The history Nelya had told Martinez about the Aviex was beyond anything he had initially thought it would be. It was horrible, and he understood why their species’ government wanted it forgotten.

At least the drive gave Martinez plenty of time to think. During the last half hour of driving over rocks, around blind corners, and through the snow-covered pines, one question regularly forced itself to the forefront of his mind.

Should he tell Lysa that reality?

His Ruh'ah was already troubled about being an Aviex and how most aliens treated her species. Would knowing the reasoning behind it make her feel any better? He doubted it because if what Nelya said was correct, those aliens likely did not understand the root of their hatred just as much as she did.

If he did tell her, yeah, she would have a grasp on the reasoning why she had been exiled on sight, but that might just make her more vindictive to others because they just hated her because of generational spite toward a species which, yeah fucked up in the past; but now were broken, beaten down and regulated to never being allowed to reach the glory of their past.

Martinez groaned and scratched the back of his head, wondering why in all the universe everything had become so arduous lately.

He was supposed to be on loan to the civilian sector; problems like racist allies, vindictive blood feuds, and the horrible results of wars past were not supposed to be his issue; that is the military and government's problem.

As he saw it, life was supposed to overflow with milk and honey. The worst thing that should land on his plate would be the occasional trauma red or GSW at the trauma center.

Life was not supposed to be whatever the fuck it was right now.

Bringing up whether he told Lysa was something he would speak to Nelya about after he dealt with Kyroll; opening that can of worms right now would just be rubbing salt in her freshly opened wounds.

To keep his mind occupied, Martinez decided he needed to listen to music—anything was better than stewing in his nervousness and anger at Kyroll.

He quickly activated his datapad and synced it to the radio. Once it was, the wonderful roaring guitar and heavy base of Supplicant roared through the speakers, drowning out the dull crunch of the snow and rocks under the SUV tires.

While he had hit shuffle, Supplicant, being the band that came on, was perfect. As the name suggested, the heavy metal band was a religious experience for him. He and the Platoon played this band daily over the loudspeakers of their FOB back on Verilon.

It was the soundtrack for the tenth war on Verilon, at least for the Marines. And who does not like having a good song to pump you up to kick in a door, shoot some Fark, or frag their nasty tunnel networks till nothing but dust remains?

Without this band and several others keeping spirits high, he and the Marines would not have survived that war. Having them on prepared him for this new war—not one of bullets, blood, knives, and boots, but one of tears, forgiveness, care, and understanding.

The rest of the long drive was done at a slow patrolling pace, at most 25 kilometers an hour. It was a downright crawl in reality. Martinez was not doing it for any specific reason; he just dreaded what was coming and wanted this little bit of peace until the moment of truth.

But all things must end, and his drive only lasted a few hours, which was more than enough.

He pulled the SUV into the parking lot of the battle booze, parking on the far end of the lot away from the entrance so he could get a good look at the place while he approached. Some habits will never leave you, and combat awareness certainly is one that will stick with you like a foul scar.

Slowly scanning up and down the empty road, Martinez felt a sense of solitude. Other than the occasional street light and dark, closed-down shop, the skittering of a tiny animal digging in a nearby trashcan was the only sign of life.

Celna was strange like that. There was no real main town; instead, it was a sprawling network of building clusters loosely connected by roads tucked deep in the bows of pines, with the Battle Booze being an isolated node.

Slowly moving toward the doors, the bright neon sign over the wooden structure bathed the snow in bright orange light, along with what Martinez could recognize as a long row of some type of repulser bike.

They were not as robust or spartan as the ones he had seen used by the GU military or in the boonies of some of the planets he and the Marines had visited. Quite the opposite; each bike was a custom-built work of art.

Similar to what you would see on biker gangs back on Earth, the bikes were covered in chrome, leather, and decorations. No two were the same; each was an expression of the owner's unique personality and mechanical capabilities.

While Maritnez was not a fan of motorcycles, he could still appreciate the work that must have gone into keeping them in such mint condition despite their obvious use.

The only other vehicle in the lot was front and center next to the doors inside. It was Kyroll’s hulking monstrosity of a truck, nearly two meters tall and twice as long. Unlike the bikes, the old Aviex’s truck was beaten down like an old dog.

Dents ran up and down its surface. The front windscreen was cracked, the spider webbing obvious in the glow of the lights. To give himself a warm and fuzzy feeling, Martinez peaked inside and was glad to see Kyrolls' pistol tucked into the center console.

At least the old bastard did not carry when drinking unless he was at home; Martinez had seen that first hand. That still was not a good thing, but it was better than confronting an armed and angry drunk.

Opening the door, the warm air rushing out greeted Martinez. The room was thick with smoke, the sharp odor of hard liquor, and the raucous laughter of who Martinez assumed to be the owners of the bikes.

Most of the room was dark and dreary, with little overhead lights dangling over tables, casting any occupants in a vanta black shadow, making their eyes impossible to track. The bartender was flicking away at a datapad and glancing back at rows of liquor while occasionally chatting to the group nearly overflowing from the bar.

The bikers were a group of Kuritla, all clad in leather jackets and nursing some kind of greenish drink. They are members of a hardy mammalian species whose short heads, bulky frames, and brownish fur reminded him somewhat of a gnoll from traditional fantasy. However, unlike gnolls, they were generally pleasant to be around and had a very social disposition.

The other main difference was that unlike, say, the Farunse, Jurintik, or the Varintol, who sported snouts or maws, this species had more of a flat, humanistic face, save for the four short ears, slitted pupils, and flared slits for nostrils.

Their species did not bother Martinez in any way. Over the last few months, he had treated dozens of the orange classification species. Overall, Martinez had a favorable opinion of the Kuritla; they were polite, cordial, and very wise of those with experience or in positions of authority.

Additionally, he had never seen any Kuritla cause an issue; if anything, his patients were more concerned about bothering Martinez and the others in the Trauma center than their life-altering injuries.

While loud, this group seemed just as welcoming.

When Martinez walked up to the bar, having not seen Kyroll at any of the tables, one of the drunk aliens patted his shoulder. “Hey there, bud! What in the Pack Mother’s name are you? And more importantly, can you drink?”

“Oh, hey there,” Martinez started, taking a slight step back so the man stopped groping his shoulder. At least the man seemed not to mind, likely because he was clearly sloshed. “I’m a Human. I can drink, but I’m looking for someone.”

“Aren’t we all?” the man cackled, gesturing at his friends with his glass, which spilled all over the counter.

He likely thought he was being prophetic, but as far as Martinez was concerned, the man was just another drunk person. After babysitting Marines and patients for years, the Human had a surprising tolerance for odd drunk antics.

“Curin, leave him alone,” the golden-furred Bulmeric bartender said, her voice as smooth as butter while cleaning up the spill with the hands at the end of her membranous wings.

Her hands were nearly the size of Martinez’s entire chest, which the Human found shocking considering that otherwise, her build was lithe, muscular, built for flying on those bat-like wings, but somewhat smooth in a lot of the right places, save for her top which was flat as a day old coke.

“I’m just being nice,” Curin replied almost defensively.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you gotta play anyway,” the Bulmeric said, turning toward the man, pulling some dice from her form-fitting apron, and tossing them on the table.

Martinez had only heard about the Bulmeric from some Marines. The chiropteran species were odd in both form and function in the GU.

From the Marines, he knew the Bulmeric warrior caste was insatiable about how much they wanted to couple with Human Marines. According to those devil dogs, the warrior women of the Bulmeric specifically prided themselves in finding and locking down warriors to have children with—and Human Marines were the new species in the GU and were quickly making a name for themselves as fighting like animals.

This fascination and desire to copulate led to an odd revelation in the Human military, one that must have caused more headaches and safety briefs than anyone should ever tolerate. Most species' ability to hybridize was unknown to the GU and the Human government; there were just too many species to make testing all of them a simple process.

The Bulmeric was an exception to this unknown and the only one, as far as Martinez was aware.

If tales in the smoke pit were to be believed, several dozen Human Marines from the 1st regiment proved that the universe was not as vast and lonely as Humanity once believed.

Though none of the Marines he had ever served with could say they saw the natural Hybrid of the Bulmeric and Humanity, stories of Marines knocking the Bulmeric warriors up while on campaign were prolific throughout the Human militaries; there had to be some truth to it.

Running into hundreds of Marines, all with the same story, gave the legends some credence.

But those old tales were neither here nor there. The bat-like humanoid in front of Martinez was not a warrior, looking to jump his bones, nor was his type; even if he could admit her golden fur, short blonde hair, and vibrant yellow yet nearly dead-looking eyes did not look unappealing.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Martinez could say that if he somehow managed to string together a series of words to quantify how it felt like she could see into his soul.

“Was he playing anything?” Martinez asked after the drunk took the dice and turned to roll them.

The Bulmeric turned back, letting him see her name tag—Bodah.

“Nah, he won't notice; it was just a bartender trick,” Bodah winked casually, opening a wide-wing hand toward the man while leaning on the bar. “So I take it, you are looking for Kyroll?”

What she meant by a bartender trick was beyond Martinez. He just assumed it meant something along the lines of how he uses some clever verbiage to talk people down from violence at work. He would never know; there were more important issues to deal with now anyway.

“What makes you think that”?” Martinez raised a brow, genuinely curious as to how she knew.

Bodah scoffed and shook her head, her short blonde bob cut refracting the light around her. “I’m a bartender. I know my patrons—even his stubborn ass.”

“That does not really answer my question,” Martinez remarked.

Bodah rolled her eyes and rubbed her hands on her tall ears, brushing against their short fur. “Yeah, yeah, I was getting to it.” She scoffed, “If you gave me a moment, I would explain.”

Martinez blushed, realizing he had once again cut someone off for no reason. He shut his trap and let the woman speak.

Bodah pulled down a bottle from the bar and gathered two glasses; after scooping up some ice, she resumed speaking. “You are the spitting image of him. More accurately, you Humans look a lot like Aviex, but I know about you, Martinez, right?”

Bodah’s on-the-nose call out, along with her already knowing his name, earned her a nod, even if this was unsettling.

“Good, well—That old callus talks, just like my other patrons,” Bodah chatted while pouring ice and filling the glasses with booze and some mixer. “That stubborn man has been ranting and raving about you arriving for weeks, and based on how depressed he looked when he came in, I was expecting you.”

“Do you have any idea how creepy that is?” Martinez interjected while Bodah was adding slices of fruit to the drinks.

“I suppose it might be, but fuck it,” Bodah shrugs, pushing the drinks toward him. “Grab those and follow me; you will need them.”

Still slightly perturbed by the woman's insight, Martinez picked up the cold drinks, followed her as she left the bar, and told one of the Kuritla to watch the bar for a second.

Bodah led Martinez to the bar's back door and turned about, giving Martinez a slight smirk. Her tiny, sharp teeth peeked through, showing her heritage as a descendant of the warrior caste of her race. “Your man is sitting out there,” she said, jamming her winged thumb toward the closed door.

“So what are the drinks for?” Martinez questioned.

“You might be as hopeless as Kyroll was telling me if you don’t realize why I gave you two,” she chuckled, putting her hands on her hips and leaning forward slightly. “You both will need them.”

“Oh,” Martinez said, slightly blushing, realizing that Bodah was trying to help him.

“Glad you are getting it,” Bodah said, pushing open the door, “Good luck.”

“Yeah–” Martinez replied, swallowing his nervous spit. “Got any tricks for talking to the old man? I’ve only met him for maybe a minute.”

Bodah sighed and scratched one of her fingers across her sharp jaw. It was oddly cute despite the massive bat-like ears flicking at every sound and her membranous wings stretching. “I would say maybe find common ground? He only talks to me once he is good and liquored up; otherwise, he keeps to himself.”

That was honestly not the best advice; Martinez knew to do that much, but hey, if it’s all she knows, it’s all he’s got to work with. “Thanks, I will be back for another drink in a bit,” Martinez assured.

“Feel free; it’s on your father-in-law's tab anyway,” Bodah snickered, ignoring that Martinez scowled at the insinuation of his and Kyrolls relation.

—

Outside, underneath the Veranda, Kyroll sat sipping a tall, heavily alcoholic drink. The overhead heaters glowed bright orange, illuminated the area, and kept snow from collecting on the ground and benches.

The darkness around Celna was barely held at bay by the lights, making the little backwoods bar feel like a lone bastion of safety in overwhelming gloom. The only sound other than Kyrolls rasped, painful breathing was the occasional hoot or yelp from creatures lurking in the skyward grasping pines just beyond the radiance.

“Are you going to fill up my glass, Grulah?” Kyroll said when the door shut behind Martinez, not lifting his head from the nearly empty glass.

Seeing the old man like this was strange; Kyroll stared into the amber liquid like it held the answers to the universe. Considering how brash the man had been before, him sitting here nursing his issues with a drink was oddly humanizing. Lord knew Martinez had done that plenty of times in life.

For a moment, Martinez thought that maybe he was wrong about Kyroll; maybe Nelya had a point that he was just troubled; then the older Aviex man turned his head so his two remaining eyes could see Martinez.

His eyes widened when he realized that it was Martinez walking up to him, not his usual bartender. Kyroll's muscles tensed, and he gripped the glass hard enough that tremors started. That was probably not the best sign, but Martinez was a man on a mission and would not be deterred, even if it killed Kyroll.

“What? Not who you wanted to see with your next round?” Martinez said, setting the glass down in front of Kyroll and plopping into a seat nearby, not allowing the old man to complain about or deny his presence.

“No,” Kyroll growled and looked away, grabbing the fresh drink in hand after shotgunning his first.

Kyroll, with his damaged vocal cords, always growled at least a bit, so Martinez had difficulty judging his mood based on his tone alone. Which currently was not standoffish; it was almost dismissive with his back toward Martinez.

The only break in his slumped, denying posture was occasionally turning his head, confirming Martinez was still there; he would then look back into the dark veil beyond the veranda and mutter to himself in Aviex.

The two sat there sipping away, watching the snow beyond the veranda. It was a shame both of them might have a lot in common, at least if Nelya and Bodah were to be believed. So far, the only thing that Martinez could see they were like-minded in was being stubborn and dense, neither wanting to start the uncomfortable conversation.

But someone had to be the bigger man here, and Martinez had already decided that backing down was not an option. Instead of trying to open softly and lure Kyroll into opening up, the Human decided not just to surprise Kyroll; he was going to ambush him, putting the Aviex secrets out as an opening gamut.

“So, about why the Aviex are called “vein-slicer” and why you hate me,” Martine smirked, setting his glass back down.

Kyroll whipped around in his chair and glared soul-cutting daggers at Martinez. “You don’t know anything,” he hissed.

At least that got Kyroll to quickly engage in the conversation. Having this opening act of both refusing to talk was already tiresome.

“You wanna bet?” Martinez raised a brow, finding Kyrolls defensive action rather amusing. It was not like Martinez planned to fight him, even if he wanted to as revenge for making Lysa cry.

“What do you know, you filthy—” Kyroll started but bit his tongue and adjusted his composure. “You Human.”

That Kyroll held his tongue from insulting Martinez was surprising. He was well aware of what the man had called him during the previous altercation—granted, he only knew the rough translation from Nelya and Lysa—but the sentiment did not change.

What the hell was with Kyroll? The man was an enigma. His wife hardly knew anything about what he did for work. He despises other species, and somehow, a woman like Nelya married someone so coarse.

Compared to his wife's bubbly, fill-the-room personality, he was a rag soaked in gasoline, ready to burn.

Martinez sighed and explained what Nelya had told him about the history of the Aviex, Kyroll, and his past with Lysa. At first, Kyroll sat there and silently listened, simply nodding. That was until Martinez mentioned that Kyroll was a member of some kind of special forces and that after seeing all the horrors of the after-effects of that war, he now hated other races.

For some reason, Martinez's claiming that he hated other races entirely based on a few bad apples caused Kyroll to grimace and look away, but he did not interject.

“Now, with what is going on with Lysa. I’m worried about her. She wants her dad to not hate her and to treat her better than the assholes you used to deal with, but apparently, that's too much for you,” Martinez said, taking a break to sip his booze and let Kyroll have a chance to comment back or do anything at all.

“Kid, you don’t get it. I’m protecting her and It’s for her own good,” Kyroll replied after sighing, stalwart in his stubborn ways. “If I don’t she will go out there and end up in some hole having been dragged away by some slavers, or worse just a vindictive group who will kill her. And having you around is not going to help.”

“That’s fucking rich. You are doing a lot of things, but protecting her is not one of them; if anything, you are only hurting her,” Martinez chuckled, causing Kyroll to grumble angrily, having heard something similar from Nelya earlier.

“Besides, what makes you think she needs it? Lysa can kick the ass of anyone I've ever known, fuck she regularly kicks the crap out of me when we spar,” Martinez continued.

“That’s because you are just some medic; you aren't a fighter,” Kryoll replied, “I don’t give a fuck if you were in war. You can’t keep Lysa; all you are is a danger.”

Martinez rolled his eyes and sipped from his drink, seeing that this conversation was not going anywhere at this point. He needed to press Kyroll harder, crack his walls, and make him face the reality of what was going to happen.

“Brother, I’m just going to tell you the honest truth, with no sugar coating. I can’t make you do shit, but right now, I’m going to talk to you, man to man, sailor to soldier.” Martinez started.

“What makes you think—” Kyroll started, but Martinez vocally barreled over him, not caring that he started to talk.

“Lysa hates your guts and probably wants to kill you. If we can’t make up and get along in some way, we are leaving, and you will never see her again,” Martinez finished his short statement of reality.

Kyroll looked at Martinez, almost flabbergasted. “There is no way she hates me. I’m her father; she will understand when she is older.”

“What are you not understanding about this asshole? If I go back to your house with no solution to tell your Gra'hu and daughter, we are leaving in the morning; no ifs, ands, or buts. So work with me here. I know that Nelya explained this to you before we arrived.” Martinez said, pointing a loaded knife hand at Kyroll's two good eyes.

Kyroll looked pissed after having himself called out. If a look could kill, Martinez would have died on the spot. Kyroll’s two remaining blood-red eyes went nearly black with rage. He snarled momentarily before Martinez outright laughed at him.

“Dude, just stop. I want this to work, and right now, I’m the only thing keeping the possibility of you ever having a relationship with your daughter, my Ruh'ah possible,” Martinez laughed, having gotten tired of Kyroll’s posturing.

That shift in Martinez’s demeanor seemed to have gotten to Kyroll. Martinez thought it might have been because any other friend or past boyfriend Lysa ever had was scared away by a few snarls, growls, and bared teeth.

But Martinez was different; He had faced the Faruqua, the Hrikala, and the Sputral; nothing Kyroll could do would intimidate him.

In the worst-case scenario and they did come to blows Martinez was experienced in a brawl and was half Kyrolls age; neither would walk away unscathed. Even Kyroll had to understand that their usual method of being violent to problems would not work.

“Fine, what do you have in mind?” Kyroll mumbled, tapping his finger on the glass rim.

“First, you are going to apologize to Lysa and listen to her, after that, I don’t know. We just have to try and get along; maybe we could go out and do something together, get to know one another a bit,” Martinez replied. “I just want Lysa to be happy. Help me out here.”

Kyroll shotgunned the last of his drink and stared off into the snow, trying to think of what he should do. What did he have in common with some random Hwasan who was trying to take his dear little huntress from him?

After a short while, Kyroll smiled in a way that unsettled Martinez to the core. He had seen smiles filled with venom before; the last time was a few months ago when he was dealing with Chloe—that horrible spook of a woman. Martinez knew it was not an issue of his teeth; the Human was fine with Nelya and Lysa’s bright, vibrant smiles.

It might be because his face looked like it had been sent through a wood chipper and he had a constant glare, but Martinez was not sure.

“I think I have an idea,” Kyroll said, rolling his hand in the air to no one in particular.

“What is it? I will do anything to make this work,” Martinez said, still suspicious of the man.

“I hope you do mean anything; Lysa deserves a man who will put in that effort.” Kyroll sneered.

“Of course I mean it. I’m here with you, aren’t I,” Martinez scoffed.

“Good. Have you ever been hunting?” Kyroll questioned, not missing the subtle insult but choosing to ignore it. Leaning in and looking Martinez up and down for a few moments. “I have a few extra tags. We could head out in the woods and find a stag or two.”

“No, I have not. I am willing to try it if you apologize,” Martinez said.

“Perfect. We can leave tomorrow—after I talk to Lysa tomorrow,” Kyroll explained. “Sound good?”

“Alright,” Martinez replied, unknowing of the trouble his willingness to try to bridge the gap with Lysa’s dad would bring.