Dip Reinegger and the Satchel of Despair

Feb 25, 2026 Earthtime

Dip Reinegger and the Satchel of Despair

Orelia-4 was a dump. Rain hit the terminal glass like gravel. I sat across from Vane, a fixer who looked as tired as the city.

"The Satchel is gone," Vane said. His fake eye clicked. "A group called the Nihili snatched it up in the night and took it back to Anduha. They’re fanatics, Reinegger, from an ancient order sworn to protect the satchel from types like you and me."

I didn't care about their hobbies. I looked at the photo of the bag. He said this bag contained an ancient power understood by few. It didn’t look like much. But if it was worth half as much as they say it was...

"Twenty thousand credits," Roban said from behind me. "That covers the ship's repairs and a new set of tires for the rover." Vane nodded and gestured with his small hands as if to say he had no choice.

"Fine," I said. I stood up and adjusted my jacket. "Tell your guys to stay out of my way."

The Volcano World of Anduha

And I thought the last place was miserable. This place was a crater-pocked, volcanic wonderland, under constant bombardment from both meteorites and volcanic debris.

The Nihili were holed up in an old temple circled by high peaks. The wind was cold. As we got close, my skin started to crawl. It wasn't the weather.

"Sir," Roban said. His voice was shaking as we approached a large stone staircase. "My systems are reporting a massive logic failure. I feel... afraid."

"It’s the satchel, Roban. Don’t let it get the better of you. We’re close. Which makes me wonder why we’re not being attacked…”

Sneaking to the top of the staircase, I finally came upon the Nihili. There was no trap waiting. They were curled up on the floor, crying like babies. Suddenly the air became thick and my movements were slowed, like trudging through the Poop Swamps of Arnus V.

The Grab

The Satchel sat on its pedestal, looking like a discarded piece of luggage, but the air around it shimmered with an oily light. The Nihili lay scattered like broken dolls. I noticed the shattered remains of obsidian resonators—small, hand-held devices meant to dampen the Satchel’s psychic frequency—littering the floor.

They had come prepared with centuries of ritual tech, but the Satchel had evolved, or maybe it was just tired of being contained. It must’ve overloaded their dampeners, turning their "protection" into a direct conduit for the despair they were trying to block.

Maybe I’m just made of tougher stuff. I stepped forward, even though very inch felt like a mile. My mind flooded with the faces of people I’d let down. I saw myself with a million bad haircuts and felt the sickness of a thousand hangovers.

"Dip, the signal... it's overriding my core ethics," Roban whimpered, his servos locking up. “I want to punch somebody.”

I didn't have any ethics to override. I reached out and gripped the strap. A cold, sharp horror spiked through my arm, vibrating against my bone marrow. I saw a vision of the universe ending not with a bang, but with a tired sigh. I saw myself as an infant. I saw my parents. I was being torn apart from within. Drool was forming on the sides of my mouth.

A right hook from Roban suddenly snapped me out of it.

I ripped the bag off the pedestal. The psychic pressure didn't stop, but the physical movement broke the trance.

"Come on, Roban," I growled, my voice slow and sounding like it belonged to a stranger. "We’re leaving."

The Getaway

The walk back to the ship was a blur of gray ash and internal screaming. The Nihili remained in their heaps; their resonators were dead, and their spirits were somewhere worse.

We reached the #starkween, and I didn't stop until I’d shoved the bag into a lead-lined locker and torched the seam shut with a welder. The humming didn't stop—I could feel it in my molars but the visual hallucinations of the life and death of the universe faded.

"That was... inefficient, Dip," Roban said, flexing his fingers as he regained motor control. "Vane failed to mention the artifact had breached its containment threshold."

I walked to the galley, my boots heavy with volcanic soot, and cracked a florg. My hands were shaking, but only a little. I shook the dust and ash from my mane.

"Call Vane," I said, taking a long, bitter swig. "Tell him the price is forty thousand credits now.”

"Adequate compensation, Sir." Roban said.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Speaking of satchels, how about a nice place to keep your dice (or other things)?