Kismet

There were voices in his head.

They always told him nonsense things. Sometimes they told him ominous things; sometimes they eerily said nothing at all. It was always the same plethora of voices, an entourage of half-spoken orders, which made him believe he was insane.

Usually they spoke to him at night; usually when he was relaxing after a long day of experimentation in the labs, or unbearably hot days under the sun, field testing subjects. But when he dreamt, he thought he saw faces accompany the voices. Never could he remember what the faces looked like when he woke. But then again, he never tried to.

One morning in particular he woke with a start. Sweat beaded at his temples and under his pits, making his light-weight pajama set uncomfortable and soggy. With a grimace he peeled his undershirt off and tossed it across his small, staple example apartment.

It was another unbearably hot morning that would only get hotter. It was one of the many drawbacks to living on a desert-planet, but this is where his job was; and the view wasn't too bad either.

Agitated, he pulled off his shorts and tossed them into the small heap of clothes accumulating by his door and moved to his window, opening the shudders with a sigh. Outside two of the planet's suns were up and shining, the third would be rising in another hour or two. They shone blindingly through the enviro-glass that domed over the massive, technology-driven city. Faintly, if he looked hard enough, he could see the end of the glass and metal city and the beginning of the blue sand desert, the border always sweeping and shifting with the wind.

He groaned and hit his head against the window. The city's climate control mechanism was – and had been, malfunctioning for the past week. Some days he didn't know if he'd wake up half baked or half frozen.

With a sigh he left his spot by the window, pulling on soggy handfuls of hair as he made his way to shower and dress for work.

Work. He grimaced. The last thing he wanted to do was go to work. What he wanted to do was get his hands on that climate control machine and just fix it once and for all. But they would never allow him to do that. The climate mechanism is old technology. If anything they'd make him design a brand new climate moderator and…

His mind trailed off with brilliant possibilities at that thought. If he could get his hands on the schematics of the current mechanism, adjust the reqs so it would run properly, maybe even tweak a few things… A small, mischievous smile spread across his thin, tanned face, before dying away almost as soon as it came; because there would be no impromptu work on the climate control. Instead they'll have him sit at his happily cluttered desk working on some stupid new street sweeper that greeted passerby's, or even, Goddess forbid, have him work outside testing a newer model of something or other.

He missed having a choice in what he could pour his genius into.

Another sigh fell from his pink lips as he finished dressing. Making sure he had everything he needed: keycard, credit bit, Commune, and he was off, walking the short distance to his place of work. Quanta-Robotics.

Everyone seemed affected by the outstanding heat of the day. People drug themselves along lethargically, giving slow, half-assed greetings to others. He tried to ignore the agitated members of the society in body armor, whether it be mercenaries, military stationed to keep the peace, or some random lout looking for a quick stay. He just wasn't in the mood to witness or experience a mauling today.

Inside Quanta-Robotics, the feel of air conditioning and the smell of sweat were prominent. Even though it wasn't much cooler inside than it was outside, he let out a small breath of relief. The elevator was cramped, and he avoided the other scientists as if they had some contagiously terminal illness. It wasn't that he didn't like them as people; he just didn't like people, period. No matter their race, attributes, gender, genetics; he disliked them all equally – except for a few others that he simply detested.

With disgust he eyed a fresh stack of manila folders that had been piled on his desk. His desk was pushed further into the corner of the wide, open room, than any of the others that joined him on this floor. He'd hoped that the other scientists would take it as a sign to leave him the fuck alone, but he'd no such luck. They were all idiots anyway.

He sat down with a small huff, slender fingers rifling through a pile of scraps – mostly consisting of bits of wires, metal and paper, before digging out his favorite military-issued all-weather pen and opened the first folder in the pile. He made a few notes in the margins in his chicken scratch handwriting, trying not to be as rude in his remarks as he'd like to be.

He'd only gotten halfway through the manila folders when he heard someone clear their throat almost next to his ear. His large, blue eyes rolled with unbidden annoyance as he looked up from his work.

Immediately he recognized two of the three people before him. One was the boss of his department, and the other was the owner of Quanta-Robotics itself. The third just seemed to be some nerdy idiot who looked too smug for his own good. He didn't bother masking his irritation.

"Dr. Roxas Yevon?"

He gave them a blank stare. Of course they knew who he was; otherwise they wouldn't have approached him in the first place. Besides, he did have a nameplate on his desk – he did a quick sweep with his eyes over his messy desk – somewhere. "Yes?" he answered, finally deciding to humor the men before him grudgingly.

The department manager stepped forth, a haphazard bundle of papers and folders nestled in an arm. "We're here on behalf of one of your co-workers, Dr. Dreg Fulle. Do you recognize him?"

Roxas sent the man a bored glance. He knew the guy, somewhat. He didn't know his name – until now – but he did know the guy was dumber than sand and was a Genetic freak. "Yes," he said, flicking idly at a small pile of crushed paper bits.

"We've complaints that you demean and belittle your co-workers in your reports. Racial degradation is not tolerated in this company – as you should know." Now the head of the business spoke and he felt more inclined to listen to this guy, as it was his money that was filling Roxas' bank.

The small, blond scientist sighed. How many times has he been through this over the past three years? Maybe six. "Do you have proof of my… 'demeaning and belittling' comments?" Of course he knew that they were going to pull out a multitude of reports – like the ones he was currently filling out on his desk. And with this Dreg fellow, he knew there would be plenty to choose from. The guy was a complete imbecile.

With a flick of the wrist, the department manager produced a folder from his stack and set it in front of Roxas. He picked it up with a look of mock interest and skimmed the highlighted sections. Is all he saw were a few references to the guy being an idiot and nothing else – not even comments about the guy being a filthy Genetic ape; which he would have liked to put. "And? What's wrong with this?"

The owner looked over the papers quickly, obviously getting annoyed and pressed for time. Roxas assumed he was likely a very busy man. The man pointed to one of the highlighted sections. "Here, you openly call him an idiot, with references throughout about stupidity."

"Yes, well, that's nothing racially demeaning. In no way did I accuse him of having genetic faults and so forth and so forth." Roxas twirled his seemingly fragile hand.

"But it is uncalled for," the department manager started.

Roxas groaned. It was like grade school all over again. He was a bona fide genius; he didn't have to put up with shit like this. "Okay," He picked up the paper with narrowed eyes. "I completely understand that experimentation on Subject T-384 was a failure. I also congratulate you on your inability to follow basic protocol set for all field testing, and since this is also your third failure due to this reason, Dr. Dreg Fulle, this should also warrant you a pat on the back. Well done!" The sarcasm that dripped from his voice was almost tangible.

The Genetic man began to color in the face, from embarrassment or fury, Roxas wasn't sure – nor cared for that matter. The head of Quanta-Robotics plucked the file from Roxas' lithe fingers, reading over it himself – most likely for the first time. "I see," the man said at last. Roxas went back to his reports, looking as bored as ever. "Dr. Dreg, I'll see you in my office in three hours." And with that he left, highlighted report in hand and the department manager trailing after him like a kicked dog.

Much to his chagrin, the nerdy and very pissed looking, Genetic fool was still standing beside his desk. The Dr. leaned down to Roxas' sitting level, clenched fists knocking over a few precariously placed things. "Listen here, Dr. Roxas," the man seethed straight into Roxas' ear. The blond didn't even bother holding back his look of utter disgust. "This is not over. I will expose you, drag you down to the ground and spit on your discarded Aven body."

Roxas felt Dr. Dreg spittle a little on his cheek and tried to repress the urge to throw up. Instead he forced eye contact with the man, his lithe fingers moving diligently into the man's pocket unnoticed. "I'd like to see you try," he said simply before roughly pushing the fuming man away from him. He knew that even if the stupid man did find a way to expose him, then the head of the business would just shake his head at him; maybe give him a slap on the wrist and say, "Get back to work." Dr. Dreg shot him an awful look filled to the brim with hatred before stalking off. Roxas chuckled slightly to himself, tossing a little rectangular-shaped credit bit in the air and catching it. "It definitely isn't over."

-o-

That night after work, Roxas felt more chipper than he had in quite a while. Dr. Dreg had been fired, Roxas had his credit bit, frozen all of the man's bank accounts – which gave him about thirty six hours to do as he pleased with the man's money, and was contemplating a night on the town.

But he really didn't feel up for it. It was still too hot in the city, a few of the armed 'citizens' looked to have a trigger itch, and something in his gut told him that going out tonight would be a distinctively bad idea. That and he was just plan ass tired. So he drug himself the short distance back to his apartment complex, up the two flights of stairs, and into his bed.

He struggled out of his clothes before laying in a heap on his bed, absently glaring out the window at the sun that wouldn't set for another two hours. After a few minutes his eyes closed and he gave a small sigh of resignation, allowing his body to finally stop and relax after a rather unpleasant day.

-o-

Images roared through his mind with vivid ferocity. His conscience scattered, reeling from the sheer numbers and audacity of the visions he saw at once. A girl, maybe fifteen, with hair as black as night, spoke. He couldn't make out what she said before she disappeared. He saw mountains of trees, oceans of grass, cities of blinding lights, people – some more than others, and cloudy skies with a warmth by his side.

"Help me…" He heard those words over and over, until they no longer made sense.

He woke up gasping, shivering violently until he thought the muscles in the back of his neck would snap in half. Slowly he pulled his blankets around himself. It would seem that the climate control was working again; working too well. He let out a shuddering sigh and rubbed at his sweaty temples.

How was it possible for a bunch of nonsense images to seem so real? But no matter how hard he tried to forget it all, the phrase "help me" and an image of a girl with dark hair walking away from him plagued his shaken mind.

"I'm working too hard," he told himself irritably as he got up to take a hot shower. He was glad he had the day off and took his time unthawing his frozen limbs under the cascade of warm water. That was it. He was working too hard at a job he hated too much. For what it was worth, he loved working on and creating robotics and complex technology. He just didn't like being told what he could and could not do – and having to work with a crowd of idiots, that annoyed him too.

He dressed in the warmest clothes he owned: a red, thin long sleeve shirt and a simple pair of pants. He pocketed his normal day to day necessities, key card, credit bit, Commune, with the addition to Dreg's credit bit, and headed out the door. He decided to go out and blow some of Dr. Dreg's money before any real concern arose and they cracked the encryption Roxas had put on the man's bank accounts. Good luck to them when they try.

The first thing he went to buy was a jacket. A local clothing store had recently ordered and received a shipment of new, heavier jackets once the climate mechanism began to malfunction. And for that he was grateful as he walked out with a thicker jacket, white in color with stripes of checkered patterns on the sleeves.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt there was something wrong. Some mercs looked itchier than they had been in a very long time, while others looked as if it were just another day to stand around and point guns at people. The hairs on the back of his neck seemed to stand on end, but he discounted it on being cold and pulled the hood to his jacket over his head and went to eat.

He decided to stop at a small bakery and grab some pastries to go. Staying in one place too long put him on edge. Roxas knew he was acting like one of the idiots at Quanta-Robotics, but with the frequent temperature changes and a small, local economy crisis, things on Duune were tense. That and he really didn't like the sudden increase of armed persons in the street.

Half a strawberry crepe – a rare (and expensive) treat on this planet – was shoved in his mouth as he walked hurriedly down a street that was devoid of travelers more than normal.

Something brushed against his arm roughly and he skittered away, crumbs sticking to the sides of his mouth and chin. Wide, bewildered eyes scanned the road, immediately looking for anything that resembled danger before he regarded the girl that stood before him. "Watch where you're walking," he almost snarled out. The tension of the city was definitely getting to him.

The girl only followed him when he began to walk off, oddly silent, but he could see her from the corner of his eye. He turned a corner sharply, standing in the open mouth way of a rather secluded alley. "What do you want?" he bit out when the girl stopped in front of him.

She had a distant look on her face, as if her deep blue eyes were seeing past him even though she held eye contact with him. Her black hair was cropped and framed her face neatly and is all he could think was how fake she looked. "There are three guns aimed for you," she said in the strangest accent Roxas had ever heard. How did she roll her R's like that?

But what she said hit him suddenly. "Excuse me?" His eyes widened in shock and he immediately ducked down, futilely attempting to make himself smaller. "Who the fuck are you?"

She shrugged and Roxas noticed for the first time that this girl was severely underdressed for the cold day. Maybe she thought it would be hot, assuming Duune was a desert planet after all. But she wore a tight leather shirt and loose leather pants and, much to his disgust, was barefoot. "Are you high? Did you snort some Eezo or something?"

With no other reaction than an even look, he assumed he was right. Of course that'd be his luck. Some user would come up to him – flying out of their head – and tell him he was going to get shot. He'd almost taken her seriously for a moment.

Angrily he stalked off, only half surprised that the girl followed him. He'd let her for now, but if she tried to follow him to his apartment, he'd push her down the stairs.

"This is not joke," she said in her awkward accent. Roxas shot her an incredulous look over his shoulder.

If he could be any more freaked out, he would have vomited. "You're the joke here. Get away from me." He groaned in disbelief. That was it; he was calling in sick tomorrow. Say he caught a case of Hybrid Influenza.

There was the faintest downwards twitch of the girls face. "You owe me," she said before hurling herself at the young Aven scientist.

He would have screamed, or attempted to scamper away, if he'd had the time. But this girl, whoever she was, was abnormally fast, tackling him to the ground before he could even blink. He was about to throw some very thought out and offensive insults, but then he heard it: gunfire. He tried to curl up and hide, but the girl that hovered over him wouldn't let him move. He was going to die, he knew it. He'd bet anything that one of his co-workers hired some mercs to kill him. It wouldn't surprise him one bit.

With trembling lips, he closed his eyes and prayed silently to himself. He heard metallic clinking noises, but refused to open his eyes to see what was happening. If he was going to die – even though he really didn't want to – he wanted it to be quick and painless.

As soon as he felt the girl's weight move from him, he rolled away as fast as he could and stumbled behind a dumpster to protect himself as well as he could. "I don't want to die," he whined to himself quietly. He heard shouts, a distinctive yell of, "What the fuck!" and everything eventually went quiet.

They probably killed that girl, he realized with a sudden pang of guilt. She was just some crazy user who happened to be flying out of her mind. And by the way she dressed she was probably just some nobody prostitute just trying to get by. Not everyone could be a genius. He began to pray fervently to himself once more, understanding that now he was next in line.

The dumpster was drug away from the concrete wall and he folded further into himself. "Goddess when I die, accept me with open arms, knowing that I have –" He looked up abruptly to see the girl standing at the other side of the dumpster, watching him intently. Slowly he uncurled himself and peeked around the side of his safety to see three men lying in a broken heap in the middle of the public transit road.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, half in awe, half in fear.

The girl shook her head. "No time. We must leave. There are more; many more."

Roxas shot her an overly suspicious look, but the way he saw it, he was either going to take his chances with some girl who was most likely flying – but had probably saved his life, or chance it out with the multitude of mercenaries that seemed to be out for him. He decided to take his chances with the girl; it looked like he wouldn't die as fast that way. "Okay, fine! Tell me you at least have a plan." He couldn't help the frustration and sarcasm that spouted from his mouth. It was reflexive.

"Get to ship. Get far away." Her strange, guttural accent was beginning to rub him the wrong way. She sounded like… some smooth talking primitive life form. It just didn't seem right – or real for that matter.

His eyes narrowed at the proposition, but for some reason he felt that she was right. He was in danger as long as he remained on Duune or until he found and stopped whoever was trying to kill him. And that wasn't very likely. He may be a genius, but he wasn't a combat specialist. That and he was Aven…

"We must go, now!" The raven-haired girl grabbed his wrist and took off in a sprint towards the docking station.

Roxas struggled to keep up with the girl's maddening pace. "I… I need to stop – at… at my apartment!" He tried to run off to the right, but the girl's grip was tighter than vice and he almost squealed in pain when he was snatched back. "I'm not fucking joking! I… There are things I need!"

Despite his protests, the girl's grip remained strong, and he soon ran out of breath to yell at her with. He faltered behind her breakneck pace, and thought about just letting her drag him along the road. She certainly seemed capable of it, and maybe it would hurt his screaming legs less.

Right when he finally convinced himself to give up and just stop running, gunfire echoed through the streets around him. A plasma-bullet whizzed past his head – too close for his comfort – before hitting the side of a building, leaving a blackened scorch mark in its place. With renewed vigor – and a rush of adrenaline, he ran faster.

He could hear the yells and screams of the people around him as they ran through crowds. Sometimes he thought he heard his name being yelled before another barrage of gunfire ensued.

He tried to keep up with the girl, tried not to scream, panic, or trip whenever he heard or saw bullets. But suddenly the girl took a sharp right, turning on a dime at the same speed she had been running. Before Roxas knew what had happened, his arm was jerked almost out of its socket with his entire body following suit. His feet lost their ground and he fell with a yelp, the girl merely dragged him along without looking back or hesitation.

Being drug was decidedly more painful – if his abused legs told him anything. Reaching down within himself, he forced his feet and legs to start running again, once he managed to pull himself up off the pavement.

Roxas was furious by the time they made it to the docked ships. The only thing that kept his aching limbs going was the treat of almost being shot – multiple times – and the screaming crowds of people around him. It made the situation feel more real and that more dangerous.

A metallic blue ship caught his eye ahead. It had a retro-future design, was a bit on the small side – at least compared to the luxury cruise liners that filled the station twice a year – and it's ramp was already descending to the ground, waiting to welcome them into safety. He would have breathed out a sigh of relief if he wasn't so busy gasping painfully for air.

The girl seemed to pick up her pace, if that was even possible, as she rounded up and began her sprint up the smooth, saline ramp with Roxas in tow. He could hear the gunshots and plasma bullets clinking against the metal of the ship, only to be stopped without doing damage. The ramp slid back up towards the gaping entrance, already at Roxas' heels before it dropped out from under his feet and he felt himself fall briefly before the girl yanked him into the cabin of the ship and the doors sucked closed right behind him.

He dropped to the floor of the metal ship, shaken to the core and more exhausted than he'd ever been in his entire life. He pressed his forehead to the cold metal floor, feeling the sweat drip from his brow and his limbs tremble helplessly beneath him. The girl hovered over him slightly, the same even expression adorning her face since he'd first saw her.

"Take us to Alkatoj," he said with a shaky breath. The girl gave a stiff nod before turning on her heel. She seemed to hesitate for the briefest of moments before snatching something off of a small, nearby table surface further in the cabin before almost gently folding his hands around a disc shaped object.

Without explanation, she turned and left, heading towards the cockpit. Briefly the blond wondered if the girl was even old enough to pilot, but that thought soon vanished from his mind when he heard the faint noise of bullets hitting the side of the ship. He winced slightly and shuffled away from where the noise was loudest.

The ship around him hummed and whirred as it started, and it lurched so suddenly that Roxas fell back from his crouching position to the floor. His stomach lurched and he barely contained a groan. He spotted a couple of tables that jutted out from the glossy convex walls of the ship. He crawled over to one of the stools and pulled himself up and sat with a long sigh. He didn't think he could think back on a single thing that happened today without breaking down and falling to pieces.

Idly he turned the disc that the girl had handed him over in his hands a few times. It looked to be a severely outdated holodisc model. He thought about just tossing it aside and pounding his head against the industrial strength titanium table until he woke up only to find he had had another one of those crazy, realistic dreams.

But his temples were still pounding with the sound of his erratic heartbeat, and he didn't feel like inflicting more pain upon himself at the moment. Instead he examined the holodisc more, finding the on mechanism and flipping it on. After a few moments of no response from the device he deemed it as broken and his curiosity drifted from it. If he had his tools, then he might have been able to fix it, but since the girl never let him stop at his apartment…

He took in an angry breath before loosening it slowly. With his luck, there would have been mercenaries patrolling his apartment, just waiting for him to walk through the door and shoot him in the head. Not wanting to dwell on morbid possibilities, he stood once the ship's flight had evened out and he could stand without issue.

The cabin to the ship, he noticed, was well made and split into three areas. One with tables and cabinets, one with a full functional kitchen – he'd even been surprised to find running water, and a large hull with six beds bunked three on each wall. He was even more surprised to find an extra room and a bathroom. Maybe this had been some kind of small luxury liner back in the day? It was very well maintained, he'd give it that.

With a small frown he opened the refrigerator, only to find that the cool box inside was completely empty – not even a single container or crumb within. Slightly panicked, he moved to the cabinets and opened them, only to be greeted by the slimmest film of dust inside. There was no food, he realized with a blank look of shock and panic slapped onto his thin, tan face.

He had no food, no extra clothes, there was no bedding – everything suddenly seemed extremely wrong. Alkatoj was a two day trip along the Galactic Highway and the nearest planet to Duune.

Angrily he stomped off towards the cockpit, pounding at the sliding metal door until it opened soundlessly under his fist. He'd had an entire speech ready at his tongue, but before he could even let off the first word it died in his mouth at what he saw in the darkened room before him.

"What the fuck!"

-o-