#hawwe

In the dimness of her vision, in the increasing silence of her surroundings, Balogh could discern a single voice——a voice she never thought she would ever hear again; surely they had been killed amongst the other Pollikon guards, but no, cradling her in their arms was Wilks, screaming her name until their voice grew hoarse. She could not help the smile that crept its way onto her face; Wilks was precious; they were her friend, even as everything fell apart and even as she withered away in their arms. “H-Hey Wilks...wha-what took ya so, so long?” she managed to stutter out with a strained laugh, each breath painful as the last, worse than the hot-iron that had seared her flesh from before.

However, Wilks appeared not to be in a laughing mood, and instead, they shushed her, saying, “The dying shouldn’t make jokes while the healthy are trying to save them.” Balogh attempted to laugh, but the pain convulsed through her body. “See what I mean?” asked Wilks, their voice cracking with tears as they adjusted something on her face, something over her mouth. “Once your better, I’ll explain, but for now, rest my dear friend because we still have much to do.”

With what little strength she had left, Balogh managed to grin like a fool before she slipped into unconsciousness and asking herself if Pollikons could cry. If they could, then she knew her crewmates were in good hands and she trusted Wilks would protect them all like they protected her.

.

.

.

Balogh lied flat on her back, staring at the ceiling because nothing else could be done while she resided in the isolation cell from Hell: the room was two metres by two metres by three metres, with a small toiletry area that took up less than one-third of the floor space, leaving her enough room to perform crunches or push-ups, or pray to the Holy Father, but nothing much else. She could stand comfortably enough, but who wanted to stand when the guards, when they made their rounds or delivered her meals, took every opportunity they had to assault her, harm her enough where she would not need to be taken to the med bay, but enough where her spirit lied scattered on the ground, crushed. Yet.

Yet.

Yet.

Yet I continue having those weird dreams. The other ones were vile, but this one feels as real as where I now lay. In that dream, a dream where she lied helpless, in writhing pain, a Pollikon acted as her friend during an escape attempt from the Frek’jon, but she knew no Pollikon held compassion or a moral conscious. No, the Pollikon was her friend. A good friend. A kind friend. How odd of her to think up such a thing. Must be my mind spiraling into insanity. Many days locked in the henhouse makes any soul mad.

Sighing, Balogh sat up and stared at the cell door, willing the dream from her mind. Nothing good comes from false hope, especially when no hope existed. No, the word shot through her heart like a bullet and brought the rest of the words of her bunică once told her when she was a small child. ‘Hope always exists, my little nepoată. When the sun disappears behind the clouds, it has not vanished forever, but temporarily hidden from sight. Hope is like the sun; sometimes we see hope as obviously as we see the sun in the sky, but some days, the sun disappears behind the clouds, and we remain uncertain when we will see it once again. We may feel the sun has gone for good, yet it still exists behind those clouds, we just have to search for it, hold on and believe we will feel its warmth once again. My little Lillie, never doubt hope because to doubt hope is to doubt the sun will shine once again. The sun will always shine and hope will always exist. Yes. Hope is never lost. Never.’

Yes. Hope is never lost. Never.

On her feet, Balogh felt a surge of energy she had not felt in many days and busted out laughing, releasing all her nerves, anxieties, and emotions at once. Come what may, she would not lose hope and she would continue fighting for the freedom of her and her crewmates. As she continued to laugh, Balogh felt tears stream down her face before they morphed into sobs. Three months of isolation; no one to speak to; no friend to be had; abuse of all sorts; and all her pent up emotions overflowed, overwhelming her, wracking her body like the flu, leaving her helpless and weak. So. Very. Weak.

I will escape one day. Maybe not now, but one day.

Murakami busied herself with work, avoiding Snell, Krellion, and Mel as much as possible, knowing if she crossed any of them, misery only awaited her because, despite how she was now property of Captain Zeelot, a slave remained a slave no matter the species or the name. She learned her future would only be filled with the contests against her very life; and the exact moment she woke up from her medically-induced coma introduced her to the new life planned for her. Never had she felt so powerless as she did now. Just thinking about that moment when her life changed...hurt.

Head throbbing, Murakami massaged her temples as she recalled the moment she woke up on the Frek’jon. She had crack opened her eyes and immediately winced at the blindingly bright lights of the room. She dared not open her eyes all the way, cracking them open little by little until her vision adjusted to the light. However, she instantly and deeply regretted that decision because before her was the ugliest lifeform she had ever seen, and that lifeform was Captain Zeelot, who, for some inexplicable reason, had little patience with her repulsion of their appearance.

Zeelot had seized her by her shirt collar and brought her face mere inches from their own foul face. Zeelot spouted out the most confidant personal information about her that not even her crew knew, from her social security number to her bank account balance. Murakami knew not how Zeelot knew her personal details beyond what her crew knew, but then again, her mind was a mess at the time, and, because her mind was a mess, she could only dumbly stare as Zeelot threatened her with more information. They told her about the Frek’jon’s surgeon, Krellion, and how he could revive the dead. How he could revive her, should she die after crossing anyone on the ship, only for Zeelot to kill her again. And again. And again.

Murakami coughed when Zeelot finally released their death-grip on her, taking deep, cleansing breaths.

After that incident, Murakami had to appear on a holo-vid before her scattered crew, repeating prepared words to them while trepidation loomed around her. Zeelot had shown her vids of previous ship commanders, humans and never aliens, being beaten to death for defying orders. The aliens, she was later informed, never fussed. They accepted their fates. Only the humans and the aliens who were closely bonded to them, fought.

Heaving a long sigh, Murakami dispelled the memories as she focused on the present, which involved basic grunt work. Until Zeelot had the rest of her crew off their ship, they did not trust her with the ship’s important mechanics. Zeelot’s smart, she thought as she cleaned the lower halls of the ship, but not smart enough. When my crew is scattered, I’ll overtake this ship and find my crew again because I am as much of a happy-go-lucky idiot as the rest of them.

As soon as everyone was shuffled off the Frek’jon, they entered a setting of which Vallion was familiar due to ancient and historical Earthen films and animations: A bazaar. All around them, lifeforms of all shapes and sizes, of species they never thought could exist, were present. They hollered, screamed, screeched, beckoned, and haggled each other. The colors of the bazaar were as bright as neon lights and as dim as a dying lightbulb decorated the stalls, along with their merchandise. A bazar is louder than I thought.

Vallion couldn’t help gawking at all they saw until they noticed the humans sprinkled in among the aliens.

And the human body parts.

Human.

Body.

Parts.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Vallion covered their muzzle with their clawed hands and looked away, noticing many of their crewmates were the same, some of them vomiting, others collapsing onto their knees and crying. The humans were the most affected by the sight. The mental images are already seared into our brains. Arms and legs. Heads. Torsos. Even whole bodies.

And all of them were of young humans. Teenagers, prepubescent children, and infants. Their bodies were displayed among other meats that Vallion didn’t even want to know were. Some of the children were still alive, in pens and paddocks, huddled together, gripping each other for dear life. No...

Vallion almost cried with relief when they all were finally marched out of the bazaar streets and into the central building that towered over all the buildings and dwellings.

Inside the building was a chaos on a different level than the bazaar: Lifeforms, draped in skins of other creatures and in fine clothes, filled the hallways with who Vallion interpreted as servants and slaves, robots and androids, flanking their sides. The atmosphere was quieter, but the undercurrent was stronger than on the Frek’jon.

As soon as everyone was shuffled off the Frek’jon, they entered a setting of which Vallion was familiar due to ancient and historical Earthen films and animations: A bazaar. All around them, lifeforms of all shapes and sizes, of species they never thought could exist, were present. They hollered, screamed, screeched, beckoned, and haggled each other. The colors of the bazaar were as bright as neon lights and as dim as a dying lightbulb decorated the stalls, along with their merchandise. A bazar is louder than I thought.

Vallion couldn’t help gawking at all they saw until they noticed the humans sprinkled in among the aliens.

And the human body parts.

Human.

Body.

Parts.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Vallion covered their muzzle with their clawed hands and looked away, noticing many of their crewmates were the same, some of them vomiting, others collapsing onto their knees and crying. The humans were the most affected by the sight. The mental images are already seared into our brains. Arms and legs. Heads. Torsos. Even whole bodies.

And all of them were of young humans. Teenagers, prepubescent children, and infants. Their bodies were displayed among other meats that Vallion didn’t even want to know were. Some of the children were still alive, in pens and paddocks, huddled together, gripping each other for dear life. No...

Vallion almost cried with relief when they all were finally marched out of the bazaar streets and into the central building that towered over all the buildings and dwellings.

Inside the building was a chaos on a different level than the bazaar: Lifeforms, draped in skins of other creatures and in fine clothes, filled the hallways with who Vallion interpreted as servants and slaves, robots and androids, flanking their sides. The atmosphere was quieter, but the undercurrent was stronger than on the Frek’jon.

In the dimness of her vision, in the increasing silence of her surroundings, Balogh could discern a single voice——a voice she never thought she would ever hear again; surely they had been killed amongst the other Pollikon guards, but no, cradling her in their arms was Wilks, screaming her name until their voice grew hoarse. She could not help the smile that crept its way onto her face; Wilks was precious; they were her friend, even as everything fell apart and even as she withered away in their arms. “H-Hey Wilks...wha-what took ya so, so long?” she managed to stutter out with a strained laugh, each breath painful as the last, worse than the hot-iron that had seared her flesh from before.

However, Wilks appeared not to be in a laughing mood, and instead, they shushed her, saying, “The dying shouldn’t make jokes while the healthy are trying to save them.” Balogh attempted to laugh, but the pain convulsed through her body. “See what I mean?” asked Wilks, their voice cracking with tears as they adjusted something on her face, something over her mouth. “Once your better, I’ll explain, but for now, rest my dear friend because we still have much to do.”

With what little strength she had left, Balogh managed to grin like a fool before she slipped into unconsciousness and asking herself if Pollikons could cry. If they could, then she knew her crewmates were in good hands and she trusted Wilks would protect them all like they protected her.

.

.

.

Balogh lied flat on her back, staring at the ceiling because nothing else could be done while she resided in the isolation cell from Hell: the room was two metres by two metres by three metres, with a small toiletry area that took up less than one-third of the floor space, leaving her enough room to perform crunches or push-ups, or pray to the Holy Father, but nothing much else. She could stand comfortably enough, but who wanted to stand when the guards, when they made their rounds or delivered her meals, took every opportunity they had to assault her, harm her enough where she would not need to be taken to the med bay, but enough where her spirit lied scattered on the ground, crushed. Yet.

Yet.

Yet.

Yet I continue having those weird dreams. The other ones were vile, but this one feels as real as where I now lay. In that dream, a dream where she lied helpless, in writhing pain, a Pollikon acted as her friend during an escape attempt from the Frek’jon, but she knew no Pollikon held compassion or a moral conscious. No, the Pollikon was her friend. A good friend. A kind friend. How odd of her to think up such a thing. Must be my mind spiraling into insanity. Many days locked in the henhouse makes any soul mad.

Sighing, Balogh sat up and stared at the cell door, willing the dream from her mind. Nothing good comes from false hope, especially when no hope existed. No, the word shot through her heart like a bullet and brought the rest of the words of her bunică once told her when she was a small child. ‘Hope always exists, my little nepoată. When the sun disappears behind the clouds, it has not vanished forever, but temporarily hidden from sight. Hope is like the sun; sometimes we see hope as obviously as we see the sun in the sky, but some days, the sun disappears behind the clouds, and we remain uncertain when we will see it once again. We may feel the sun has gone for good, yet it still exists behind those clouds, we just have to search for it, hold on and believe we will feel its warmth once again. My little Lillie, never doubt hope because to doubt hope is to doubt the sun will shine once again. The sun will always shine and hope will always exist. Yes. Hope is never lost. Never.’

Yes. Hope is never lost. Never.

On her feet, Balogh felt a surge of energy she had not felt in many days and busted out laughing, releasing all her nerves, anxieties, and emotions at once. Come what may, she would not lose hope and she would continue fighting for the freedom of her and her crewmates. As she continued to laugh, Balogh felt tears stream down her face before they morphed into sobs. Three months of isolation; no one to speak to; no friend to be had; abuse of all sorts; and all her pent up emotions overflowed, overwhelming her, wracking her body like the flu, leaving her helpless and weak. So. Very. Weak.

I will escape one day. Maybe not now, but one day.

Murakami busied herself with work, avoiding Snell, Krellion, and Mel as much as possible, knowing if she crossed any of them, misery only awaited her because, despite how she was now property of Captain Zeelot, a slave remained a slave no matter the species or the name. She learned her future would only be filled with the contests against her very life; and the exact moment she woke up from her medically-induced coma introduced her to the new life planned for her. Never had she felt so powerless as she did now. Just thinking about that moment when her life changed...hurt.

Head throbbing, Murakami massaged her temples as she recalled the moment she woke up on the Frek’jon. She had crack opened her eyes and immediately winced at the blindingly bright lights of the room. She dared not open her eyes all the way, cracking them open little by little until her vision adjusted to the light. However, she instantly and deeply regretted that decision because before her was the ugliest lifeform she had ever seen, and that lifeform was Captain Zeelot, who, for some inexplicable reason, had little patience with her repulsion of their appearance.

Zeelot had seized her by her shirt collar and brought her face mere inches from their own foul face. Zeelot spouted out the most confidant personal information about her that not even her crew knew, from her social security number to her bank account balance. Murakami knew not how Zeelot knew her personal details beyond what her crew knew, but then again, her mind was a mess at the time, and, because her mind was a mess, she could only dumbly stare as Zeelot threatened her with more information. They told her about the Frek’jon’s surgeon, Krellion, and how he could revive the dead. How he could revive her, should she die after crossing anyone on the ship, only for Zeelot to kill her again. And again. And again.

Murakami coughed when Zeelot finally released their death-grip on her, taking deep, cleansing breaths.

After that incident, Murakami had to appear on a holo-vid before her scattered crew, repeating prepared words to them while trepidation loomed around her. Zeelot had shown her vids of previous ship commanders, humans and never aliens, being beaten to death for defying orders. The aliens, she was later informed, never fussed. They accepted their fates. Only the humans and the aliens who were closely bonded to them, fought.

Heaving a long sigh, Murakami dispelled the memories as she focused on the present, which involved basic grunt work. Until Zeelot had the rest of her crew off their ship, they did not trust her with the ship’s important mechanics. Zeelot’s smart, she thought as she cleaned the lower halls of the ship, but not smart enough. When my crew is scattered, I’ll overtake this ship and find my crew again because I am as much of a happy-go-lucky idiot as the rest of them.

“WE’RE OKAY!” Just as Aisha tried to finish the address again, Jonathan walked into the room and announced they were safe from the gunman because the young man wasn’t a real gunman.

“It’s not real,” she said as a relief washed over her.

“Ma’am, what’s going on?” the 211-operator asked.

“It wasn’t real,” she replied, still trembling, but with a lighter heart.

“Are you sure?”

Aisha paused and captured bits and pieces of what Jonathan was saying to them. “Y-Yes, it was a-a drill for the other class. Oh Allah. That wasn’t funny. We’re okay. It’s okay.”

“Okay ma’am.” And that ended the communication.

Aisha and her class spent the next ten to fifteen minutes getting their nerves back and laughing at themselves over the whole incident.

“So, what was that about?” “I didn’t even see the gun. I just heard him yelling.” “Apparently, it was an A.L.I.C.E. training for the Introducing University Life course.” “God, that was terrifying.” “The guy from the other class is going to come over later to talk to us about what happened.”

Dr. Whitethorn said to Aisha “I didn’t even know what was happening. I was just watching the expressions on your face change.”

Aisha nervously laughed, most of her trembling having subsided by then. “Yeah, I was looking for the yellow-orange thing that goes on BB guns.”

“It was a BB gun?!”

“No, I was looking for the orange, bright tip thing that goes on top. I was hoping it was a toy.”

Samira, from the seat beside Aisha, laughed. “I didn’t even know he had a gun until you said so.”

Aisha shook her head and giggled. “That was the only reason I was making those faces.”

Sarah and Janet, on the other side of the room, added to the conversation. Sarah said, “We were going to barricade the door with the table.”

Janet nodded, “Yeah, we were going to do it in another minute.”

Aisha felt relief that she wasn’t the only one thinking about barricading the door, but they had a better idea on how to do it.

Jennifer then jumped into the conversation, saying, “I was debating whether or not to bring my things with me—”

“Oh, that’s a smart idea,” Dr. Whitethorn interjected.

“—Yeah, like, I didn’t want him to know people were in here.”

Then Rachel added, “I literally texted my mom ‘I love you’ during the whole thing. She texted back me back, ‘You know this is your mom, right?’ Like, I know you are.” They all burst into laughter and talked and talked, letting out nerves, shared thoughts, and relief.

After another few minutes, Dr. Whitethorn tried to steer them back to the lecture slides, but Aisha’s mind definitely did not want to focus anymore. Aisha was focused on people-watching again; she watched as the other class let out and impatiently waited for whoever was supposed to talk to them about the fake gunman.

Eventually, a large, imposing man, a least foot taller than the student who played the gunman. The man knocked on the door, giving Dr. Whitethorn a scare, before she invited him into the room to introduce himself to their class. “Hello everyone,” he began as he put his bag down on the nearby recycling bin, “I am Sergeant Richard Qasim and I am impressed by all of you. Never in my career have I seen anyone, any class, act like you all did. No one, especially not from one of my classes, has reacted so strongly and correctly at the prospect of a potential shooter.” Sgt. Qasim continued to praise them and explain how what happened earlier was part of an advanced A.L.I.C.E. training for the other class. He explained how A.L.I.C.E. stood for alert, lockdown, inform, counter, and evacuate; he told them about the university’s first responders app; and then he gave them future advice on barricading the door using the table and Comm Dev connection cables. After a few laughs and complaints, including showing them how the gun was a bold navy blue toy gun and a black handgun, he parted ways with them after he praised them more for their quick actions.

“Well,” Dr. Whitethorn began, “I don’t suppose anyone feels like finishing class. Everyone’s nerves are still running high.” Aisha and her classmates voiced their agreements. “Alright class, I’ll see you next time.” And, with that, class was dismissed.

“A FAKE GUNMAN?! WHAT?!” Aisha’s mother, Fatima, practically screamed during their FaceSpeak session on Aisha’s Comm Dev.

Aisha laughed, trying to reassure her mother, “Mama, I’m okay. We’re all okay—”

“—Silence, you are not okay, you empty head! They should have warned your class! You’re still trembling even now. No, I can see you are still afraid, habibti. I’m going to file a complaint to the university—”

“And what, Mama? You’re, like, thirty-seven billion light years away. I’m fine. I’ll be fine, Mama. Besides, I only go to the university for my advanced courses two days out of the week. Sorry Mama, I have to go. I need to wake up early for school tomorrow. See you. Love you. Bye.

Fatima groaned at the blank Comm screen after her daughter cut their FaceSpeak session early. Reclining in her office chair, Fatima wondered where Aisha got her free-natured spirit from. Well, she is just beginning her teenage years, Fatima thought, the child’s bound to brush things like this off. Kids always feel like they’re invincible. Sighing, Fatima stood and stretched her body, trying to rid herself of her worries, though she knew that would be impossible. Aisha was her only child, born from her child-marriage, and the light of her life. No one could compare to her little Aisha, her beautiful child. Then again, I don’t let that many people into my heart in the first place.

“Fatima,” Lt. Gen. Vallion poke their head into her office. “I have a problem.” Vallion’s ears were drooped and she could hear their tail swishing the air behind them.

Smiling, Fatima asked, “And what is the problem?” as she grabbed her hoodie and walked over to them.

Vallion remained hesitant until she was by their side. “...I accidentally threw Noor’s favorite sweater into the incinerator. I didn’t mean it! The sweater was already in the disposables bin, but you know how she can sometimes just leave things lying around...”

Unable to stifle her laughter, Fatima assured Vallion she would help them out. “First, you need to search for an equally high-quality sweater to replace the one you destroyed. The higher the quality, the more likely she’ll forgive you. Second, you need to apologize and explain the situation.”

“But she’s as scary as you when you’re pissed at me,” Vallion whined, anguishing over their dilemma.

“WE’RE OKAY!” Just as Aisha tried to finish the address again, Jonathan walked into the room and announced they were safe from the gunman because the young man wasn’t a real gunman.

“It’s not real,” she said as a relief washed over her.

“Ma’am, what’s going on?” the 211-operator asked.

“It wasn’t real,” she replied, still trembling, but with a lighter heart.

“Are you sure?”

Aisha paused and captured bits and pieces of what Jonathan was saying to them. “Y-Yes, it was a-a drill for the other class. Oh Allah. That wasn’t funny. We’re okay. It’s okay.”

“Okay ma’am.” And that ended the communication.

Aisha and her class spent the next ten to fifteen minutes getting their nerves back and laughing at themselves over the whole incident.

“So, what was that about?” “I didn’t even see the gun. I just heard him yelling.” “Apparently, it was an A.L.I.C.E. training for the Introducing University Life course.” “God, that was terrifying.” “The guy from the other class is going to come over later to talk to us about what happened.”

Dr. Whitethorn said to Aisha “I didn’t even know what was happening. I was just watching the expressions on your face change.”

Aisha nervously laughed, most of her trembling having subsided by then. “Yeah, I was looking for the yellow-orange thing that goes on BB guns.”

“It was a BB gun?!”

“No, I was looking for the orange, bright tip thing that goes on top. I was hoping it was a toy.”

Samira, from the seat beside Aisha, laughed. “I didn’t even know he had a gun until you said so.”

Aisha shook her head and giggled. “That was the only reason I was making those faces.”

Sarah and Janet, on the other side of the room, added to the conversation. Sarah said, “We were going to barricade the door with the table.”

Janet nodded, “Yeah, we were going to do it in another minute.”

Aisha felt relief that she wasn’t the only one thinking about barricading the door, but they had a better idea on how to do it.

Jennifer then jumped into the conversation, saying, “I was debating whether or not to bring my things with me—”

“Oh, that’s a smart idea,” Dr. Whitethorn interjected.

“—Yeah, like, I didn’t want him to know people were in here.”

Then Rachel added, “I literally texted my mom ‘I love you’ during the whole thing. She texted back me back, ‘You know this is your mom, right?’ Like, I know you are.” They all burst into laughter and talked and talked, letting out nerves, shared thoughts, and relief.

After another few minutes, Dr. Whitethorn tried to steer them back to the lecture slides, but Aisha’s mind definitely did not want to focus anymore. Aisha was focused on people-watching again; she watched as the other class let out and impatiently waited for whoever was supposed to talk to them about the fake gunman.

Eventually, a large, imposing man, a least foot taller than the student who played the gunman. The man knocked on the door, giving Dr. Whitethorn a scare, before she invited him into the room to introduce himself to their class. “Hello everyone,” he began as he put his bag down on the nearby recycling bin, “I am Sergeant Richard Qasim and I am impressed by all of you. Never in my career have I seen anyone, any class, act like you all did. No one, especially not from one of my classes, has reacted so strongly and correctly at the prospect of a potential shooter.” Sgt. Qasim continued to praise them and explain how what happened earlier was part of an advanced A.L.I.C.E. training for the other class. He explained how A.L.I.C.E. stood for alert, lockdown, inform, counter, and evacuate; he told them about the university’s first responders app; and then he gave them future advice on barricading the door using the table and Comm Dev connection cables. After a few laughs and complaints, including showing them how the gun was a bold navy blue toy gun and a black handgun, he parted ways with them after he praised them more for their quick actions.

“Well,” Dr. Whitethorn began, “I don’t suppose anyone feels like finishing class. Everyone’s nerves are still running high.” Aisha and her classmates voiced their agreements. “Alright class, I’ll see you next time.” And, with that, class was dismissed.

“A FAKE GUNMAN?! WHAT?!” Aisha’s mother, Fatima, practically screamed during their FaceSpeak session on Aisha’s Comm Dev.

Aisha laughed, trying to reassure her mother, “Mama, I’m okay. We’re all okay—”

“—Silence, you are not okay, you empty head! They should have warned your class! You’re still trembling even now. No, I can see you are still afraid, habibti. I’m going to file a complaint to the university—”

“And what, Mama? You’re, like, thirty-seven billion light years away. I’m fine. I’ll be fine, Mama. Besides, I only go to the university for my advanced courses two days out of the week. Sorry Mama, I have to go. I need to wake up early for school tomorrow. See you. Love you. Bye.

Fatima groaned at the blank Comm screen after her daughter cut their FaceSpeak session early. Reclining in her office chair, Fatima wondered where Aisha got her free-natured spirit from. Well, she is just beginning her teenage years, Fatima thought, the child’s bound to brush things like this off. Kids always feel like they’re invincible. Sighing, Fatima stood and stretched her body, trying to rid herself of her worries, though she knew that would be impossible. Aisha was her only child, born from her child-marriage, and the light of her life. No one could compare to her little Aisha, her beautiful child. Then again, I don’t let that many people into my heart in the first place.

“Fatima,” Lt. Gen. Vallion poke their head into her office. “I have a problem.” Vallion’s ears were drooped and she could hear their tail swishing the air behind them.

Smiling, Fatima asked, “And what is the problem?” as she grabbed her hoodie and walked over to them.

Vallion remained hesitant until she was by their side. “...I accidentally threw Noor’s favorite sweater into the incinerator. I didn’t mean it! The sweater was already in the disposables bin, but you know how she can sometimes just leave things lying around...”

Unable to stifle her laughter, Fatima assured Vallion she would help them out. “First, you need to search for an equally high-quality sweater to replace the one you destroyed. The higher the quality, the more likely she’ll forgive you. Second, you need to apologize and explain the situation.”

“But she’s as scary as you when you’re pissed at me,” Vallion whined, anguishing over their dilemma.

Vallion knelt over Fatima, helpless as she and the other humans collapsed one by one, going into various levels of muscle spasms and unconsciousness. CPR was attempted on the humans, but Vallion decided the chest compressions made the situation worse. Why does it feel like my chest is the one being compressed? Fatima is the one dying right in front of me. Fatima, Romano, Freshwater, Wong... All of them are the ones dying, so why do I feel this pain in my chest? What’s going on? Why can’t I stop this? How can I be so selfish? I need to fix this. Save them.

I am their superior. I need to lead them.

Vallion gripped their head, focusing their thoughts into actions. Think. Think. Think. You can’t let her die. You and her just reunited.

No.

Wait.

You can’t let anyone die. They are all your responsibility. You are their protector. Their leader. Their friend. Think, Vallion. Think.

As Vallion wracked their brain, a thought suddenly occurred to them. The humans were having difficulty breathing...but the H’hish were not. “Jon’kon, check the oxygen-carbon dioxide ratio of the air. Now.”

Startled, Jon’kon fumbled with her stolen Port Dev before she went to work checking the air composition of the ship. A heartbeat stretched into several when Jon’kon released a startled “Ah-ha!” and gave Vallion a knowing look. Soon, Jon’kon was hacking into the Frek’jon’s ventilation system and they all could hear the results of her efforts.

However, Vallion knew damage must have surely been done on all the humans and simply escaping from the Frek’jon was no longer a viable option. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Vallion looked at Jon’kon once again. “Patch me through to Murakami, Balogh, and Jay’va’s groups. We have a change of plans.”

Jay’va checked Thompson’s pulse and growled in frustration. Gone. First Pérez, then Ivanenko, and now Thompson. The other humans were down and out, suffering from whatever took Thompson and the others, but the H’hish were perfectly fine. Physically that is. A little winded, but physically fine.

Mentally...

Mentally, we’re fucked. We’re falling apart at the seams, as the human idiom goes. I’m not even over Cyborg’s death, and now I’m losing my whole team. Jay’va felt the energy of the universe crashing down on her and sweeping her along in a tidal wave.

Jay’va buried her head in her hands, feeling the hopelessness and grief pile up on right after the other because she was just that fucking lucky of a H’hish—

“ —va...”

And not to mention, she also had to deal with that thing that happened back in her cell. From that odd smell. Her head was a mess afterwards and now her memories would forever be scarred by these events—

“—COLONEL JAY’VA!”

Startled, Jay’va whipped her head around, searching for the H’hish shouting her name. “WHAT?! What could you possibly want?!” she snapped.

Gigi’ish did not flinch at her harsh words. He just held out the stolen Port Dev for her and said one name: “Vallion.”

Yeu’ish was helping Fuku’kon tend to Lt. Gen. Murakami when a Comm came in from Maj. Gen. Vallion. The escape plan was changing. Seize control of the ship. Kill all the guards. Kill anyone who stood in their way.

Then.

Then.

Then they would put the humans into the infirmary. Heal them while making their escape back to the A.F. Made sense, for the still living humans, but Yeu’ish knew as Murakami’s pulse ceased, the dead had little chance of revival. But who knows? she thought, humans always prove to be more resilient than they seem.

Krellion leaned against the central control console, watching as the ship’s security droids and feeds went down; listening as communications between guards decreased. The humans and dulgo arrogantly thought they would escape. Their little jailbreak could not succeed.

“The filth moved exactly as you predicted, Captain,” said Krellion as he pushed himself off the console. “However, I am hesitant about the extent of the neurological damages this experiment of yours could cause to the cargo.” As he spoke, Krellion pulled up the vital charts of the human cargo, assessing the current oxygen saturation levels.

Zeelot did not spare Krellion a glance as they pulled the charts towards their position. “These dulgo are as weak as the humans with whom they cohabitate. Once enough of the humans become ill, the dulgo will panic and be at our mercy. The fondness they carry for the humans will lead to their surrender.” Zeelot was correct. Already, more of the humans began showing symptoms of oxygen oversaturation and the duglo were becoming increasingly concerned for their human companions’ welfare.

Still, waiting was tedious and Krellion had no interest in toying with the cargo as Zeelot did. “As you say. Oh, these humans will do well as servants of kulgo. They are exhibiting better resistance to oxygen toxicity than the other humans,” he noted.

“Add that to their profiles,” Zeelot ordered before seating themselves down to watch the carnage.

Carnage of all Krellion’s hard work. His hard work in fixing all the neurological and physiological issues with which the humans were prone, yet Zeelot wanted to test Murakami’s loyalty and the abilities of her crew.

But my opinion does not matter. All that matters if my work wasted for a needless experiment or two. Aaaannnnd I must revive Snell again.

But whatever, Krellion truly had no say in the matter, so he just stood and watched as the cargo neared the hangar and the humans began collapsing. A few humans even fell into seizures. Krellion spoke in hushed tones to his fellow kulgo as they all became increasingly worried about the health of their cargo. The amount of overtime they all had to put forth into fixing the damages Zeelot’s experiment was causing became a headache, especially when they were due to arrive at the Market any gulkib from now. If I have to revive a single human or dulgo, I swear by the mighty reign of Ghayz Tadmir’lis, I will leave this vessel and take my team with me...

As Krellion fumed, the overhead lights dimmed and a odd chill ran down his back. He glanced at the other kulgo and they appeared as confused as he did.

However, the confusion was over within a heartbeat because within that heartbeat, the emergency lights began to flash and the alarms blared. Warnings flashed on the ship’s control console about oxygen levels increasing in the room. For Krellion, he only needed less than a qulib to understand the events that were transpiring.

The dulgo figured out the cause of the humans’ collapsing, but they were foolish to think they could kill a kulgo so easily. H’hish had higher oxygen tolerance than any humans, and kulgo as fine as Krellion and his team more so. Even the Pollikon had high oxygen tolerance. And whatever creature Captain Zeelot was, they would not fall to such a lowly and pitiful revenge tactic. Already, the room was filled with twice the oxygen levels needed for a kulgo to comfortably breathe in air and already Krellion’s team worked on combating the increased oxygen levels. “These dulgo are simpletons,” one of his team said with a laugh. Another kulgo added, “They are as clever as the humans.” Krellion could only agree with his team. The dulgo were as slow witted and unimpressive as the humans.

So that brought to question why Captain Zeelot remained so calm, and why they had such a smug look on their face. Just as Krellion opened their mouth to ask, Zeelot spoke first. “I will be returning to my quarters. And do not disturb me.” Their warning carried an additional meaning, one of which Krellion did not wish to invoke.

Swallowing his trepidation, Krellion refocused on the monitors, tracking the remaining guards and the locations of all the escaped cargo, but they were gone. The Pollikons, the ones he could see on the vids, deceased. Brutally so. The humans, remained were he last saw them, but he could see most of their life signs were gone. He and his team had their work cut out for them to revive all the worthless filth. The dulgo and other cargo were nowhere to be seen, as could be said for the escape pods. None of them showed up on the life signs monitor. They were out of range of the transmission. They jumped ship.

Murakami talked big about the loyalty of her crew, but the dulgo escaped the first chance they got. Pathetic. Dulgo are as cowardly and weak as those humans.

Krellion was so lost in his superiority that he never heard the knocking.

Only the sound of the room engulfing in flames.

The Pollikon reached for their weapons while moving toward the exits. Snell fumed as they confronted Murakami and her two subordinates as they caused unrest amongst the other flesh-bags. “You conniving Gobsnick!” Snell hissed as they gripped Murakami by the throat. “Stop this insurgence. Now.”

Murakami shrugged, unfazed. “I want to be insulted, I really do, but I don’t know what a Gobsnick——”

“SHUT. IT.” Slamming her against the floor, Snell aimed their weapon at Balogh and Vallion, daring the two of them to try and interfere.

While this exchange occurred, the slaves had by then grouped together and surrounded the guards; the flesh-bags were revolting; the other Pollikon were helpless against the flesh-bags. Because Pollikon were the scum of the five great empires, unworthy of trust, so Snell and their fellow Pollikon did not have access to the neuro-chip codes. They could not stop the dulgo or humans as these slaves converged onto the Pollikon guards and wrested the weapons from the guards’ grasps. Casualties were soon to follow, Snell was sure of it.

Snell knew this situation would happen. Humans had telepathic abilities, sharing their thoughts with one another and making gatherings of them dangerous and destructive. Certain humans had telepathic abilities that could link with non-human lifeforms. This is why I don’t want mass gatherings of humans. They are too dangerous together.

And Snell was convinced Murakami was one of those humans; someone who could share that telepathic link with her fellow humans and the weak-minded dulgo. “Call off your crew,” Snell ordered. “Call them off now, or——”

“Or what?” Murakami interrupted. “Or what? You’ll mame us? Lame us? Kill us? Counterproductive, don’t you think? Also, won’t our dear old Captain Zeelot disapprove of damaging the merchandise? Hmm?”

Snell scowled and tightened their grip on Murakami, having complete satisfaction as she cried out under their grip. I should just wring your neck. Damn the consequences. “Captain Zeelot is sending reinforcements as we speak,” Snell said. Zeelot was likely watching the events unfold through the security drones; reinforcements would come. Reinforcements have to come.

Murakami remained unfazed. “We will escape. Somehow. We will,” she said with a gaze as clear as kunzite*.

The two of them continued to lock gazes until one of the slaves announced, “MURAKAMI! WE’VE SECURED THE ROOM!” Snell looked over and saw the guards were dead, piled in the center of the room. The flesh-bags now had their stolen weapons trained on Snell.

Releasing Murakami, Snell stood back with appendages above their head. Whatever, Snell thought, these flesh-bags can’t escape without a passcode——

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! CLUNK!

WHAT?! Snell gawked as they saw Balogh, having made her way over to the main exit, unlock the door. How in Golishka’s Grace did she acquire—— Pausing mid-thought, Snell knew the answer. Wilk. “All of you will regret this moment. Zeelot knows not forgiveness.”

“I know,” Murakami admitted with a raised clenched first, “but we have to try.”

In that moment, one of the flesh-bags shot Snell through the chest. Snell was left staring at the ceiling. Die flesh-bags. Die...

Everything seemingly happened in slow motion: Murakami and Balogh both organized the crew into teams with set objectives; some of the teams hacked the holo-devs and security droids; other teams analyzed schematics of the ship; and certain teams developed battle plans. The hacked security droids were sent out for reconnaissance; and soon the teams readied themselves for battle.

However, Vallion was still searching for Fatima in the crowd. Of two-hundred and forty-nine H’hish and humans, how hard was it just finding one specific human out of them all? Pretty damn difficult, they thought as they sorted through the teams yet again, making sure they had a handle on their tasks while also looking for Fatima.

Ordinarily, Vallion would call her out, but under these circumstances, they would look pathetic searching for one specific crewmate and said crewmate would appear favored. Everyone from their crew knew Fatima was their best friend, but even she would pull rank and scold them for their selfishness. Fuck. I’m never gonna find her. The teams started to move out. Fatima, where are you? “....ion.” Just where are—— “VALLION!”

Jumping, Vallion whirled around and found Fatima with her face scrunched up, clearly irked by them. Crossing her arms, Fatima said, “Where’s your head, sir? Everyone’s moving out.” Looking around, Vallion saw that, indeed, everyone was leaving and followed Fatima as she motioned to leave as well.

Wiggling their ears, Vallion said to her, “I’ve been searching for you. After I saw the vid...I’ve been worried. Are you still hurt?”

Fatima remained silent as they rejoined their crewmates before whispering, “I can’t...I...no...” She shook her head and looked away. Vallion went silent, but reached out and held her hand. They gave her hand a strong squeeze, remembering how they had seen other humans do this skinship ritual whenever they were in anguish, before letting go.

.

.

.

Their crew traveled through the ship, taking down guards after guards, seizing control of security droids after security droids, freeing prisoner after prisoner to join their fight...basically taking over the ship. At some point, one of the crew—Vallion didn’t know which, but one of them—whispered, “This is too damn easy,” and Vallion could not agree more.