We tactfully creep on as Nolan skates through his prewar childhood, to his significantly more chaotic young adulthood. I listen. Learn how Nolan liked the camaraderie of the Pale Wars, and grew to despise the combat he was too good at. How he had enough of it, and that manifested in his spontaneous joining of the Defiant Few. As he speaks, he gets deeper and deeper down a road rarely traversed. "You ever get to the point where the violence, the killing, has lost its purpose?" he asks rhetorically, a hint of anger. "When it's just... enough's enough?"
The breeze shifts, but only for a minute, and we continue our stalk. Learn how that towards the end of the Pale Wars, even the camaraderie wore thin as the soldiers saw the ugly in themselves reflected in each other. Ask the occasional question, listen some more, express frank bafflement at the incredible odds he has overcome in his time. "And that's how you met Irisa?" I ask, toeing carefully through a stand of toadstools. "By killing her family?"
"In my defense," Nolan replies, keeping his eyes sweeping the brush before us. "They were prepared to sacrifice her to their gods. That's not what parents do."
"So says the human, and the Votan agrees," I hum. It's the first time I've truly admitted the fact I'm not human to him aloud, aside from hinted ascent at his deduction, and it passes by quietly. That either bodes exceptionally well, chides my inner pessimist, or exceptionally not. "The poor girl," I follow up.
"Don't let her hear you say that," he warns, with an affectionate chuckle at his surrogate daughter's inherently prickly personality. "She'd carve you a new one."
"I won't; I value my skin. But it explains a lot of why she is the way she is." He's quiet for a moment, and I realize that statement could be misconstrued as an insult. "The rest of her - the protective, loyal, grudgingly loving parts - those are all you. You should be proud." I can surmise as much from the distinctly protective feeling I get from her regarding her father. In essence, her tacit wish to stick a knife in my ribs he even looking at the Lawkeeper means she loves Nolan.
When he smiles softly, glancing over his shoulder, I can see I've avoided insulting him, and paid him an accidental compliment besides. I flush and look away because the inadvertent honesty makes me uncomfortable. He need not know that I admire him... at least, not outright.
Nolan crouches again near a clear Hellbug track, touching it gently to check for crumbling. "Didn't you say you'd show me yours, if I showed you mine?"
My blush only compounds due to the suggestive waggle of his brows.
"Did you think that gettin' me waxing poetic about the Wars was going to work?" Nolan teases.
"A fortunate byproduct," I mumble.
"Cough it up, sister. I'm all ears."
"What if - " I bite my lip in worry. "Were it widely known, my history guarantees me a back-alley beating, culminating in my beheading in City Square. What if you don't like me after I tell you?"
He stops moving to face me, brown eyes concerned. After an evaluating staredown, he manages, "Not a chance, sweetheart."
The sentiment brings a jarring lilt to my heart. Where the hell do I begin? I suppose I'll match him, childhood for childhood. "My mom was Irathian, and my dad was Castithan," I begin. It feels so jekking strange to say it aloud! I've only said those words three times in my life: to Deerik, Kenya, and Doc Yewll. Now, one more person has been added to the circle of trust.
Nolan seems to fathom the weightiness of my confession, but moves beneath the burden with the grace of a man who holds secrets of his own deeper than the sanitized version of his lifestory. He holsters his gun to tug the shades off my face, and I let him, flabbergasted. "That explains it: silver Casti, gold Irath," he says, studying my face like he's seeing me, the person under the anomaly. No one's ever understood that color combo before, or mentioned it with such sincere gentleness. "Yes," I breathe.
"Your pupils are different, too," he says, like he was commenting on the weather.
I close said eyes and give a bitter snort of laughter. "I'll get to that." There's a flash of gratefulness through me. "You know, you're remarkably open-minded for a human who fought to keep Votans off the planet."
He gives me a dry smirk. "I did adopt an Irathian and desert my post. That kind of killed the war buzz."
His expression is enough to wrench a genuine snort of merriment from me, which he snickers at, and for a moment the levity lets us beam at each other.
The moment breezes by when I pluck my shades from his hand, but can't find the will to replace them. "We lived on the edge of the Badlands, a hundred or so miles from Lincoln. We farmed for ourselves, traveled to Lincoln to sell the excess once or twice a year and buy necessities. It was peaceful for the Badlands. For an alien child in this day and age, I was happy." I finger the rim of my glasses. "But we lived secluded. Bonu and Zmaine could never be seen together, for fear of prejudice. If I went anywhere with one of them, I was disguised."
A glance up at his contemplative gaze makes my eyes drop again like stones. "Shouldn't we keep moving?" I ask, little sharp from internal pain.
"We've got time," he replies blithely.
My jaw works a little as I force myself back into the fray. "You know how the Badlands are, it's just a matter of time. One day I went to play in the fields. When I came back... " I choke up a little, because years have done nothing to distance me from the trauma, "My parents were laying in pieces on the floor of our home."
This is way worse than I thought it might be. I had hazarded a guess that maybe, just maybe my wounded soul had gotten a little better since I last took off the bandage. Wrong: it stank of putrescence.
I'm wrapping up on myself like a star in it's pre-nova paces, ingesting my own angst like a black hole. Tears spill, sobs squeeze my throat. I hate this vulnerability. I hate that my parents were taken from me.
But most of all, I hate that I can't move past it, now or ultimately.
The grip of impossibly strong arms and the feel of a hard chest under my cheek come as a shock. The smell of leather, sweat, and man soothe it away. Nolan doesn't whisper platitudes or shush me. He simply holds me, chest to chest, human to Votan, soul to breaking soul. The humanity of his compassion is shattering afresh, and I let myself dissolve, the gun slipping from my hand to the ground.
As much as I want to let go of my inhibitions, neither of us have the time to see me through an ocean of unsolved pain. I leak tears until the edge is off, until I can breathe around my aching heart again, then force myself to bury it deep.
"If there was any sign of who did it," I rasp into his jacket. "I was too young to see. I still don't know who or what the Badlands spawned to..." I shudder an inhale, my forehead on his sternum. "It was unforgivably random."
"If you had known," Nolan murmurs to my hair. "You would be a very different person today."
I raise my head queryingly. "What do you mean?"
He looks down at me knowingly. "Revenge terraforms you until you can't recognize yourself." He brushes hair from the sticky corner of my eye with tentative fingertips. "Revenge would have made you a killer. You're a grower, a life-giver. There's no room for that ugly in you."
That nearly sends me into tears again. This is about the time I should be shoving off, muttering apologies for snotting his shirt. Sniffling, I creak, "I haven't had this much contact with somebody since before - " I swallow hard, and try again. "I really, really want to let go of you. I don't know why I can't."
Instead of commenting on my touch-starved manner, or making a smart-ass remark as expected, Nolan says, "If I promise to do this again, will that help?"
I stiffen in mild surprise. Again? As in, without tears and trauma? Of his own volition, again? That idea gives me flutters in the strangest of places. I answer honestly, "I would like that."
We gingerly part, and I scoop up my pistol again to fit in the back of my belt. Now that the intimacy of the moment is gone, I find my gaze skittering off his seeking one. I'm not used to being open with people, but I think he understands that. He is Irisa's father, after all.
Suspicion nebulizes in my heart as I fall into step behind Nolan. What does he expect from me? What does he gain by being so damned nice? Nobody is that compassionate, particularly with near-strangers.
I guess this whole storytelling bit is changing that definition of 'strangers' into 'friends'.
We return to the stalk. The story bubbles up inside me like a spring, and I'm taken aback by the intensity of the need to tell it.
"So, I took off in a random direction. As it turned out, towards Lincoln."
"You traveled through the Badlands, alone, as a kid?" Nolan asks incredulously.
"Yeah," I sigh, picking my way over a fallen trunk. "But it's not that inspiring. It took me days to get to Lincoln, starving and half-crazed with the heat and grief."
"Shit," the oldworld expletive shows his amazement, "The fact that you made it at all is a miracle."
A flush as his honest praise warms me, and I find strength continue. "For a long time, I lived on the street, stole whatever I could. That's where I discovered I could pass as human better than straight Irath or Casti, if I wanted. It was for the best, too. Lincoln is rougher than Defiance." I shiver a little as I remember blind, sleepless nights squeezed into hideaways, hearing terrible sounds of creatures both bipedal and animal fighting and chasing and rending bones and flesh. "For a while, I was migrant: worked when crops were in season, but only for a week or two at a time, with small farms, and I always returned to the street."
"I get that," Nolan replies. "Living hand-to-mouth, not enough scrip for a roof."
"At least you had a profession," I remind. "I was little more than two legs, a spine, and two hands." I look down at my bum hand and say softly, "It's risky to pin your livelihood on something that can be injured, or taken."
"At least you had a fallback skill," Nolan shoots back. "I heard you on the hailer with Kenya. All I'm good at centers around a gun."
"I hardly call brewing strong drink a skill," I mutter.
"It makes you scrip with only one hand, sweetheart. Trust me, it's a plus."
"When Deerik - he's my friend, now, I see him around sometimes - caught me stealing one of his sheep, he took pity. Offered to get me out of the city, give me steady meals and a real job. I don't know what he saw in me. If I had been him, I'd have beaten me senseless and turned me in to the Lawkeepers. Or worse. But he didn't. His wife was surprised, but she took me in, too. I stayed with them for several years. They let me expand their personal farm, and sell the excess for myself. I found out I was actually really good at it."
"Does Deerik know about - " Nolan tapped the side of his eye.
"Yes." I make a face. "Deerik thinks it's some Irzu-ordained thing. I disagree."
Nolan gives a little shake of his head, almost to himself, as though marvelling at my inability to see myself as special.
"When I joined him on a selling run to Defiance, I heard about the need for a head grower. Something about that called to me. I interviewed. I got the job. And so Defiance became my home. Three years later, here I am."
"Here you are," Nolan repeats. "I gotta say, for someone with the odds stacked against you from the start, you did alright for yourself."
"So did you," I reply. "And you kept Irisa alive, too. No easy feat."
Suddenly, the bushes in front of us rustle. Nolan and I both aim at the disturbance, but it's moving too slowly to be a Hellbug. Just as I process this bit of information, and start to wonder what's coming, if not a Hellbug, the brush parts to reveal a surprisedly blinking Indogene.
"Deyobo?" I splutter, lowering my pistol. "What are you doing out here?"
His scales are peeling from the Indogen version of sunburn in a few places on his bare scalp. He scowls at me. "Taking a piss. What are you doing out here?"
"There's a Hellbug roaming," Nolan interjects, sidling forward. "Seen it?"
Deyobo's scowl deepens at the Lawkeeper. "That little shtako has been tearing up the fields at night! We've lost two acres a week to its pestilence!"
I frown, trying to get my bearings on our location. "How far are we from the farm?"
"Less than three minutes' walk," the Indogene supplies shortly.
I look to Nolan, quickly calculating. "This Hellbug is strange. It's ranging over two miles to find food? By itself?"
"Something's screwy here," agrees Nolan.
I give Deyobo a curious look. "If Kara's dead, who's the head grower?"
A flicker of sadness crosses the Indogene's face at the mention of the dead Irath. "Cathy took over, but she's shtako." His eyes drift down to my slinged hand. "We could use you back," he says wistfully.
It breaks my heart a little, really. I never thought Deyobo gave a rat's ass about who he worked for. I shrug sympathetically. "I wish I could help, Deyobo. I really do. But Cathy will - "
A piercing shriek splits the distance. All three of us jerk to attention, swinging towards the noise. "That came from the bar-wheat field," Deyobo whispers, paling further.
"How many people are out there?" Nolan asks sharply.
The Indogene's eyes go wide. "It's payday. Everyone is there."
I don't look at Nolan, and I don't hesitate. My legs fly, carrying me at breakneck speed towards the field full of my friends. It doesn't matter that some supported my opposition, or gossiped maliciously about my heritage. With distance has come perspective for me, and I realize now that those workers mean something to my solitary soul.
The shriek comes again, louder. I'm drawing close, seeing glimpses of the golden fields through the trees. Nolan and Deyobo can't be far behind me as I burst through the hedge with my hair loose and sling trailing, taking a second's horrified pause at the scene unfolding before me.
The Hellbug is the size of a land coach, its armor glistening dark and red, its mandibles full of slavering teeth, its sharpened spade-claws rearing back to strike. A screaming figure between its legs proves to be a terrified Castithan woman named Lishka, throwing her hands up in meager protection. The ground around her is worked up, like she's tried to rise and stumbled, rolled around to avoid the monster.
My good hand sweeps my belt, only to find my borrowed gun has been dislodged in my dash. Swearwords spit from my mouth. There is only one recourse left for this situation, and I don't have time to think it through enough to hate it. I pray Nolan isn't far behind me.
"HEY ENYASHO!" I shout, starting to bounce into a run again.
The thing pauses to scuttle around to look at me, maw gaping, and as it does I jump and put my foot right on its hideous nose. The Hellbug squalls in surprise as I find purchase on its exoskeleton with five fingers and a braced elbow. It's so shocked by my assault as I clamber to the top of its head that it barely moves for a few critical seconds, prompting me to think hysterically, Huh, this is easier than I thought.
Lishka screams again as I find a sturdy seat between two meeting plates of armor, and I realize the Hellbug has refocused on her with a foreboding rear of its killing legs. I hear other people screaming and shouting, but I tune them out.
I reach down, dangerously close to those teeth, to fish for the end of my sling's strap. I find it, swing it forward, and jerk it towards me, past the Hellbug's sharp teeth and flush with its jaw joint. With a roar, I wrap the makeshift reins around my bad hand, clasp the sensationless fist with my good hand, and yank.
Just as the Hellbug plunges its legs and open teeth towards Lishka, my improvised bridle takes hold and jerks the creature off-target. It buries its head and claws close enough to Lishka to tear her long gray dress at the ribs and skirt.
There is a surreal moment when I'm nearly level with the Castithan woman, bent over my murderous steed's head. "What are you waiting for?!" I bellow, meeting her wide, aghast silver eyes. "MOVE!"
The Hellbug retracts from the ground as Lishka scrambles to obey me, getting clear of striking range in seconds. The Hellbug screeches in rabid disappointment, gnashing on its mouthful of dirt and roots angrily, and starts to move after the running alien.
I haul left on the reins, redirecting it with a yell of exertion. Sensoth strength or not, this Hellbug is stubborn! The creature stumbles as its body follows its head, careening temporarily unbalanced in a circle. As it turns, I notice Nolan emerging from the woods with guns drawn, including my missing one.
"Don't shoot!" I yell as the Hellbug begins a hateful little dance on the torn-up earth, trying to shake me loose.
The Lawkeeper's jaw clenches as he seeks a clean shot, but is denied one. Just as he moves to find a better vantage, the Hellbug takes off through the knee-high bar-wheat. I'm along for the ride whether I like it or not.
We tear through the crop as fast as the thing can scuttle. I catch glimpses of my old employees running, some away, some trying to keep pace, yelling at me and each other. The Hellbug starts to buck, and I cling as tightly as possible to its plated neck as it crow hops furiously.
I really wish I'd had time to think this through. I've painted myself into a dangerous corner: my strength can't outlast the Hellbug's rodeo antics, and I can't jump off without getting eaten, trampled, or stabbed. I'm could redirect it towards the woods and snag a low tree limb, but the creature can't be spurred, it can only be turned.
The Hellbug roars with rage, suddenly planting its gnawing mouth and pincers in the ground, trying to dislodge me. I see it starting to dig in great, scooping motions and panic. If it goes underground, I won't be able to live through it.
"BETTA!" a voice - Mamello's! - hollers at me. A rope sails past me, over the carapace of the Hellbug, to be caught by two Sensoths on the other side.
"What are you doing?" I cry. They're going to get themselves killed!
Two Irathians take running starts from each side of me, each holding ropes anchored by more people, and in wild synchronization slide-skid on their hips under the belly of the descending Hellbug. The ropes pull taut on the creature's stomach, keeping it from digging further. Its roar is deafening.
More ropes appear, tossed and passed and braided around the claws and legs and body of my reluctant steed. Over a course of a minute, the Hellbug is rendered inert on the scarred ground, its hard hide heaving as it struggles against its bonds.
My legs unclasp painfully from its neck in an agonizing reflow of blood and untensing of muscle. I tip the few feet to the ground, stagger two steps, and collapse, panting, on my back.
Nolan crouches at my side, eyeing me with a veiled expression. For a long time the mill of my ex-employees coordinating a more permanent truss of their quarry is the only sound, until he finally finds words to speak to me. "That was the craziest thing I have ever seen," he informs me.
"Coming from you," I reply, staring up at the blue sky. "I'll take that as a true compliment."
Nolan grins this incredible grin at me, and I swear, for a fleeting moment I can see the boy the Pale Wars tried to stomp out. "You might have waited for backup."
"Sorry," I reply. "I wasn't thinking." With a bright expression, I say with humorously uncharacteristic perkiness, "I'm sure you would have made excellent backup."
Nolan gives me an amusedly unamused look, proving he's not actually upset. "It seems whenever you're involved, I'm late to the party."
"Hey, so," I mutter, clearing my throat and propping up on my elbow. "What are you doing tonight?"
The Lawkeeper's brow registers mild surprise. "Actually, I have duty."
I sit up slowly, wincing, and reply. "Perfect."
Nolan tilts his head, more than a little confused.
I finish my careful rise and start twisting my hair into a bun shape, taming the locks. I nod towards the subdued Hellbug, my voice indicating secrecy. "When I was on its back, it stepped on something weird. That's why it took off, I think. It got scared."
"What did it step on?" Nolan asks quietly, grabbing a random stick and breaking off a fragment, to thread through my bun.
I meet his eyes softly, moved by his assistance. "It was something metal, buried. It might be what made it go crazy to begin with, and Lishka just got in the way of its destructive attempts."
"How do you figure?" he asks.
I take the remaining stick from his hands and start to draw in the soft dirt. "Because I glimpsed this on the metal."
He takes one glance at the hexagonal writing, and his face registers recognition.
"Look at the Hellbug's left pincer."
The same mark is embedded haphazardly amongst the crevices on the creature's functional appendage, like a strike had been deflected by the metal and the character had scraped on. Nolan's eyes pin me with excitement. "It's Indogene writing. You found an Ark!"