Chapter 1 : The Smuggler's Gambit
The last thing I remember from my old life is the screech of tires and the sensation of weightlessness.
I'd been debugging code for sixteen hours straight—some bullshit legacy system that held together with duct tape and prayers. Coffee-fueled stupidity made me think I could drive home. The truck came from the left. I didn't even see it.
Then nothing.
Then this.
Pain drags me back to consciousness. My ribs scream with every breath. Something wet and warm soaks through my shirt—blood, definitely blood. The stench hits next: rotting garbage, industrial chemicals, and something metallic that makes my stomach lurch.
I'm lying in an alley. Coruscant's Lower Levels, if the flickering neon signs and rust-streaked walls are any indication. Three feet to my left, a corpse stares at nothing with clouded eyes. Rodian, judging by the green skin and antenna stalks. Blaster hole through his chest, still smoking.
"This isn't real. Can't be real."
But my hands shake when I press them against cracked duracrete, and the pain in my side is too vivid for a dream. The corpse doesn't vanish when I blink. Neither does the holographic interface that suddenly flares to life in front of my face.
Blue light. Text scrolling faster than I can process. My vision swims, and I barely register the words before my stomach revolts. I twist sideways and vomit until there's nothing left.
[ VOID MERCHANT SYSTEM INITIALIZED ]
[ HOST INTEGRATION: 87% COMPLETE ]
[ FINALIZING NEURAL PATHWAYS... ]
The interface solidifies. It's like someone stapled a video game menu to my retinas—translucent, glowing, impossible to look away from. Categories expand across my field of vision: weapons, armor, vehicles, technology. Subcategories branch out like a digital tree. Halo. Mass Effect. Warhammer 40K. Titanfall. Universes I recognize from games and movies, except they're here, cataloged like Amazon listings.
My hands won't stop shaking.
[ INTEGRATION COMPLETE ]
[ WELCOME, MERCHANT ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 0 CREDITS ]
[ STORE LEVEL: 1 ]
[ SMUGGLER'S HOLD: 5m³ ]
[ MANDATORY QUEST: MAKE FIRST SALE WITHIN 48 HOURS ]
[ FAILURE PENALTY: SYSTEM LOCKOUT + 5000 CREDIT DEBT ]
I stare at the notification until my eyes burn. The corpse beside me smells worse by the second, and somewhere overhead, speeders whine through smog-choked air. This is Coruscant. I'm in Star Wars. The Clone Wars era, if the architecture and ambient traffic patterns match what I remember from the animated series.
Transmigration. Isekai. Whatever you want to call getting ripped out of one life and dumped into another.
"Okay. Okay, think. You're a software engineer. You solve problems. This is just... the worst problem you've ever had."
I push myself upright. Every movement sends fresh waves of pain through my ribs—previous owner of this body took a beating before I arrived. My shirt is torn and blood-stained. No credits in my pockets. No ID. Nothing except the glowing interface that apparently only I can see.
The catalog beckons. I scroll through it with thought-commands, half-expecting the interface to vanish. It doesn't. Thousands of items parade past: M41A Pulse Rifles from Aliens, Lancer Assault Rifles from Gears of War, Bolters from Warhammer. The prices fluctuate as I watch—a basic blaster pistol shifts from 1,500 credits to 2,200 to 1,800 in the span of ten seconds.
[ PRICING INSTABILITY DETECTED ]
[ CATALOGING ERROR ]
[ FEATURE WILL STABILIZE WITH INCREASED USAGE ]
"Great. The interdimensional arms dealing system is buggy."
I need something cheap. Something I can actually afford with zero credits. The search function glitches when I try using it—returns results for grenades when I type "pistol," shows armor when I search for ammunition. Manual scrolling it is.
Twenty minutes later, my ribs are on fire and I've found the cheapest weapon in the catalog: UNSC M6D pistol from Halo. 2,000 credits. Except I have zero credits. The interface helpfully displays this fact in red text.
[ INSUFFICIENT FUNDS ]
[ CREDIT ACQUISITION REQUIRED ]
[ TIME REMAINING: 47 HOURS, 31 MINUTES ]
I lean against the alley wall and try not to pass out. The wound in my side isn't deep—mostly bruising and surface cuts—but combined with the headache from staring at glowing menus, I'm operating at maybe thirty percent capacity.
A sound echoes from the alley mouth: boots on metal grating. I freeze.
Two figures emerge from the shadows. Weequay—leathery brown skin, braided topknot, dead eyes that have seen too much violence. The first one wears a blast vest covered in burn marks. The second carries a blaster rifle with the casual grip of someone who's used it recently.
They spot me. The first Weequay grins, revealing yellowed teeth.
"Well, well. Thought we'd find you dead, human."
I raise both hands slowly. "Play this smart. You've watched enough movies."
"I'm not looking for trouble."
The Weequay laughs—wet, rattling sound. "You're in Level 1313. You are trouble. Where's Grax?"
Grax. The name means nothing to me, but I glance at the corpse. The Rodian.
"Dead when I got here."
The second Weequay raises his rifle. "Convenient story."
My mouth goes dry. This body is wounded, exhausted, and completely unarmed. I have no combat training. No weapons. Nothing except a glowing menu offering arms from across the multiverse that I can't afford.
"Think. What would work here?"
"Look, I don't know what happened to your friend," I say, keeping my voice level. "But I know people who need weapons. Good weapons. Off-world tech."
The first Weequay's eyes narrow. "You're a dealer?"
"Independent supplier." The lie comes easier than it should. "I can get things nobody else can."
He exchanges glances with his partner. Something passes between them—calculation, greed, suspicion. The rifle lowers slightly.
"Grax mentioned a supplier. That you?"
I nod, committing to the bluff.
"Show us."
"Shit."
I pull up the interface—to them, it looks like I'm staring at empty air, probably concussed. I navigate to the M6D listing. 2,000 credits. The "Smuggler's Hold" function sits in the corner of my vision, grayed out because I haven't purchased anything yet.
"I can get you a pistol," I say. "UNSC standard issue. Semi-automatic, 12 rounds, armor-piercing capability."
The first Weequay—Grax's partner, apparently—spits on the ground. "How much?"
This is it. My first negotiation in a galaxy far, far away. My software engineering salary did not prepare me for haggling with alien smugglers over weapons I don't actually have.
"Two thousand credits."
He laughs in my face. "For a pistol? You're insane." He confers with his partner in a language I don't recognize, then turns back. "Five hundred. Final offer."
My stomach drops. The interface immediately flashes a new notification:
[ WARNING: SALE BELOW COST DETECTED ]
[ CHARITY TAX WILL APPLY ]
[ SELLING ITEM WORTH 2000 FOR 500 = 1500 CREDIT DISCOUNT ]
[ TAX: 750 CREDITS (50% OF DISCOUNT) ]
[ PLUS STANDARD SERVICE FEE: 10% OF THEORETICAL 3000 CREDIT TRANSACTION ]
[ TOTAL DEDUCTION: 800 CREDITS ]
[ ACCEPTING THIS SALE WILL RESULT IN -300 CREDIT BALANCE ]
I stare at the numbers. The System doesn't just want profit—it punishes generosity. Selling below market value triggers a tax that could put me in debt. This isn't a helpful tool. It's a loan shark with a user interface.
The second Weequay aims his rifle at my chest. "We're waiting."
"Debt or death. Great choices."
"Deal," I croak.
He tosses a credit chip at my feet. I pick it up—physical currency, thank god. The interface scans it automatically.
[ 500 CREDITS RECEIVED ]
[ PROCESSING TRANSACTION... ]
[ MATERIALIZING ITEM FROM SMUGGLER'S HOLD ]
Pain explodes behind my eyes. It's like someone's driving an ice pick through my skull. The world tilts, and I'm on my knees, gasping. Through the agony, I feel something impossible: my hand reaching into a space that shouldn't exist. A pocket dimension only I can access.
My fingers close around cold metal.
The M6D pistol materializes in my grip. Real weight. Real texture. The Weequays stare—one second my hand was empty, the next I'm holding a weapon that definitely didn't come from any local manufacturer.
The first Weequay takes it, examines it with professional interest. Tests the weight, checks the action, peers down the barrel. His expression shifts from suspicion to greed.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Trade secret."
He doesn't press. In the underworld, some questions aren't worth the answers. He nods to his partner, and they melt back into the shadows without another word.
I'm alone with the corpse and a headache that feels like my brain is trying to escape through my ears.
[ TRANSACTION COMPLETE ]
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 500 ]
[ CHARITY TAX: -750 ]
[ SERVICE FEE: -50 ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: -300 CREDITS ]
[ WARNING: NEGATIVE BALANCE INCURS DAILY INTEREST ]
[ MAKE POSITIVE TRANSACTION WITHIN 24 HOURS OR PENALTIES ESCALATE ]
I lean against the wall and laugh. It comes out bitter, half-hysterical. Negative three hundred credits. Dead in an alley on Coruscant with debt to a interdimensional system and zero survival skills.
But I'm alive. That's something.
The interface chimes again:
[ SMUGGLER'S HOLD CAPACITY RESTORED: 10m³ ]
[ APPRAISAL FUNCTION: LOCKED ]
[ UNLOCK REQUIREMENTS: COMPLETE 1 SUCCESSFUL TRANSACTION ]
"Successful. Right. Because that one went so well."
I drag myself upright and stumble toward the alley mouth. Can't stay here—corpses attract attention, and I don't need Coruscant Security asking questions I can't answer. The Lower Levels stretch out in front of me: a labyrinth of rust and desperation where people like me disappear every day.
Somewhere in this mess, there's an opportunity. There has to be. I know this universe—know the major players, the timeline, the wars. That's worth something.
The Weequays mentioned Grax. If I'm remembering correctly, there's a smuggler named Grax who betrays his partners to Republic Intelligence in about forty-eight hours. His rivals will want to know about that. Information has value.
I pull up the System interface and find a new option:
[ INTEL SALE AVAILABLE ]
[ APPRAISE INFORMATION VALUE: LOCKED FUNCTION ]
[ MANUAL PRICING REQUIRED ]
Forty-six hours until the deadline. Negative balance. No weapons, no home, no allies.
But I have knowledge. And in the Clone Wars, knowledge is the most valuable commodity of all.
Two days pass in a blur of survival.
I sell the intel about Grax to his rivals—a Duros crime syndicate operating out of the warehouse district. They pay 1,200 credits for information they can verify within hours. I don't stick around to watch what happens.
The System chimes when blaster fire erupts three blocks away:
[ INTEL SALE CONFIRMED ]
[ INFORMATION RESULTED IN ACTIONABLE OUTCOME ]
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 1200 ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 900 CREDITS ]
[ NEW FUNCTION UNLOCKED: APPRAISAL ]
I'm on a rooftop watching smoke rise from the warehouse when the notification appears. Orange muzzle flashes. Screaming that cuts off abruptly. Then silence.
Grax is dead. I sold information that got someone killed.
I wait for guilt. For horror. For some emotional response that proves I'm still human.
Nothing comes.
Just the cool blue glow of the interface and the knowledge that I'm 900 credits richer. Business, apparently, is simpler than being good.
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