PLANET VIROLUX, AZURYN STAR RESORT
Twin moons hover above mist-draped peaks. The sky pulses with lavender auroras and cloudless lightning, caused by some not well understood effect of the crystal content in the mountains. Jagged obsidian cliffs rise high above the city of Azuryn, around pools of shimmering bioluminescent liquid, which flow down into lavafalls - rivers of molten crystal and shimmering gold. Nikara, dressed elegantly in a shimmering blue slip, gazes out from the balcony of their luxury glass suite featuring a full 360 degree view. Nikara looks peaceful - soaking in this exotic, fantastical landscape.
Julian, shirtless and smug, finishes adjusting a belt buckle that features the insignia of “General Harley.” He palms a tiny datachip into his jacket.
JULIAN: (grinning) "You ever seen a sunset cascade over a lavafall while drinking something you can’t pronounce?"
NIKARA: "Only in propaganda vids. This has been the most amazing three days of my life. At first, I thought for sure you were setting up some side deal or were secretly here on a job?"
JULIAN: (arms spread wide) "What? Of course not. I am shocked you would even think that. I promised you a date. This is… purely recreational. In fact, I scheduled you a spa day tomorrow. You are going to be pampered like a queen."
NIKARA: "What will you be doing while I'm being pampered?"
JULIAN: "Probably naps and holo-vids."
They both laugh. Julian grabs the pitcher of red liquid with pulsing blue swirls and refills both of their glasses.
JULIAN: "I can't wait to see what this drink does when I go the lav."
NIKARA: "You're just gross!"
SPA
The hoverbed vibrates softly, a pair of rotating balls massage their way down Nikara's back. She samples luminous fruit from a bowl hovering at the side of the bed. She whispers, "Julian, you've really outdone yourself."
THE HARLEY HAGGLE
Two blocks away from the resort, Julian peels off down a back alley. He comes to a bright blue door, grabs the ancient style knob, looks left then right and pushes through the entryway.
A stout merchant with a warthog face and a Hawaiian shirt stands hunched over a counter examining ancient timepieces with a digital jeweler's glass. A wheezing translator droid, with glowing green eyes stands blinking at the end of the counter.
The merchant speaks into a microphone attached by a cord to the translator driod. His alien dialect is gruff and guttural.
DROID: "Dd you bring the credits, snort?"
Merchant bangs the counter and growls an angry sounding retort in alien language.
DROID: "You don't have to say snort you idiot, growl."
The merchant bangs the counter again and growls.
JULIAN: (Grinning) "I didn't say snort."
Julian was accustomed to the quirky translator droids. The ones that were fully AI-equipped had a tendency to butt in on the conversations they were supposed to be interpreting. However, the restricted agent models, like this one, were governed to a single task. As if out of spite, the agent droids would translate (literally) anything and everything that came out of the users mouth including coughs, grunts, sneezes... anything.
JULIAN: "I brought the credits. You bring the sacred leather relic of General Harley? Let's get this done. I've gotta hot date to get to."
The merchant pulls back a cloth, revealing a brown leather jacket with the Harley logo, folded neatly and enshrined in a pressure-sealed display box.
JULIAN: "Beautiful. This… this is history."
He presses his thumb to a credit wafer. Suddenly, the sound of shouts, plasma bolts, and exploding glass echo down the alley.
JULIAN: "You slimy, backstabbing..."
The warthog faced shopkeeper shrugs and ducks through a back door just as Julian sends a blaster bolt past the portly merchant's right ear.
JULIAN: "Well, it was a good three days. Time to check out."
Julian crashes through the shop door, blasters echoing down the alleyway. Running at a full sprint, he bolts through the lobby just minutes later clutching the relic. Security bots drop from the ceiling. Blaster fire rips past him. He dives behind a sculpture of a local deity—then accidentally kicks over a lantern.
WHOOMPF! The curtains catch. Flames leap across the atrium ceiling. Fire containment drones swoop in and quickly go to work.
Nikara enters the lobby. Eyes wide. Mouth agape.
NIKARA: "What. Did. You. Do."
JULIAN: "Nothing. I only bought a souvenir. It must be Larkon's bounty hunters."
NIKARA: "You set another hotel on fire."
JULIAN: "Technically… it set itself on fire. I only bumped a lantern. Self-immolation in protest of commercialism. Very cheeky."
Nikara: "Well, I heard the shots and grabbed our gear. (Tossing Julian his pack) Okay lover boy, it's been a great date. I think it's check out time."
JULIAN: "Exactly what I was thinking."
Julian breaks the pressure seal on the display box and dons the leather jacket, then the pack. In no time the two are sprinting and leaping across crystal rooftops. Plasma bolts streak past - armored reptiles in pursuit.
Twin moons cast silver light across the jagged skyline. The rooftops shimmer—panes of crystalline glass reflecting lavender auroras that dance across the alien sky. Below, the neon streets of Azuryn throb with life, but up here, death was closing fast.
Julian and Nikara sprint across the translucent rooftops, their boots clattering over brittle-looking surfaces that flash with each step. Nikara clutches a sleek satchel close to her body, her shimmering slip torn and singed at the edges.
Behind them, plasma bolts sear the air—streaks of white-hot death. They explode into the crystal just inches from their feet, throwing up shards and blinding flashes.
Larkon's seven-foot-tall reptilian mercs, with jagged teeth and iridescent skin charge after them in bounding strides. Their rusted, patchwork armor clinks with trophies. One roars and hurls a thermal hook, its chain hissing and wrapping around a rooftop pipe just ahead of Julian. He ducks under it, yanking Nikara down as the pipe erupts in a hiss of steam and molten debris.
JULIAN: (grinning while running) "You still enjoying our date?"
NIKARA: (panting) "I think the date ended when the lobby caught fire."
Just as they leap over a gap between buildings -a yawning chasm of street-level traffic far below - a DROP-POD slams into the rooftop ahead. The impact sends cracks spiderwebbing through the crystal beneath them.
The pod hisses open.
A Galactic Council hit squad emerges in perfect formation - five elite soldiers in obsidian armor, visors glowing red. Their visor-scanning rifles hum to life, sweeping the rooftop. One locks onto Julian immediately.
HIT SQUAD COMMANDER: Target acquired. Lethal force authorized.
The lead trooper opens fire. A precision bolt grazes Julian’s shoulder, spinning him mid-leap. He crashes down hard, rolls, and yanks Nikara into cover behind a rooftop sculpture made of swirling mineral tendrils.
JULIAN: (gritting his teeth) "Was that the Galactic Council? Seriously? I didn't even kill the Butcher. Why not go after the hogs?"
The bounty hunters and hit squad exchange fire, both converging on Julian and Nikara. Two factions. One bounty. Zero rules.
Julian grabs a glowing pipe and rips it from the rooftop - a vapor line. Steam jets outward as he swings it like a staff, knocking a reptilian hunter off the ledge. It screams as it falls into the city abyss.
NIKARA: "They’re cutting us off!"
JULIAN: "Then we go up."
He taps his wristband. A beat. Then a familiar hum fills the air.
From the clouds above, a grappling drone, customized with a neon motorcycle decal, dives down and fires a cable.
Julian grabs Nikara. The cable whips around them, and they’re yanked upward just as plasma explodes where they were standing.
Below, chaos reigns: the mercs and Council troops now at war with each other, Azuryn’s skyline lit by gunfire and shattered crystal.
As they rise, Nikara clings to him.
NIKARA: "This is actually how I imagined our getaway."
JULIAN: "Welcome to the Fogrunner experience."
The Fogrunner banks hard, plasma streaks lighting up the hull. Below, Azuryn burns—skyscrapers of crystal and chrome shatter as Council shock troops clash with Larkon’s mercs in open warfare. Smoke coils up like fingers grasping at the fleeing ship.
Inside the Fogrunner Julian slides into the pilot’s chair, flicking switches with muscle memory. Nikara drops into the co-pilot’s seat, brushing debris from her dress.
NIKARA: (half-laughing, half-panicked) "They’re really trying to kill you this time."
JULIAN: (smirking) "I’m flattered. Means I’m finally getting noticed in the right circles."
Z1N: (from the console speaker) "Status update: Larkon’s bounty is now up thirty percent. Also, we are officially “shoot-on-sight” with the Galactic Council. Congratulations, Captain."
JULIAN: (grimacing) "Fantastic. That hit squad was not a side quest I asked for."
NIKARA: "So what now?"
Julian exhales, running a hand through his hair.
JULIAN: "Now? We pay off Larkon to call off his bounty freaks before they catch wind of the Council’s price tag."
NIKARA: "And how exactly do you plan on doing that? You flush with cash?"
Julian grins. That dangerous, idiotic, confident Julian Fog grin.
JULIAN: "Not yet. But there’s a certain planetary minister in the Carthax system… just died of food poisoning. And I happen to look great in a diplomatic cloak."
Z1N: "Impersonating a Galactic envoy is punishable by public vaporization on five systems."
JULIAN: "Then we better make it look very convincing."
The ship jumps to hyperspace. A final flash of Azuryn’s flaming skyline fades behind them.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Next Time on Julian Fog…
With a bounty on his head and a kill order from the Galactic Council, Julian does the only logical thing: impersonate a dead diplomat. Armed with a forged ID, a stolen cloak, and way too much confidence, he infiltrates a high-level peace summit to bribe the only man who can clear his name. What could go wrong?
Explosions. Betrayals. Bad accents.
Diplomacy has never been this dangerous.
