—Shaaah
The air releases from my tube as I exit the glassed transport vessel. It shoots down towards the lower level of the facility as I turn towards a closed-off room with a high ceiling.
The walls and floor are both pearly white, with the only thing contrasting the two is a pair of dark-gray lounges separated by a brown coffee table holding a red-potted plant.
The doctor from before walks over and sits down in one of the chairs and nods his head toward the other. I sigh and tread over to the chair and plop down, my legs dangling above the floor.
“How long has it been since you graduated from Sector-108?… About six months ago if my calendar is correct.” He asks while tapping a button on the table in front of him, a platform opening up with two silver coffee mugs holding a dark brown liquid.
Has it been that long since I came from 108?… Honestly, that’s a lot shorter than I anticipated, or perhaps it’s just that time was a lot slower there.
The doctor stops ruffling his hair and turns his attention back to me. “I heard of the hell they put you Yak’to through on the daily. Anyone who comes back from those trenches are never the same, just lifeless, emotionless shells.”
Section-108 is part of S70 from the conversation the woman back downstairs was having earlier. Simply put, it’s a prison that houses half-bred Yak’valt, called Yak’to, who have one calling in their minuscule lives to be a meat shield for the Federation’s excursions.
Not that they need human shields, since most of the fighting is done on ships and battle suits… However, I suppose it’s used as a fear factor to make us believe our lives are nothing but tools for others to use.
“… Ah, I’m sorry Ms. Miya… We’ve only met on occasion but you’ve probably forgotten my name. My insignia is Specialist Volador, but you’re free to call me Einum when we’re alone.”
I look back up to the man giving me a warm smile while overlapping his legs atop one another. He then offers me one of the mugs of coffee that I must hold within both my delicate palms.
I hadn’t forgotten his name, and this isn’t the first time we met. He’s one of the few Yak’valt besides the receptionist who don’t treat me like I’m utter trash at this new facility. At least at my previous once, everyone was typically the same rank and short staffed so the infractions were minimal; But at this one, there’s a larger number of them, and since I’m the only Yak’to stationed here at my lower insignia, I get plenty of beatings, longer work hours, and the occasional trip whilst I’m walking.
I look down at my childlike face being mirrored in the hot beverage in my lap, gazing at my mocha-colored hair and fair skin tone. If it were for these features alone I would be checked off as a human through and through…
A ripple in the mug catches my attention, making me gaze at my reflected red pupils with a scrunch of my eyelids.
... But as soon as people look me in the eye, they know that I'm not human at all...
Being this puny size doesn’t help me at all either… In human years I’m sixteen, and despite that fact, I have a less developed body making me look quite juvenile, however that seems to work out. My provisional doctor says it’s a side effect of the slowed aging process that Ya’valtians have.
The Ya’valt don’t discriminate by age or sex and only focus on their keen grasp of emotion and psychological changes by those around them… Which is why it’s probably easy for them to pick on someone that’s one-third their size, or maybe their just that monstrous of a race in general.
Einum adjusts in his seat and swings his arm onto the back of his chair. He then takes a circular metal disc from the table and taps the top button, it then transforms into a blue holographic seat with my name and face mirrored from my current spot.
“From what I’ve heard you’re still the best in your sect. Twelve solved cases, fifteen body counts, and your psychological charts still read normal. Guess you’re a good fit for this facility. However, from the previous incident… I guess others got word and decided to give you a hard time, how unfortunate.” Einum regards with a gracious nod.
I attempt to keep a low profile to avoid things like that, but it’s pretty hard when insignia, or rank, is based on your body count and the percentage of completed missions. The Ya’valt are predatory creatures that love to make sport of death, so there’s a huge ass board in the middle of the space terminal showing the number of kills other units have collected in set intervals.
If they want to get a higher insignia maybe stop handing your missions over to me and do them your dam self. But, it’s not like I can move up from my current rank so it doesn’t matter how many I do… And despite me completing the task, they still get the glory and I only get a few numbers added to my report… Yay…
“… Look, Ms. Miya…”
I raise my head and look at Einum now leaning forward in his chair.
“I know it must be hard for you…”
… You don’t know what you’re talking about.
“However, I just want to let you know that not everyone agrees with how the others treat you.”
… Don’t say that to me, please.
“And if you need anything or someone to talk to I’m here for—“
—CRINK
A sudden hot and wetness in my lap makes me gaze down at my metal mug now crushed in my palm. I let go of the cup, with the rest of the coffee drizzling down my blue uniform pants, creating a damp stain.
“Ah! What was that all about?” Einum jumps from his seat and rushes over to me and bends down to my side.
He then takes a black handkerchief from his militant suit pocket and dabs it onto my stomach and pants with a chuckle.
“It’s funny, actually… Every time I see you, I picture my daughter waiting for me back at home. Her pleading eyes as I leave our residence and head to work as if I’m going off to war or something… Silly girl…” Einum discloses while continuing to dab my uniform with a soft smile.
Yeah, your daughter has nothing to worry about, because it’s me that’s going off to war… Every single day of my life.
. . .