25. Tyrxie

Chapter 25

Tyrxie

Tears

I stalk out of the Captain’s chambers, wiping the tears that sting my eyes. How I tire of crying. There aren’t enough tears in the universe to extinguish my pain . The gangway echoes beneath my feet. A familiar urge tempts me to disappear into a hidden passage. But with effort, I keep my gaze ahead. Those actions belong to the old me, the version of me who was a slave, disguised as a crew member.

What am I now? A freed slave?

A part of me always knew the truth. Hyanxa made sure of that with her constant barbed reminders. But to acknowledge it, to unravel its depths, would’ve calcified the terrifying reality. How could I continue living on this ship among those who killed my parents and enslaved me? A life without hope drove me to bury those questions deep within, because to know the truth would’ve broken me.

Void Kaanus! I wish I possessed the courage to have pulled the trigger. Avenging myself and my parents would’ve been the correct action... right? A treacherous anxiety churns my stomach as memories come unbidden, of sitting on the Captain’s lap as a child gazing out at the mesmerizing stars.

He occupies a place in my heart that he stole.

Like the scorched brand on my chest, removing him would only inflict pain on myself. I exhale deeply as a wave of relief washes over me, growing content with my choice. I spared his life not for his sake, but for my own.

I continue my aimless trek, mirroring the directionless state of my life. Lost, adrift without a destination. My future, once certain, promising a life of simple service aboard the Mutalisk’s Hammer, is now full of danger and uncertainty. Did I truly agree to leave with Xandor for Nebia? When did I make that decision? What in the void was I thinking?

Suppressing a groan, I thumb the sides of my temples, wondering how I’ve escaped a supernova only to plunge into a black hole. I have no idea what Xandor’s mission is on Nebia, but that planet is a voiding war zone! In fact, I know next to nothing about Xandor, other than his strange and obsessive ability to always find me.

He found me and kept his promise to protect me.

It’s a strange thought that sends a thrill through me. Have I finally found someone who I can trust, who comes through on their promises, not seeking to abuse me? Xandor saved me from Kaanus, when I feared he would kill me... No, that’s a lie, I know Kaanus wouldn’t have killed me. He could attack, even bruise me, but he would never end my life. Another truth that I’d buried deep inside.

But what does Xandor want from me? I still need to uncover that truth.

My next move depends on it. I’m unwilling to replace one master for another, even if he comes in the form of a handsome giant. Perhaps I could stay by Xandor’s side until we reach Nebia, then once he’s distracted with whatever business he has, I can slip away unnoticed?

A surge of unease rises deep within, clutching my heart. To betray Xandors trust again, after he’s supported and rescued me, is wrong. But with a grimace, I suppress such concerns, knowing that in this harsh reality, I can only rely on myself. I’m in a precarious situation where a single wrong move, one incorrect choice, brings death or slavery.

Heavy plodding footsteps interrupt my dark thoughts. I stop myself from dashing into the shadows, hoping the oncoming sound belongs to Quad and not the other Klendathians I’ve been avoiding.

I breathe a sigh of relief, already noticing the four arms pumping back and forth through the hazy, fog-like atmosphere. “Oh, hello Tiny,” Quad bellows out, halting his movements with a beaming smile.

I gasp, noting the dark-green splotchy bruises marring his exposed chest. “You’re hurt, Quad!” I exclaim, concern in my voice.

“This?” Quad asks, rubbing an angry, swollen welt on his chest with a frown. “Mod gave lotion, but tastes funny,” he adds with a scrunched face.

I sigh, shaking my head. “You aren’t supposed to eat it, you big dummy.” I extract the cloth Mod had given me earlier, offering it to Quad. “Here, use this,” I instruct, hoping there’s some ointment remaining.

“Huh? Then why it smell so good? Silly Tiny,” Quad remarks, pinching the cloth and taking a few sniffs, a look of bliss blooming upon his face. I’m astonished, he’s not repulsed by the pungent antiseptic scent.

Draping the cloth over his face like a veil, Quad begins to rub. “Smells good!” his booming voice echoes down the corridor.

“Void sake, Quad, rub it on your wound!” I shout with exasperation, straining to reach his towering head, to guide the cloth to his chest. “There’s probably no ointment left now.”

“Ouch, stingy!” Quad grimaces. His deep-set eyes flick to me, as if I’ve played some trick on him.

“Good, that means it’s working,” I assure him with a smile. “It’ll start feeling better soon, I promise.”

“Pfft!” he spits globs of phlegm, forcing me to dodge, though some still lands on my face. “Can’t trust you. You left us!”

His words sting more than the Mod’s ointment had. “Thanks, Quad,” I reply, wiping my face, his spittle and words mingling in my sarcastic tone. “I saved your lives by taking out their snipers!” I retort with more heat than intended, already resenting the need to defend my actions when I fought and killed to protect them.

But Quad’s right; I left them. But he wouldn’t understand. No one does.

“Okay...” Quad scratches the back of his bald green head, a look of open-mouthed confusion painting his face. “Did you see me bashing?” he asks, his demeanor shifting with sudden excitement as he beams, flailing his arms like meaty hooks of destruction.

“Um... Yeah,” I recoil, not wishing to become the latest victim of Quad’s ‘bashing.’ “You bashed the crap out of those guys,” I answer with a smile, enjoying the look of pride that lights up his face. “You might be the best basher ever!”

Quad beams with joy, his wide smile almost splitting his broad face. “I’m best basher!” he declares, until he halts, a flicker of doubt creasing his features. “No Scary, best basher, I’m second best!” he corrects before flexing his mighty arms and making swooshing sounds.

His words prompt me to frown. “Xandor is a good basher,” I concede dryly. Xandor’s too good at most things, especially at finding me.

“Yep!” Quad booms, before he stops to stare at me for a long moment. I strain under his intense glare, resisting the urge to flinch. Then, with a speed that belies his bulky frame, he lifts me into the air, twirling me in circles as if I weigh nothing in his massive hands.

The world spins and my Nutripaste laden stomach threatens revenge. “Void sake, Quad, put me down!” I demand, my heart pounding in my chest. Quad laughs like he’s having the time of his life, while I’m just grateful for the low ceiling. Remembering the last time he picked me up, he threw me high into the air, twisting my ankle.

After what seems like an eternity, he finally sets me down, still chuckling. My vision spins and my legs wobble, forcing me to place a steadying hand against the hull. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I protest as my body lurches.

“I’m happy you come back,” Quad says with a smile. At least I think he’s smiling. It’s hard to be certain with the room still spinning. “Will Skinny come back too?” he questions, his voice now shifted to a somber tone.

The mention of Triandale causes a pang of sadness within me, forcing my eyes downward. “I don’t think he’s coming back, Quad,” I reply with a soft voice, unable to meet the hulking Barlyxian’s gaze.

Triandale’s most likely dead, killed by Xandor...

Sadness, anger, loss, and relief all mingle together, creating a potent cocktail of emotions within me. Xandor claimed Triandale attacked him. There’s no doubt if Xandor lives, then Triandale suffered his wrath. But Triandale chose revenge. He made his choice, a poor choice—we both did.

“Why?” Quad insists with an unblinking stare.

“He left to live with his Gorglaxian friends on Omega Flux Station,” I lie, hoping to save Quad the pain of the truth.

“But we his friends too.” Quad scratches his head. “I hope he comes back,” he adds, nodding his head, smiling.

I remain silent, not wanting to add another lie to the growing heap festering in the recesses of my mind. “Where were you going, Quad?” I inquire, wishing to change the subject.

Quad straightens in an instant. “Oh, to find the Captain,” he gestures behind him with his left arms. “Cargo hold empty now. I’m bored.”

The mention of the Captain causes a flutter of anxiety in my stomach. Void knows what state he’s in now. “I don’t think now is a good time to visit the Captain,” I say, nodding towards the crew quarters. “But Hyanxa needs help to unpack her stuff,” I suggest.

Quad nods with a serious expression. “I help her!” he exclaims, driven by an inane enthusiasm unique to him. He half-turns before stopping. “Oh, chest better now. Thanks Tiny!” He shouts before stomping back down the corridor the way he came.

“Farewell, Quad,” I call after him. Hoping the enigmatic Quad will be okay in the future. Not like he ever listens to me... or anyone, anyway.

Our talk of Triandale prompts me to head towards the armaments and munitions store, remembering Xandor returned my pistol. I decide it’s time to reload and blow off some steam at the shooting range.

I pass through Mod’s lab on the way to munitions store but find the Glaseroid gone. Giving me a sense of relief as no matter how carefully I’d tip-toe, Mod would always complain with bitterness about the noise.

Entering the armaments store, I’m stuck by the odd unease of Triandale’s absence. The towering Gorglaxian was almost always here, inspecting various weapons and ammunitions with his drooping head and watchful eyes. A rift of sadness rests where Triandale once stood. Staring at my pistol, I recall the day he gave me the weapon, how eager I’d been to test it. Almost enough to feel like a true member of the crew... almost.

I search the dusty shelves, pulling down cannisters that jingle with the small caliber bullets my weapon requires. Wasting no time, I reload my clip with practiced ease, like Triandale taught me. He taught me many things, the importance of squeezing the trigger instead of yanking it. To hold my breath and steady my hand just before firing. Now he’s gone, leaving nothing behind, only echoes in my mind.

Triandale kept little. He was like me, lost, never taking root.

I reach the end of the room to peer down the long narrow firing range as the comforting scent of burned gunpowder and oil tickles my senses. The person-shaped targets crafted from arcweave, dotted with countless dents and rivets reminiscent of the ship’s exterior, line the gallery. I activate the range’s controls, setting it to the most difficult level.

In an instant, the targets bob and weave throughout the space in a chaotic dance lacking any rhythm or pattern. They move with remarkable speed, yet my hands move with automatic efficiency, honed from endless practice. In a flash, I squeeze the trigger, tracing the targets one after the other, enjoying the satisfying clanging noise of my bullets striking home and the targets collapsing. However, I suppress a curse, witnessing my final shot miss by a hair’s breadth.

A blur whizzes past my shoulder, and I wince as the shining object thuds into the remaining target. A hefty knife, vibrating with force, lies embedded in the whirling board. I stifle a groan, already knowing the identity of the thrower.

“Hello Xandor,” I greet with little warmth, remaining focused on reloading my pistol. A pang of annoyance greets his arrival, annoyance that I didn’t hear his approach, annoyance that he can locate me with such ease.

“Hail Tyrxie,” Xandor booms, his voice carrying his usual amusement, like the universe is all one big game to him. “How did you know it was me? My stunning accuracy?” he chuckles.

I scoff, still avoiding looking at him, wary of the effect it might have on me. “It was your big-headed smugness, obscuring the lights,” I snap back with a lie, resetting the gallery targets via the controls.

“My head is not big!” he protests, stepping beside me and from the corner of my eye, I can see him measure his head with his hands. I suppress a giggle at the sight, intending to remain hard and aloof. “That is fine shooting. I can see how you killed four gang members now,” he remarks, stretching a long arm, retrieving his knife from the target. “Shame you missed the final one, though.”

He seeks to goad me, to break down my defenses.

If I glanced at him, I’m sure I’d see a smirk on his face. Yet I can’t resist bristling at his words, taking pride in my marksmanship, the only thing I excel at. “And you could do better?” I challenge, my eyes fixed on the dancing targets.

“Seems I’ve hit another mark,” Xandor mocks and I regret rising to his bait. “But yes, I never miss my target,” he asserts without a trace of doubt.

“Prove it,” I suggest, offering him my pistol.

Now it’s Xandor’s turn to scoff. “My finger wouldn’t even fit the trigger of that tiny gun.”

“Oh,” I reply, feigning disappointment, my tone dripping with mockery. “Use your own gun, then,” I offer, gesturing towards the targets.

Xandor chuckles “If I did that, this gallery would become a gloopy molten ruin.”

“How convenient for you,” I mock with a sigh, wondering why I’m letting Xandor waste my time with his nonsense.

Xandor shrugs, undeterred by the fact I’ve called his bluff. “You’ll just have to trust me,” he insists, his tone carrying a sincerity that suggests his words extend beyond mere target practice. I can sense him peering down at me, yet I still refuse to meet his gaze.

Trust. A word often used, never earned.

I release a long breath, becoming agitated. “Look, I do trust you, Xandor. At least to some degree, and I thank you for your help. You’ve really saved my ass, more than once.” I pause, turning to gaze into his gleaming golden eyes that shine like beautiful stars. Oh void! “Um... Yeah, so...” My treacherous words trail off.

Xandor stands with serious expectation etched on his face. I finally had him taking me seriously, and I dropped the hypospanner. Voiding brilliant. “Go on,” he prods. “finish your thoughts.”

I tear my gaze back to the chaotic moving targets, reflecting my muddled mind. “Like I was saying.” Before your face interrupted me! “I’m grateful, but don’t think you can continue to stalk me, like I belong to you, like some voiding slave!” I finish with more heat than I intended, my earlier confrontation with Kaanus still raw.

Xandor recoils beside me, and I still avoid his face. An uneasy pause stretches on, and I resist the urge to glance his reaction. “Even now you still doubt me?” he pauses again, taking a deep breath. “Do you feel like a slave in my presence?” he asks, his voice incredulous.

I’ve always been enslaved, so how would I know any different?

Yet I hold my tongue, this conversation already prying deeper than I’m comfortable with. It’s better to remain aloof and hidden, like I’ve always done. Hardening my resolve, I turn my attention to the moving targets as my focus enhances. Xandor and his questions fade into obscurity. I squeeze the trigger and my target clangs and folds over, bringing me a glimmer of joy.

Xandor sighs, breaking my concentration. Despite my terse replies and sullen attitude, he persists! Why won’t he just leave me alone already?

“Maybe this’ll help earn your trust?” he says, offering a strange black and red pistol that appears tiny in his huge hand.

I clutch the gun with cautious movements, turning it over and feeling its compact yet meager weight. Examining the handle, I fumble for a clip release, wondering what caliber of bullet it uses, but to my chagrin, it eludes me. “What type of gun is this? I’ve never seen anything like it before,” I ask, my tone eager.

“Few have lived to speak of it,” Xandor muses, as I feel his eyes studying me. “Fewer still that own one who aren’t cursed with comical smallness,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Comical smallness?” I repeat, peering down the sights and adjusting my aim, wondering what the void he’s talking about.

“It’s Nebian laser, technology,” Xandor clarifies, his tone solemn.

“Huh?” A lump forms in my throat, and I flinch from the pistol, almost dropping it as if it’s a deadly creature. “Nebian! Are you voiding crazy, Xandor?” I yell, incredulous. Glancing at him with disbelief, I notice his lip curled on one side, revealing a sharp, fanged smile. “Silly question,” I decide.

“Carrying this is a death sentence.” I shake my head, holding the weapon that now seems to weigh a ton in my hands. “I’ve heard stories about those who use stolen Nebian tech. It never ends well for them.” Turning the gun over, I groan, noticing the visage of some important Nebian stamped under the grip.

“That’s why you’re only going to use it sparingly,” Xandor suggests, shaking a dismissive hand. “And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you not to wave it around, especially when we’re on Nebia.”

I scoff at his words, “As if I would! The last thing I want is more trouble.”

Xandor scoffs, “Yet trouble clings to you as stubborn as a wild borack.”

Maybe I’m cursed?

“If trouble clings to me, it’s because of crazy crap like this!” I exclaim, brandishing the weapon at Xandor. “I should take this gun and throw it out the docking hatch, for both our sakes.”

Xandor shows little sign my words have affected him. “Oh, and you’re not even going to try it first?”

He’s the stubborn one!

I sigh, leveling the ominous pistol, balancing the unfamiliar weight in my hands, and tracing a target. I apply the tiniest pressure to the trigger, and a blinding red light streaks across the gallery, punching straight through the thick arcweave target and even penetrating some of the hull behind. “Voiding Mutalisk tits!” I shout, marveling at the lack of recoil as well.

Xandor laughs at my reaction, until his tone shifts and he leans in closer, his long green hair bushing the nape of my neck. “Would be a shame to waste such powerful tech,” he whispers next to my ear that tickles my senses, sending tingles down my spine. “With your aim and this weapon, think how deadly you’ll become... No one would dare attack you.” His alluring words and proximity muddle my mind, and my breath hitches. Xandor straightens with a sudden jolt. “And then maybe I wouldn’t have to rescue you so often!” he adds with a chuckle.

I stand motionless, staring at the weapon—its diminutive frame a stark contrast to its incredible power, to what it could offer me. Xandor's right; this gun could change everything. Yet unease gnaws at the back of my mind, and I notice Xandor smirking down at me, filling me with a sudden anger that burns white-hot. Without thinking, I aim the gun at him.

“I voiding know what you’re doing. You’re manipulating me!” I yell, staring up at the towering Klendathian rage twisting my face and words. “Instead of violence, you use false reassurances and play on my desires!”

“False?” Xandor raises a single eyebrow and shows not an inkling of fear, which further enrages me. “It’s called being chivalrous,” he answers with a level voice.

“No!” I retort, the gun trembling in my hands. I focus on Xandor’s chest, unable to meet his gaze. “You want to control me, just like the others!”

Xandor sighs, “It’s you that manipulates me,” he says, heat growing in his voice.

I scoff, annoyance now mixing with my anger. “That’s ridiculous. You’re the one who keeps following me!”

“Is it?” Xandor demands, his voice now booming. “You aim that gun at me, because you know I’ll not harm you—an abuse of trust to threaten the one person who means to protect you,” he pauses, taking a breath. “Though such concepts are as foreign to you as water is in the deserts of Nardune. But like a mad fool, I persist because the Gods compel me—my curse, for some unknown offense,” he asserts.

His initial words strike close to the heart, yet the rest makes little sense.

“Are you a religious frantic? Did your gods ask you to hunt me? Do they speak to you now?” I ask, my voice dripping with contempt, disappointed learning the mystery behind Xandor’s unending pursuits is simple cultish madness.

Xandor sneers, folding his massive arms. “You’re infuriating.” It’s all he offers.

An unusual sense of confidence and influence surge through me, finally feeling like I have the upper hand for once. “What would happen if I pulled this trigger?”

“I’d die,” Xandor states, lacking emotion.

His simple, frank answer catches me off guard. I assumed he’d boast about his super Klendathian strength. “Aren’t you afraid?” I question, still pointing the gun at him.

“No.”

“Why?”

Xandor sighs, his tone now carrying a hint of impatience. “Because I don’t fear death, and I don’t fear you.”

“Why not? I could pull this trigger. It’d be easy, just a slight touch,” I state, loosening and tightening my fingers on the grip for emphasis.

“As easy as pulling the trigger against Kaanus?” he asks levelly, a contrast to the crushing meaning behind his words. “I knew you couldn’t do it, like you can’t now. You might as well be pointing your tiny fingers at me,” he adds.

My resolve weakens at his words as doubt creeps inside, trembling my hands. “Oh, you know me so well, do you?” I reply, suppressing the growing hesitation. “That’s where you’re mistaken Xandor, you know void all about me. Kaanus is a slaving bastard, but he still practically raised me. That’s why I spared him.”

Xandor steps closer, lining the gun to where I think his heart would be. “Then show me the strength in your words,” he challenges.

I sigh in exasperation, lowering the gun in an instant, fully aware I could never kill anyone in cold blood. Yet, annoyance still clings to me, that I can’t gain any leverage over Xandor, knowing he doesn’t take me seriously. “Xandor, when we reach Nebia, I’ll be going my own way. I want you to stop—”

“I’m done wasting my breath.” Anger flashes across Xandor’s face—a rare and unsettling sight. “Keep running, then. I’ve no time for a confused, frightened female who changes her mind like a brain-addled scoomer addict,” his heated voice cuts through mine. “You want to go your own way? Then go. I’m finished hunting your chaos.”

I stand in stunned silence as he turns his back and strides away. “I expected too much from you,” he calls over his shoulder, giving a dismissive wave. “Keep the gun... consider it my final parting gift.”

Good, maybe he’ll finally leave me alone.

As he leaves the room, an unease churns in the pit of my stomach, replacing a secret fluttering excitement that I’d suppressed, its absence now a gaping wound. Rubbing my eyes, I notice tears glistening on the back of my hand.

Strange, isn’t this what I wanted?