The towering bouncer swept a look up and down Briggon’s body and was smart enough to recognise a fellow soldier despite the colour of his skin and hair. Those who’d fought on the frontlines could spot one of their own, not through any tattoos or scars, but by how they carried themselves, in a constant state of readiness. The very good soldiers could even spot where someone was stationed.

  “Gemina Campaign?” she asked.

  Briggon gave her a stiff nod. “Reconnaissance.” The Gemina Campaign had been a dog fight of epic proportions and he still wasn’t sure how he and his squad had gotten out alive. The half a rotation he spent planetside had left its mark, the lighter gravity of Gemina affecting his core and he was still moving as if at any moment his next step would fling him across the room. His mods helped, but a keen eye could spot it.

  The bouncer whistled her respect. “Comm support, myself. Heard some crazy qwala go down in the comms unit in Gemina’s orbit. What you lot went through goes beyond comprehension.”

  “Not much we could’ve done without decent comms specialists,” Briggon replied. The human — most likely from Concieala due to her size — gave a pleased nod.

  “You here on business?” she asked.

  “Looking for someone. Standard human male fitted with gold eye mods, goes by the name of Tomas Esher.”

  “Yeah, I know him.” She bared her teeth, displaying sharp canines. “What kind of business did you say?”

  “The unpleasant kind,” Briggon promised and the ex-comm specialist grinned wide.

  “Well in that case, he swaggered in less than half an hour ago, high as a morang kite, he was.”

  “Thanks for the intel.”

  “I didn’t see you,” the doorkeeper replied and exaggerated her movements to avoid spooking him as she stamped a UV ink stamp on the back of his left hand. She stepped back with a respectful nod, allowing him entrance to the club.

  He entered a writhing dance floor waiting room, and all eyes were momentarily drawn to him. This was why he never went clubbing. He glowed as if his whole body had been dipped in UV paint thanks to his people’s genetic tweaking, boosting visibility in the dark. It was made worse by growing up eating night tubers, a blue vegetable formed the base of a Timerian’s diet, which had the unfortunate side effect of emphasising the shade of blue. His scowl convinced most dancers to look away, his blue eyes even more piercing in the flashing lights.

  The bar stretched across a mirrored wall, throwing back the pulsing lights and doubling the size of the room. Across each mirror panel was a different pulsing number in neon blue. There were at least two dozen, and he noticed the dancers weren’t watching each other or even their reflections in the mirrors, but scanning the numbers as they randomly changed. It was a numbered queue system. He glanced at the back of his palm and the lights lit up not only his natural skin pigment but also the number 287. The closest number displayed was still below 200. Waiting his turn to get access to the back rooms would take too long.

  Esher had bragged frequently of his platinum level membership at the planet’s most elite VR club. While the public queued for access to a virtual reality room to play games, travel or socialise, VIP members had access to private rooms on the top level. He was certain Esher would squirrel himself away until the dust settled, assuming his father would protect him. But even if he wasn’t accused of conspiring to kidnap the daughter of the wealthiest man in the quadrant, the best outcome was still being charged with abandoning his post, resulting in two dead guards and a missing child. Esher truly didn’t understand how much trouble he was in, and that wasn’t taking into consideration what Briggon planned to do to him.

  The entrance to the rooms was guarded by two bouncers, ex-military as well. But unlike the doorkeeper who could probably hold her own in a fight due to her size, these two would be a handful even for Briggon. Both were young, fit and tense, suggesting their last tour wasn’t that long ago and they were still hair triggered for a bomb to go off. Sneaking or bulldozing his way through wasn’t an option. He needed another way in.

  The bar was staffed by beautiful people. They were mostly human-ish, making the act of pouring drinks into a complicated juggling performance, but Briggon spotted a handful of Revlians, who kept an eye on the crowd as well as their drink orders due to the ring of eyes encircling their smooth, hairless heads. He caught one of the many eyes of a Revlian and the bartender turned around, his narrow face striking with his dominant, wide, green eyes focussing entirely on Briggon.

  “You look like a stim-vodka kind of guy,” the Revlian hummed, leaning forward to cross his double- elbowed arms in a complicated folding pattern that was artfully graceful. His minor eyes blinked and flickered like a crown of emeralds. Like the other bar-tenders, he wore a UV reactive jumpsuit that flashed bare skin under the pulsing light.

  Briggon gave his best grin, leaning forward so he didn’t have to shout. He only hoped he looked less grumpy. He’d never been particularly skilled at flirting, and the adrenaline dump from earlier had drained from his system, leaving him exhausted. He’d drop where he stood if it wasn’t for the sluggishness of his core heart reminding him that Airlie wasn’t safe.

  “I’m Julian,” Briggon lied, a little forcefully, but he softened it with a nervous chuckle. “What’s your name?” How did he really look under these lights? He felt like a beacon and how attractive was a beacon?

  “Trella,” the Revlian said, unfolding an arm to lightly trail his fingers across Briggon’s skin, leaving a trail of lighter blue behind. Trella was clearly delighted. “I haven’t seen your kind this colour before. Is it a mod?”

  “I’m a Timerian so it’s natural,” Briggon said.

  “So you’re blue all over?”

  Briggon internally winced as he considered his next words. “When’s your next break? Maybe I could show you? I mean, if that’s allowed?” Gwaia’s honour, he wasn’t good at this. While he’d started off aiming for suave, he was pretty sure he came off as awkwardly naive.

  Trella laughed, clasping his hand over Briggon’s forearm and sweeping across his skin in a calming motion.

  “It’s okay. There are no rules against fraternising with the guests. I don’t do it often, mind,” Trella said, offering a sly wink with half a dozen eyes. “Only when I want to.”

  “So, do you want to?” Briggon's skin flushed dark, and he found it difficult keeping his eyes on Trella’s dominant set.

  “You’re cute. I do. Give me five, okay?” The bartender poured Briggon a colourful shot. “On the house. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Briggon sniffed the drink while he waited. It was only stim-vodka as suggested and he considered downing it in the hopes it would give him an energy boost, but decided it best he keep his system clear. Tonight was going to be a long one, and he needed to keep his head straight. The numbers across the mirrors changed, but not quickly enough, and then Trella was back, except this time on his side of the bar.

  The Revlian was taller than him by a good head, but far leaner. Briggon would have the weight advantage at least, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Is there somewhere quiet we can go?” Briggon asked. He was relieved when Trella nodded and led them towards the doors leading to the backrooms. One of the ex-military bouncers opened the door for Trella and his guest, lips twisting into a sly smile, and as soon as the doors shut behind them, they were smothered in silence. In the quiet, Briggon could hear exhaustion buzzing in his head. Maybe he should’ve had that stim shot after all.

  The hallway was long and the closed doors along each side displayed the number of the current occupant. The lighting was far more subdued compared to the raving dance floor of the waiting room and Briggon was grateful his skin was no longer glowing. The floor was polished black, the runners lit with tiny LED lights, reflecting like stars off the mirrored ceiling. For a VR club, it was surprisingly understated.

  Trella ducked down to whisper in Briggon’s ear, and it took all of Briggon’s self-control not to jerk away from the sudden movement. “Come on, there’s a quieter spot upstairs.”

  Trella looped his arm around Briggon’s, the double elbows allowing the Revlis to tug gently on Briggon’s hair at the same time. It was an effort for Briggon not to react, the position making him feel oddly vulnerable. The elevator appeared almost like any other door, except instead of a user number, it just had the VR club’s symbol of a three-petalled flower.

  Inside, Trella bent to brush a kiss against Briggon’s neck and his skin flushed dark. Trella blinked his eyes one at a time, a rolling wave of emerald, and chuckled.

  “Are you blushing? I love how reactive your skin is.” He activated the elevator and it hummed softly.

  “How long do you have until you need to get back?” Briggon managed, his words slurring a little, his exhaustion and the quiet in the elevator making him sway. Trella steadied him, his nose resting in his hair.

  “Not long enough. Come on.” The elevator opened onto a small foyer decorated in warm maroon and gold accents. A curved couch was set in the middle and in its centre was a selection of alcohol, probably more expensive than the entire bar downstairs. There were doors here, too. Which one was Esher behind?

  “I know someone who comes here often,” Briggon said as Trella manoeuvered them towards an unoccupied room. “Tomas Esher?”

  “You’re friends with him?” Trella eyed him carefully and the Revlian’s disgust was somewhat of a relief. If Airlie was safe at home in her bed where she should have been, maybe Briggon would’ve enjoyed getting to know Trella. He actually felt guilty for what he was about to do.

  “Friend is too strong a word. I work with him.”

  “I feel for you. That human is a djsaj lebsik,” Trella said, his distaste evident by how he spat out the insult in his native tongue. “He’s here at the moment, actually.” He gestured, a smooth rocking movement with his arm, towards a closed door.

  “We should hurry then. Wouldn’t want to bump into him,” Briggon said. Trella was commenting on Briggon’s eagerness as he turned to open the door when he stopped, mid-sentence, as Briggon slipped up behind him. Briggon hadn’t really thought this through. Picking a Revlian who literally had eyes in the back of his head? So Briggon kept his smile plastered across his face as he wrapped an elbow around Trella’s throat and hoped his memories of a long ago biology defence class were accurate. While human’s could be in a choke hold for seven seconds before unconsciousness, thirty seconds to cause permanent brain damage or death, a Revlian was less than four. Any longer and Trella wouldn’t wake up again.

  Trella didn’t even make a sound. Briggon gathered the young bartender into his arms, keeping his multi-jointed arms tucked against his chest, and laid him down on the couch. If he was lucky, the Revlian would wake with some mild memory loss and be none the wiser. He hesitated and then brushed a brief kiss on Trella’s smooth forehead.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Briggon’s body mods were just as exhausted as he was, so he couldn’t kick the door down like he wanted. Instead he knocked, hard.

  “What?” A voice growled and the door swung open on a dishevelled Esher, dressed in a full body suit of black fibre-optic mesh. He’d shoved the headset up onto his forehead to glare at the intruder, his star pupils blown wide, but they retracted in horror when he recognised Briggon before him. He pinwheeled backwards, and Briggon followed him into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

  The light in here was poor. A murky grey glow rebounding off all the dull surfaces made it hard to tell how big the room actually was. Esher had paused mid game, the floors and walls reshaped to mimic a class one battlefield — a battle fought in standard gravity — and was completely stylised. The faceless warriors shaped from the grey mouldable floor wielded swords bigger than the fighters themselves. Not only were they impracticable but class one zones were primarily fought with guns. Swords were the choice of class four battlefields — artificial gravity in a sealed environment — such as a space vessel.

  “Hey, hey, hey Briggon, buddy. Look, we should talk.” Esher flailed backwards, tripping over the frozen battlefield formations, but somehow managing to right himself until he attempted to wrench a sword from a soldier and it refused to budge. It gave Briggon the time to stalk close enough that Esher startled, tripping over a fallen warrior’s body and going down hard on his back.

  Briggon strode right over the man, dropping his right knee into the man’s gut to pin him like a bug. Esher whined, trying to cover his face with his arms.

  “You’ll tell me who took her and where and you’ll do so in the next thirty seconds or I will pluck those goddamned eyes from your skull. Understand?” He grabbed both of Esher’s arms and pinned them over his head, using his other hand to press hard beneath Esher’s left eye. It would be but a moment to pop it clean out.

  “No, no, please don’t.”

  “Talk, Esher.”

  “I don’t know! I really don’t. They didn’t tell me anything.”

  Esher pressed down, digging his thumb beneath the smooth eyeball. Esher squealed.

  “No! Stop! They found me. I don’t know how. Maybe, maybe they followed me from here? It’s no secret who I am and...” He swallowed shakily. Briggon eased a little off his chest, not wanting to break any ribs until he had what he needed. “And maybe they heard me say some stuff.” More pressure against his eye and he babbled his confession in high, panicked squeaks. “I hate it. The work. The kid. You. It’s beneath me. I should be working with my father, not babysitting some runt! So it was a win-win. I get paid, I don’t have to work anymore, and it’ll all get pinned on you.”

  Briggon bounced his weight off Esher’s chest in anger and heard something pop. Esher’s scream was a pathetic, breathless thing.

  “What did you do?”

  “You better start running,” Esher huffed. Despite the pain, he laughed. “Old man Perrault is going to hunt you down. Nowhere you go will be far enough and it’ll be you stuck in a cage rotting like the mongrel you are.”

  The eye made a soft, sucking pop as it came free and Briggon wrenched the rest of the wires out, leaving a raw socket behind, oozing blood and clear fluid. This time Esher’s scream was high-pitched and piercing. How soundproof were these rooms? Esher jerked and writhed beneath Briggon, but he only ground his knee down on broken ribs and readied to pop the other eye out.

  “Who. Took. Her.”

  “Valentina Roth,” he whimpered. “She flies the Leviathan. That’s all I know. I swear!” His words trailed off in a shriek as Briggon removed the other eye.

  “You’re a coward,” Briggon said, staring down at the pitiful mess of the man. “I’ll find Airlie and then I’m going to come back for you, Esher. So you better sleep with one eye open. Oh wait,” he added, tone mocking, and as he stood he made sure to crush both eyes under the boot of his heel, enjoying the crunching shatter of glass and metal.

  Briggon left Esher, closing the door behind him and straightening his clothes as best he could. There was blood and lubricant speckled across his jacket, but thankfully it was dark enough to go unnoticed. There was no way he could go out through the front waiting room and under those lights again though. He checked on Trella, glad to see the Revlian was merely sleeping. The young bartender had deep bags under his many eyes now that he wasn’t smiling, and the sleep would do him good. Hopefully he wouldn’t get into any trouble for Briggon’s actions. He tucked a couple of cushions under Trella’s head, mindful of his eyes, and checked for a back exit.

  He left the virtual club just as law enforcement arrived, his name being bandied about in a tone that wasn’t good. So Esher had been telling the truth. Briggon’s message to Baron Perrault must’ve been waylaid, possibly by a jammer left at the house to prevent calls for help. Briggon was being blamed for Airlie’s kidnapping and while all their focus was on him, the real perpetrators would be getting further and further away.

  He flagged a taxi, sinking back into the shadows of the back seat.

  “The Caldwell Spaceport please,” Briggon said. “And you may want to take the Haylock Distributor. Traffic’s going to get bad.” The driver grunted an acknowledgement and eased onto the road.

  Briggon had a name and a ship. It was a start. He pressed his palm against his core heart. Airlie’s heartbeat was steady but fainter, as if she was travelling further away. The bond wouldn’t break, even if he had to chase her halfway across the universe, but it would get so indistinct he’d barely know it was there. As long as he felt it, she was alive, and it tempered his bubbling rage.