Paradiso: Another Look at Chapter One

Here I am, once again, with a scene taken straight from the first chapter of Paradiso. The Subterra Outpost was a fun place to write, and a good way to bounce very different characters off of each other as they react to their environment.

Paradiso Chapter One, Scene Five

The Subterra Outpost’s scorched, grimy walls bore faded graffiti, tattered anti-Galactic Command posters, and flickering holographic ads with outdated loops. Yellow lights hung low, bathing the cramped alleys in a warm haze. A cacophony of clashing music, shouts, and murmurs in unfamiliar dialects made Atlas wince, his feet shifting nervously. The first level dwarfed any floor on the Salvage Belt, its dense crowd pressing shoulder to shoulder, churning his stomach with unease.

Recycled air mingled with sharp alien spices, acrid smoke, and the faint reek of body odor. Around him, the crowd was a galaxy unto itself: families in drab, flowing clothes and archaic oculi clinging to their faces, likely trading tax-free goods from frontier worlds; elites from the Founding Planets in vibrant, elegant robes; and dangerous figures in ornate armor, etched designs proclaiming their allegiances. Pirates and mercenaries, untouched by Galactic Law, flaunted synthetic limbs or hair that writhed like living creatures. Among them were people who seemed ordinary to Atlas—plain clothes, no signs of wealth or threat. Yet, in this chaotic place, their lack of distinct culture left them adrift. It stirred a sense of displacement in Atlas, as if he were lost in a sea of purpose without identity.

The overwhelming scene rooted him to the spot, passersby parting around him with barely veiled irritation as he gaped like a frontiersman facing a new beast. A sharp smack to the back of his head snapped him out of it.

“Keep gawking, and you’ll be staring at your own guts,” Edor growled, shoving him forward.

Atlas narrowly dodged a shirtless giant, his muscled back adorned with animated tattoos of a flat man crushing skulls, a trail of bones snaking to his wrist.

I did not escape Dierock to have my head crushed.

He exhaled sharply, shooting an annoyed glance at the chuckling Apollus.

“Smell that?” Edor sniffed the air theatrically, a wild grin spreading. “Real danger. Not from soft-handed bureaucrats, but hardened men, tested and out of damns to give.”

“It’s a foul stench,” Obe said flatly. Colored lights from a nearby holographic ad—a star racer brandishing a liquor bottle with a thumbs-up—tinted his white-blonde hair.

Apollus groaned. “The booze here must be stellar. Haven’t had a proper drink in cycles.”

“Watch our ether,” Atlas warned, but Apollus’ gaze was fixed on a crowd outside an apartment row, where smokers and junkies fueled an intense Holo-Cards game.

Edor leaned close, his blue eyes knowing. “He’s an addict,” he murmured, nodding toward Apollus.

Apollus overheard, whipping around. “Was.”

He chuckled. “Brother, you didn’t escape the drugs—they escaped you.”

Apollus laughed, only mildly irked, and flicked an obscene gesture at Edor.

I’ll have to keep my eye on him.

Atlas saw plenty of addicts from the Salvage Belt—trusted by loved ones until they bled their credits dry.

“Market Level’s our goal,” Edor declared, taking the lead.

Giggling drew Atlas’ attention downward, where two curly-haired children, barely knee-high, darted through the crowd. Alarm surged until Obe nudged him forward.

“Keep moving,” Obe said, his light eyes conveying understanding but urging restraint.

Atlas nodded tightly, jaw clenched as he focused on Edor’s blonde mullet ahead. Children running around in such a place seemed crazy, but it was their reality. Better they get used to it now. He hastened his steps. Obe, carrying their Kosmo tech in a bag under his arm, followed silently.

They reached Edor at the largest ascender Atlas had ever seen, wide enough for four junkcrafts side by side. A throng waited outside its caged door, and the realization hit: they’d all board at once. The ancient machine, more rickety than the Salvage Belt’s, made him uneasy.

A red light flashed overhead, accompanied by clanking machinery. Faces of every sort rose into view as the ascender arrived. A blaring horn made Atlas flinch. The door slid open, unleashing a flood of exiting passengers as the crowd surged to board. Edor barreled through, and Atlas reluctantly followed suit, elbows out as he realized it was the only way on. He squeezed in near the front, doubting the door could close. Another horn sounded, and he spotted Obe slipping in nearby. The door shut, stragglers scrambling back, some cursing those who’d made it.

Is it always this brutal? The outlaw outpost felt miserable.

A heavy smack on his shoulder made him tense, but it was just Edor. “You fight for everything here. No place for the weak.”

Or for basic courtesy.

“Can’t wait to see more,” he dryly replied.

Edor laughed as the ascender lurched upward, creaking loudly. Only then did Atlas realize Apollus was missing. Worry grew as he scanned the crowd, finding no trace of the lanky ex-addict.

Sensing his concern, Edor leaned in. “Don’t fret about him. I’ll track him down later.”

“You’re not worried? After what you said about his past…”

A somber shadow crossed Edor’s square face. “Apollus is Apollus. He’s learned nothing, and at his age, he never will.”

Atlas nodded, dropping it, but unease lingered. Apollus could drag the crew down. Maybe they should leave him— the outpost was a haven for fugitives like him, anyway.

The ascender halted after several agonizing minutes. The market level was a different realm: high ceilings, three decks with onlookers leaning over half-walls, and vibrant holographs dancing below. A central arena feed showed two scantily clad fighters clashing with electro-swords, their colossal projections nearly grazing the ceiling. Spectators bet and cheered as a blue-flamed blade swept across, decapitating the defender. Blood sprayed, sparking roars and boos.

“Okay,” Atlas admitted. “This is cool.”

Edor laughed, but Obe looked displeased as they pushed through the crowd. Neon-lit stalls and shops lined the floor, the air thick with food aromas and machine oil, less grungy than below. Unfamiliar music genres blended, likely cultural, as vendors hawked wares and revelers roamed.

A holographic foot flickered through them, the victor parading around with the loser’s head. “What league broadcasts death matches?” Atlas asked. Such displays were banned since the Noble War.

Edor smirked at his ignorance. “Subterra doesn’t care about the law. Only place you’ll see such a thing.”

“Black Net death arena, huh?” Atlas found the idea thrilling, then questioned his own desensitization to violence. Dierock’s doing? He pushed the thought aside, noting Obe’s scowl at the hologram. “Not a fan?”

Obe looked away, the hologram’s red glow on his pale face. “Violence isn’t a sport.”

Edor recoiled, disgusted. “Seriously? Violence is the only sport. Man against man, honor or life on the line. Everything else is just a pricey thrill.”

His gaze hardened. “Violence is the cost good men pay for the sins of others. To cheer it is vile.”

Atlas couldn’t have disagreed more, but he kept silent, too enthralled by the sights to care for a morality debate.

Edor snorted. “You sound like my mother—not a good thing, by the way.” He scanned the market. “Let’s move. I need a drink and a gal soon, or I’ll lose it.” They wove past vendors, their pitches reminding Atlas of the treacherous Ed from the Salvage Belt.

A woman with shimmering pink-violet hair locked eyes with him. Glitter speckled her cheeks, a metallic pink oculi framed one eye, and her gold outfit left little covered. She smiled seductively, brushing his shoulder as she passed. Her fruity scent lingered, warming his cheeks. He glanced back, her hair bouncing as she walked. Closing his eyes, he pictured Zena’s tanned, and freckled face.

Edor whistled. “Go after her. I won’t stop you.”

Atlas shook his head. “Here for business.”

Edor laughed. “That is business— a man’s business.”

Atlas opened his mouth to retort, but Obe cut in, navigating through drunken nobles in regal robes. “Atlas is right. No distractions. That woman seemed dangerous.”

Edor stopped, glaring at Obe as if he’d toss him into a bin. “What did you say?”

Obe was unfazed. “Her gaze, her walk—I’ve seen it in those who can handle themselves.”

Edor roared with laughter. “Yeah, in bed, you Virgin.” Shaking his head, he resumed walking. “Atlas, follow my lead from here on, Okay?”

“Hmm,” he murmured, distracted. Obe’s assessment rang true; the woman’s confidence was lethal, but not in the way he meant it.

“You’re both hopeless,” Edor grumbled, but Obe stayed silent.

They finally stopped at a shop with a neon-red sign:

“The Pain Doctor: Guns, Blades & Armor.”

“Been too long,” Edor said, beckoning them inside. “Let’s see what old Agrippa’s up to.”

The shop was cold and stark, its metallic scent sharp as white lights glinted off hovering electro-swords and guns along the walls. Behind the counter stood Agrippa, the largest old man Atlas had ever seen. His shoulders eclipsed Edor’s, buzz-cut white hair topping a tidy face. His barrel chest and thick arms gleamed in a tight black suit. He pointed his smoke at Edor. "I know that face.” His gaze flicked to Atlas. “Not him—wait.” Leaning closer, his gravelly voice softened. “You your Pa’s errand boy? I can cut a deal.”

Atlas bristled. It was the first time he’d been recognized since arriving. “Not quite. Here for my own business.”

Agrippa’s face twitched, and he shrugged. “A kid chasing trouble. My best—and dumbest—clients.” He tucked the smoke in his lips, arms crossed. “What do you want?”

Atlas nodded at Obe. “We’re here to trade.” Obe lifted the Kosmo tech bag as Atlas spoke, “You’ll want a private look.”

He slowly smirked as a security door sealed the entrance, a hidden panel behind him opening. He strode through, gesturing for them to follow.

They entered a small office with a desk and shelves of ancient books, catching Atlas’ eye. A Galactic Marines flag—shattered helmet and skull—hung above, beside an armor plate pierced by a blast. Agrippa followed his gaze. “War trophy. Some rich brat thought he had me.” He slammed his fist onto the desk, veins bulging. “Choked him out.”

“Born too late,” Edor said with a sigh. “I’d have stacked on those fronts.”

Agrippa grunted. “Marines wouldn’t take you. Hell, they won’t even invite me to the reunions.” He laughed outrageously before dropping all pleasantries. His gaze serious, he nodded at the bag. “Enough talk. Show me.”

Obe laid out half their Kosmo weapons—plain handguns and rifles like toy models—neatly on the desk.

Agrippa whistled. “Ugly things, these Kosmonautai shooters— but they'll sell high.” His grin bared white teeth, and Atlas realized each tooth was sharpened to a point.

“That’s the plan,” Edor said. “We’ll grab gear after. Need tools to hunt with.”

“I’ll fix you up,” Agrippa agreed. “Prep you for the storm over that kid’s head. Maybe later, we can talk other deals.”

Atlas and Obe eyed Edor, curious, but he waved it off. “Done with that life. Cost me enough.”

Agrippa shrugged. “Your call. Door’s open when you’re ready.”

Suspicion flared in Atlas, but he fought the desire to press. He needed to trust Edor, though, Obe’s furrowed brows seemed to echo his doubt.

“Good to know.” Edor grinned. “Now, let’s talk numbers.”