Hunters - Prologue


How would you describe dreaming to someone who has never dreamed?
How would you describe reality to someone who can't tell the difference?

* * *

A soft, greenish glow filled the storage bay. Only a small portion of the enormous room was lit; the rest was sombre and grey. Containers were littered about, some empty, some full, and all of it was soon to be discarded. Hardly any sound, save for a slight mechanical hum, could be heard within the room. Eventually, the silence was broken by a protracted sigh.
Avil stepped closer to the source of green light. A suspension tank, carrying a slick, clear fluid. Within the tank floated a large, hulking, grey-and-red homonculus of sorts. Yellow plates, grey skin, red feathers, dark speckled spots. A strange, monstrous hybrid.


Lifeless.


The darkened bulkheads of the bay matched the dolphin's mood quite closely. His head swivelled about to glance around the room; he saw containers with his legagy, years of his research and work. All of it was soon to be undone, and he breathed another sigh. Disbelief, disappointment, frustration and anguish darted in and out of Avil's thoughts. He pressed his webbed palm against the glass of the tank, then raised his head up to stare at its occupant again.
Its eyes were closed. No movement, no sign of activity from the creature. Despite all his work, his determination... Avil's will alone would not be enough to bring the grey thing to life. Fingers curling against the glass, teeth gritting in his beak, all he could do at this stage was curse the creature in front of him - its only crime was to not be alive.

Several moments of spiteful self-pity passed, until, eventually, the entrance doors to the storage bay opened. Light poured into the room, a long shadow cast by the solitary figure who opened them. Dimly lit, the cargo bay's contents could be seen - a dozen darkened suspension tanks, one lit, and a smattering of crates, boxes, containers. A handful of ceiling lights flickered on.
"I heard what happened." Came the visitor's voice, distinctly female and uniquely cetacean. Avil recognized it immediately - his mate, Beagle, had the uncanny to find him exactly where he was hiding, exactly when he didn't want to be found.

Avil remained still, his hand slowly sliding down the glass tube. He removed his eyes from it and turned to glympse at Bea, before his hand dropped from it as well. The captain didn't bother to reply; a slight shrug was all he would give in return.

Beagle approached and surveyed the room. It pained her to see him like this - at his lowest, his weakest, his most desperate. "'It is with the most profound regret that we must issue this notice of termination.'" She began to speak, quoting a message that she'd read on Avil's personal workstation some hours before.
"...'significant time, personnel and resources have been invested in this endeavour'...'repeated extensions, concessions and re-trials'...'failure to produce viable results'." As Beagle spoke, her eyes fixed on Avil's expression, watching it sour.
"...'although noble and promising in both purpose and potential, project 7805-SDS-alpha has yet to produce any working prototypes'...'delays and distractions'...'lost cause'."
Each quoted snippet was like swallowing a piece of glass, for Avil to hear repeated out loud. Beagle continued. "...'fleet resources are being diverted to support allied initiatives in securing the Amaleth and Sen'tugru systems, including the ANS Lev'sratha and her crew. This project is, effective immediately, on indefinite holding status, all personnel are to be reassigned as per Admiral Deessa Kayen. All resources from 7805-SDS-alpha and related projects are to be diverted to other fleet initiatives, with any unusable materials to be scheduled for disposal.'"
Avil's hand closed into a fist as Beagle spoke.
"...'it is our sincere hope that Capt. A. Tursin will continue to apply his knowledge and expertise in other council-related research endeavours. At its current cost, this project can no longer be pursued. It may be in the future, pending council approval and fleet opportunity. Regards, Allied Science Council, Mixed fleet division.'"

The entire memorandum read like an obituary. The words echoing in his head, his anger palpable, Avil drove his fist into the glass of the tube as hard as he could, cracking it slightly.
Beagle flinched at the sudden movement. It wasn't like him to lash out, but he couldn't do anything about the letter he was just served, and couldn't direct his frustration anywhere else. The recepient - his failed experiment - remained lifeless. Only a slight movement, caused by the displaced fluid, as if to further insult the dolphin with its lifelessness.
"You didn't have to come down here, Bea." Avil finally said, still brooding.
She stepped closer, placing one of her hands on Avil's plasteel-armoured shoulder. He turned slightly.
"I was-... I am, so close." He said, his eyes roaming up and down the homonculus' lanky frame. "If they'd only given me another month-"
"Maybe," Beagle interjected, "they're tired of hearing you say that you're almost there. Another this, another that - more time, more materials. More people. How many times have you had them extend your work?"
Avil breathed a long sigh as he glanced down to the other suspension pods. A dozen of them stood in a disjointed line. Beagle looked at them as well, knowing the number just as easily as she could count the pods.
"The council likes you." Beagle continued, trying to redirect his mood. "They wouldn't have been so lenient for so long if they didnt. Besides! They said they'd consider picking up the project again, when there's-"
"They won't." Avil interrupted, shaking his head as he cut Bea off, mid-sentence. "They're giving up. 'indefinitely' means they don't care anymore, and they've burned you, me, and the rest of the science team."

Beagle looked the creature in the pod up and down, its torpor just as real this moment as it was before. "We'll still have to find a better way to protect ourselves... and reproduce. Your research may just be our ticket to getting there."
Avil was losing himself in the cold glow of the tube. That hopeful gleam was still in his eyes. He was about to speak, about to try and explain how his latest creation was anything other than a complete failure.
In a swift movement, Bea grasped the back of Avil's neck, thrust his face against the glass tube and pressed it there firmly. He yelped and flailed, shrieking out in protest as his beak hit the glass with a dry 'konk!' sound. She was tired of his self-pity. It was time to move on.
"Look at your monster!" She barked, pushing his face harder into the glass. "It's dead. It's not alive! It never was. And the symbiote inside it - your clone! Perverse enough as -that- is, you're lucky nobody knew that it was a copy of yourself you were inserting into this would-be host. Which is... what, exactly? Not quite a dolphin, not quite an avian, not quite a reptile..? Does it even have a name? Is it supposed to be able to run, fly, swim and frolic through the breeze?"
The glass scuffed as Avil's teeth scraped against it. A loud chitter-click escaped his throat as he protested. Struggling, he slipped a hand free and broke Bea's grasp on the back of his head. "It will work! I know it will!" He retorted. "This thing was guaranteed to work, and if only I could have enough time to find what went wrong-"
Beagle's hands were quick. She grabbed Avil by the shoulders and pinned him to the glass, his armour suit clanking loudly against it. "Wake up, Avil!" She snapped. "You're done with this. It's time for you to move on and stop with your ambitions for a while. This warship and her crew have done enough for you. It's time you let go of your pride, put your research on hold, and do something to help in the war. For a change."
Avil could only grumble in response, trying to squirm.
"It's not the fleet's job to serve you." Beagle said flatly. "It's your job to serve the fleet."

Avil wanted to rebut, though Beagle was right. He had been selfish, and he had compromised the Allied Mixed Fleet's ability to defend two of its crucial border systems by keeping the Lev'Sratha and her crew far from the conflict that it needed to be supporting. Surrendering to the notion that he would have to face his failure and move on, the dolphin breathed a defeated sigh and went limp.
Beagle released her grip on him - she was stronger than she looked, for her size. "I know you're angry, but you can't just sit here in this cargo hold and will your creation to life. Nor can you just sit and stare because it doesn't work. There's a fight on out there, and it needs you."
She paused, giving the homonculus another once-over. "The Lev'Sratha will be leaving orbit within the hour. We'll be offloading our waste and re-useables once we resupply and rotate the crew, in a few days."

Slowly turning away, Bea made her way toward the door. "There's a new wing of interceptors that'll be stationed here soon. Why don't you sweet-talk the admiral into transferring you to that unit? With that silver tongue of yours... and your piloting record, you should be able to find a new posting easily."
Avil scoffed. He hated how right Beagle was all the time - but then, that was one of the reasons they came to be a couple in the first place. Giving a shrug, he turned to face his creature once more. "I suppose so. I just... I need some time."
Realizing that she'd not be able to dissuade him from his self-imposed solace, she nodded. "Don't be too long." Were her final words, before stepping gingerly out of the doorway, doors sealing themselves behind her with a dull 'clunk'.

With Bea gone, Avil's lingering frustration returned. He drove his fist into the glass of the tube as hard as he could, cracking it further. For a moment, the creature within seemed to flinch and follow his movements; Avil's expression lit up. The hope was bright, but fleeting, as the creature returned to stillness - the shock of the impact against the glass must have caused a shifting of the fluid inside. Convinced only briefly that his creature was alive, he fell toward the glass, bumping his melon against it.
"Damn you." He said aloud.
An idea came to him, suddenly. Surely, my access credentials haven't been revoked yet. He thought, moving his way to the door and finding the panel outside of it.
Fingering his way through the prompts, his special-level access was still valid. A hopeful gleam returned to his eyes.
The planet below the Lev'Sratha's orbit was well capable of supporting life, though it was uncharted and unexplored until they'd found it. If there's even a chance... Avil thought, tapping his way to the emergency decompression controls. The suspension pod could survive the impact if it landed at sea. I could come back here sometime... shore leave, maybe?
Just as he was about to confirm the order with the computer and vent the cargo hold toward the planet, his communications buzzer beeped.
"This is Tursin, go ahead." He said, responding.
"Captain." Came the reply, the distinct voice of the carrier's commanding officer. 'The admiral', as the crew would affectionately call her.
"Admiral Kayen." He said, curtly, and trying his best not to sound brooding. "I am at your disposal."
"Indeed." She replied. "Come to the bridge."
Short and sweet. "I'm on my way, Ma'am." He closed the connection.

"In just a minute." He moved his finger over the red, flashing 'VENT' prompt.

Lords of the hunt, hear my prayer.
If he should flee, grant me speed.
If he should hide, grant me cunning.
If he should alert, grant me stealth.
If he should fight, grant me strength.
If despite my efforts, I cannot save him...

Grant me forgiveness.


* * *

The symbiotes weren't always as they are now. Before they came upon the notion of inhabiting other organic hosts - parasitizing them at first, then using them as protective puppets - they were far different. Limited to aquatic environments, these blue, luminescent, and eel-like creatures - with beady eyes and dorsally-projecting tendrils - have had a violent history.
They exist in a fracturous state of civil war. One which was more or less started by reproductive rights - or the lack of them.
Their life expectancy is set from maturity, with a fixed amount of "life force" as it were, which they accumulate from other species in the early phase of their life cycle. For all, it diminishes steadily over time, though it can last them for centuries if not afflicted by injury or illness. Alas, such a thing is unlikely.
The 'males', as it were - the ones who sire offspring - do so at a cost. With each progeny, their life expectancy diminishes dramatically. A healthy sire can have up to five or six offspring in his lifetime, but he may not live to see them mature. The ones who carry, on the other hand - females, by analogy - use the energy provided by the sire to produce offspring. They enter a vegetative state, and what starts as one life re-emerges as two.
Females live longer than males as a result - and can live longer still, if they 'cultivate' more life force from their sire. For much of their recorded history, the symbiotes have never left any choice up to the males, whether or not they sire; and so, the male faces a dilemma:
He can surrender to a demand when it's made of him and give up his life expectancy willingly. Or he may resist - possibly risking further loss of life force if he's defeated and forced to sire more than he's ready for. In the end, many would lose their lives because they resisted, and many more would flee, or simply surrender and let their 'mate' take whatever they wanted from them. As time went on, the species became enlightened - developed technology, society, governments, beliefs and policies - all the while, the status quo of a sire's lack of control over his own lifeforce wouldn't be called into question.

Long after the symbiotes developed an effective military colonization, and began conquering other organic races - races that they later discovered, they could bond with as hosts and live longer - did the notion of reproductive rights for males enter their culture. In the end, it would be more sustainable for the entire race if they could pace their energy loss, and have a singular mate with whom to share it.

So divisive was the issue that their society fractured. On the one side, progressionists elected to adopt the new way, no longer subjugating sires and allowing them more freedoms and rights. On the other, traditionalists continue to observe the 'old ways', and clash violently with the other side at every turn. The progressionists formed an alliance with a handful of space-faring races, in exchange for certain concessions - territorial, technological and financial - and they continue to fight a long and costly war. A war over an ideal, in the end, will only stop when one point of view has vanquished the other by any means, be it by enlightenment or by force.

-Exerpt, Preface to "History of the Aquilean galactic cluster"
Vol. 1, 5th edition
256-9482-308, 200 years after separation

* * *

Avil's plasteel armour boots clattered along the deckplates as he stepped off the elevator and onto the bridge. The admiral was nowhere to be seen.
The door to her office was closed, and the light was on - knowing it's the only other place she could be at that time of day, he walked over to the door and pressed the call button.

With no salutation, the door simply slid open with a pleasant-sounding 'zwish'. Inside, the admiral could be seen standing behind her desk, facing the window - the planet below still within view, and stars all around it. Lights in the room were low, the unnamed planet reflecting some sunlight through the window.
"Admiral." Avil said as he approached, eyeing the female carefully. She was, like him, occupying a dolphin host - and she'd recently migrated into this one. Hunter-green markings were splashed down her sides, much like his red. The admiral didn't respond, she merely turned her head slightly, then turned back to look at the stars again.
Avil took it as a sign to sit on the bench in front of her desk. Bulky tail swaying with the added weight of his armour plates, he took a few moments to get comfortable. Silence continued to fill the room, and it was starting to feel awkward.

"Did your voicebox break in the last few minutes?" He asked, being a bit of a smartass.

The admiral was afflicted by a rare condition. She can never fully integrate with a host body, and some aspects of physical function aren't there. She can move, live and do most things normally, but the nerves responsible for vocalizing - more to the point, speaking in galactic tongue - were beyond her control. She could chitter, click, whistle and squeal if she so chose, but such 'primitive' communication was generally frowned upon from someone of her rank and stature. To assist with her disability, Admiral Kayen's speech was interpreted by an External Vocal Interpreter Module - generally called a 'voicebox' as shorthand, by the small percentage of symbiotes who needed to use them.
The device sat at the base of Kayen's jaw and gave off a faint, ethereal glow at all times - flickering slightly when it was reading her brainwaves and interpreting them as speech. She lost the subtlety of vocal inflections that would give clues to mood, humour or wit - but she could communicate as well as any other sentient, for the most part.
"What happened down there?" She asked, the semi-robotic tones of her simulated voice sounding hollow and tinny in the confined bulkheads of the room.

Avil tilted his head and looked up at the admiral. She turned around to look back at him, finally. "Could you be more specific?" He asked.
"The cargo bay you were just in got vented into space. It obviously wasn't Beagle, or you wouldn't be here now."
Avil rubbed his head. Far be it for him to have that entire debate he just had with Beagle again. "I... uh. How to put this-... I wanted closure."
Deessa's posture changed from slightly agitated, to concerned. "Closure." She echoed.
"Yes." The captain replied. "After all that I put into those... experiments. And after being fed that termination notice from the science council... I just wanted to end it on my own terms. If the project is over - really over - then it should be me that pulls the plug. Not some... stuffy science council bureaucrat, who spends all day reading reports, directing funding, and sipping overpriced water. My project's final resting place is down on that planet, now. I'm ready to move on."

The admiral looked him over for a moment - symbiotes in cetacean hosts could pick up on each other's subtle body language with enough practice. Avil's answer perplexed her, and so, she stared for a moment; trying to glean some clues from his posture and movements. He gave her nothing: his composure was absolute.
"You could have asked for permission." The admiral said.
Avil snorted. "It's not like I didn't have clearance. My special projects team access privileges-"
"Are soon to be revoked." Deessa said abruptly, cutting him off.
The admiral folded her arms over her chest, the semigloss plates of her light armor outfit making a soft creaking noise. She was cross with him.

The pair of cetaceans stared at each other for a few moments. Tension wasn't a rarity between these two - particularly since, at one point, Deessa had been vying for Avil's mateship pledge. Officially, Avil gave his pledge to Beagle several months before... though the captain knew he could get some leniency from the Admiral, in exchange for certain 'favours'.
The captain looked Deessa over. He sensed a need to disarm her before her frustration grew.
"I'm sorry, Deessa." He said in a softer tone, submitting, for the moment. In saying her common name, he hoped to change the mood in the room to one less tense. And less formal.
She moved toward him and leaned on her desk, heavy tail slapping down on its surface with a dry thump. "I suppose it makes little difference now. Everything in that bay was scheduled for disposal." She said dryly, her voicebox lighting up as she spoke. "You could have checked in with me. I don't like it when someone does things on my ship. Things like decompressing an entire cargo bay."
Avil sat up and looked into her eyes. "Deessa. You didn't bring me here to talk about something I did on the way to see you. One apology is all you'll get."
She stood back up, passed Avil a datapad with an open document on it, and took a seat in her chair.
"You're right." She replied dryly. "I brought you here to talk about what you might like to do next."
As Avil scanned the datapad, he saw a list of vacant postings for the Lev'Sratha's next crew rotation, which would take place in no more than two weeks.
The list had a few positions that would be interesting to most officers aspiring to grow their career in the Allied Mixed Fleet - the flight positions caught his eye. Deessa had highlighted them for him.
"You're looking for pilots." Avil observed.
"There will be a new interceptor squadron stationed onboard after the next crew rotation." She'd follow. "I thought you'd like to be considered, since you've an accomplished pilot's record. Before you decided to be a researcher."
Avil scanned and re-scanned the list of openings. While a few wingman positions were still open, the wing commander position wasn't even on the list. "Why isn't the CFG listed here?" He asked.
"The Commander of the Fighter Group position is filled."
"By whom?"
The admiral plucked the datapad from Avil's hands, tapped over it for a moment, and then presented it to him again. The profile of a Sileren - a blue-skinned reptilian - figured on the pad, along with biographical data and a short list of accomplishments.
"Samael Cordova." Avil said aloud as he read the would-be commander's name.

The dolphin took a moment to read the stout list of accolades. This Cordova was a fresh face in terms of reputation. "The sileren do tend to make good pilots, but this one barely has any flight experience." He said. "No... notable battles, no postings, just a few commendations. And some... training encounter of some sort?"
Deessa nodded and tapped on the pad's screen some more. "He's shown some natural ability in piloting and leadership."
"Like what?" Avil retorted. Critical, though only because he thought he had a chance at replacing the Sileren.
Deessa shook her head. "During practice maneuvers, him and his training unit were ambushed by a scouting wing belonging to the Hunters. His instructor and many of the stationed pilots were killed in the initial attack. In the confusion, Cordova took command of the trainees he was with, drove the Hunters back, and saved the lives of a few hundred station personnel."
Avil rubbed his beak and pondered over the story. Impressive for a first sortie, to be sure. "So... he beats off a couple of scouts, gets graduated shortly after, and is handed the commander's seat of an interceptor squadron on your ship?"
"Yes." Deessa replied flatly.
Avil dropped the datapad to the admiral's desk and scoffed. "You can't seriously believe that he's ready to lead. This Cordova just finished flight training. Just because he shot up a few lost scouts and yelled at some trainees over the comms doesn't mean he's fit for command."

A short pause followed as Deessa spun on her heels, looking out the window again. "The higher-ups slotted him into the CFG position, not me. They believe he has potential." She said with a shrug.
Avil sensed Deessa's incredulity. She didn't like having her authority superseded, especially when it came to wing leaders.
"Experience trumps potential." Avil said, coming to join Deessa at her side. "You need someone who has command experience and knows how to handle a fighter - not to mention a handful of cocky pilots who think they know everything about flying."
The admiral would smirk if she could. "Someone like you, Avil."
Avil put a hand on her shoulder. "Deessa. It isn't like you to let someone at Fleet Ops handpick your squadron commanders for you. What's really going on?"
The admiral looked Avil over briefly before responding. "It's been suggested to me that I let this flexion of authority slide, so I asked for information through some unofficial channels. I found something interesting."
The captain gave a slight nod, urging Deessa to continue. "Apparently the Sileren dynasty had one of their princes disappear, a few months ago. He's not been glympsed in public for some time. When I heard that I may be inheriting a member of Sileren nobility onboard my ship, particularly as a commander of one of my wings, I tried to confirm if the two events were related. Unfortunately, I have been blocked off from investigating any further. As well-connected as I may be, this usurper of rank may very well have better connections than I."

Avil took a step back and glanced over the datapad once more, scanning the Sileren's profile photo. "All Sileren look alike to me." He said jokingly. "Although... with that white hair, and that picture-perfect face, he could be..."
"Prince Neyvan." The admiral interjected.
A long pause came over the pair. "Neyvan is the heir to the Sileren dynasty." Avil stated.
"I know." Deessa said, lowering her voicebox' volume. "It's not like they're trying to infiltrate a spy onboard my ship - the Sileren have been strong allies to the symbiotes ever since we broke away from the Hunters."
"Then why not just have him lead Sileren forces instead? He's gone to a lot of trouble to hide who he is. If it's even him."
Deessa shrugged. "The royal family has many flaws, Avil. Pride, above all. To them, a royal heir serving as a mere wing leader would appear to be an embarrassment. My feeling on this is that the prince wanted to leave royal life, politics, and court. If any of the rumours about him are true, he's as hot-headed as you are, and with all that royal entitlement..." She trailed off.
The captain pieced the story together, based on what evidence they had to go on.
"So..." He began. "The prince is tired of being groomed for the big chair, and wants to bloody his hands in the war himself. So he disappears - no doubt with a lifeline back home if military life doesn't suit him - trains for a few months on fighter piloting, happens to get lucky in a skirmish just before he graduates, and is handed a CFG posting on the most sought-after carrier in the Allied Mixed Fleet."
"More or less." Deessa replied, folding her hands behind her back. "Unfortunately, I don't know what to do. If he's really royalty, then-"
"He's not." Avil interrupted. "He's assumed a new name, a new look and identity - he's a commoner, now. That means he's got to get used to not having his way all the time."
"A situation that I suspect you know very little about." Deessa quipped, sarcastically.
The male drew himself in closed to Deessa and rubbed his beaktip against hers. "You know he can't do anything, officially. Has he arrived onboard yet?"
"This morning." Deessa replied.
"Until he reports in with you, he hasn't officially accepted the position. Slide his name into the 2nd wingman position, put me in as CFG, and I'll keep him in check. For all you know, he'll want to be running your ship in half a year."
The admiral shifted around uncomfortably. Avil had a talent for persuasion. "Alright. On one condition."
"Name it."
"You have to tell him yourself." Deessa said.
On reflection, Avil accepted her terms. "What can he do? I outrank him. He'll have to get his protest through me before he brings it to you."
Deessa glared. "You make sure of that. Captain."
Avil recoiled, jokingly. "Captain, is it? A minute ago I was Avil."
Although Deessa's voicebox interpreted her speech as flat and monotone, Avil had learned to read her moods. A subtle, flirty gleam was in her eye.

"What should I tell him, then?" Avil asked, tugging Deessa in closer. They were nearly chest to chest - close enough that they'd feel each other's body heat, had their armor not been in the way.
"The truth." Came her reply. "Based on your own experience, and with reasonable arguments to support, you've convinced me to have you command the interceptor wing instead of him."
"He won't like it. Neyvan - or 'Samael' as he's taken to being called - will probably want to see you the minute he finds out." Avil said, running his fingers down the side of her jaw, a feather-light touch grazing over her rubbery skin.
"You... will deal with-... him." Deessa's speech was being punctuated by some unexpected pauses.
A soft silence filled the room thereafter - all that could be heard was the idle humming of the ship's power systems as they ran through the bulkheads around the pair. Muffled noises coming from the bridge, on the other side of Deessa's office door.
Avil's fingers grazed down to the groove where her skin met her light armor, just at the base of her neck.
"What's the matter...?" The male asked in a whisper, then clicked out a curious-sounding chirp. "The ol' vocal processor having problems again?"
Deessa's eyes flitted back and forth, staring at Avil, then darting around the room. Anxiety, frustration, excitement and affection swirled around in her head. The perfect cocktail mix of emotions to trip up her speech interpreter.
The male knew full well that one of the voicebox' flaws is that it can only translate thoughts into speech, when the thoughts -can- be translated into speech. When emotions surface before thoughts can be made coherent, the interpreter simply waits until its subjects' thoughts are intelligible again.
"Now." Avil began, rubbing his beak against Deessa's. "Is there anything I can do in exchange for this... favour you've done for me?" He ran his thick tongue out over his beak, flicking it out once over the admiral's skin.
Suddenly, she jolted and got hold of her senses, whilst grabbing Avil by the arms and nudging him back. "You are spoken for. Beagle is your mate." She stated.
"Oh, I'm not planning on siring with you. Nor with her, for that matter. But - she knows that. She also knows I'm here. And... she knows not to expect me to be back at our quarters tonight." He replied.
Deessa looked away. She'd glance at the monitors in her office, the stars out the window, and the bulkheads on the floor before she'd cobble together a response.
"Come on." Avil whispered, pressing her on the matter. "I know you've not had a taste of the pleasure these host bodies can bring us for a long time. And I know you've just recently started using this new one. Why not... give it a try? Besides. With me, our secret's safe. If you went to the pit... well, everyone would recognize you."
Deessa mulled over the notion in her head. Certainly, she wanted it. Although Avil might've been manipulating her feelings for his own gain, the door could certainly swing both ways. And so, this was the essence of their professional and personal relationship - each of them could get what they wanted from the other, though not always for the price they'd bargained for.

"Engineering. This is Admiral Kayen." Deessa spoke into her communicator. "Respond, please."
After a moment, the speaker crackled with the reply. "This is engineering. What can we do for you, Admiral?"
She redressed herself upright and gently brushed the captain's hands from her skin. "Chief, it's good to hear from you again. When is the last time the engine's secondary power transfers were purged and reset?"
There was a short pause. "Uhm... A few months ago, mistress. I would have to check the logs. We're not due to cycle the secondaries until-"
"Begin the procedure within the hour." Deessa interrupted.
Confused, the engineering chief replied. "Er... are you sure, Admiral? That'll delay our docking at the refit station by at least three days."
"Four." Deessa followed. "Be thorough. We will be underway once the procedure is finished. Clear?"
"Yes, Admiral."
The communication channel closed. Avil did a brief mental calculation: with the purging, plus engine cool time, and the travel time needed to reach their destination... this little delay on Deessa's part made for their trip to take no less than two full weeks, at this point.
"Two days?" Avil asked. "I'm yours for two weeks?"
She simply nodded. "For venting my cargo bay without asking, and for playing on my emotions without caring."
The male reeled back playfully. "Without caring? That's harsh. I've always had strong feelings for you, Deessa."
"We'll see if you still do in two weeks." She said with a smirk, whilst grasping his wrist and tugging him out the office door. Heading to her quarters, Avil wondered ad nauseum if the deal he'd just bargained out with Deessa was worth it.

* * *

Cold. Turbulence. Blunt bumping and coarse gritting. The feeling of being mindlessly carried down a river with a merciless current, and bends at every few seconds of travel.
At first, there was only darkness. The muffled sounds of limbs hitting rocks and sand. Following that was a sudden change in pressure and temperature, then painful dragging.
The surface of what would be a peaceful, if fast-flowing river was abruptly shaken when the hulking grey castaway was thrown onto the sand of a shallow bend.
Spitting out a throatful of river water and sand, the homonculus shook violently and collapsed, lower half still underwater. Its arms were trying desperately to roll the rest of its body upright.
His first glimpse of light was blinding and painful. A tortured shriek bellowed from his beak as he closed his eyes, covered them with his scaly hands, and curled up on the shore.

It was late evening, nearly dusk - sun had crept close to the horizon and was soon to disappear. Treetops glowed with the gentle gold-orange rays that brushed them - leaves twitched and fidgeted as a light breeze kissed the riverside foliage. A more tranquil birthplace could not be asked for - if only the creature knew that he was, in fact, brought to life only moments before.
The chariot on which he rode - his stasis pod - lay scattered and smashed over a wide swath of forest. Shards of glass were carried downstream in the current of this nameless river. Perhaps it was the shock of planetfall, or simply a matter of time - or some combination of the two - that woke the beast from his interminable slumber? Nonetheless, there he was: alive and well, if a bit worse for wear.
Breath ebbed and flowed frantically through the spout on the back of his head - his cetacean half was doing its part to keep him alive and conscious. As his breath slowed, so did his heart, and an eventual calm found its way into the monster's consciousness. Though physically mature, its mind was only hours old.

Cautiously, the hybrid uncurled from his fetal-like position and opened an eye. Then, the other. One muscle at a time, it seemed, he was finding all the moving parts and asserting their functions. As he opened his eyes, a small clearing came into view, surrounded by tall trees.
He refolded his wings and attempted to stand. His legs shook. Balance was difficult for the hybrid to grasp, and he fell to his palms. Plated, clawed hands mashed into the sand as he pushed himself upward and re-attempted.
Again. And again. He repeated the moves stubbornly until he was finally able to stand. Shakily, to be sure, but his body was doing what he wanted it to do.
Small steps at first, he ambled his way back into the water and let the current greet his toes. Clawed feet sank into the mud. Though he couldn't smell the putrescent aroma that wafted upward from the silt, it clung to his body - the smell of mud, decaying plants, and whatever else lurked in the river.
He found walking to be much easier in the water than on dry land - at least, as far as his balance was concerned. The water helped to support him and keep him upright - his natural hip posture was wide and awkward, forcing his upper body to hunch naturally. Long arms no longer hung primitively at his sides, but swayed with each step, counterbalancing his feet below.
He stopped at one point to watch the current rippling by. The cool water felt good on his skin. As he watched the ripples of the river, he noticed the reflection of his surroundings in the water - and the reflection of himself.
Apalled by what he saw, he vocalized aggressively. "Skrrr... Skrrroorr!" He bellowed, clawing angrily at his reflection. It was wholly unacceptable to him. The image he'd expected to see, the one that had been imprinted in his young mind, was one of a grey-and-white skinned creature, without nearly as much red, no spots, and no yellow bits - the point of his beak, most especially.
To his chagrin, no amount of splashing would erase the reflection he saw. It upset him to the point where he refused to look at it any longer, and pressed on - continuing to walk down the river, his movement eased by the river's current.

He'd take a drink from the river once the feeling of thirst rose to his beak. Lower instinct was naturally taking shape in the monster's mind; hunger was quick to follow. His stomach's rumblings were quieted after snatching up a few crunchy-shelled creatures from the sediment. The notion of prey as food was also rooted in his mind; he understood what to do to survive.

Slowly, the current carried his steps toward the mouth of the river. As the water spilled out into a wide, sprawling lake, the hybrid stared to the opposite shore. Confronted with the strangest feeling, he'd stare blankly onto the water's surface whilst trying to make sense of it.
For a moment, he felt an imperative: to live. Living as long as possible, by any means possible. The feeling wasn't his own, however. It felt imposed, even forced upon him.
Words, though merely meaningless sounds to the male, echoed faintly through his head.
"Damn you." ... "I cannot save him." ... "Grant me forgiveness."
The feeling of being shot violently downward. Darkness.
At once, he felt an abrupt loss of balance and fell into the water. As his eyes fluttered closed, he rumbled out an involuntary 'Skrrrrr...'

* * *

Avil sprung up from the shallow of Deessa's sleeping pool in a violent, flailing thrash. Heart pounding, panting, he rubbed his melon and eyes. Teeth gritted, he examined his hands meticulously, posessed with the need to make sure that they were the same as they looked the day before.
Deessa sat up slowly and put a hand on his shoulder. He started to calm, slowly. She watched him with a puzzled expression as the male re-examined his limbs.
"What's the matter?" She asked in a half-whisper.
"I... I'm not sure." Avil stammered.
The pair looked at each other and stared for a long moment.
"I just had the most... unusual dream."


To be continued.