His footsteps carried hollow throughout the complex’s hallways, diffusing off large steel doors and ruthlessly utilitarian walls. Textured floors provided only traction, specifically coloured lighting illuminating the sterile catacombs in a clinically white hue. Not even the slightest smudge of dirt or dust remained, for even that would intrude on the machinations of the underground facility.
He stopped in front of an indistinct door, only his implant informing him that he had arrived at his destination—though he had traversed these passages enough for each route to be etched into memory.
Dulled mud-coloured fur covered the four-clawed paw reaching for the access panel, his eight digit authentication code entered into the terminal. He adjusted his black suit, being mindful that his tail did not disrupt the fitment, and shifted his weight from one digitigrade leg to the other. The door announced an imminent occupant to those inside with a small artificial hiss from the speaker, his vertical triangular ears brushing the top of the frame as he entered.
It was a dimly lit room, though his eyes compensated with little delay—the slit pupils widening to turn the near-black space into something he could navigate without issue. It needed to be dark, lest the mono-transparent wall bleed light into the adjacent containment. Such conditions were occasionally troublesome for those unfamiliar with the contents and crevices before him, but as with the rest of the building and its featureless corridors, even sight was but a mild convenience for the brown-furred male who entered.
“High Quesitar,” a smaller female greeted from the desk pressed against their semi-translucent view, her chair turned to face the doorway behind her. “This one has awaited your arrival.”
He nodded, once again noting her unusual coat; the beige fur was tinted the slightest amount of blue around her eyes, cheeks, and along the lips of her elongated muzzle—not enough to detract from the uniformity required of them, but enough to highlight her natural beauty. The deft touch of one who was familiar with the expectations placed, yet desired to be noticed by those astute enough. Those like him, presumably, and he found it to be an amusing sentiment.
“Assistant Quesitar,” the male reciprocated, allowing a slight mirth into his voice despite the circumstances. “Has there been any deviations since the last query?”
She smiled politely, friendly warmth and a touch of frustration tinting her expression. “She has remained compliant, if...eerily still.” She glanced at the terminals on the table before turning back towards him. “Must we stick with titles, Heroon?”
A soft chuckle escaped him as he pulled out the seat next to her and situated himself, swiftly entering his credentials into his workstation of the sun. “We must, Illia, and you are aware of why.”
The sound of her sigh only slightly overcame the hum of the atmospheric conditioning providing oxygen for the room so far beneath the surface, followed shortly by the dejected voice of his den-mate muttering her reluctant compliance. “Of course, high one. This one will adhere to the will of her betters.”
He opened the files he needed and the screen filled with reports of the incident which led to his participation: recovered data of the largely destroyed device, statements collected by those involved, and a personnel file tied to the authorization code given by the one under observation.
The individual in question was captured and contained after an ejected emergency shuttle was detected travelling in low atmosphere. It shifted trajectory, ignored hails, then impacted in a high-security military base. Once confronted, they gave their identification, a storage device, and serious accusations against the ones their people were in the process of first contact with. Following those events, they were restrained and transported to the facility that Heroon was assigned.
All in all, a typically open and shut case; they would be discredited due to their ‘evidence’ being little more than corrupted files, a ridiculous recount of their experience, and the matter of their ‘escape’ ending in multiple cases of damage to a classified military base. The reason they were not executed or simply tossed into prison was twofold; they had an authorization code that supported some of their claim, and a discrepancy in that which was possible. It was just enough to bring caution to the High Elders.
Unfortunately, that meant he was required to be there for this, and that he would need to swallow his own distaste in the process. One does not refuse the utmost echelons of command.
“Timetable suggests only the baseline quantity of sustenance has been consumed,” he murmured, bringing up the results of previous queries. Though the containment had been hastened and short in duration thus far, the nature of the situation still required isolation, and therefore status updates were to be collected in a timely manner. The last thing they needed was for their captive to expire before any proper interrogation could be held.
His assistant pushed a detailed breakdown of the captive’s actions, the list being quite short. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t so much as blink to see a ‘broken one’ performing only the minimum to subsist—even breathing proved taxing for those diminished to existing as mere shells. Regardless. he perused the logged events, seeing little more than noted whispers, and a short response when questioned.
“They wished to speak with a High Quesitar,” Illia voiced quietly, mirroring the statement recorded. Some measurement of concern rested in her gaze. “Since then, all that has been uttered is...disturbing prayer.”
“We do not exist, Assistant,” he reminded her, cycling a deep breath as he verified audio transcription from the containment. The litany of the faithful—an archaic form of petitioning the Hunt Mother—was documented to have been voiced more times than he cared to count, and in as many variants as well.
“Yet we were beckoned all the same.”
He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Lia.”
The beige-furred female turned towards the see-through wall. “I am aware of the absurdity, but that does not make it false.”
Heroon followed her regard to the room across the desk, the pale white room host to a pale white table, a pale white chair, and a pale white light suspended from the ceiling. A female of desaturated fur was covered in scars, burns, and the visage of one not long for this world. Faded yellow fur coloured her jaw, reaching down her neck and torso. Her file cited it as being constrained to her front, as the rest was an equally muted grey, partially covered by bandages which were stained red with blood.
She sat listless in the seat, the arms dangling at her sides showing even resting them comfortably was too large a task for the one who possessed them. An image of stagnation was completed by dead, hollow eyes. The empty stare seemed to pierce the opaque surface she should be seeing, instead boring into his skull unerringly, yet also appeared unfocused and hazy, her pupils dilated despite the bright illumination.
He fought the caution which attempted to mar his stoic expression and closed out the files he wouldn’t need, skimming the incident report before adjusting the collar of his suit.
“Assistant, prepare stenographic archiving on a physical medium as a backup.”
“Of course, High...” Illia blinked, her mind catching up to the request. “Pardon?”
The brown-furred male kept his voice even, his eyes focused on the contained female. “I require a physical transcription of this interrogation.”
“You think she’s...” A glance was enough to make his point. They had known each other since they were kits, so it took little effort for her to discern that he was deathly serious. None but those of stations exceeding his own would receive the documentation pertaining to this, for if what was hinted at were false, then it would be needless rumour and hostility.
If it were true...
She nodded hesitantly. “It will be done.”
He waited for her to pull the archaic equipment she needed from a sparsely used drawer, the tracks squeaking from possible years of disuse. As soon as she confirmed that she was ready, he pressed and held the button to activate a microphone built into the intercom, taking solace in the voice modulation and the privacy it would give him.
“Greetings, contained one.” The female in the isolated room only twitched a single claw in recognition. “I am a High Quesitar of the United Military.”
Heroon released the button to observe her, checking that Illia retained the neglected training imparted upon her during the initial induction of her position. His den-mate nodded her willingness and ability to continue, his claw depressing the intercom once more.
“You performed terroristic actions against a UM base and defamed our likely allies, yet the former you claim ‘necessary’ to support the latter. It is fortunate that none were present in the area you chose to impact, but it has become clear such was an unintended mercy. What benefit would you gain from possibly slaying kin with your choices?”
He waited for her response, time crawling by as only the hum above them and the sound of his assistant recording notation could be heard. He was about to give up on making progress, but the speaker crackled—a hoarse, strained voice making itself known.
“It is only through violence that I would gain an audience with whom is needed.”
His ear flicked, irritation and impatience pushing his temper. “You resigned yourself to silence unless a High Quesitar would hear your plea?”
Movement. A parched tongue wetting dried lips on a snubbed muzzle. Her words creaked forth. “I remained silent lest my statement be rejected and dismissed by those who judge my words by origin, rather than content.”
“And you feel that a change in listener would validate your claims?”
“I felt one who specialized in detection of deceit was required.”
“Then why—“
The slightest hint of a lost smile formed on the pale-furred female. “—Your belief would be immutable. Who better to trust than one who seeks only falsehood in the words of one he speaks with? Who would deny the accreditation of one who seeks to discredit?”
“...You wish to be caught lying?”
She blinked, the deadened stare shifting slightly. “I wish for one who will twist and bend my answers into unrecognizable states, and yet still fail to find fabrication.”
He exchanged a doubtful look with his assistant as he released the button. “She is clearly unstable.”
Illia paused her transcription, anxiously rubbing one paw with the other. “Regardless of if we think so...”
“She must still be questioned, and her tale deconstructed,” he finished dryly. He cycled a breath and referenced the female’s claimed identity.
A Special Tactics Officer. They were almost as classified as his own station, deployed only when the objective required unwavering dedication to a singular outcome. They were chosen regardless of origin, health, or experience, relying on advanced and obfuscated metrics to assign soldiers of any division to their ranks. Each ‘wave’ of them was a mixed assortment that was shuffled and arranged with little regard for the companionship or relationships formed.
It was for those who were too eccentric to fit seamlessly with the rest of their kin, yet would become regarded as amongst the unparalleled in their field because of it. A melting pot of sorts, churning out naught but results and corpses.
How fitting for a defective to be a part of it...
She was right about one thing; he despised the tainted filth separated from him by structure and duty, just as any who had the displeasure of occupying the same room as her ilk—the Hunt Mother’s disowned. Every one of them was a stain on the population, polluting the air with their stagnate stench and were rightfully deprived of the gift. He would do his task as required of him, then condemn the failure of a being to the Void where she belongs.
That was only appropriate for one who was spurned by the goddess...yet she played the part of one who was broken regardless. Perfectly. It was almost as if the ludicrous statements on his screen carried truth.
He hovered his claw over the intercom, a scowl forming as he was forced by his station to listen to the inane ramblings which would no doubt pour from the female like a sickly ichor.
No matter, all he needed was a lie. One single tell of deception, then she would be removed while their people celebrated the end of war and were welcomed into the Union, benefiting from multiple species and countless centuries of technology unknown. Of paths untraveled by those unmet. They would be given territory to expand their influence. They would ford the waters of progress, upheld by their predecessors and aided by advances gleaned from tolerated cosmic neighbours.
All of that was placed in jeopardy because of one female who was cast aside by the Hunt Mother, yet prayed for her blessings. One female who deserted her station, then came crashing back without remorse. One female who claimed to hold the truth while also asserting to have gained the impossible.
All he needed was one. Single. Lie.
He pressed the button.
“Identify yourself.”
The female straightened her limp posture slightly. “Second wave Special Tactics Officer—designation ‘Demo.’ Authorization code four-six-four-nine, Iras branch of the United Military.”
“Why did you alter the course of the evacuation shuttle to target the base?”
A ghost of a wry smile appeared on her face. “How else would I be speaking with you?”
He ignored the snide remark—if she was willing to all but commit suicide for a message, then insanity was already a likely factor. “Why do you accuse our prospective allies of such heinous crimes?”
The smirk was gone, emotion emptying from her expression to leave only detachment behind. “Because they have committed them.”
“Yet you bring only scraps of purported ‘evidence’ to support your claims?”
“I have nothing else but my form, and that has been stripped as well.”
The brown-furred male frowned, a long exhale needed to dismiss his frustration. “Be that as it may, your actions and words have drawn both the attention and the ire of the United Military. All that separates you from the Void is excess caution on the part of my superiors, and as such, you will be allowed to state your case in an effort to assert your choices as ‘necessary.’ Failing that, there will be no trial; you will be executed.”
The pale-furred female nodded, albeit weakly.
Heroon nodded to his assistant. “Then we will begin with the first aberration: your disappearance from the base.” He eyed the contained STO, then started the programs to analyze everything from her cadence to her scent. “You may begin.”
= = = = =
She walked to her room in the base after her deployment, the season amongst her ship-pack having gone better than any before it.
They had been tasked with dismantling an outpost occupied by those clinging to old grudges, and the appearance of new intelligent life did little to put their views into perspective. The group refused to unite with their others because of the insignificant visual difference which once was the catalyst of countless wars—a problem for many diplomatic reasons, and so they were expected to solve it. Once the issue had been resolved, there was a lengthy trip back to command for debriefing, then a rest period until she was assigned a new rotation.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
She never minded the constant shuffling of her unit since they never remained with the same group for long, but it would be a lie to say she didn’t wish for someone to voice their remorse at her reassignment. This time was different however, for she was happy on the way to her residence. She had made a friend!
Recon was a polite male, if a touch brash and terse. Regardless, he spoke to her with sincerity and kindness, disregarding her condition with a smile as they conversed. He had been the only one who chose to approach her in quite some time, honestly. Out of numerous deployments and countless soldiers, the male was the first to seek her company beyond the confines of the assignment. Given that she was inexperienced with personalizing, one could hardly blame her for being...overenthusiastic and jumping to the incorrect conclusion.
Her advances were shut down with firm certainty, yet thankfully delivered in the same understanding tone he always used with her; he would never be interested in a defect that way, and he did not hold such an interest in her.
The drone she made for him was clutched to her chest as she thanked him for his honesty and apologised for her misunderstanding, the optical aerial unit creaking in her clutches. She had heard his laments about his personal gadget being irreparably damaged during the mission, and so crafted a replacement which could detonate as an offensive option—or in the event of unfortunate signal loss, destroy itself to deny an enemy the equipment.
The rejection hurt, but even if things had not gone as well as she might have liked, she was still pleased to have someone to reliably speak with. It was unfortunate that he had been quite busy during the rest of the return trip, but she occupied herself by humming and wondering if he would like to eat together regularly once they were back.
Such ponderings were woefully short-lived.
The moment they landed at the base, Recon left without a word and immediately applied for another ship-pack, refusing to spare even a single glance at the female who foolishly took kindness for something more. She thought it odd, but he did seem rather motivated, so perhaps he was one who preferred to be active in the force. No matter, she would be able to spend some time with him before he departed again, and that was enough to keep her spirits light.
Her room presented itself when she opened the entryway, the confines offering space to collect or tinker as much as she could ever wish to. The other three expected occupants dared not deign to share it with her—they elected for other accommodations, taking bed with those they found more tolerable. She had long since accepted it, but returning to the emptiness after letting herself be swept away by thoughts of companionship carried with it a new sense of loss. It felt even more devoid now that she knew a glimpse of otherwise, her stubborn imagination picturing how it would look with others’ possessions.
Chemicals and electronics populated the entirety of the wall-mounted desk designed to support more than the single explosives expert that stocked it. The broad bed remained undisturbed, save for a single slight indent on the edge where she slept. Documentation and notes lay strewn on the floor from her hasty packing—most denoting the properties of various materials to tailor her prepared supplies based on what she was expected to work against. A thin layer of dust covered everything, even the recessed slot on the inside of the door.
It was a painful reminder that none dared display the slightest amount of concern for her while she was away.
No one would come and add their own items to the mess. No one would clean the space, nor complain when the others failed to as well. No one would check to see if she had returned, nor welcome her back. No one would even think to rouse her from her rest in the event she overslept—not that she ever did, but knowing someone would care enough to save her the lecture would have been nice.
The only benefit of the situation was that she knew no one had stolen or sabotaged her projects, yet even that carried a sting of ostracization; it was but one more affirmation that she wasn’t even worth the effort of harassment. Somehow that was worse.
Yet she smiled anyway, forcing the expression while taking in the space which was hers before going about the task of getting settled in again.
She unpacked and began picking up and organizing the papers scattered about the room, placing them where they belonged and pausing when she reached an empty space for a terminal. The thought of purchasing another crossed her mind, but after the previous device was locked out of the network by a Tech she had unknowingly annoyed, she had been too disheartened to bother with it. Since then, the disabled unit rotted in a cupboard. A new one would likely face the same fate, but the possibility of her newfound friendship resulting in more was enough to ponder it. The idea was mentally added to things she would consider.
The notes on explosives were tidied up and placed next to the physical forms they detailed, sorted by type and method of activation. She brushed off the desk and moved to her closet to put away clothing, her two spare uniforms being joined by a third. Her eyes lingered on the sequential increase in rank on each of them, yet knowing they were assigned by an algorithm tracking her deployments and successful missions sapped any pride. If a superior were to actually view her record, then perhaps she might outrank most of those at the base, but she simply resolved herself to do better and earn their attention.
At least she could skip the more monotonous events and focus on her hobby. She still attended several presentations if they were interesting or if she felt the need to be included in something, but it often led to shortened talks and frowning faces, thus why she devoted herself to her role most of the time.
Her projects never complained about her involvement, nor did they refuse to function because of who worked on them. She could distract herself until the isolation became too much, or until she was summoned for a deployment, and then she would take the most applicable of her developments to test them properly. The results were always worth the moon after moon of effort. They needed to be, because nothing else would justify her position.
Once things were about as orderly as they were going to get, she debated fetching something to eat from the cafeteria, a small part of her mind revisiting the idea of joining Recon before he left again. Her rations were still good for a while, but although they would keep her going, they were never intended to be pleasant. They were perfectly acceptable when under fire and lacking sleep, but were a needless punishment when neither was the case.
The debate rolled over in her mind, eventually adding a third aspect to the argument—the fact that she needed to bathe. With most of the base welcoming back the others, they were likely getting something to nourish themselves, so that left her some time to get the dirt and freshly acquired dust out of her fur while the facilities were empty. If all went well, it would allow her a small window where her scent was mostly inoffensive, then she could perhaps join a table and fill her stomach without worry of reprisal. Perhaps Recon would introduce her to the others he was fond of as well. Perhaps she could finally make more friends.
Yes, bathing should be first!
Her plan decided, she gathered her toiletries and set out with a spring in her step.
- - - - -
Drying herself was always the most time-consuming part of bathing, but a much needed one all the same—dampness was uncomfortable, and water would soak into the sheets if she ignored it. Not the end of the world, but unpleasant nonetheless. Air-dryers were avoided for much the same reason she refrained from lingering in most public spaces; her scent remained if she dwelled in one area for too long, and blowing it around would only expedite the process. Thus, towels were the method of choice, and she was quick to deposit them in the designated receptacle before getting dressed.
Pleased that everything had only taken as long as was necessary, she made her way to the cafeteria feeling fresh and excited. It was rare that the base was eating all at once, and if Recon was nowhere to be seen, then she intended to at least succeed in having a conversation with someone.
The chances of said success almost audibly died out as she entered the canteen.
Recon could be seen amongst the tables, spinning the tale of his cruellest deployment to date. He gestured broadly and laughed, grimaced and nodded. He was the centre of attention, and it was all in response to hearing of the male who suffered the company of a defect for suns upon suns, forced to endure by the order of his betters. He systematically went through every interaction while his audience voiced their sympathy and laughed at his misfortune.
The greeting that surprised her so much that she stuttered? A disgusting experience where he bit his tongue to weather the scent. The calm conversations about why they chose their roles? Tedious drivel spouted by one who was so disturbed as to find playing with death to be preferable to her kin. The heartfelt confession about her past? Amusing tales of the disowned getting what they deserved.
The offer that required suns of building confidence, sleepless moons to manufacture a gift, and the admittance of affection she risked her heart for?
He spat his distaste and disgust at the thought, proclaiming he would rather his manhood be severed and warning all others that even tolerance of her presence carried the risk of them being the focus of her ‘obsession.’
She didn’t notice the tears falling to the floor as her mental distancing from the rejection collapsed. The rationalization which had formed in her mind—that she had simply read too deeply into kindness and she would use the chance to finally find companionship—no longer shielded her from reality.
Someone noticed her, followed by another, then more. Countless eyes turned towards the pale-furred female standing in the doorway, row after row of rueful gazes and muzzles of every shape twisting in repulsion. Recon raised a brow at his no longer captive audience, then turned to see what had stolen his spotlight. His voice—once soft, kind, and understanding—now carried a bitter hatred as he directed it at her, utilizing the name she was forbidden from disclosing, yet told him in confidence.
“Sunundra. Have you come to offer yourself again? If so, could you wait until I have eaten? I would much rather vomit than go through dry and painful retching.”
Perhaps it was the laughing that finalized things for her, or maybe the shared sentiments expressed by the rest, but her little sandcastle of self-delusion came crashing down under the waves of antagonistic expressions.
She was not welcome. She never was. She never would be.
The pale-furred female didn’t have the strength to accept it before, always clinging to hopes and prayer that each sun would be the one she was looked upon favourably, yet the world wanted to make sure she knew how foolish such desires were.
So she ran, though there was no destination in mind as her blurry vision and choked sobbing distorted her perception, her form nearly colliding into others. She shot through the the corridors at a full sprint to escape that which she was the source of. Hallway after hallway, turn after turn, she continued, desperate to outrun her sorrow.
She just wanted somewhere to belong. She wanted someone who accepted her and could look past the cursed biology she was born with. She wanted to avoid the hatred that tore her den to ruin, then followed her for the rest of her life.
Each step unearthed new memories that were suppressed to protect her fragile sense of self, each laboured breath making them more vivid. By the time she collapsed from exhaustion, she was still going full speed, her legs giving up and sending her tumbling through a mostly closed doorway. She remained crumpled on the ground, too spent to vocalize her cries, but too torn by suffering to stop the attempts. It reached a point where her stomach sought to provide where her sobbing could not, her heaving only adding acid to the shimmer of liquid agony on the floor.
Every sun of holding hope had been met with thunderous blows of disappointment, and every moon she spent bettering herself yielded no progress in being greeted with smiles, no matter how hard she tried.
And it was hard. It was hard to force the smile that she needed to wear, lest a frown turn away a potential conversation. It was difficult to align her schedule in a way that didn’t needlessly draw the ire of others. It was excruciating when she finally managed to speak with someone for any time at all, only to have the fleeting moments of elation shed and peel away as even her most thorough bathing and perfumes faded, her defective scent returning.
Recon’s kind words were a needle slipped between her weary defences, then his actual feelings tore her asunder, her weak heart turning weapon against her.
She bit back the last of her sadness, the petitioning of her goddess giving her something to hold on to.
“O’Mother of this soul, your faithful is in need of you, for she cannot continue on her own. Your faithful asks forgiveness for her weakness and requests of you your mercy, for your trials set before her have led not to promised salves and tender touch, but ripping scorn and scoured heart. Your faithful begs for guidance, for she knows not her way when the Void calls ever stronger…”
The pit in her stomach deepened, the years of hope failing to blunt the futility of her expectations. If she was approachable, if she was understanding, if she performed her duties well… She would be rewarded, no? Someone would see the aching loneliness within her and look beyond her condition… Someone would. It was what she told herself after every sun of failure and every attempt to connect with another making no progress. Each blow to her psyche let the cold blackness that beckoned her seep between the cracks. At some point, she began yearning for it as well, as it was the only thing that wanted her.
But that would make light of her struggles, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. She was close—oh so agonizingly close—but she would carry on just a little longer. Surely, something would become of her efforts. She couldn’t take much more otherwise...
“O’Mother of this soul, your faithful needs your kindness, for the world has none to give her. Your faithful shall be patient, for she knows your blessing belongs not to the rash or the reliant, but to those who bear your affection in all forms. Your faithful shall endure, for she shall await the reward for her piety, and rest beside you when she is worthy. Though vacant in heart and bruised in body, your faithful will be waiting.”
She drew one last breath, finishing as she always did when the tribulations of existence made the vacant embrace of the Void ever so tempting.
“O’Mother of this soul, your faithful begs for acceptance. Through patience and strong will, she dedicates herself to your design in hopes of another. Until your need for her arrives, she awaits.”
She let her voice linger, the very first request ever made with her blood-mother giving her the strength needed to persevere. Only when the pain in her abdomen outweighed her thoughts did she bother rolling over to check where she had ended up.
Though deserted, the previous administration office loomed over her supine form. Old boards still hosted bulletins placed there years ago, desks remained unoccupied as a newer construction housed the staff, and terminals left for public access provided a slight glow where the lights from the halls failed to reach. She forced air down her raw throat and collected herself enough to sit, then braced upon a table to stand.
Her withering mind reached for the sense of nostalgia as a shield to hide behind, taking her back to the decade prior where she had stood in almost the same place, her ever-present smile and unyielding optimism having yet to bear the brunt of life with her condition.
She had experienced the distance of society, true, but where the civilian sector sought nothing of her, the military promised comrades regardless of who she was. The military promised units and ship-packs—people who would support her and undoubtedly become friends or lovers. She would sign up, receive her training, then overcome the trials that the Hunt Mother set out for her.
…Such left her too hopeful to notice the stoic expressions tugging back scowls as she supplied her information, too excited to question the poor excuses her roommates gave for moving out, and too convinced of the promises to suspect they would never be fulfilled.
Having joined to seek others who would welcome her, she had yet to find a single one, and only after the years continued did she really feel the weight of it and come to realize that those expectations would never be met.
She lethargically took a seat, idly entering her credentials in hopes of applying to a deployment instead of weathering more time at the base. She lacked the strength to endure more isolation, and although the company would be forced by proximity, it was company all the same.
Notifications sat in her messages, unchecked because her personal terminal had been denied access to the network and she hardly saw the need to come here before; all she ever received was automated invitations to events she was never welcome to. Her eyes skimmed over the abbreviated contents out of habit, stopping on one which was directed to every member of the military.
It was in response to a request made by the Union; they sought defects to participate in a program designed to determine if Lilhuns were able to coexist with their interstellar neighbours. She knew of the testing taking place on a borderworld, but was uninterested in the details since her people decided that defects were unfit to represent them. The project had been running for years, yet it seemed the divergence that defectives exhibited had been noticed, and the Union sought to quell curiosity before further progress in diplomacy could be made.
She would have simply ignored it, but a very specific line captured her attention: they claimed to have determined a procedure to correct the defect in those affected, and simply required willing individuals to undergo it.
Her budding elation was swiftly cut as she realized the military wouldn’t let her go; she was no longer a civilian, and was in a position which was privy to classified information, no matter how limited that was. A note added by command cited that there would be units deployed to oversee the transports as well, which meant she would be noticed if anyone from the base was selected.
Yet when her eyes fell on a time and location that participants would be expected to arrive at, she swallowed, ignoring the taste of bile as she weighed her options.
She was being presented with the reward she so desperately sought, but at the cost of all the progress she had made over the years. On the one paw, her participation would involve covertly leaving the base, then trusting her life to aliens. On the other paw, this could be the Hunt Mother’s reward for her unending patience and diligence.
A chill swept her bones at the thought of even more years of worthless struggling. There was hardly a choice at all.
She cleaned the mess that had been made in her sorrow, returned to her room, then prepared everything she would need. Rations would be compact and light, she didn’t own much clothing, and any remaining space in her bag was to be filled by materials for a wide variety of projects—most very much explosive. Given that the rate of cultural and scientific exchange was rather slow while they prioritized basic societal compatibility, she was hoping to explain the items as something she used for entertainment. They were, in a way, because tinkering with them had long since become her only reprieve.
But if it was decided that she had nefarious intentions, then that could strip her of her right to treatment...
The gift she prepared for Recon caught her eye before she closed her bag. She was unwilling to part with the things that kept her sane, and the drone was simply a thing to tinker with. Nothing more…
When moonrise came and most of the base was busy elsewhere, she looked back at the room that she alone had occupied. It was neatly kept and the bed was freshly made. All of the possessions which she had not the capacity to carry were carefully stacked so that whomever was to come in after her would have little issue using the space. Hopefully, she would return before it was noticed, healed and able to do what she had spent years without success in. Though, even if they questioned her absence, she doubted any would care to look.
The strange shuttle arrived shortly after sunrise, her excitement pushing her past her need for rest and the empty state her stomach remained in. She didn’t question why the location was unguarded despite the standing orders; she was too enamoured with the idea that her piety had finally been met to find the insult hidden within the negligence. No, the gentle tug of acceleration as she was sent to her salvation was all that occupied her thoughts.
In a dazed blur of expectation, she was presented with a translation device of some sort, her belongings were taken to where she would be residing to recover, and she was escorted to an examination room for preliminary assessment. She ignored the alien forms and unknown technologies, remaining purely focused on where she was needed next, eager to complete the process as fast as possible. They guided her through everything with a monotonous electronic voice that the translator projected into her ear and into something that looked like a sensory deprivation chamber.
She complied upon being asked to disrobe and enter the device, obediently breathing deeply when the cover closed and a hiss filled the dark containment, tears of joy staining her cheeks as her voice cracked.
“O’Mother of this soul, your faithful weeps in her gratitude, for her devotion and perseverance has been answered. Your faithful will finally be accepted…”