A single thread of saliva acts as the last leash tying me to the prison of the other morph’s carnivore teeth. It snaps as she holds me out at arm’s length. Exposed to the elements once more, I blanket myself in tails to hide my unclad form from her scanning gaze.

“So… we’re good, right?” I ask, at length. “You’re convinced I didn’t come to kill you?”

My words elicit an uncharacteristic snort from her; I can tell she’s stifling an even more pointed laughter behind it but she values her composure.
“I’m not convinced you could kill me,” she says. “You do a good job of keeping alive, but gods, do you get hurt a lot when you fight.”

“Oh, thanks…” I grumble. She’s right, obviously, but I don’t need to be told that.

“Anyway, back to my original reason for being here,” I say, trying to get this moving, “I need to make my way into the Grand Channel and all the way north to the capital, and I understand your ship is heading back that way.”

“You understand right,” she affirms. “Why exactly do you need to get to the capital?”

“Well, specifically it’s Suraokh that needs it, but he won’t say more than that yet,” I explain.

“Fair enough. I won’t push for more if you don’t know. That wouldn’t be fair.”

Suddenly she cares about fairness? I don’t remark on it. “I appreciate it. Now, about letting me get down and changing me back…”

“You don’t want me to do that,” the jackal states plainly.

“…Yeah. I kinda do,” I state just as plainly.

“You’re in no position to dress when you’re that… sticky.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” she insists. “You startled me.”

I shrug; there’s no point trying to argue with her. “Let me guess, back in I go?”

“Perceptive,” she remarks, popping me into her mouth moments later.

I feel cheated, somehow, but really I should have expected this. I get accustomed to the red carpet again, all too easily, at least until it forces me against her palate, using the pressure to slide me back. Realizing what she’s trying to do, I immediately resist, forcing against it and trying for the front of the mouth.

“What’s the idea?” I demand. Before I can place a hand on the rim of a tooth to brace, they close up and I reflexively draw my hand back to avoid it being taken off. A casual rock of the tongue rolls me to the side, placing me on my back atop jagged molars, the upper set of which bears down on me lightly, but still so much more than I could be bothered to appreciate. I’d be an unpleasant crunch though, metal spine already scraping on enamel.

“You said you wouldn’t swallow me!”

“I shaid not yet,” she smugly corrects, her speech impaired by the fragile body between her teeth. “That wazh then, thish izh now.”

The sudden tilt of her head flings me face down onto her tongue again, my feet unable to find purchase on anything, flailing above the sucking flesh, flexing below me in what I assume is a test gulp, to get the radial pressure just right, so that I can just barely not stand it, just like it was last time.

I dig my claws in against the dexterous muscle sliding me back, or at least I try to. The thing is so hardy she could probably eat broken glass if the mood struck her. Not that it would; broken glass doesn’t kick or scream.

Unable to do anything else the rest of my body begins to slip, I hold desperately onto wherever I can find a semblance of a handhold, screaming obscenity all the way until her throat closes up, engulfing me in pink quicksand. Just as I predicted, it’s the perfect amount of too tight; my ribs audibly shift in my chest and I can’t breathe, but it’s not enough to knock me out. I’m at her mercy and she demands my full attention to that fact.

Eventually the suffocating clutch releases in some sadistic parody of grace, releasing me with a quiet splash into a dangerous place, rattled by her full-body shudder at the introduction of live prey.

Fun fact about morph biology; we have enzymes capable of breaking down all sorts of materials with ease, a leftover trait from our shapeshifting ancestors. In most others, it takes the stomach a long while to reduce its contents to mush and move it further on, but it takes us a good couple of hours, if even that. If she decides to keep me in here for long there won’t be a trace of me left.

Before my worrying can really go anywhere, I’m taken by an entirely different sort of alarm as I feel a cold liquid drench my back. As it mixes with the fluid beneath me, I’m greeted by a rising mass of fizz, thankfully odorless, and then all of a sudden it dies off. Tarkossha extract, Faigan’s gift to the rest of the Ravel. Along with democracy and gasborne seafood, of course.

The dark, viscous fluid mixes with the cloudy bath around me, neutralizing the acid and inhibiting the enzymes all at once. When I realize it, I’m relieved, sure, but I know it means she plans to keep me down for a while.

When I go to position myself more comfortably, muscle compresses suddenly about me as she clamps down from all sides, letting up briefly only to do it again, causing me to drop into the lowest point of her stomach.

“So what about your friend?” she asks.

“He’ll show up,” I shout up. “He does that.”

It doesn’t do me any good to keep expressing my displeasure with this, so I won’t waste my energy. Once I get the feeling she’s done bending and shifting around, presumably picking things up, some of which I hope are my clothes, I get cozy, at least as much as I can, reclining against the natural slope and resting my hands behind my head, which only just barely sticks out above the surface of the thick bath.

She carries me with her back into town and toward the docks, while I try and imagine the same landmarks I passed by as one might while lying down in the back of a shuttle; the old buildings with their colorful paint long faded and chipped away by the salty air, the windmills in need of maintenance clattering on high rooftops, the garrisons perched on levees to constantly scan the horizon for enemies.

It’s a longer trip than I’d have liked, all the while the ambient ensemble of her heart, lungs, and guts seek to lull me to sleep with their constant sounds. Of course, I’m having none of it. I don’t believe I’ve ever trusted anyone enough to even consider that, least of all her. Eventually, to break the monotony, I speak up.

“You have a name, right?”

“I sure do,” she says back. And that’s all.

I’m growing uncomfortable with the relative silence. “So… what is it?”

“It’s what I’m called.”

“No I mean w—“

She begins to laugh, shaking my surroundings and requiring that I stand unless I want to get taken under the surface.

“I know what you meant,” she says, quelling her amusement down to a mild giggle. “Call me Yhana.”

“Under the assumption that’s actually your name, I shall.”

“It’s not Xemba, if that’s what threw you off. My parents both spoke Akhurai as their first language.”

My face flushes a bit as I realize I had been insensitive; I’m glad she can’t see it. Though I’m of conversational proficiency in both major Akhurai dialects, I hadn’t considered her origins. That moment of self-reflection passes quickly as I recall that this person swallowed me whole not once, but twice, and both times too gratuitously for my liking. I’m entitled to a little suspicion.

We travel without speaking for a bit longer as she moves through what I assume is a rather bustling part of town, considering the abundance of voices engaged in their own little exchanges. I imagine Yhana would look out of place if she tried to talk to me here. It’s not like predation is really that uncommon but it’s still odd to be so open about it.

It’s long enough that I stop trying to estimate, before I can just barely hear the sound of a door closing, and then the sound of a very quiet gag; I don’t know how she does it so seamlessly, but I’m not given time to ponder that before all the air is crushed from my lungs and I’m dragged back up her esophagus. The transition from an overbearing warmth to a sudden chill, courtesy of the metal sink, shocks me out of my lethargic state. I would have maybe preferred somewhere softer to be deposited, but at least it’s clean. Opening my mouth to ask where we are, I’m interrupted by a downpour of water from the spigot.

Allow me to clarify this; I may have an incredible tolerance for the cold, but cold and wet is a combination I’ve never been fond of. That said, the shocked scowl adorning my face might not be appreciated but I can’t help that it’s there, nor do I care to.

I shake myself off and clamber onto the edge of the sink, folding my arms on the ledge and resting my head for a moment, until Yhana picks me up again.

“Okay, I’m going to change you back now,” she says, finally. “Is that alright?”

“Please do,” I consent. “Why are we going to the floor?”

She sets me down in the middle of a tile, and rises to her full height again. “Well this would destroy the sink, wouldn’t it?” 

“What do you mea— Ah shhhfuck!”

From her downturned palm, a red glow emerges, tiny arcs dancing between her fingers. It’s a common indicator of necroharmonic energy. I almost don’t register that the geometric way space unfolds is more the signature of a gapwalker, but I’m not given time to dwell on it. In that unfolding space, a small, reddish-black globe emerges; compacted ectoplasm. In other words, all the mass I lost when she shrank me.

Let’s talk about my full height for a moment. I’m a little short for a morph, with ethnic Nayreans being the most common exception, but I’m still a good 240 centimeters at full size, that’s not tiny. Nor am I particularly lean; there’s a lot of weight in that little, floating ball, so when it stops floating and comes crashing down onto me, all other deductions are lost in the chorus as “Oh gods oh shit I’m being crushed” comes forward for its solo.

But, upon impact, rather than feeling my little body shatter into tiny pieces from sheer force, I feel nothing, all my senses liquefying. As they slowly define themselves once more, I find myself on the floor, staring at what is yet to become my left hand as carbon and nitrous compounds come together, interfering radiance flowing off of the atoms and allowing them to bond together again. I hold up the shiny black limb, finding control returns before sensation does.

I shake myself off and work on standing up as soon as my literal jelly-legs decide to become solid again. I’m in desperate need of a good stretch, but deny myself that when I remember I’m still naked. I turn away quickly, hugging a tail against my chest and trying to ignore the sound of raucous laughter. The breaking point in her composure isn’t so hard to find after all.

She carries on for longer than I’d like, so I eventually turn around with a look that carries as little amusement as I can muster. Not that any of my past glowerings have motivated consideration. “Are you done?”

“Yeah, yeah…” she pants, bracing herself on the wall. “I… yeah. Sorry, you just get so flustered. It’s not like this is the first time I’m seeing you like this.”

“True, but you’re seeing me in so much more detail now,” I respond.

“Oh, but think about this,” she says. “There’s not a part of you that remains that my tongue hasn’t touched.”

“I don’t want to think about that.”

“I don’t either. I just filter it out any time that I eat people.”

“Well… good for you. Do it a lot?”

“Oh yeah,” she confesses shamelessly. “This line of work results in a lot of opportunities.”

“At least you’ve found a job you love, I guess…”

“Only thing better than being a pirate is being a pirate with permission from the powers that be. Anyway…” she taps me on the shoulder, causing me to shiver as she passes by, as though I can’t help but anticipate more surprise casting. “I’ll get out of your hair for a bit. Help yourself to a shower, but don’t use the one on the far left, it doesn’t work after our surgeon did… something with it. I won’t stop you from looking, but you’ll be happier if you don’t.”

She looks back with a smile, and then she’s out the door, and I allow myself to sigh and loosen up. A shower would do me some good. I scan the room briefly, everything in fours, including shower stalls.

With a passive shrug, I turn on my heel and hurry into the one on the right, quelling any morbid curiosity about the defunct one. The valve creaks a bit as I reach in and turn it, leading the way for a rattling rising pitch as water runs up the pipes. I’m prepared for it to be cold as ice, but the elation I feel as it warms up quickly relieves the tension. Drawing the curtain closed behind myself, I step in.

I haven’t really looked at my body this closely in a while, despite my state of undress for the past couple of hours, it was too dark to really do so then. The black markings in my fur have become very ornate, but the large, thick-bordered circle on my chest is disturbingly reminiscent of the outer ring of a target. I’ll spare you further details, there’s not much to be said for washing oneself that I care to say.

After several minutes, I cast the curtain open with the intention of drying myself, to find towels absent from the room. No matter, I have a technique for this that my particular attunements allow. I inhale deeply, extending my hands out to either side of me, generating a powerful current of rift feedback in my left hand. And just then, the door opens.

“The hell are you?” A tall feline man walks right in, wary of me but not enough to disrupt his routine over it, or even cover himself.

We regard each other in shared nudity for several seconds. He’s gorgeous, honestly, his musculature visibly defined under fur so black it’s almost iridescent. Unfortunately, the day I’ve had has primed me to be intimidated.

“…Complain to Yhana if you must,” I quickly deflect. I drop my stance, shuffling aside to let him pass.

“Oh… course it’s her again,” he scoffs a little, moving past me for the stall next to the one I just left. “Well, enjoy your stay, I guess. Just keep out the captain’s way.” The curtain draws behind him with a simple gesture of his bushy tail.

With nobody paying me any mind any longer, I take on my stance again, sweeping the rift current over myself. A sensation like static electricity building up washes over me in a wave for a moment, and as it passes, so does any residual moisture in my fur. I don’t know how I ever got by without it; the resulting poofiness is a small price to pay for the time it saves. Patting myself down, I get dressed again, grabbing my macuahuitl on the way out. I’m getting tired of lugging it around but I’m jumpy enough I don’t want to leave it out of reach, not that I’m going to brandish it at anyone here. Even deep storage is too far; I can step through the void just fine but recalling specific objects from it is a clumsy process for me. I once had a friend who used his void coordinate almost exclusively for food. Needless to say, everyone loved him. He and his family left the planet a few years ago though. I wonder where he is now? To be honest, we fell out of touch even before that.

Spending one or two moments too many remembering the past, I permit myself a little shrug and then skulk out into the corridor. It’s surprisingly nice, but then again, this is the Dominion. Everything is nice here. The floor is hardwood, which hints at living quarters; the numerous other doors probably lead to closet-sized rooms of the same design sensibilities. I feel as though I’m in violation of something as my claws click against the wood with each step, so I feel an odd sensation of relief as I find textured metal stairs leading up out of the hall. I exit the hatch, which is guarded by a standing, roofed shield of metal to protect the nice things below from debris that the wind might tend to carry. It’s a bit of an odd design, requiring me to take a precarious step up to get onto the deck and strafe out.

I’m knocked flat as I clear the shield, bumping into someone large who rounds the corner at the same time I exit. As their clawed… no, I hesitate to call it a hand; this hunk of razor-tipped meat taking me by the shoulder and part of my chest, the whole thing is a claw. But anyway, it grabs me real good and now I’m on the floor. Their leather mask, positioned so close to my own face, resembles a pack-hunting saurian from Radiance— the planet, not the phenomenon; the Prelature names everything so confusingly, as their dozens of cities and territories all named Kurya further incriminate. The rest of his ensemble blends form and function, dressed as though between careers as a furnace priest and an HVAC technician.

“Leonov, off.”

They respond to the new voice immediately, returning to a standing posture in a motion I can only describe as boneless. Their absurdly long arms dangle anxiously at their sides, fingers playing at the hem of their immaculate slacks, but other than that they are still.

With this one effectively neutralized, I tilt my head up to look at whoever spoke.

“Sorry about him,” she says. “He gets a little excited around new people.”

She is human; Faigani by the looks of the bladed filigree woven into her silky, ashen hair, no doubt crafted with her own two hands, one of which wanders out to me to help me to my feet.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to hold my weapon in as unthreatening a position as I can.

“You must be a passenger,” she observes, though she doesn’t seem like one either, a charcoal suit mimicking her companion’s own. “What should I call you?”

“Merion,” I reply. “You?”

“Jori,” she reciprocates. “What brings you here?”

“My associate and I are looking to travel east,” I explain. “One of your crewmates obliged us.”

“Ah, Yhana? I saw her around not a moment ago.” She leans a little bit closer in, her voice hushing. “My condolences.”

I chuckle a bit nervously at that. “Does it get worse?”

“It… it can. On the plus side, we don’t charge; what servants of the Empire would we be if we did, but anyway the trip doesn’t cost you anyth—Well, it doesn’t cost you money.”

“Lovely… what does she take instead? Blood?” I ask, only half-joking.

“Well, it’s easier to get than marrow,” she replies in a tone that condemns my half of a joke to remain part of an incomplete set. “Excellent conductor of radiance and all that, but if I were to assume by your form alone, you’ve got more radiance than you know what to do with. She’ll probably just collect your energy the… softer way, if you can call it that,” she suggests.

She’s probably right. Drinking blood would be a perfectly viable way for a morph, or anyone for that matter, to top up on radiance, but Yhana has already demonstrated a preference for the alive-and-whole approach, absorbing the ambient, unused volumes at the fringes of her prey’s aura.

I keep forgetting how my appearance will be construed. “I’m glad your reaction to me wasn’t as rash as hers.”

She chuckles a bit at that. “She’s a bit paranoid about being harvested, for some reason. But really, most reapers get one errand, see it through, and are never called upon again. Who did you have to kill?”

“Oh, uh… nobody yet.”

Another chuckle. “Who knows? Maybe it’s her after all.” She raises a hand and snaps her fingers, and once again, Leonov is up in my face, reflecting my startled expression back at me from his shiny lenses. “You’d really better hope it’s not.”

Unsure how to respond to that, I try to find words but manage little more than a weak cough.

She emits a hearty laugh this time, clapping me on the shoulder. “Only kidding. Your business is your own, anyway. But if she gives you any trouble, let me know; I’ll have Leonov throw her up the stairs again.”

“I… appreciate that,” I manage. For being so protective, I wasn’t expecting her to be willing to handle the same people under her watch so roughly, but I don’t think on it much. “Did you make him?”

“I wish,” she confesses. “He’s a Prelature reject; I found him in the shallows and did some work on him. Almost entirely muscle, supported by fluid sacs.”

I turn to glance at the towering, maned synthetic priest; he’s surprisingly docile and the expression on his mask is almost cute, the zigzag mouth worked into it fixed permanently into a placid smile, though I can’t help but worry his dark lenses hide something else.

“He’s certainly something,” I say. “Why’d they get rid of him?”

“Abnormal neuromass; doesn’t have the standard capacity for aggression. Keeps him about as dangerous as a small puppy unless I’m in harm’s way though.”

As much as I would have liked to continue the discussion, I catch Yhana out of the corner of my eye, but she noticed me first it seems, already striding toward me.

“Here she comes,” I say.

Jori gives me another pat on the shoulder. “Take it easy,” she says. A click of her fingers, and Leonov follows her off.

“In fairness,” Yhana says, half-circling around behind me to stand by my shoulder, “I suppose I did neglect to tell you where I’d be.” She gestures at the open hatch before moving for it. “Let me show you to the room.”

“Right. How’s it set up?” I ask, following.

“I’ll work that out in a bit, I haven’t cleaned up in a bit.”

“Wait… it’s your room?”

“It’s fiiine, I can grab a spare hammock, I’ve got the hooks for it.”

“Oh fine. Easier to sample blood while I’m sleeping?” In truth, I do actually worry how vulnerable that leaves me.

“Now who told you I’d do that?” she asks, splaying fingers on her chest in mock offense. We travel down the corridor again; I don’t feel so wrong for doing so this time now that I’m being escorted. “I see you’ve been making friends already,” she remarks.

“Yeah, Jori’s cool.”

“She is, but she puts a lot of work into being cool all the time,” Yhana says. “She’s been through the wringer like anyone, poor thing, but she’ll show it the least.”
She takes a right turn where the passage branches off, grazing fingers lovingly over the surface of the fortified door.

“Home sweet home,” she says, unlocking it and pulling it open. However, as she does so, she reels back with a sharp gasp, raising a hand as if to strike.

The gray stuffed kangaroo standing at attention in the doorway, almost as tall as she is, does not react, thankfully, but that leaves it up to me as I leap to grab her wrist, bringing her dangerously sparking arcs out of position.

“Wait, that’s Suraokh!” I say.

Yhana falls still and quiet for a good moment, then forces a laugh in an attempt to mellow out. From an observer standpoint, it doesn’t seem to work.

“In fairness, I told you he’d show up,” I remind her.

“She tried to hit me,” the doll observes.

“It was a reflex, I promise,” she responds.

“I will believe you here,” Suraokh concedes. “Do not try it again. I will respond in kind.”

“You’ve got a very… measured way of speaking,” she remarks, somewhat impertinently but I imagine it’s an effort to break the ice.

“All thoughts come in five. Unless they come in less.”

“You should visit our surgeon; I’m sure he has some less-basic lexicon modules on hand.”

“I just may; thank you. But that can wait yet.”

She gives him a nod before quickly turning to me. “Where’s he staying?”

“How should I know?” I ask, my shrug repelling her hands from my shoulders. “I don’t know how this place works.”

“I guess he could stay in the closet…”

“I will be just fine,” Suraokh assures us. “I do not sleep, actually. I can stand guard instead.”

“There you go, extra protection for your already very-protected door,” I say. “All you need to do is remember he’s on the other side.”

“Alright… but don’t blame me if Nym flips out when he sees you,” she says, pointing dangerously close in Suraokh’s face. If I’m being honest, I half-expected his lips to unsew and he would bite her finger for invading his personal space. The other half of that expectation was more like fear. I never want to see his mouth open again.

Next, she turns to me. “Well, go ahead and get settled in. There’s a hammock rolled up on the ceiling when you want it, just untie it and it should come down for you. I need to check up on some things and I’m …generally certain you won’t get into trouble.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying not to look for any sort of backhandedness in her statement. “I’ll do my best not to.”

Of course, the way my day is going, I wouldn’t be surprised if trouble finds me just to spite me. I’ll enjoy the peace while it lasts.