Meet Julian Fog: Ex-Space Marine. Smuggler. Collector of Harley-Davidson Relics.

In the outer reaches of the galaxy—where laws are loose, loyalty is looser, and espresso bulbs are a basic human right—flies a man with too much charm, too many enemies, and exactly zero self-preservation instincts.

His name is Julian Fog.

Pilot. Rogue. Chaos gremlin.

He used to be a decorated space marine… then he discovered smuggling paid better and came with fewer dress codes. That was before he accidentally delivered a shipment of high-grade explosives to a diplomatic peace summit.

Now there’s a galaxy-wide bounty on his teeth and 12 cycles to repay his debt.

To stay alive (and preferably caffeinated), Julian’s taking on the kind of jobs only desperate fools or immortal beings should attempt. Which is perfect, because he’s definitely one of those things.

He’s not alone:

Meet the Crew

Z1N – A combat robot who believes he’s a noble Japanese samurai. Speaks in riddles. Carries a plasma katana. Has no volume control and yells “BONZAI!” at all the wrong times.

He may be made of titanium, but emotionally? Pure drama.

M.O.L.L.I.E. – That’s the Modular Operational Logic & Linguistic Interface Emulator, Julian’s shipboard AI. She controls navigation, weapons, oxygen, espresso inventory, and Julian’s ego (when possible).

Equal parts helpful and snarky, Mollie’s the closest thing he has to a conscience—and she’s losing patience.

Together, they might:

• Smuggle radioactive alpacas across embargo zones
• Gamble with alien crime lords in zero gravity
• Awaken ancient doomsday devices “by accident”
• Try to decode Julian’s family tree (which may or may not involve pirates, politicians, and a karaoke championship)

Each episode brings another high-speed, high-stakes, highly ridiculous adventure as Julian tries to dodge death, repay his debt, and maybe—just maybe—grow a shred of responsibility.

(But probably not.)

Strap in. Fire up the espresso. And whatever you do… don’t press the red button.

Fog Fridays begin now

Episode One: Bounty Beginnings, or: The One Where Julian Accidentally Delivers Explosives to a Peace Conference

Julian Fog was halfway through his third espresso bulb and halfway into a bad idea when the comm started blinking red.

“Incoming message,” purred the ship’s AI, M.O.L.L.I.E.

“Shall I put on soft jazz or trigger the self-destruct?”

Julian swiveled in the pilot chair, boots on the console, wearing nothing but a flight harness, tighty whities and smug confidence. “Let’s hear him rant first. Then maybe jazz. Then self-destruct if I get bored.”

But before the screen flickered on, Julian leaned back and smirked—thinking about how this whole mess started just two days ago and wondering if Kessara would still take his call…

Just Sign Here

Diplomatic Assembly of Neutral Systems (D.A.N.S.) –

Main Landing Bay

Julian strolled down the ramp of his ship, cargo manifest in hand, smirk firmly in place. Behind him, thirty sealed crates hummed faintly—because high-grade explosives are dramatic like that.

The spaceport included six enormous cargo doors each flanked by a human-sized door witha kiosk and a person, or something similar to a person. The humanoid functionary that caught Julian's attention was waiting at one of six checkpoints. She was a tall woman with a clipboard and too much lip gloss for a neutral system. On the kiosk a glowing sign read D.A.N.S.

Julian: Hey! That matches the manifest. This is our door!

Functionary: “Name and cargo designation?”

Julian (grinning): “Fog. Julian Fog. Cargo: D.A.N.S. special delivery. Fragile, flammable, and fun at parties.”

Functionary: “Oh! That must be the ceremonial pyrotechnics for the unity parade.”

(She barely glanced at the manifest before nodding.)

“You’re actually early. That’s rare for freelance types.”

Julian: “I pride myself on punctuality. And humility. And jaw structure.”

Functionary: “I noticed. I’m Kessara, logistics coordinator and I'm really into fireworks.”

(She leaned a little closer. Julian, instinctively, flexed just a bit.)

“Tell me, Captain Fog… are you the kind of man who lights fuses, or the kind who watches them burn?”

Julian: “Depends. Are we talking fireworks or relationships?”

Kessara (laughing): “Both, ideally.”

She scribbled something on a requisition tag and slid it into his pocket.

Kessara: “If you’re still in-system tonight, there’s a diplomatic mixer. Free drinks. Flexible dress code. And I do love a man who smells like jet fuel and bad decisions.”

Julian: “You had me at ‘free drinks.’”

Kessara: “I’ll have these wheeled into the ceremonial hall. Thanks again, Captain Fog. See you tonight.”

Julian (winking): “Lucky you.”

Back aboard the ship, as he fired up the engines, M.O.L.L.I.E.’s voice cut in.

M.O.L.L.I.E.: “Julian… did you even check the delivery codes?”

Julian (kicking up his feet, flight suit hung on a hook to his right): “She was tall, diplomatic, and interested. What else do you need in life?”

M.O.L.L.I.E.: “A functional understanding of supply chain logistics and common sense. Also, pants.”

Julian: “You’re just jealous because you can’t flirt.”

M.O.L.L.I.E.: “I can flirt. I just choose to maintain standards.”

Cut back to present.

The screen flickered to reveal a face so scarred it looked like someone had tried to make origami out of beef jerky.

It was Larkon the Unflayed, warlord, arms dealer, and collector of human teeth.

“FOG!” Larkon snarled. “You delivered thirty crates of high-grade explosives to the Diplomatic Assembly of Neutral Systems!”

Julian sipped from his bulb. “Yeah, well. In my defense, the address said ‘D.A.N.S.’ I thought it stood for ‘Dynamite and Nitro Shipment.’”

Larkon’s eyes bulged. “It said Dantes, you illiterate bufoon! You have 12 cycles to repay the debt. Or I’ll scatter your molecules across three systems.”

“Wow. You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Julian said, before casually pressing the mute button.

“Mollie, add Larkon to my holiday card list. Right under ‘Definitely Gonna Kill Me Someday.’”

“Added,” M.O.L.L.I.E. responded. “Shall I include a coupon for free dental work?”

From the corridor, a mechanical voice cried out:

“BONZAI!”

Z1N, the operations robot who believed himself to be a samurai, stumbled in, carrying a live plasma grenade.

“I found this egg of fire on the galley floor, Captain! Shall I incubate it in the furnace of destiny?”

Julian shot up. “Zin, that’s not an egg. That’s a—”

The grenade beeped.

“FRAZZING FRAZ!” Julian grabbed it, tossed it out the airlock, and slapped the seal shut just in time. The hull shook.

Zin bowed. “A noble victory, Captain. I shall compose a haiku in its honor.”

“No. Please don’t.”

“Flaming sphere of death—

Winds whisper kaboom softly—

I lose another hand.”

Julian stared. “…How many hands have you lost?”

“Three. But they return. Like honor.”

M.O.L.L.I.E. chimed in again, voice dry and unimpressed.

“Reminder: you have twelve cycles to repay Larkon. I suggest a miracle or a rich uncle.”

Julian cracked his neck, grinned, and punched in a new nav route. “Time to do what I do best.”

“Get shot at?” Mollie offered.

“No. Smuggle shady cargo under fire while telling jokes no one laughs at.”

“I stand corrected. You are a man of many talents.”

Julian winked. “Set course for Blackhole Market. And prep the espresso bulb. We’re gonna need it.”

“BONZAI!” Zin cried again, sprinting into the weapons bay.

Julian muttered, “This is either the beginning of a comeback… or the last twelve episodes of my life.”

Coming Next: Episode Two – “Wormhole Roulette”

Julian bets it all on a shortcut through an unstable wormhole.