Page 2 of Salvaged By the Alien Pirate

“You’re not heading out?” she asks, adjusting her bag. Her concerned expression makes my chest tight with unwanted guilt. “A bunch of us are hitting up Nova’s. Even Kex is coming.”She gestures toward the Exoscarab whose yellow engineering jumpsuit makes him look like a walking caution sign.

I don’t look up from my screen, maintaining the emotional distance that’s kept me alive since Kai. Getting close to people is a luxury I can’t afford, not after what happened last time. “Too much work,” I say, my tone dry, hoping she’ll take the hint.

“The work will still be here Monday,” Daia persists, her iridescent skin rippling with concern. “You spend too many late nights here alone. It’s not healthy.”

If she only knew what I really did during those late nights. The thought of her finding out—of seeing the horror in her eyes when she realizes what I am—makes my throat tight. Better to keep her at arm’s length. Better for everyone. Besides, whoever’s hunting through my files chose this timing for a reason. The only way to trace them is through the STI’s secure network, and I can’t risk accessing that from anywhere else.

“Rain check,” I say, straightening papers I don’t need. “Got to finish these manifests.”

“Your loss.” She shrugs, joining the last stragglers at the lift. “Don’t stay too late. Place gets creepy after hours.”

You have no idea.

I make a show of gathering my things, adjusting the simple black blazer that helps me blend into this corporate hive. A cleaning drone whirs past, its optical sensors scanning me with mechanical suspicion.

“Forgot to file something,” I tell it, forcing a tired smile. The drone’s lights flash yellow-green, accepting my presence as authorized. “Just need another hour.”

It beeps an acknowledgment and continues its rounds, leaving me alone in the growing shadows. Just another dedicated employee, nothing to see here. Perfect.

But my fingers twitch, eager for my own setup, where I can unleash my skills without restraint. My hunter will soon learn why they call me the Neon Valkyrie.

The office grows quiet. Emergency lights cast long shadows between the cubicles, their dim glow struggling to penetrate the spaces between workstations. Perfect hunting conditions. I’m about to dive deeper into the system when the lights flicker once, twice—then plunge us into total darkness.

I drop into my true system—the one I crafted in dark rooms with black market neural chips and caffeine-fueled determination. Code streams past like rivers of starlight, each line a glowing thread I can pluck and follow. My enhanced senses light up as I sink deeper, tracing the intruder’s digital footprints through layers of encryption. The familiar thrill of the hunt courses through me as patterns emerge in the data flow, subtle disturbances that most would miss but my augmented perception catches like ripples in still water.

“Got you,” I whisper, following their digital breadcrumbs. They’re skilled, but I’m better. Each false trail leads me closer to their true location, until—

A message flashes across my vision, text burning like white fire:

I SEE YOU, NEON VALKYRIE.

My heart races as the implications hit me like a punch to the gut. Someone knows me—the real me, not the constructed corporate façade I wear during daylight hours. They know Neon Valkyrie, the phantom who’s made a career of exposing secrets powerful people would kill to keep buried. The kind of secrets that got Kai murdered when we dug too deep.

Ice slides down my spine as memories of his final moments flash through my neural interface—his screams, the way his consciousness fragmented across our shared connection as they caught him. I scan the message desperately looking for anytrace of its origin, but the masking is flawless, professional-grade stuff that makes even my enhanced systems struggle to get a read. This isn’t some amateur trying to make a name for themselves. This is someone with resources, with reach—the kind of opponent who doesn’t leave loose ends alive to testify.

Another message appears:

HOW LONG BEFORE THEY FIND YOU TOO?

I ignore their taunts. I’m already purging my system, severing connections, but they’re faster. Data starts downloading straight into my neural cache—images, coordinates, timestamps. Evidence of things I was never meant to see. The office falls silent, shadows stretching between the cubicles. Perfect hunting conditions—if only my hands weren’t shaking. I clench my fingers, willing them steady. One wrong move and I’m done. Prison would be the best outcome. Dissection in some corporate black site would be worse.

The office grows quiet, the hum of the environmental systems fading into the background as the last of my colleagues disappear into the transit pods. Emergency lights flicker on, casting long, skeletal shadows between the cubicles. Perfect hunting conditions. I drop my public interface, letting the bland corporate façade dissolve as I sink into the familiar embrace of my true system. This is where I thrive, where lines of code flow around me like liquid starlight, a universe I built myself with black market tech and countless sleepless nights.

My fingers move across the haptic keyboard with practiced precision, following the digital breadcrumbs this intruder thinks they’ve hidden so well. Amateurs leave obvious trails—this one’s different. Each false lead is meticulously crafted, designed to waste time and resources. Not ZeroDay’s style—they prefer brute force attacks that leave systems in smoking ruins. WhisperWind maybe? But even their theatrical flair has a certain... signature. This is something else. Every movefeels calculated, personal. Like they’ve studied me, learned my patterns. Like they know just who they’re dealing with.

“Still here, Arden?”

I flinch before I can stop myself, my fingers freezing over the console. Bruxor, the senior analyst, looms in the doorway, his massive Bravorian form blotting out what little emergency light remains. I force my shoulders to relax, fighting against the instinct to shrink away from his presence. I can’t read his sharp, angular face, but the predatory gleam reflecting off his red scales sends a chill down my spine.

If he catches even a whiff of what I’m doing... The STI doesn’t mess around with unauthorized network access. Best case? I’m out on my ass, stripped of clearance, and blacklisted from every half-decent tech job in the galaxy. Worst case? Let’s just say I’ve heard rumors about STI black sites that make me want to bleach my brain.

I force myself to breathe, to look casual. It’s not like I make a habit of cozying up to my colleagues, but now I’m grateful for the distance. Bruxor doesn’t know me well enough to spot the tension thrumming through my body, the way my fingers twitch, itching to slam my holo-screen closed.

Focus, Neon. You’ve got this. One wrong move and it’s game over.

“Just finishing up some reports,” I manage, forcing a casual tone while my mind races. I need to cover my tracks, fast. But closing the system now would be suspicious. It’s a delicate dance, maintaining the façade of a diligent employee while simultaneously battling a ghost in the machine.

“Make sure you log out properly,” Bruxor says, his voice a rumble that vibrates through the floor. “Wouldn’t want to trigger any security alerts.” His words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken threat.

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