The Nebula Rebellion

 Lukas sat alone in a dimly lit corner of the "Slygrain Wood" tavern, the amber liquor in his hand glinting under the murky yellow light, like a frail flame struggling against the dark night. The air was thick with the mingled stench of damp mold, cheap tobacco, and strong booze. He had spent three days scouring Ormuth—from shadowy alleys to abandoned warehouses, from the whispers of a snot-nosed kid to the taunts of tavern drunks. Nightingale, true to her name, was like a fleeting phantom, a haunting melody no one could quite grasp. He took another sip of the liquor, its bitter burn sliding down his throat, setting his empty stomach ablaze with a churning hunger. But it did nothing to dull the frustration strangling his mind. His expertise lay in being a former officer cadet, leading troops, not chasing elusive trails. "Tiny, you sure know how to stir up trouble for me," he muttered, recalling Ryn's stubborn gaze as she walked away. Then he smirked faintly, a wry twist at the corner of his mouth.

Lukas was about to call for another drink when he heard slow, deliberate footsteps behind him, followed by a hand gently resting on his shoulder. He froze, his hand instinctively brushing the dagger hidden under his coat. Turning his head, he saw four bizarre figures, each wearing an animal mask that was both peculiar and suspicious. Their eyes, glinting through the slits of their masks, revealed they had been watching him for a while, like predators lurking in the shadows.

The leader wore a mask shaped like an owl, its deeply carved eyes and intricately etched feathers catching the dim light. A voice spoke up—a woman's, soft and melodic, like a poet reciting a love ballad: "I hear you're looking for Nightingale, aren't you?"

Lukas's weary brows furrowed, his gaze sweeping over the group. Beside the woman were three men, each with a demeanor so distinct it bordered on absurd. One wore a cat mask, his slender frame slouched lazily, one hand on his hip, the other flicking cigarette smoke as if swatting flies, his voice effeminate like a lounge singer's: "Oh my, this guy looks tough… I bet he's the type who knows how to throw a punch, right, big guy?" As he spoke, he lightly trailed a finger along Lukas's chiseled jawline, his eyes twinkling with a flirtatious glint that made Lukas feel a shiver of unease.

The second figure wore a goat mask with spiraling horns, his voice hoarse and cryptic, as if whispering a forbidden secret: "Nightingale, huh? She's like a wisp of smoke—you can see her, but you'll never catch her. Why don't you give up and join us instead? You look like you can handle a fight." He nodded slowly, stroking the fake beard dangling from his mask, his movements deliberate, like a drunken philosopher lost in thought.

The last one, sporting a badger mask, had broad shoulders and a constant growl rumbling in his throat. His eyes burned behind the mask, as if ready to devour anyone who stood in his way. "Why all the talk? Join us or not?" he snapped, his voice rough like gravel being crushed.

Lukas set his glass down, his cold gaze locking onto the woman with the owl mask. "What's your game? If you don't know anything about Nightingale, stop wasting my time. Get lost."

The woman—Owl, as Lukas mentally dubbed her—smiled, her lips barely moving behind the mask. "We don't know where she is, that's true. But we see a fighter in you. We're short one man for a big job coming up—a clean one, no crimes, no trouble with Valeria. Join us, and you'll find it's worth more than chasing a bird that's already flown the cage."

The Cat giggled, flicking his hand dismissively. "Why so tense, big guy? What's got you chasing Nightingale? Don't tell me it's love!" He winked, making Lukas itch to smash his fist into that mask. "I've heard her beauty's enough to make plenty of men swoon."

Lukas smirked, his voice flat. "Money. 75,000 Valer for some frail woman—not a bad deal. Plus, I want to know what's so special about her that Valeria's Council wants her alive."

The Goat stroked his fake beard, his hoarse voice dripping with mystery. "75,000? Hmph, not bad. But Nightingale's no easy catch. I'd ditch that pipe dream if I were you. Our job pays way better."

Lukas shook his head, his gaze icy. "Not interested. No info on Nightingale? Then get lost."

The Badger growled, slamming his fist on a nearby table, making a few glasses clink. "Stubborn bastard! Who do you think you are, acting all high and mighty?" He turned to his comrades. "Let's go. This tavern's crawling with fighters."

Owl raised a hand, signaling the Badger to quiet down. "Easy, Badger. This guy's got reasons to doubt us." She tilted her head, her eyes glinting behind the mask. "Nightingale's a pipe dream. Valeria's offering a hefty sum, sure, but do you really think you can catch her? Our job, on the other hand, pays at least as much. Join us, and you'll see."

Before Lukas could respond, a shrill beep cut through the air. The tavern's bulletin screen flared to life, displaying Nightingale's shadowy figure—long hair, a faint crescent scar on her neck. A blazing red caption scrolled across: "Nightingale – Bounty: 200,000 Valer. Must be taken alive."

The atmosphere in the tavern shifted instantly. Laughter died, indifferent gazes turned sharp, like wolves catching the scent of blood. A mercenary in the corner muttered, "200,000… enough to buy a small planet." A serving girl dropped a glass, the shatter ringing out in the silence. Lukas felt eyes from all directions—probing, suspicious, and ravenous.

Lukas tightened his grip on the glass, his eyes locked on the screen. 200,000 Valer—enough to clear Veridell's debts, secure the village's future, and maybe even buy him a way out of this wretched galaxy. He turned back to Owl, his voice cold but laced with a hint of mockery: "200,000 Valer. Does your job pay more than that?" He smirked, as if daring her to prove it.

Owl smiled, her eyes glinting behind the mask like a tempting promise. "It's not that simple, tough guy. But I swear, if you help us, the reward will be generous—enough to make you forget about chasing that bird."

Lukas raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Empty promises are cheap."

Owl quietly pulled a small cloth pouch from her coat and slid it across the table toward Lukas. The faint clink of metal rang out. He opened it, his eyes flickering with surprise: 20,000 Valer, gleaming under the dim light. Owl spoke, her voice calm but sharp: "Use this to gear up. Is this enough to prove our credibility?"

The Cat giggled, swaying his hips. "Oh, I bet he'll show up. This guy doesn't look like he misses opportunities."

The Goat stroked his beard, nodding slowly. "Be careful, though. Money's easy to earn, but living to spend it? That's the trick."

The Badger snorted loudly. "Come or don't, I don't care. Just don't keep us waiting, slowpoke."

Owl stood, handing Lukas a small scrap of paper with scrawled writing: Orlin-3, Basement 3, 23:00. She gestured for the group to leave. They slipped out of the tavern, their bizarre silhouettes blending into the crowd, leaving Lukas with the pouch of coins, the note, and the glowing bulletin board still blazing with Nightingale's image.

He glanced at the pouch, then back at the screen, the 200,000 Valer figure burning into his eyes. He muttered under his breath, barely audible: "Trap or opportunity, I'll find out."

The tavern resumed its noisy rhythm, but Lukas heard nothing. He sat there, caught between two paths: one leading to Nightingale, a legend with an ever-growing bounty; the other to the masked group's mysterious job—a promise of riches, but shrouded in shadows. He downed the last of his drink, the bitter taste lingering, a reminder that in Ormuth, no choice was ever simple.