he here?” Akira asked, looking past his shoulder for a moment to see if the tanned man who usually trailed behind Hachiko at functions like these was here.
Hachiko shook his head sadly. “He got caught up at work, unfortunately. Paperwork, and all of that,” he said, then with a coy smile, added, “He sends his love, by the way. Told me to tell you to enjoy yourself.”
Akira groaned; Dante’s antics no longer surprised him anymore. Before Dante married Hachiko, he and Akira had a rather strenuous relationship to say the least. Luckily that tension abated as the years went by, though on occasion he still had the urge to give Dante a good old right hook every once in a while.
“I’m surprised you came this year,” Hachiko said offhandedly, staring pointedly at everywhere other than at him. “I thought this year--”
“Yeah, well you thought wrong,” Akira cut him off abruptly, ignoring the way Hachiko flinched. His fingers twitched as he fought the all-too familiar urge to clench his fists. He didn’t want to talk about it, to think about it. Not here, not anywhere--
“I heard Alzina is here tonight. Apparently, she brought her partner as well.”
At that, Akira perked up. The main reason (if not for the social requirement of a Kogane representative at the gala) for his appearance probably was to see Alzina and maybe even Petra, if her brother managed to drag her out of her cave and into a dress. Both were from the Altean branch, though were maybe some of the only people who had gotten to know him well enough in his twenty-four years of life.
“I heard,” he replied shortly. Then, with a little more enthusiasm, added, “Her name’s Rowan. Met her once downtown.”
What Akira didn’t mention was that he met Rowan in the Lower Sector outside a not-so-legal bar, beating off an assailant with a rather nasty-looking tree branch. They bonded briefly over the versatility of organic material as weapons and then didn’t talk again until Alzina introduced them on a call a couple weeks back.
“Downtown?” Hachiko’s voice was even, though Akira knew him too well not to hear the underlying concern.
No matter how old he was, Hachiko never stopped trying to baby him. To the older man, Akira was still the small, lonely twelve-year-old who stole his hoverbike and cried over books. Through thick and thin their bond as brothers -- not through blood but by war-forged promises -- grew stronger and stronger, yet over a decade later Hachiko still tried to look out for him at every single moment. It was so frustrating sometimes, especially when it involved Akira going to the Lower Sector.
“There’s a couple bars on the edge of the sectors. I can bring you to one sometime. They’ve got great nunvill.”
Hachiko nodded as if he were considering the offer. Little did he know that Akira had no intention whatsoever of involving him with any places downtown -- there were things Akira wished to keep separate for obvious reasons.
“I might take you up on that sometime,” the older man said cordially. “But first, do you mind if I pop out to get a drink?”
“Go ahead.”
Hachiko smiled softly, turning around to leave Akira alone again in his little corner. Not that he particularly cared. Akira was used to the sound of solitary silence, the endless cacophony of white noise playing like music in his ears. But with Hachiko gone for the next who-knew-how-long, he found himself growing more and more bored with each passing second. Scanning the room again, Akira noted that he had lost his brother in the crowd of finely-dressed people. He was about to give up before a glint of pink fabric sparkled in the corner of his eye.
Alzina.
The sight of the girl’s signature cotton candy dress made him smile.
It had been a while -- too long -- since he’d been able to talk to Alzina. Between the issues surrounding his mother and his activities down in the Lower Sector, Akira found himself more isolated than ever. Ignoring his friends' calls or avoiding their texts wasn’t something he meant to do. Consciously, at least.
Maybe it was time to reconnect a bit with Alzina. Hopefully she wouldn’t be too mad that he had ignored her calls for a couple months.
WIth his mind made up, Akira detached himself from the wall, slowly striding across the room.
“Oh, Akira! Is that you?”
Akira whipped his head around. Next to him were a group of older Galran ladies, all with grey-hair and smiles just as real as his faux-leather gloves. The woman who spoke -- Senka, if he remembered correctly -- was staring up at him with a gleam in her purple eyes just a tad bit too sharp.
“It’s been so long! How are you?”
Desperately, Akira searched around him for Alzina, but she’d been swept away in the crowd. It looked like he would have to do the one thing he hated: socialising.
“Fine,” he replied gruffly, before remembering his mother’s tips about acting in a refined way appropriate for company. He strained his back and plastered on what he hoped was a natural smile, then added, “I’ve been thoroughly enjoying myself here. And you?”
“Perfect, my dear. Just perfect,” Senka said. “Coincidentally, Ms. Prorok and I were just talking about you. How funny is that?”
“Funny,” he echoed, not at all liking where the conversation was heading.
“You see, we wanted to know how you were going,” Senka cooed with a saccharine sympathy, something that made Akira want to gag. “I’m sorry for your loss, it must be difficult to lose someone so close to you.”
Akira went to answer but bit his tongue just as fast, grinding down a scathing comment. He couldn’t get angry, not here. The Galran families were like vultures -- the moment someone showed weakness they’d strike hard and fast, plucking out your entrails like their boring, pitiful, sheltered lives depended on it.
“Yeah,” he bit out, refusing to look anywhere but at the floor near his shoes.
“She was so young, Krolia. She was young when she had you, wasn’t she?”
Nodding mutely, Akira imagined himself anywhere but there. In his mind, he was back in the Lower Sector, driving on his beloved hoverbike beside crumbling buildings and unfinished scaffolding like his life depended on it, wind rushing through his hair and the ever-present neon glow of the Lower Sector reflecting off his windshield. It was his happy place, downtown where the upper class refused to touch.
“Poor girl. Always getting into things she shouldn’t.”
Another Galra lady, one Akira didn’t recognise, chimed in. “That Krolia was certainly the rebel. Remember when she disappeared all those years ago for a couple months?” The other women nodded sagely. “She left her whole family in a tizzy and came back pregnant without the father. How… peculiar.”
Akira couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’m leaving.”
Without second thought Akira turned on his heel and stomped away from Senka. His mind raced with howdareshehowdareshehowdare-- yet, how could he expect any better? Every year ended the same; some old hag would say something and either Hachiko or his mother would calm him down.
This year, well…
Something gripped at his hand, cold metal and nothing that he wanted right now. Akira snatched his arm back, barely registering the people that he shoved past or his exit out of the main doors.
Everything after that was a blur. It was like his mind was stuck in a haze, red fog clouding every sense.
He promised himself that he would never go back to one of those wretched events again.
Time trickled by like sand in an hourglass and before long, Akira had walked all the way back to the entrance of his apartment tower. Tall blocks of glass and steel amalgamations loomed over him, though he paid no attention to the normally breathtaking sight. A short elevator ride up to his penthouse suite solidified the anger simmering beneath his skin.
She’s not dead. They’re all liars. Akira repeated again and again in his mind, letting the matra overtake his thoughts. Body working on autopilot, he barely registered opening his front door and storming into the bathroom underneath all the ire that tainted the night.
She’s not dead, she’s not dead, she’s--
Suddenly, a buzz from his Sincline-band knocked him out of his thoughts. A blue holoscreen popped up, displaying the name ‘Hachiko’ as well as a few icons at the bottom.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Akira furiously swiped his other hand left. There was no way he wanted another lecture about respect from Hachiko. He was a goddamn adult, for fuck’s sake!
The Sincline-band buzzed again, and Akira let it ring and ring until his brother got tired of calling. It eventually stopped, plunging his apartment into an eerie silence. He was finally alone with his thoughts.
Akira looked at the mirror, staring frustratedly at the stranger who glared back. They wore a too-stiff suit, a too-straight necktie, and slicked hair that made them seem so foreign.
Akira’s fingers twitched. Revulsion coursed through his body. No, this wasn’t him. This image, figure, couldn’t be him. He was sick of his house, sick of the Galra. Everything about the night seemed wrong, so wrong, and he just couldn’t--
His fingers twitched again. Before he knew it, Akira had ripped off his expensive formal clothes and ruffled up his hair to it’s normal, disheveled state. As alabaster-white strands of hair fell loosely around his neck, he suddenly felt freer than before.
The figure in the mirror didn’t seem as strange anymore.
For a minute or so Akira stood there, watching his reflection breath in and out. As the seconds rolled by, the discomfort in his body grew. Something itched underneath his skin, primal and eager.
It didn’t take long for him to make up his mind.
Chucking on his signature outfit, Akira made his way to the building’s elevator, travelling all the way down to the basement. With the Upper Section’s reliance on personal chauffeurs or private hovercars there was no need for regular storage of personal vehicles. Luckily, his apartment had a space just big enough to house his pride and glory: Red.
And there, in all its elegance, the hoverbike stood, dark burgundy paints reflecting the little light that managed to seep into his building’s carpark.
Without a moment to spare, Akira put on his visor and started the engine. Like a lion’s roar, his hoverbike sprung to life. Within a heartbeat it took off, sending Akira hurtling out of the garage and into the dimly-lit streets of the Upper Sector. He pressed down on the accelerator harder and harder, excitedly watching as the speedometer ticked closer and closer toward the limit.
Screw galas and uptight formals, this was the life.
At this speed, the neon lights above him blurred into one solid line. The elegant high-rises of the Upper Sector slowly bled into the familiar sights of the dilapidated, dark buildings in the Lower Sector. Even though he had been born and raised uptown, riding to the lower parts of the city felt like he was coming home.
There was an odd… serenity that came with speeding down highways as fast as he could. When he was young (and still to this day) Akira always found that riding his hoverbike was a much better relaxer than therapy or taking a break would ever be.
Sure enough, the adrenaline and fury that once raged through his veins had slowed down to a tiny trickle, barely there yet ever-present. For a while Akira felt truly at peace -- it was just him and the road, no one else.
Of course, he had spoken too soon.
As if on cue, green, blocky letters appeared on the edge of his visor.
> heard u stormed out of the gala tonite
Akira frowned. Normally he’d jump at the chance to talk to Petra, but today he simply wasn’t in the mood.
With a quick blink Petra’s message disappeared from the visor, his focus directed to the road once again. But like always, another message popped up.
> finished the parts for ur bike. come over and itll be ready tomorrow
> ur so gonna kill the races. bet
He couldn’t help but stare at Petra’s messages fondly, her absolute lack of any grammar or punctuation rather endearing. Something electric starting building back up under his skin. If what his friend’s message said was true, then Akira’s day just got a whole lot more interesting.
With a determined grin, Akira revved his hoverbike, sending it hurtling toward her house.