Jrake

  This is going to be another glorious disaster.

  Last time, Ortol threw me into a thalsorid siphoning nest. Which, in non-insane terms, was a cave swarming with alien hemorrhoids.

  And now? He’s telling me to check out some weird heat signatures in the middle of a scrapyard. Get some fresh air, he said. Do something productive, he said.

  Right. Because when Ortol tells me to leave my b in the dead of the night and go investigate something, it’s definitely about my well-being and not a ploy to get me killed by some eldritch horror.

  Naturally, I grab my wrench, scanner, and zero survival instincts.

  The ship ride is a quick—whoosh—and I nd in a grand dispy of questionable piloting skills.

  “Behold!” I announce, stepping out, arms wide. “A man armed with caffeine and a complete disregard for self-preservation!”

  The scrapyard greets me with its signature cocktail of rust, oil, and terrible ideas. But today, there’s a new note in the fragrance—something damp, salty, and very fish-adjacent. Not in a ‘seared salmon' way. More in a ‘something drowned here, and we just stopped pretending to care’ way.

  I frown at my scanner, which flickers with something too warm to be metal and too organized to be a malfunction.

  That’s not normal. And that’s definitely not scrap.

  "Hello?" I call out. Echoes answer.

  Hmm... I sp my scanner. Could have been a false arm—

  A shadow shifts between two jagged piles of junk.

  It's freakishly tall. Moves like water, stands like a weapon with limbs. Sharp ridges cut along its body, each one catching the dull glow of my ship’s lights. But the real problem?

  Its eyes.

  Two glowing orbs, way too bright, scanning me like I’m its leftover dinner.

  I swallow hard but, hey, never let common sense ruin a moment.

  “Stop it. You’re making me blush.” I blurt, with my pathetic attempt to start a conversation.

  It steps forward.

  Baddum.

  Smooth.

  Baddum.

  Effortless—Not good. My heart’s about to hit the Emergency Eject.

  Options:

  Run? Straight into its arms. Or, you know, ‘approximation of arms’.

  Fight? Sure, if I want my obituary to read “Tried to punch death.”

  Talk? If it enjoys sarcasm.

  Regret? Already there.

  Flirt? Bold strategy for a virgin.

  Then it speaks. Not with a mouth. With some transtor device tched to its neck, spitting out its words in real-time.

  "You are not… what I expected."

  Fantastic. It expected something.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot. Most people expect I'd be dead by now.”

  No ughter. Tough crowd.

  “You are coming with me.”

  Wh—what did it just say?

  Why is he coming towards me?

  “—Wait, no, see, I actually already have a date—"

  Nope. Energy-bound cuffs snap around my wrists, and before I can yell something heroic like ‘unhand me, fish overlord!’, I’m hoisted over its shoulder like a particurly annoying sack of potatoes.

  I can’t tell where we’re going. The guy—let’s call him Triton—knocks the wind out of me the second I try looking around.

  We must have gone quite far in a short amount of time, because when I woke up, the sound of metal gave way to sand, and soon, the salty breeze confirmed my suspicions: shoreline. We’re near the ocean.

  The guy ran faster than an ostrich.

  Once I get a glimpse of where we are, I regret my entire existence. A sprawl of machines and bs, half-buried in sand, half-standing like relics of a war not yet fought.

  The other half; towering spires, clusters of consoles flickering with alien scripts, a central dome housing tanks of swirling liquid.

  This isn’t just a camp.

  This is a factory. A machine priming itself to remake the pnet.

  More of Triton’s kind dwell here, moving in perfect unison, their scaled bodies working in eerie efficiency. It's different from humans. Not sloppy.

  And the smell—salt, metal, blood.

  “Not the best spot for a date.” I muse.

  Triton doesn't pay heed to me. He ties me up to a hunk of metal in the middle of camp, my arms magnetically secured so I dangle like some weird fish-man pi?ata. Is this his idea of revenge on us hanging salmon?

  And leaves me be—great.

  I am food.

  Some of them take hungry gnces at me. Others wear masks, hiding those sharp teeth that would otherwise glint in the firelight. One in particur stands out—a spiky bastard, covered in jagged ridges that look more like weapons than armor. He’s mid-argument with another Navorian, their voices rising.

  “The Hammer is the strongest,” Spiky decres.

  “No,” the other hisses. “The Gauntlet.”

  They explode into motion—two three-meter-tall war machines crashing into each other, cws sshing, muscles straining. The fight sends sand and sparks flying.

  I’ve seen bar fights over less.

  And then—

  A knife meant for Spiky’s throat, but nope—bad aim, great luck. It cuts through my restraints instead.

  I drop, hitting the ground with all the grace of a dying starfish.

  New pn:

  Crawl.

  Avoid getting stepped on.

  Don’t die.

  The two titans crash through the battlefield, throwing each other against metal and earth. I scramble backward, but the fight doesn’t care about personal space. A stray swing nearly turns me into Jrake-fvored pavement.

  And then—it stops.

  Not because they’re tired.

  Because of him.

  Triton, my hero. (baddum, baddum)

  His shadow glides between them, effortless, undeterred. Where the others are raw aggression, he is precision.

  There’s no rage in his movements, only a quiet, knowing strength that makes the others freeze mid-motion.

  My, this is too much for my heart.

  His voice is low. “Enough.”

  The fight dies instantly.

  I’ve seen people command a room. I've seen them command armies. This. This is something else. This is a predator deciding when the hunt ends.

  The spiky one grunts but steps back.

  And then Triton turns—to me.

  I want to make a joke. Something to cut through the overwhelming ‘I am going to die’ feeling my spine is wriggling about.

  But his eyes lock onto mine, and my brain shuts down.

  “You,” he says, each sylble haunting. “Are not supposed to be here.”

  “Yeah, well,” I manage, “tell that to my older brother.”

  No reaction. He studies me, then turns. “Bring him.”

  Darkness.

  Again? Come on! I've got hostage rights. Where's the wyer?

  A few minutes ter, the blindfold comes off. I’m tied to a chair.

  Cssic.

  Across from me, Triton, sharpening a very sharp sai.

  "Nice pce," I say. "Ever consider interior lighting? Really opens up a room."

  He doesn’t look up. Just keeps sharpening.

  "Okay, straight to it. What’s this, Navorian hospitality? Should I expect turn-down service?"

  The scraping stops.

  His voice is quiet. "Why were you at the scrapyard?"

  "Parts," I say. "For my—uh—hobby."

  Silence. Then the bde scrapes again.

  "Mock me again," he says, "and you’ll learn sarcasm has a price."

  Well, that’s... ominous.

  "Look," I sigh, "I picked up heat signatures. Thought I’d check it out. Didn’t expect a ‘talk-or-die’ situation."

  Triton studies me.

  He leans forward, shadows crawling over his face like they’re drawn to his presence. He’s got this way of speaking—like every word is a current pulling you under, slow but unstoppable.

  And those eyes are starting to freak me out.

  "You remind me," he says, "of a Navorian long ago. A fool."

  Great. I love where this is going.

  "There was once a Navorian," he continues, "who saved a cm from death. A rge thing, trapped in the shallows. He freed it, and it spoke to him."

  "Wait, wait," I say, raising my binded hands. "Talking cms? That’s a thing?"

  Triton’s gaze is unimpressed. "Everything speaks, if you listen."

  Well. That’s weird.

  He goes on. "The cm was no ordinary creature—it was an emperor where it reigned. Grateful, it gifted the Navorian a pearl as rge as his head. Enough to buy a ship, a fleet, a city."

  "Nice," I say. "Happy ending, let’s roll credits—"

  "He wanted more."

  Of course he did.

  "He thought, 'If a lord has such gifts, what could a king offer?' So he returned. Begged the cm for another gift, ciming he had done a great deed. The cm considered. And it gave."

  Triton’s cws scrape against the edge of his sai. "The Navorian became wealthier. His name spread. But wealth breeds hunger. He returned once more, saying, 'I saved a great emperor. Do I not deserve an emperor's reward?'"

  I shift in my chair. "Lemme guess. The cm starts seeing red?"

  "The cm hesitated. His kind struggled, their own pearls dwindling. But the Navorian insisted—you owe me your life. So the cm gave once more. And the Navorian became an emperor of his own oceans."

  A pause. Triton watches me like he’s gaging whether I get it yet.

  I don’t.

  But that doesn't stop him from continuing the tale.

  "The Navorian," he says, softer now, "believed himself greater than the cms. Richer. Mightier. So he returned a final time—not to ask. But to demand."

  I lick my lips. I sure don't want to know what happens next.

  "He ordered tribute," he says. "For his due. After all, the cm owed him everything.

  The cm did not argue. Did not refuse.

  The cm ate him."

  Silence.

  I've heard nothing worse. That ending sucked.

  Outside, the wind howls.

  Triton slowly trudges towards me, studying me like I’m a puzzle missing a single, crucial piece. "The humans," he says, "are like that fool of a Navorian. They take. And take. And take. They demand what is not theirs. And so—"

  His cws slowly move for my face. I move my head back, my heart about to burst out.

  "They will meet what comes for them.”

  Then—unexpectedly—unlocks my restraints.

  "Go."

  I rub my wrists. "Just like that?"

  He steps toward the cave entrance. The dawn is breaking, casting silver light across the ocean. But beyond it—

  A glow.

  Brighter than the suns.

  Wind surges through the cave, not from the sky, but from the sea itself, tides smashing against the shoreline rashly.

  Something enormous is happening. Something irreversible.

  My stomach drops. “What the hell was that?”

  “Progress.”

  I step back. “This is, what? A terraforming op? You’re flooding the pnet—”

  His gaze snaps to mine. Cold. Absolute.

  “This is just the beginning.”

  I don’t stick around for the sequel. I run.

  Back to the scrapyard. Back to a world that has no idea what’s coming.

  And as I stumble into the dust, a single thought pounds in my head:

  Yep, we're screwed.