Conor and Eivaley had descended several stories into Heavaluns' undercity. Labyrinthian passageways, walk routes, and service tunnels had replaced the neat grid-like streets of the middle city. Each step down lessened the amount of light around them.
The pair left the wan light of the central city levels for dark, depressing tunnels. The scent of thick moss, piss, and fungal growls accosted their lungs with each breath.
By the time they rested in a small offshoot, Conor had already been notified his nanites had run out of power. Meaning his injuries were truly his.
If his body could not stitch him up naturally, he would die soon. But that would have to wait until Eivaley was safe. Urla knew he had enough combat stims to keep him going until them. He just had to pull them from his duffle bag when needed.
Conor doffed his bag and assessed everything he had taken from his safe house. Thankfully, all he could want was in there: DT200 sub-machinegun, grenades, landmines, combat stimulants, and all his collective wealth, totaling several million credits.
Conor also snagged his sniping and reconnaissance kit. While finding a use for the Volk-10k or the cloaking gear while escaping was unlikely, having them may prove helpful if he survives.
“Are you alright?’ Conor coughed, feeling blood erupt from his gullet as the nanites ultimately failed.
He swallowed the blood and wiped clean his face, not wanting Eivaley to see that he was slowly dying in front of her.
He also swapped the X-5 for the DT 200. The X-5 was almost out of ammo and would be useless in a few more shots. Plus, the DT-200 had a flashlight and suppressor, making it far more handy in the tight quarters of the underground.
With him also having to keep tabs on Eivaley, the one-handed operation would allow the Human to easily offer his body as a shield while returning fire at any threat.
“As well as I can be,” Eivaley replied, having known that Conor was injured, but due to his nanites, she lacked the full scope of how close he was to dying. “But what about you? You said Brakul and Stitch were dead.”
Eivaley knelt in front of him and rubbed her thumb on his cheek, clearing away fresh blood from a laceration just above his eye while smiling.
Conor gently moved Eivaley's hand away from him. He did not know when it would be time for him to face the reality that his two closest friends were dead, but the Human did know that now was not the time.
Thinking fondly of the dead and morning them was a luxury Urla gave to people like Eivaley; Conor could not afford any distractions like that. Brakul and Stitch were gone, little more than another pair of bodies added to the endless piles created by the city; nothing would change that reality.
Conor would not be shocked if the first responders had already moved them to the burn pits in the city's core. A fate anyone who died in this city and lacking connections would meet.
“I will be fine,” Conor sighed, shoving any thoughts of them deep into his soul, hopefully, where they would remain to rot away. But he doubted that Urla would be so kind to a man like him.
For now, Conor understood that burdening Eivaley with those thoughts was not right, even if the earnest twinkle in her eye tempted him to tell her what Conor understood now—that he was all alone.
“Come on, we are almost to the car,” Conor grunted, helping Eivaley up and slinging his bag.
By Urla, it had been years since Conor had taken such a substantial injury and just had to suffer through it. The searing pain arcing through him with each motion reminded him why Stitch had pumped him full of emergency nanites years ago.
“Ok,” Eivaley replied, wrapping her tail around Conor's waist and sticking close to his warm body.
While Eivilasy held her tongue and did not press Conor on his feelings, the near-blank look in his eyes told her the Human was holding back on her.
Conor could not help but reminisce ever so slightly as they set off. Being this close to death made him feel oddly alive. The last time he nearly got dusted was a few years back while doing some wet work for an off-planet schmuck.
The guy had hired him and Brakul to stop and slaughter a convoy that held some ancient technology the quack swore could lead to the end of entire stars. Some cult of a dead star had decided it was their holy artifact.
Man, did those cultists fight. They were hocked up on enough combat stims to keep anyone going for days, no matter the injury. They pulled through, but Conor ended up with a nearly meter-long nano-sword impaling him.
Usually, that would not kill him quickly, but the Zlit-fucker had managed to nick one of his pulmonary Veins. If stitch had not been only a few minutes away, that would have been the end of it. How funny Urla could be some days.
The walk to the car lot was simple enough. They rounded a few corners, stuck to the shadows, and descended a few levels via decaying duracrete buildings and half-destroyed hab blocks.
Each flight down threatened to crumble, sending them plunging into lower levels. But that never came.
Each time they passed an open passage or door, Conor would clear it out, using thermal and IR so they could continue to travel amidst the dark. While there were few animals or sentients that could see in complete darkness, they were so rare doing so almost assured they would have the element of surprise.
Even though the total darkness was getting under Eivaley's skin, she was shuddering like a leaf at this point. Conor could not deny that traveling completely blind like she was must be worrisome. All she had to rely on was his counsel and the sounds of skittering rats amidst the debris.
Conor paused just before entering the cavernous duractrete parking structure; peaking out, he choked out a bloody breath and was reminded about needing to work fast as his vision started to blur ever so slightly from blood loss.
Conor sighed and activated his thermal vision, resigning that his regular sight would no longer make due; it was all tech all the time until the end of this.
A lurking thought crossed his mind as his vision shifted to dark blacks and grays of thermal imagery. It would be a shame if the last sight he got of Eivaley was little more than a heat signature.
But that might be the reality he just had to stomach.
Initially, all he could see were hundreds of vehicles in various states of abandonment. Some were lined up nicely and clearly were regularly checked up on by their owners. Others were left to have been scavenged from, rotted, and decayed for untold numbers of decades.
A few looked like they had even been converted into small shanties. Not that Conor could predict what kind of mutated sentient would want to call this shit hole home. But, you take what you can; that might be all some can.
Abandoned parking facilities like this were common in the middle and lower city. They were accessible to the general populace, so the state of the place was just another breath of life in Heavalun.
As he suppressed a wheeze, Conor's eye was drawn to a particularly odd spot at the far reaches of FLIR(forward-looking Infrared)
Past hundreds of pillars of duracrete, a flickering light was barely visible. The only reason Conor could even see the wan light was the shadows that spread out from it. It took him a moment, but the Human did piece together what it had to be.
A fire. One that just so happened to be uncomfortably near where Conor stored his car.
The Human tucked back away and looked to Eivaley, ready to feed her instructions to stay hidden while he cleared them out. That was until he spotted how she clung to him, shuddering, and kept looking between him and the darkness.
Fuck, just stab a man in the gut with cuteness. Even in the infrared, the little princess just looked to die for.
Conor could not leave her alone, even for a minute or two. Down in the dark, where fungus and Zlit rats ruled, it would only take a few heartbeats before she was dragged off into some passage and lost to time.
“Is something wrong?” Conor asked.
“I detest being underground. It's the domain of Malura, the goddess of death,” Eivaley stated calmly. Then, the sound of a Zlit rat scurrying past her feet made her yelp in fright. “And those things are everywhere!”
Conor chuckled slightly. Of everything going on, a few Zlit rats and mutants in the dark were her concern, not the gunman looking for them, Voodal, or that this was a solo rescue operation showed how innocent Eivaley was.
While yes, the little buggers creeping through cracks or just out of sight were pervasive here, and Conor hated them to his core, the Human was so focused he had hardly noticed them.
To Eivlilay, however, they were vile demons, closing in and readying to wrench her away from Conor's warm safety.
“Just hold on tight. It will be fine,” Conor assured.
Eivaley nodded and flowed through the door with Conor. They slowly breezed across the rough ground. Bits of debris, crushed duracrete, and smashed glass lightly crunched beneath each footfall, giving the only indication of the specters sweeping through the megastructure.
Conor led her from one piece of cover to another. At each stop, they paused, scanned the area, oriented, and then repeated the process.
After a few minutes of deafening silence, they covered several hundred meters and could see who was squatting only a few meters away from Conor’s car.
A pair of pathetic-looking Bulmeric lingered near a small fire of burning tires. The flickering flames weaved shadows around their gaunt frames and tattered clothes, making both look like skeletons given life.
Whatever color the Chiropteran-like aliens' hair and short fur were naturally, they had been matted down with black soot and dirt.
One used their massive wing hand to pull a long rusty metal rod from the trash around them and used it to stir a hole-riddled pot.
Eivaley shuttered, watching the man's wing shiver, struggling to stir the steaming pot while weakly talking to the other.
The sight of them in their downtrodden state stabbed Eivaley in the soul with a hot iron. Why did the COS treat their people like this? It was not right in any way. Back on her home world, Guelur, Eivaley ran veteran assistance programs, homeless assistance, and orphanages in the capital city of Livayie.
While it was a form of noblesse oblige, she was the only one of her sisters who funded and assured the smooth operation of the programs her grandmother had created; thus, to her, it was a genuine concern. So, seeing anyone in a state like this was insulting.
As the pair of Bulmeric spoke to one another, they learned several things: the one stirring the pot was a male, his voice far more profound than the one lounging on a repurposed car seat. She was happily chatting with who they assumed to be her mate.
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They spoke about their future, wanting to leave the city and rise from this dingy hole. However, they smiled about having fresh meat for the first time in months. Conor would not prod at where they got fresh meat. It would either be something they killed or cost far more than he wanted to admit, having seen people pay for it.
One thing they mentioned made Conor’s hair stand on end and made him decide to dust them. They mentioned Eivaley by name, referring to one of Voodals men who passed through, asking if they had seen either of them.
Neither seemed to be armed or capable of putting up a fight. And that was all the better for Conor. Dusting them would be as easy as lifting crit off a out of towner—at least it should have been.
When Conor raised the DT-200 and prepared to aim, Eivaley slapped his weapon. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “Because it looks like you are about to murder them.”
“I was going to clear them out, and then we are leaving,” Conor rebutted, glaring at Eivaley.
“That is still just murder,” Eivaley argued.
“No, I am just being efficient. It’s not like anyone will care about two random bums dying—it happens all the time,” Conor replied, aiming back in at the two.
“I will. So stop!” Eivaley snarled, tightly lashing her tail around Conor's neck, trying and failing to yank him back into cover.
“Oh, so I’m taking orders from you now,” Conor snarled, tucking back into cover, jamming a finger into Eivaleys chest, and then a thumb at himself. “Last I checked, you need me.”
“Last I checked, I hired you,” Eivaley scoffed, not missing a beat, crossing her arms in a huff and releasing her tail.
They remained there for a moment, with Conor genuinely not understanding what her issue was. It was just two random fucking bums. Why do they matter? All that was important was her survival.
At the same time, Eivaley's mind raced. She was a princess and a trained diplomat—even if that last part was a bit unused. But she did not want to just kill people, or Conor too, for that matter.
A champion may fight for their lady and occasionally commit sororicide to push their lady closer to being empress; Eivaley had no interest in that. She just wanted a confidant, lover, and bastion who would help her end that horrible practice.
But he was not just some murderer if all he had told her about his work, unless it was for money or his friends Conor tried to do right to people.
“I do need you, but they don’t need to die. Give them credits, tell them to leave, and let's just go.” Eivelay instructed, having decided the best path was to tell him what to do. Conor would listen to her, right?
The Human wanted to argue that trying something like that was dangerous and would only waste time. But with how Eivaley was glaring at him, he could tell this would be a case of two immovable objects ramming against one another—that would only waste more time, something Conor knew he was quickly running out of.
“Fine, we will try this your way. Just stay behind me, and don’t talk,” Conor conceded.
Conor fished out a cred-stick from the duffle, then handed the bag to her. “Hold this, and do not leave my side no matter what.”
Eivaley dutifully slung the duffle and almost collapsed but barely stood from the sudden weight. This thing has to weigh nearly as much as she does. Yet somehow, this beast of a Human carried it and still moved faster than her.
Eivaley was aware that Conor was far stronger and more robust than any other sapient she knew. That little nugget of knowledge just brought the true gap between him and non-augmented creatures into perspective.
“Come on,” Conor sighed, stepping out from cover and guiding Eivaley so he would act as a shield to any weapons the two may have.
“Show me your hands!” Conor commanded while holding up the submachine gun at the duo. His booming voice rattled everyone present to the bone.
As the two Bulmeric looked toward the sound, they both yelped as Conor activated the weapon-mounted flashlight, engulfing them in light more potent than sunlight.
Thank Urla. The pair seemed to have some brains. Both held their wing hands up, letting Eivaley and Conor see the tattered membranes. Neither could fly anymore, even if they wanted to.
Both had vastly different thoughts on that revelation. To Conor, it meant neither would be quick or too dangerous. To Eivaley, it reinforced that they were pitiful and should not be killed; their lives had clearly been difficult enough.
“Be chill, biha,” the male croaked in a thick under-city accent. It was a variant of Standard; Conor knew that much. But it was slow, struggled, and emphasized the end of each word far too much. “We ain’t got nothing to take, honest.”
“Yeah, I figured that,” Conor snapped, scanning them and the area around again, looking for anything he may have missed. “Are there any more of you”?
As the white beam traversed over the female, the male stood and started to rush toward her.
With an ingrained threat reaction and the ability to follow orders dutifully, Conor’s weapon snapped to the runner's chest, bathing the Bulmeric in blinding light. “Don’t you fucking move!”
“Whoa, relax,” The male said, gesturing with open wing hands to Conor. “We don’t mean any trouble. But could yah not point that thing at Orevii? We won’t do what yah don’t want. Right?” the Bulmeric finished nodding to Orevii.
“Of course not,” Orevii frantically replied, holding her wing hands similarly.
“See biha, we can all be chill here,” the man replied letting Conor keep the weapon aimed right at him without any issues.
“Fine, then this will hopefully go nice and easy,” Conor replied, tossing the cred-stick onto the ground at the man's feet.
Conor smirked as the man flinched, likely thinking the free money was a weapon. Urla knew plenty were deployed that way: drones, frags, stuns, electro-nades, and countless others.
“It’s just money,” Conor assured. “Take it.”
The Bulmeric looked down at the cred-stick, then up at Conor, looking as shocked as if he had just seen a resurrection of Urla herself. “You are giving us money at gunpoint?”
“I’m giving you that to keep you quiet about seeing me here. I overheard you talking about how Voodals man was here recently and was looking for us.” Conor said. “It’s just hush money.”
“Wait, why did you not just shoot us if you just wanted us dead?” Orevii questioned, her radar dish-like ears flittering in confusion.
“Because—” Conor started.
“I told him not to,” Eivilay said, stepping out from behind her champion and walking toward the Bulmeric male.
Conor shot forward and blocked her, lowering the DT-200 and using his massive body to keep Eivilay safe. “What in Urla's name do you think you are doing?”
“Doing a better job of explaining what is going on than you are,” Eivilay protested.
“That is not my point,” Conor argued, turning around and facing Eivilay.
At the time, he did not notice that he had even done that; these two were unknowns, strangers, and now they could easily stab or shoot him in the back. But for some reason, even Conor did not comprehend shielding Eivilay was more critical than proper tactical actions.
Eivaley patted Conor's armor with a hand and sighed. “Conor, they are no threat. You just gave them a perfect chance to attack you, and they made it clear from the beginning that they meant us no harm.”
Conor opened his mouth but shut it immediately; how was he supposed to argue against that reality? He had just done that.
Conor glanced back at the Bulmerics, and neither had even so much as moved, save for the woman, who was now leaning slightly to look at Eivaley. This woman, by Ural she, was too wise for her good.
The fact that, as if by some preternatural means, she could read him like a book, manipulate every nerve of his body to her whim, yet make him want to keep her safe was an enigma.
Conor would rip them apart if anyone else held that power over him. Why in Urla’s name was she different?
“Now, please keep your weapon down, and let's be on our way,” Eivaley smiled moments before stepping around Conor and dragging her tail across his cheek, patting it once.
Despite the heavy bag, with the boundless confidence that only a member of true royalty could have, Eivilay approached the male Bulmeric, picked up the cred-stick, and held it out to him. “So, Mr?” Eivaley smiled.
“Uhhh–” The man sputtered, seeming caught off guard by the whiplash of how the two strangers who entered their camp were acting. The fact that Conor loomed over Eivelay and might as well be growling a warning did not help.
“My dearies name is Trigul,” Orevii chuckled, leaning forward so her wing hands rested on her knees. While she keenly observed the odd couple.
“Thank you, Orevii,” Eivaley nodded before returning to Trigul. “Now, Mr. Trigul. My name is Eivaley. What I am requesting of you is simple. Kindly take this money, forget you saw Conor and I, then as we overheard you two discussing, take Orevii there and leave this city, planet if you can. Do you understand?”
“I—understand,” Trigul shakily replied, grabbing the cred-stick.
He looked over at Orevii, then back to Eivelay. Confusion and distrust poured out of him like a vile miasma. “Are you sure? And are there enough credits on this?”
“Of course I am certain,” Eivaley replied before looking back to Conor, “And there should be enough, right?”
Conor rolled his eyes. Was there enough? Of course, there was. That was half of Conor's life savings. You could buy a small ship, hire a crew and go damn near anywhere in the universe with that amount of crit. So long as you are doing things legitimately and dealing with non-corrupt individuals.
If not, there was plenty to relocate you off-world and begin anew. Once everything was said and done, you would have to find work quickly. The hands that cred-stick would pass through would have taken their cut, leaving you with scraps.
“Yeah, there is,” Conor assured.
When Conor said that, Trigul sniffled momentarily before dropping to his knees and bawling. The Bulmeric grabbed Eivaleys hand with his two wing hands and frantically shook them.
“By Urla, bless you, bless you. No one has ever shown us this kindness,” Trigul let out between sobs.
Eivaley remained perfectly calm, met the man at his level, kneeling, and assured him it was right for them to do. Conor observed as Orevii practically leaped from the chair and joined her partner and Eivelay in frantic thanks and assurances.
The two Bulmeric might as well have been bowing to Eivelay as their chosen god with how they were kissing her ass. Every word oozed gratitude and reverence for their ruby-colored savior.
Conor sighed and turned to look around the area, having seen enough of the two bums hugging and crying against Eivalay. While they got lucky with these two, that does not mean there were not others around the area who would not take advantage of someone giving out handouts.
Luckily, no one seemed to have entered the area to investigate the crying. Only the visages of the cold cars and duracrete were visible as far as the eye could see. Often, if wails could be heard in the underground, you were ringing the dinner bell. There were too many mutants, sub-gangers, and assholes.
Because no potential molesters were visible and their care seemed to matter to Eivaley, Conor would not interrupt them. He would just remain there watching over them as they finish whatever type of queer veneration these two Bulmeric would give to his lady—er client.
After a minute of Conor overwatching them and beginning to feel his head go light, that moment was over; Conor felt Eivaley grab his belt and tug at it. “Are you ready to depart?”
Conor turned back toward the makeshift campsite and saw the two Bulmeric packing their bags as frantically as possible. Unlike Eivaley, they were locals and knew the dangers of carrying around crit like that, so they knew they had to move quickly.
If everything went well, they would be off the world in the morning.
Conor looked away as a pang of guilt washed over him. Hearing the two lovers speak excitedly about the opportunity Eivaley had blessed them with hurt like broken glass being driven into his brain.
These two would have been two more corpses on the floor without her. It was not necessarily that Conor felt his solution was wrong but that Eivaley was so much more correct. They were not just two bums. The Bulmerics had dreams, hopes, and ideals; they just now had a chance to leave here, and their excitement almost made the hardened mercenary smile.
Conor wished he could offer them a weapon or something to aid them in their travels, but due to their Bulmeric biology, namely, the size of their wing hands, weapons had to be fitted to them. So he could not do anything for them.
“Yeah, come on,” Conor replied, wrapping his hand around Eivaley's shoulder and leading her off into the darkness, leaving the firelight and the hopeful pair behind. The car was close enough that Conor could already see its harsh angles, armored glass, and heavy frame.
“Thank you, Eivaley, and you, Conor,” Orevii yelled as they left the firelight. “We won’t forget it.”
“You are forgetting why we gave you the money,” Eivaley replied, cracking the slightest joke.
Now that got to Conor. Even in the heat of battle, he and Brakul would joke and poke fun at one another and the enemy. The small quip made Conor genuinely laugh. It felt good that the woman beside him could keep that levity.
Until his laughing turned to coughs, and he buckled over. His entire body shuddered as a mixture of congealed and fresh blood poured out of his mouth, spreading across the ground.
“Conor, what’s wrong?” Eivalay frantically asked.
“Well, there's no point in hiding it now,” Conor gasped, weakly stumbling to his feet. “I took a few rounds earlier and am bleeding out.”
“What, when did you—how did you?” Eivalay frantically asked, trying to support him and feeling the blood pulsing from underneath his armor and soaking her arm.
Only now did Eivaley realize Conor had been pushing her to move quickly because he knew how substantial the injuries were.
He must have been far more injured before even grabbing her from the safe house. Yet despite that, he waited, let her sit with the Bulmeric, and assured them it was okay that they would recover.
But during all that, she was letting him bleed to death. “Will you make it to the upper districts with me?”
“Don’t worry about that. I have a plan to keep me alive until you are safe,” Conor assured.
“No, you are going to make it,” Eivalay argued.
She would see to his survival no matter how much money it took. Daddy had Thurda with him. She was the royal physician; out of everyone, Eivaley knew she could save her champion.
“Yeah,” Conor chuckled before coughing up more blood and leading her toward the car.