The Nebula Rebellion

East of Ormuth, where the neon lights from downtown barely penetrated, there were only dark, damp alleys that smelled of sour garbage and cheap liquor. After a while of wandering, Ryn and Lukas arrived at a rundown tavern called the Slygrain. The sign was a rotten piece of wood, hanging from two rusty chains, and rattled in the wind. From inside, laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the melodious sounds of an ancient stringed instrument—probably from the planet Jannor—mixed together, creating a sound that was both lively and languid.

Ryn stood before the scarred wooden door, turning to look at Lukas. Her hood hid her small face, but her eyes were bright, sparkling with a deep sadness, as if she had seen too much for a young person to see. "This is where you need to go," she said, her voice hoarse and tired from a long night without sleep. "It's just a tavern. Of course, the Nightingale's base is not a place to be seen in broad daylight. The Safe House only appears to those it wishes to see." She paused, her eyes flicking to Lukas, then continued in a voice that was slightly cold but not without a hint of childish petulance. "Well, bye. I'm done with you, Firewolf. Anyway… thank you for coming with my crew."

Lukas paused, his eyes cold. "You… you lied to me, right?" He stepped forward, grabbing Ryn by the collar, his voice low, filled with suppressed anger. "Why did you say you knew where the Nightingale lived?"

Ryn did not back down, even though her small figure looked fragile to Lukas. The corners of her mouth curled up, her smile sly and mischievous. "Come on, I only said I could find her here, at this tavern. I can't guarantee that I'll lead you to her lair or see her in person!" Her voice rang out, both challenging and teasing.

Lukas let go, his eyes still fixed on Ryn, as if trying to read whether she was telling the truth or just playing a trick. He let out a breath, disappointment mixed with a hint of irritation. "Then all was for naught. Well, I guess I was stupid enough to be fooled by a bunch of kids. Wasted time, wasted effort, and for nothing." He rummaged in his pockets, pulled out a wad of money—1000 Valer—and threw it at Ryn. "Here, take it as we agreed."

Ryn caught the money, a glint in her eye—not joy, but more like displeasure. "I didn't trick you, Firewolf," she shouted, her voice full of grievance as Lukas turned and walked toward the tavern door. "I guarantee you'll get accurate information about the Nightingale here! If not, take my head!"

Lukas paused for a second, turned his head to look back, his eyes cold but the corners of his mouth slightly raised, as if he was laughing. "Huh, how much do you think your head is worth, little girl? Go. Goodbye. Be careful, I won't save you again." With that, he pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the tall figure of the Fire Wolf disappeared into the tavern.

He stepped inside, and the space inside immediately enveloped him with the pungent smell of cheap cigarettes, strong alcohol, and old, moldy cloth. The crowd in the tavern was a strange mix: mechanics in oil-stained suits, a few sharp-eyed traders, and a group of mercenaries huddled around a wooden table, laughing loudly and telling stories that sounded like fabrications – but in a place like Ormuth, in the heart of a chaotic galaxy, they could very well be true. Lukas walked slowly, his back to the wall, his eyes scanning every face, every gesture. He was used to reading the air, sensing potential dangers before they materialized.

He approached the bar, where a waiter stood behind him with an unfriendly expression. Blind in one eye, with a shaved head and an old brass earpiece that looked like an interplanetary war relic. He glanced at Lukas—just enough to remember, but enough to forget.

"What for you, young man?" he asked, his voice like a pebble rolling through water.

"Something light," Lukas replied, his voice even. "The kind that insomniacs choose."

The waiter nodded, not asking any more questions. He poured an amber liquid into a chipped glass and slid it across the counter. Lukas took the glass and took a sip. The taste hit his nose, bitter and hot, but not enough to dispel the questions swirling in his head. He sat down, his back against the counter, listening to every sound in the bar.

The tavern looked normal, but the eyes of some of the patrons were anything but. There were probing eyes, furtive eyes watching him from the corners of the tables. There were wary eyes, as if they were waiting for him to do something—anything—to determine whether he was friend or foe. And there were eyes that looked nowhere in particular, as if listening to an invisible rhythm, something Lukas couldn't quite place.

In the far corner of the tavern, a metal door was ajar, revealing a different light—not the cold neon of Ormuth, but a warm, familiar yellow, like the light of an oil lamp from a long-forgotten era. From behind the door, a deep voice rang out, strong and passionate:

"…Valeria calls us rebels. But if rebellion means refusing to kneel before robbers, perhaps sending robbers to their graves. Then I am ready to rebel to the core!"

Applause broke out, interspersed with a few whistles of approval. Lukas paused between sips of his drink. The voice was not that of a madman or a dreamer. It carried fire—and reason. He set his glass down on the table, slowly, silently. His eyes swept over the metal door, where a golden light oozed out like an invitation. A nearby customer—a middle-aged woman with a shiny mechanical arm—gave him a nod, a gesture so small it was barely noticeable. But to Lukas, it felt like a sign.

The door was a boundary. Between the world he knew—a world of dark alleys, dangerous contracts, and people who survived by trusting no one—and another, where people still dared to dream of something greater.

He stood up. His first step was light, silent. Firewolf was moving toward the light. But Lukas did not rush into the room where the fiery voice was speaking. Instead, he turned into a side hallway, where the musty smell of the tavern gave way to the scent of motor oil and old rations. The hallway led to a makeshift rest area—a few tattered mattresses on the floor, broken chairs, and a group of men working silently. Some mended electrical wiring, their hands smeared with grease. Another group shared packages of rations with faded letters, probably from an old wartime stockpile.

Lukas paused, his eyes darting from person to person. He needed answers, and he knew that in a place like this, real answers never came easily.

He approached a young woman sitting on the floor, mending a torn winter coat. "Nightingale," he said, his voice low but clear. "Who's in charge here?"

The girl looked up, looking at him as if he'd asked a silly question, as if he were trying to ask where the wind came from. "We don't have a commander," she said, her voice short, and then bent back to sewing, not bothering to look at him again.

Lukas was undaunted. He walked over to an older man, who was busy mending a broken antenna. "Did she really come here? Nightingale?"

The man paused, chewing the dry food in his mouth. "I saw a bird sitting on a roof in a storm," he said, his voice flat, as if he were telling a story that no one cared about. "It chirped three times and flew away. No one caught it." Then he continued chewing, as if the story was of no importance.

Lukas moved to the medical area, where a young nurse was changing the bandages on a boy whose arm had been injured. "Has anyone here ever seen her?" he asked, his voice calm but urgent.

The nurse did not look up, her hands still working quickly. "Someone said they touched her," she said. "He died at the East Gate two days later."

"Because he was murdered?" Lukas asked, his eyes sharper.

"No," the nurse said. "Because he took the blame for someone else. And laughed until the end." This time she looked up, her eyes bright and cold as steel. "The Nightingale does not need our protection. But no one wants to tarnish her memory."

Lukas left the medical ward and walked into another corridor, where a few children were playing slingshot with sticks and old plastic pipes. A dusty girl recognized him and stepped back, whispering to the boy next to her: "That's Firewolf. The one with Ryn. He's looking for Nightingale."

The boy replied, not with fear but with contempt: "He thinks he can find her? It's not Nightingale that easy."

Lukas stood in the middle of the corridor, his back against the cold wall. The fragments of their answers began to form a picture – not of a person, but of a living legend, as vague and elusive as a flame in the fog. No one lied to him, but no one answered truthfully either. They protected Nightingale, not with force or weapons, but by keeping her an untouchable shadow.

He sighed, his eyes scanning the room, bathed in the old yellow light from the hanging lamps. Then he muttered, to no one in particular: "A hunted bird does not sing in the daytime." No one answered. But in the air, he sensed an invisible rhythm – the rhythm of something larger, waiting for him to come forward.