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The area I trod through isn't climate-controlled. I am in the bowels of a winter storm. And I am not dressed for the occasion. Tore holes in my gloves on my last job; I haven't mustered enough care to replace 'em.
Didn't take the zoladone tonight. Told myself I'd save them. Can’t have my fingers all frostbitten because I can barely feel them.
Left foot, right foot. Breathe. In, out. Again and again.
A warm gust of humid air nauseates me as I step into the aquarium.
The doors were left unlocked. The workers aren’t paid enough to care, so they leave it to the elements at night. Nobody wants third-grade aquatic life from some forgotten shell of a building. There aren’t even any benches or souvenir pop-up shops.
The architecture is bland, sterile, like any medBay. Damn it. Stop thinkin’ about that, Eph.
I focus on the task at hand. I was sent to retrieve a simple cache. Supposed to be in and out. The pay’s low, as are the stakes. I don’t get to know what’s inside the cache. But I know better than to ask questions. As long as I am compensated, it does not matter.
I've memorized the layout of the building. But it doesn't hurt to check for discrepancies. Together, Volga and I walk towards a slab of marble. A map. I skim over all of the educational information, the biomes, and the patrons. I locate our destination: the miniature Leviathan exhibit. Golds and their sick perversions.
Volga huffs. “It is so lonely without all of the children. A pity."
I do not entertain her chit-chat. Together, we pass all sorts of fluorescent fish and unique flora. Tape seagrass, laden with tiny pods of seeds, shifts with the gentle current. Water filters whirr behind the walls. A carveling with a twisting, gold-embossed horn stares me down unblinkingly. Its malice emanates from beyond the thick glass. Wouldn’t want to be trapped like that either, oldboy.
The miniature Leviathan exhibit is empty. Interesting. I read a poster plastered to the tank. It informs me that the Leviathans are recovering from an operation. To better suit the aquarium’s rebrand, each creature's scales will be changed to fit a seasonal color pattern.
Scales, flesh, fat; peeling. Scalpels.
My stomach twists in horror.
Before I can even blink, I've torn the poster down and crumpled it in my fist. And as Volga examines a nearby exhibit, I discard the evidence in a nearby trash incinerator. The chute clicks shut.
Volga tilts my way. “Hm? Did you find something?”
“No.” The lie earns me a small shrug from her not-so-small shoulders. And I am glad that she doesn't push for information. If she knew, she would make this mission a Leviathan heist.
We find the cache nestled in a faux seaweed display. It is a nondescript box. Just large enough to fit a head. Volga offers to carry it for me. I accept. She’s the muscle, after all.
We work our way out of the aquarium. There are no security guards, no cameras to dodge, no traps to avoid—it is the closest thing to peace I've had in some time. I thank Jove for how underfunded the aquarium is. It is wonderful for me. Not so much the animals.
All is well until Volga’s heavy footsteps go quiet as snowfall. Irritation flares. And it is… odd how my pace slows. Because I feel her omnipresence—suffocating as it may be—wane. It is strange how I disregard my mind and logic. They urge me to push forward, to leave her. Complete my mission. Secure dinner. Secure the next job.
My pack of burners feels so light in my pocket.
I turn to see Volga damn near fogging up a circular tank with her breath. At first, I scoff—assume she’s preening. Freelancing ain’t the job for peacocking.
Rippling caustics dance upon Volga’s face, her pale skin pearlescent. She marvels as a Venusian eel wiggles at her. It is easy to forget how young she is when I can barely meet her gaze. It is even easier to forget how there is still light behind those obsidian irises, kindled by something as boorish as that eel.
I swallow the lump in my throat. Once she has her fun, she will be more cooperative, I tell myself. I let her enjoy the moment.
Volga grabs onto her snow-white braid and waves it at the creature. “Maybe it thinks that I am eel, too?” It is a rhetorical question. She is just being silly.
Thunk!
The eel slams into the tank; it fully intends to tear Volga’s face off. It unhinges its jaw. The glass cracks, punctured by a snaggletooth. Volga barely flinches. She snaps her head over to me, blushing in embarrassment. I raise an eyebrow in acknowledgement, but nothing more.
When she smiles, it hurts. It is soft and kind and everything I am not.
One day, I’ll never see it again.
“There is a resemblance. It’s got your teeth,” I say, in reference to her lower-grade dental work. She never liked spending her money; she hoards it like a dragon.
Shouldn’t remember stuff like that.
Volga takes no offense. “Is that so?” she asks, curious. When she turns to face the ferocious beast again, she bares her fangs. The eel turns into a twitching lightning rod; I squint at the sudden, blinding flash. Volga makes a small ‘Oh!’ and shuffles backwards. A chuckle escapes me; the sizzling and sparking of the eel masks my slip-up.
Volga sighs. “I did not mean to… I seem to have given it quite the shock.” After making a wretched, unintentional pun, the 6’1 beast hangs her head and pouts.
Something warm and foreign but familiar all the same crawls its dirty fingers all over me. I want to comfort her. Tell her it’s not her fault. For… For what, exactly? Because the eel in the aquarium doesn’t want to be her friend? Nauseating. “You’re wasting time,” I snap. Just like that eel.
I expect it to hurt her. It doesn’t. She simply nods. “Yes. It is getting late.”
I storm off and soon breach the aquarium’s exit doors. A barrage of snowflakes crowds my vision. Frozen winds lick at my face. Zoladone makes its home in my tight chest. And eventually, my breathing steadies; my teeth halt their incessant clatter. I trudge forward.
Left, right. Left, right. Left, right.
I am safe from the memories that masticate my brain into useless cud. My employers have no use for the partly digested. For the brittle. For the weak. I must be whole, whether I want to be or not.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I find our salvation—an abandoned cabin. Beats being at nature’s cold, unforgiving hands. I couldn’t hear much over the howling winds. I didn’t check for Volga’s presence the whole time. She knows better than to run off. Because she holds the cache, I turn.
Volga is walking in the tracks I left in the fresh snow. She cradles the box close to her chest. Like it is something dear to her. She looks awkward as all hell, a baby deer just learning how to walk. It’s inefficient—a waste of energy. I lean into my comfortable apathy. I truly don’t care enough to nitpick.
I settle onto a bench on the cabin's porch. It moans as Volga drops down at my side. Hopefully, it’ll hold until our ride gets here. It would be a nuisance if it didn’t.
“It was nice to see the animals and not pay for it," she says.
“Yeah.”
“I do wish they had popcorn, though.”
I only hum in response.
The storm clears. The driver appears two hours later than discussed, but we enter the craft without complaint. She hands us blindfolds. Protocol. We can't see where we're heading.
Volga's already seated in the ship, box in hand, eyes squeezed shut. Like a child. Something downright deplorable must be in that vessel, because the driver makes no move to take it from Volga. She doesn't even want to be near her.
I tie a blindfold around Volga's eyes. And because she can't see, I have to buckle her in. Can't lose the cache. I don't buckle myself in. I tie my blindfold. When I take a deep, calming breath, I wrinkle my nose. Somethin' smells wrong. Tangy.
My employers are more anxious than I thought. My stomach lurches; drugs mix in my system. The wrong ones. The strong ones. Gas. Because Volga's with me, they're pumping the chamber full of enough gas to knock a Sunblood over. Ah, shit.
I don't fight the effects. Whatever happens next is inevitable; I can barely move my pinkie finger. I lean back into my chair and slip into quiet nothingness.
When my consciousness fully returns, I'm standing on a bustling sidewalk with Volga at my side. She blinks at me, slower than I to come out of the stupor. Not used to the drugs like I am. Though I am the one who keels over to throw up. My body aches. We were carted around for longer than anticipated.
When I rise, I see that we're underneath an awning and that, thankfully, the credits were wired to my account. I even got a tip for "being tame." Ha.
Volga leans down to whisper, “At least we are still on Luna."
“Stellar observation. Your eyes work.” I reach into my pocket to find my burners still there. Honestly, I am surprised I wasn't frisked.
Volga cocks her head to the side. Confused. She drops it after I blow a puff of smoke into the sky. Passerby stare warily as she circles me in boredom.
I narrow my eyes at her in irritation. "Quit crowding me.” Then I gesture down the alleyway; the sign of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant shines dimly at its heart.
Downtrodden, Volga follows the command. She gasps. I know she smells what I can—the waft of fresh, buttered popcorn. Her gaze flicks between the shop and my burner. Obviously, she's calculating how much time she has before I hit the end.
"Do not move. I will be right back," she announces, already shuffling her way inside.
I am familiar with the shop. Wouldn't let her go in otherwise. The owner preaches anonymity. It is a don't ask, don't tell type of deal. Volga will place her credits under the curtain, receive her popcorn, and leave. In and out. Just how I prefer.
Left alone, with only the murmur of nightlife, I thumb my ring. It is cold to the touch. My fingers feel so numb. And my traitorous mind wanders. I wish Trigg could hate this shitty weather with me. He'd clutch my hands and nag me for not buying new gloves.
"For you!"
I blink, refocusing my blurry vision. Dread creeps as I stare at the bucket of popcorn Volga thrusts into my face. It's unpleasant to be yanked from my reverie. For once, I was enjoying myself. Petty anger lances through me, and it fucking stings. More than the smoke in my lungs.
I scowl at her. I do not understand why she tries to win my favor, even now. "What a waste of money."
"It is not a waste. It was on sale! But... Oh, well. More for me."
I watch her attempt to eat from one bucket while the other is tucked under her muscular arm.
She is too forgiving. Too positive. It's... sweet.
In another life, I think I’d smile. In this one, I don’t deserve to.