The Past, Rewired

[thisDerius]

Derius sat at the bar, nursing a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold, his cybernetic fingers tapping absently against the ceramic. The station’s dim lighting barely reached the corners of the establishment, a small dive nestled within the trade hub’s winding corridors. The air smelled of burnt synth-spice and engine grease, the usual scent cocktail of places where pilots and mercs gathered between jobs. He glanced at the chrono on his wrist, then toward the seating area near the wide, reinforced window overlooking the nebula. Grey had arranged this meeting, said this Donagan was the one to talk to if he wanted a shot at breaking the Ingenuus encryption. That was all Derius needed to know—though he had his doubts. People who dealt in secrets were rarely the kind of people one wanted to trust. Still, if it got him what he needed, he could stomach it. He had done worse.

A sharp voice cut through the low hum of conversation, dragging his attention from his thoughts. A man at one of the tables was giving the barman hell over something—his drink, maybe. The accent was thick, and the tone was brash, laced with the kind of entitlement that made station workers regret their career choices.

Derius exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "You can’t be serious..." he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible even to himself. This was Donagan? He hadn’t expected a man of quiet intelligence, but he had at least hoped for someone who didn’t announce his presence to half the room.

Finishing the last bitter sip of his coffee, he set the cup down with a quiet clink and pushed himself off the barstool. His movements were precise, calculated. There was no hesitation in the way he crossed the room, no wasted motion. He was used to moving with purpose, and now was no different. He arrived just as the barman—whose patience had visibly worn thin—was about to walk away. Derius placed a firm hand on the man’s shoulder, stopping him in place.

“Get the man his tea,” he said, his voice level but carrying enough weight that the barman thought better of arguing. “And I’ll have a double Sidewinder on the rocks.” The barman hesitated for half a second, then nodded before heading off to prepare the drinks. Derius turned his full attention to Donagan, stepping forward and pulling out the chair across from him. The reinforced metal legs scraped slightly against the floor as he sat down, settling in without breaking eye contact.

His augmented arms rested loosely on the table, metal fingertips drumming once against the surface before stilling. His gaze was sharp, studying the man in front of him with the cold efficiency of someone used to sizing up threats. “You must be Mister Donagan,” he said finally, voice steady, tone measured. “I am John Derius Guerra. I believe Miss Grey Kalish told you about me.” There was no pleasantry in his introduction, no unnecessary words. He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to get what he needed—and he didn’t have time for theatrics.