{Gait}

Korac hit one thousand two-hundred and twelve pushups when the air brakes sighed on the lift. He turned and rolled the platinum plate weights from Pil off his back in time for Executive Warden Pehton to stop in front of his cell. The charmingly tiny Lyriki woman spared him a glance. He smelled her reaction to him on her neglected scent, but she remained otherwise professional about her physical attraction to him.

The Icarean war criminal took no offense. Most people’s scent shifted when he entered the room. Maybe it was the white hair, the pale eyes, or the ripped and tall figure? The only one of his kind in the Vast Collective. Exotic rarely covered it. It harmed his allure very little that he insisted on cladding himself in expensive clothes. All tailor-fit to flatter him best. He smirked to himself. No harm at all.

But the Executive Warden kept her eyes forward on the hall. She refused to acknowledge him with any of her growing fondness. Must be here in an official capacity. He settled for observing her rigid posture and her mighty carriage. Those orange feathers—comparable to human hair—stopped at her shoulder-blades. They contrasted starkly against her pitch-black skin. The electric-blue Lyriki armor, grown from within her, wrapped around her legs, hips, breasts, and shoulders. Protected her modesty and her vital points. Even with her stomach exposed, she’d meet few foes able to wound her. The Lyriks were genetically designed to defend the Tritans and their assets. Such as Gait, their prison planet.

Pehton’s gliders—orange extensions from wrist to elbow—flared in anger as she commanded, “Request time. Place your orders.”

Korac popped his brows high. Requests? One inmate called out for a Reipon film of a pornographic nature. Another asked for certain foods. As each of them listed one or two items, he recalled a conversation with Pehton upon his incarceration.

“We take care of our prisoners here.”

So it would seem.

A prisoner down the hall and around the corner shouted, “Where’s Razor?”

Her solid red eyes hardened like garnets. “You know he wouldn’t dare show his face here and besmirch his establishment’s respectable reputation.”

The same one snarked, “What I want, you won’t give me. I miss the old days before your ridiculous laws.”

No words. No facial reaction at all. Pehton walked over to a panel. Into it, she sang a special combination of pitches and bled on the seal it produced. A hot whoosh of air blew through the halls. The smell of the prisoner cooking lingered longer than his cries of pain.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Anyone else miss the old days?”

Damn. Korac whistled and smirked when he caught her attention. “Executive Warden Pehton in action. What a badass.”

She flushed prettily before approaching the nacre-resistant barrier separating them. Softly, she asked, “Have you heard any news?”

“Sagan is checking on the situation. She’ll return soon.” It took some time to figure the Lyrik out, but the Icarean General understood people at their core. Despite whatever past she buried, Pehton’s heart bled like the Progeny’s people. She belonged to the side of the heroes. But like him, she might hesitate to accept it. Hell, Korac still shuddered at all the warm, huggy shit they got up to. His capacity for compassion only afforded him so much, and he reserved it exclusively for Sagan. Maybe Rayne. Now, his curiosity, on the other hand, never tired. “What’s with the order fulfillment?”

She fluffed her feathers and blew out a sigh of frustration. “The prisoners make one request per Collective month. Pay with chores like linen press, information, or other favors. Razor fulfills the orders.”

Something nudged at the back of Korac’s mind. In his memory. But if it came from his time as prison labor, he’d rather keep it repressed. Thanks very much. Pehton scoped out his cell, filled to the brim with wonderful and exotic gifts from all over the Vast Collective. Sagan truly spoiled him, and he loved her more than he could ever express for it.

It was the Lyrik’s turn to whistle, impressed. “I don’t think you want for anything.”

He smirked. “Not as such.”

She stomped her boot and looked away. “Elden, I hate when you do that. And put a shirt on.”

Korac laughed to himself as he stripped out of his shorts and activated the shower’s spray when he stepped on a specific black tile.

From behind him, the Lyrik growled, “I hate you.”

“You wish you could.”

“Does Sagan know you’re like this?”

“Hah! Who do you think revived me?” He shut off the shower and covered himself with an Egyptian Cotton towel from Earth. When no word came from the Lyrik, he peeked over his shoulder, expecting to find her drooling at him with pretty black lips gaped open. But she was frowning in confusion. “What is it?”

The Lyrik gave him her back for privacy as she explained, “It’s an odd way to phrase it. ‘Revived.’ What do you mean by that?”

Korac mastered the art of keeping his mouth shut and refusing to divulge much about himself. But with the warmth and comfort of Sagan’s regular presence, he noticed his usual stoic icy exterior melting slightly.

His bad.

But working with Pehton required a delicate balance of quid pro quo. If he shared with her, the Lyrik returned in kind. It became tricky when he wanted to share only enough to tip the scales in his favor. Balance. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Vacating?”

He climbed into worn black leather pants and a band tee. Who the hell was In this Moment? Whatever, he appreciated their aesthetic. When Pehton answered with a nod, he turned his back and continued, “Well, I died. In a way. All the Icari did. And Sagan revived me.” Vague, but clear.

“You’re lucky.”

Unable to contain it, Korac rudely barked out a bitter laugh. “Until recently, luck isn’t something I’d accuse myself of having.”

Adorably, emphatically, she swore, “Fuck it!”

He whirled to find his cell open, and her stood waiting, expectant. Hopeful. A little wild, even.

“Korac, do you wanna make some trouble with me?”

He skipped the smirk and went straight to a magnificent grin even Xelan would envy. “What did you have in mind?”

Pehton told him her plan, and a strange combination of exhilaration and concern washed over him. Korac finally identified the look on her face.

Suicidal.