The wasteland outside was a frozen and treacherous hellscape. Endless, empty, pale. It reminded Cassandra of herself—of her life of late. Barren and cold. Thawing only in seasonal flashes, brief moments of unpredictable vulnerability.

  A sultry breeze from the vent brushed her nape, and the hum of the muted lab made her eyes sag. She pressed a finger to the grimy transplast, and even through its thick translucence, the chill of Azrhar bit like a viper, numbing its tip in seconds.

  A voice mumbled from behind her, as if buried deep beneath a hardened snowbank. Cassandra half-turned in the chair, nursing the torpid finger as her mind drifted further away.

  “What was that?” she asked absently, the ghost of her Grecian ancestry haunting each syllable.

  “James. You were talking about James. The hero of the Balkarian Pass, if that old story isn't embellished. Like usual.”

  Cassandra blinked, like jolting awake from an accidental nap. She sank back into the pink cushion, then tugged at the sleeves of her fatigues. Rugged, and a bit frayed, colored pewter with a faint digital pattern.

  “Right, sorry. Do you remember where I left off?”

  Maiyan beamed at her. A signature expression—half-kind, half-surgical—that sweetly creased her supple chestnut features. A smile that said: I know what you’re avoiding, and I’m going to lead into it anyway, dumbass.

  It was usually endearing.

  But mildly annoying in the moment.

  “You were saying how it might be a bad idea?” Maiyan went on, clipped accent seasoned with an arty lilt. “That things are getting somewhat serious, and that you’re afraid of commitment?”

  “Oh. Yeah. But it’s not my commitment I’m worried about, it’s his.”

  Maiyan lifted an inquisitive brow. “Why? You aren't even exclusive yet.”

  “I know.” Cassandra gently traced the armrests with her claws. Auburn ponytail shifting as she shook her head. “It’s just... after the incident with Malcolm, it’s—”

  She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You know how hard it is to find someone these days? Who isn’t charging dick first at everything vaguely vagina-shaped?”

  “Not really. No.”

  "It's—what—really..."

  Cassandra regretted having asked tout de suite. Priya Maiyan had as much experience with men as Cassandra with women. Which was to say, one apiece. And in Cassandra’s case, that experimental partner was sat across from her, sipping mint tea at an agonizing pace.

  “I sound like a dumb teenager. That's not lost on me.” Cassandra blew out a weary breath. “James seems serious, tired of casual games like me. But it's still the perfect storm of my insecurities, his peculiarities, and timing that has me all antsy. Afraid it'll blow up in my face.”

  “And his peculiarities are?”

  It was a simple question, but cut like a scalpel. Maiyan didn’t press when she noticed, patiently awaiting Cassandra's next word. Calm. With a soothing inhale-exhale in tune with the low churn of the air-controllers.

  Cassandra shrugged, but it felt more like a twitch. “Like what we were discussing the other day. Masks.”

  Maiyan's face went blank in her oddball way, an occurrence that meant her brain was at work. Probably making mental notes in Urdu or calligraphic Cyrillic. Or both simultaneously.

  "Continue, I'm listening."

  “Sometimes James' the most alive person in the room. Witty. Considerate. Giddy as a schoolboy—in his own way. And then, it’s like someone kills the lights behind his eyes. Not sad. Not cold. Just gone. Like there’s nobody left inside.”

  Cassandra rubbed her nose, then glanced back out the window. In time to see a mild avalanche melt into steam against Echo Base's domed pyroetheric shell.

  “I can feel when it’s coming. Like a cold draft. I like to fix things, you know? People, ships, don't discriminate much. And the goofy bastard won't even let me try. Not like he owes it to me, it's just unfortunate. A spoke in the wheels, I guess.”

  “Immortal bodies endure indefinitely. But our minds? Sooner or later, our subconscious builds a shield against eternity. A mask. Derived from some favored or dominant trait, something to help us survive the weight of a long memory.”

  Cassandra nodded, she knew as much as Maiyan when it came to psychology, and its adjacent fields. Especially in regards to immortals.. But she needed to hear it aloud. To confront the problem head-on, from the outside.

  “These moments of—blank states?—are merely brief mask readjustments. Subconscious in origin and fairly common among older wolves. Like that phase you had, when you avoided every attempt at intimacy with sarcasm?”

  “A phase and a readjustment are very different concepts. But, I get your point. It's just jarring and I needed to talk about it. And as far as avoidance goes? I still do that on occasion.”

  “But now you know why you do it and do it less. Let James' mind do as it needs naturally. It will pass, quicker still if you don't try to fix things. Your most endearing quality under normal circumstances.”

  The words while clinical in nature, trailed off with a timbre of intimacy, as familiar as Cassandra's own beating heart. An echo of passion that evaporated when Maiyan's dewy lips became a sly grin.

  “Remember that vacation on Celios IV?”

  Cassandra chuckled, then groaned out of embarrassment. “You mean the pie incident? You know I don’t like sharing food.”

  “That poor tourist didn’t. Funny you remember that specifically. It says more than you think.” Maiyan softly giggled and retrieved the infopad from the side table. “Let's table James, talk about you again. The current, and dare I say, explosive trait at the center of your mask.”

  Cassandra's foot tapped. Then again. And again and again. She glanced at her watch in search of a semi-feasible excuse, but hadn't worn a timepiece for a solid decade. Or six.

  “Welp, time’s up, Doc. It's 1300 somewhere. Got a perimeter to secure, conversations to skirt around. We’ll pick this up next time.”

  Maiyan opened her mouth, then closed it as they both stood.

  “Fine. But we’re starting exactly where we left off.”

  “Okay, okay,” Cassandra offered in mock surrender, hands flailing like a little kid.

  She escaped out into the corridor, a sterile hallway with pale lights and dark-gray walls. The ceiling fixtures hummed, muffled by the clink of armor and rushing boots. Unified soldiers jogged past them in tight clusters. Rifles slung. Expressions taut.

  Ever-ready to wage war.

  One clipped Maiyan's shoulder as he passed. Hard. Didn’t even glance back. Her infopad hit the deck with a sharp, plastic slap. And before Maiyan could even blink or utter a word—Cassandra had him—slammed him into the wall hard enough to make an echo.

  “First day with the new eyes, jackass!?” Cassandra barked, nose centimeters from his, fists dug into the fabric of his collar. Brow furrowed with admittedly, somewhat, misplaced rage. “Least apologize after you barrel into an officer!”

  The soldier scrambled a half-assed salute, cheeks flushed with youthful panic.

  “S-Sorry, Lieutenant—Lieutenants! I was running late!”

  “We’re indoors you clown! Put your hand down!”

  Her eyes flicked over him in fiery judgement, only to see genuine apology simmering behind his bright pupils. Two blue pools, mixed with embarrassment, stirred by inexperience and relative innocence.

  Cassandra, more upset at herself, acquiesced with a dry exhale, then let him go.

  “Just... get outta here.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  He bolted like a cartoon character late for a funeral, nearly eating floor once or twice. A few enlisted passerby snuck a glance here and there, but otherwise minded their own business.

  She flung off a few stubborn droplets of the kid’s sweat. When she turned, Maiyan was somewhere between amusement and diagnosis. One brow raised. A satisfied smile both slow and knowing.

  “The mask, given time, can sometimes come to be the actual face."

  Cassandra's lips curled in kind, not a smile, but a sour expression that described her mood better than a novel.

  "Priya?"

  "Yes, Cassandra? Is, something the matter? That vein in your forehead is twitching again."

  "Run..."

  "And do it fast."

  Ping!

  The elevator doors slid apart, their footsteps forward muffled by the plush, ecru carpet. Rorik moved ahead of Adrax with his usual swagger, and Jakobs lagged behind like a toddler in need of a nap.

  A high window at the end refracted the sun into soft beams, casting the hall in an orange haze. The cozy air was a mix of citrus cleaner and spiced, but albeit foreign meat. Strange, but not unpleasant.

  The décor was muted, warm, with a stylistic approach that clashed with their clothing. Roughneck mercs caught behind opulent enemy lines.

  Rorik wore a deep blue wamu-leather jacket over a black shirt and rugged jeans. Simple. Precise. Dangerous. It clung to him like a blade in a well-fitted sheath.

  Jakobs, by contrast, looked he'd been roughed up in an alley. Twice. Crimson windbreaker tight over a brown tunic one size too big. Collar twisted, with frayed and loose sleeves.

  Adrax had gone casual. A gray hoodie with the logo of a new Black-Hole band. Twin skulls infested with flaming serpents that pulsed purple. Courtesy of the plasmic-ink embedded in the fabric.

  From up ahead, a family exited their apartment toward them: An Adam, an Eve, and twin Abel-line boys. All four moved in perfect unison. Their lilac skin held a pearlescent sheen, heads topped with neatly combed silver-blonde hair. With glassy, obsidian eyes wide as a thumb was long.

  They were gene-farmed.

  Purple-people. Genners, if you wanted to be polite. Blinkers, if you didn’t.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  The clones who colonized the stars.

  Old Cojoined Confederacy adverts used to boast about them. To great public annoyance, so he was told. Adrax had only seen them in person a handful of times, and always on battlefronts. Or intercorp military installations. Not in housing corridors. Not happy and smiling. Not with... families.

  They nodded politely as they passed, blinking at a noticeably slow rate, hence the nickname. Like someone had taught them how to be human in a seminar. In front of a mirror. While drunk.

  One Abel kept back a step, eyes locked on Adrax. He snatched his hand, and stopped them both in their tracks. And oddly enough, Adrax didn't pull away just yet. Curious, as the boy was curious. His umber skin—the result of his Ngāti Toa heritage and subterranean upbringing—tended to catch the eye. But was comparatively ordinary.

  Abel's fingers cautiously hovered at his curatine claws. Sheathed, but still dangerous. Smooth and nigh-metallic. An innate wrongness to their pointed shape, partially seated within his fingertips.

  “Süpérlyudi.” The boy whispered, like he'd met his favorite glow-star.

  It was Frussian, and while Adrax didn’t understand, the context was sufficient.

  "Uh, that's me, yeah. Pretty sure."

  The Eve hissed a curse, then circled back to retrieve her son quick as a fighter pilot. His parents took turns loudly berating him, incoherent, but again requiring no translation. They rushed him into the elevator and sealed the doors—so quickly, so crisply, that it made Adrax feel club-footed.

  He couldn't help but crack a smile, then jogged to catch up.

  From a distance, they passed for tall humans. But up close? To anyone paying the barest shred of attention? The claws always gave them away.

  Should probably wear gloves more often...

  The further they went, the more Adrax realized he'd never been somewhere so, domestic. Azrhar was a utilitarian maze. Cold, impersonal, efficient. His home planet Omar was worse. Overbuilt. Congested. Choked in smog and violent crime.

  Here everything was clean. Inviting. In a way that would comfort most people. But not him. He felt like a dirtdigger skittering across the velvet decks of a luxury cruiser. Woefully out of place.

  But, even stranger still, was Rorik. His most recent behavior at least.

  He'd been different since his talk with MacDuff. A pep to his step that Adrax had never seen. No cocky gleam. No sarcastic jabs. Just quiet and happy. Like he knew the punchline to a funny joke, and didn't plan on sharing out of pure spite.

  “Mind telling us what we're doing now?” Jakobs cracked his neck as they rounded the corner. “Still a day out from home. I want to drool in my own bed already.”

  “And drool you shall my bearded friend,” Rorik said, not breaking stride. “Here to see my old squad leader. Back in orbit before your head loses its shine.”

  “MacDuff?” Jakobs frowned, matching his pace. “How the hell did he beat us to Casposis? Pretty sure that call came from Azrhar?”

  They stopped at a door marked 389-A, tucked into an alcove half-buried in shadow. Rorik traced its mahogany edges with his fingers, softly, like the curator of a priceless heirloom.

  “Now what the hell are you doing?” asked Jakobs.

  “Checking for booby traps. Explosives. Acid spitters. Etcetera.”

  “Booby trap?—dude, there’s a fucking ice-cream bar downstairs. Place is like a resort or something.”

  “Appearances are deceiving. We, of all people should know that.”

  Rorik raised a hand to knock, then threw a glance over his shoulder. “And no, it’s not MacDuff. Kara Daffern lives here.”

  Didn't so much as graze the door, Jakobs lurched forward and grabbed his fist like a scatter-burst about to detonate.

  “You sneaky son of a bitch. I knew something was up! Should’ve led with that, I would’ve stayed on the ship!”

  “Where’s the fun in that? Now let go, unless you're looking to deal with me too?”

  Jakobs furiously rubbed his scalp, hadn’t been this visibly upset since that building collapsed on top of them. Adrax was about to joke at his expense—a treasured past-time—until he really focused on his eyes. Wide. Sharp. This wasn't his typical performative bullshitting made to look like concern. This was concern made to look like performative bullshitting.

  And Jakobs was rarely ever concerned...

  “Uh, who’s Kera Dafern?” Adrax asked, attempting to sound casual, and failing.

  “Kara Daffern.” Rorik corrected as he successfully knocked. “An old... friend.”

  “Otherwise known as The Devil’s Slit,” Jakobs muttered, pacing in a tight, anxious circle. “You ever hear the stories? Faraday Incursion. Miras Massacre. The Secret Santa Debacle of 2432!”

  He spun on his heel, arms flailing wild.

  “After my ex? Don’t deal with crazy bitches. Never ends well. And that one’s a double scoop with extra gogi-nuts. I’ll be on the ship. If you aren't back in an hour? Go fuck yourselves.”

  Rorik deftly grabbed his collar before he'd made it far. His utter lack of concern usually made Adrax feel more secure, but not this time.

  “Most of those stories are exaggerated.” He smirked, equally tired and wry. “Well, embellished. Just be cool and don’t say that name too loud.”

  “Bitch?”

  “The other one.” Rorik sighed, then knocked again. “And whatever you do, don’t bring up gelatin-based fruit snacks. All hell will break loose.”

  Adrax and Jakobs exchanged a glance—when a loud thud came from behind the door. Then footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Purposeful.

  Getting closer.

  Jakobs’ little rant hadn’t done him any favors. The reasonable ember of concern beneath his ribs had flared into a blaze, drying out his mouth, making his palms all clammy.

  The lock-bolt jolted hard before the door began to creak open. Shadows clung to its dark frame, peeling back at a tortuous pace. As if they were mocking him, as if whatever lurked inside wanted them to squirm. Like a sap-spider savoring the tremble in its syrupy web.

  Adrax’s pulse drummed. He shifted on the balls of his feet, desperate for cover that didn’t exist. Then, a tall figure waded into the light like a ghost. A silhouette that tightened his throat with a tension so thick, he might choke to death on it.

  ...

  It took a moment for his eyes to report back to his anxious brain, but...

  ...she wasn’t what he’d expected.

  Not even a little. Not some dangerous myth. Not the monstrous terror a name like The Devil’s Slit implied.

  It was just a woman. Barefoot. Calm. And surprisingly normal.

  Bright pink pajamas clung to her fit body, equal parts muscular and feminine. Her bare midriff showcased a well-crafted stomach, and she held a posture that was both sturdy and poised. Like she was ready to fight or break out into dance at any moment.

  Her chin-length hair fell in inky strands that framed a pleasantly symmetrical face. Pale skin, smooth as smoked opal caught the light, giving her an almost dream-like glow.

  Normal was the wrong word, now that he'd thought about it. But even gorgeous barely met the cut. Violently alluring—weaponized, fully-automatic beauty. She stepped further out into the hall, emerald eyes sweeping across them without a single care in the world.

  Rorik met her head-on, close enough to shake hands. Jakobs twitched over his holster, liable to make yet another hasty decision. And Adrax, well he tried, really tried to focus on something else. The walls. The floor. The back of Rorik's head. Anything.

  But her presence dragged him back like a gravity well. It was only a matter of time before the pressure got the better—

  “Hi,” Adrax chirped. Way too loud. Way too cheerful.

  Rorik and Jakobs turned with glares that said: Dumbass. Kara's gaze slid over him like frost on a winter window. Indifferent. Dissecting. Like she was studying a worm instead of a man. Adrax shivered. Just a little twitch. Just enough to feel like a bitch.

  “Nice pajamas.” Rorik laughed as he turned back, glossing over the unicorn-covered fabric. "You're adorable. Let's make some popcorn, talk about boys, maybe braid our hair?”

  “Wipe that grin off you blonde-headed pissguzzler.” She seethed, voice like honey drizzled over razorwire. "Unless you’re in the mood to regrow your lips.”

  She hadn’t moved, hadn't yelled, but her coiled stance radiated danger like a dagger slick with blood. Rorik simply crossed his arms, amused and unfazed.

  “I’m not here to off you.”

  “Didn’t say you were.”

  “Can read you like a book. A short one with big letters and small words."

  “You couldn’t read a fucking coloring book!” She snapped, inching forward, knuckles popping like twigs underfoot. "If you're feeling suicidal pick a bridge! Die with some dignity that way."

  Jakobs slyly drew his pistol, but wisely kept it aimed at the ground. Adrax was stuck between fight or flight. The Lieutenant, or High Commander now, had six hundred years on both of them. Give or take. If Kara had once given him orders she was likely older. And with immortals age didn’t weaken.

  It strengthened.

  Praise their lucky stars she chose to pace instead of attack, voice sharpening with each step.

  “You don’t call! You don’t write! And now you show up after eighty years with these two pussies in tow! What—here to borrow some fucking brown sugar?!”

  “Calm down. Don’t even have your new number. And yeah, sugar’d make more sense. If I was here to kill you I’d have knocked with a rocket launcher.”

  “I’m not stupid, James! Known each other long enough to say all the right things!”

  “I love you, you idiot. If I wanted you dead, would've taken my shot by now. Lost track of how many good reasons I'd have.”

  He chuckled, with a half-warm, half-dagger smile.“So if this is your idea of not being stupid, then maybe you’re just going senile.”

  Kara froze. Almost statuesque. Something passed behind her eyes, something deadly and electric. Until her laughter broke the silence, boisterous with a healthy sprinkle of mania. The kind Adrax wouldn't want to hear in middle of the night.

  “Your balls must've dropped or something." She pretended to wipe at a tear. "Straddling your ankles how tough you're talking.”

  “Mid-shin.” Rorik shrugged with a deadpan disregard. “Kneecaps if it’s cold outside.”

  A growl clawed its way free of Kara’s throat, akin to a thunderhead. Guttural. Annoyed. Yet unable to mask the faintest flicker of a smile.

  “Uh, guys?” Jakobs croaked. “Can we skip the rest of...this? We’re all on the same side. I mean, we are, right? Because, due to non-fear related reasons, I really gotta piss all of a sudden. Mind if I use your toilet, Miss Devil, uh, Kara, ma’am?”

  Kara locked onto him like a heat-seeking turret, crossed the space between them—quick as the wind—to stop centimeters from Jakobs' face. A cowardly breeze scurried away, not wanting to risk being caught between them.

  “Sure. We’re all on the same side.”

  Kara slowly tilted toward his ear, cheek audibly grazing his beard, voice a whisper. Too soft to trust, too serious to ignore.

  “But if you even think that name again?”

  Jakobs stiffened, staring up at the ceiling wearing his stupidest expression.

  “…I’ll reach down your throat and rip your cock off from the inside. Let ya heal, then do it again, and again, until I get bored. You picking up what I'm putting down, Mr. Clean?”

  “I—uh—I maybe—but—”

  “I—uh—I—yes... or no?”

  “Y-yes, ma’am. Very vividly explained. Picking it up just fine. Yup.”

  After a stubborn moment, Kara gradually eased back a few hairs, exhaling a satisfied huff. The tension wafted from her like steam, jagged frown replaced by something significantly more dangerous.

  A sweet smile.

  “You’re a good kid." She lightly patted his cheek. “Faster learner than most.”

  “You done yet?” asked Rorik dryly.

  “Hope so.” She half-glanced back, still eyeing Jakobs like he might develop amnesia. "Looking like it."

  “Good. And keep your grubby little hands to yourself. Love tap or not these are my men. Now play nice and invite us in. I’ve got good news.”

  Kara spun around dramatically, suddenly sunshine incarnate. She fell against Adrax’s shoulder to scratch her foot. Warm. Soft. Strong. Cocoa-vanilla scent sweetening the air like incense. And for the first time, she met his eye without malice or challenge, two stunning emerald gems that made his palms sweatier.

  “Good news? I love good news! Pretty sure.” She beamed bright as a flare. “You jokers—jackasses—gentlemen can come in and have a drink. If you promise to use a coaster."

  She contemplatively grabbed her chin. "Oh, and to not try to kill me, too.”

  “We pinky promise.”

  "A pulchritudinous day indeed!"

  With a breezy whistle, Kara sauntered back into her apartment, a luxurious abode filled with tawny furniture. Then locked the door behind her with gentle purpose.

  “Kara?"

  Utter silence.

  “Kara.”

  A glowscreen blared to life, playing an intense Bat-Ball game by the sound of it.

  “Kara!”

  The door yanked open hard enough to rattle the wall.

  “WHAT?!”

  ...

  “Oh.” She cackled and slapped at her knee. “Come on in—mama’s bakin’ brownies!”

  Kara practically skipped away, humming an obscenely happy tune. Rorik mumbled under his breath, then followed suit with a deep sigh. Jakobs, pale as chalk, slumped onto Adrax’s shoulder.

  “…we’re all gonna die in there…”

  Adrax glanced at him, but barely registered the words, too busy appreciating Kara's wonderfully plump posterior. Part confused, part what could only be described as cautiously aroused.

  “What exactly are these... brownies?”