As I work, the first blushes of dawn break. The air hums with the sounds of the forest—the chirping of unseen birds, the buzzing of insects.
Slowly, the rage begins to subside, replaced by a dull ache of exhaustion.
Finally, the armor lies dull and lifeless in my lap, a shadow of its former glory. Collapsing back against a tree trunk, I let out a long sigh. It isn't a solution, but it feels like a small act of rebellion in this messed-up world.
A twig snaps behind me, and I whip around, heart pounding. Drasuk stands there, a thoughtful expression on his face. He gestures toward the armor.
"What are you doing?"
I hesitate, unsure how much vulnerability I want to reveal. But the frustration that still simmers beneath the surface spillsover. "Taking back a little control," I say, without putting much thought into it. "It's the only thing I seem to be able to do right now."
He stares at me for a moment, his gaze serious. "Control is an illusion," he says finally. "The only constant in the universe is change."
Is he some sort of closet philosopher under all that menace?
I scoff. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Super-Senses. You can probably smell danger coming from a mile away. All I have is this stupid rock and this hunk of useless metal."
He squints his eyes at me and goes to lean against a nearby tree. "So it would seem."
I scowl.
Yeah, fuck this guy.
22
Drasuk
I watch Kira as she meticulously cleans the golden armor. Her movements are precise and deliberate. Her clever little hands work with an alluring grace, wiping away the blood and grime that mar the once-gleaming surface.
There's a certain rhythm to her actions, a careful attention to detail that draws my gaze. She's not just going through the motions—she's dedicated to this task as if it's a way for her to reclaim some semblance of control in our chaotic world.
I can respect that. It must be difficult to be so small.
I've never thought of it that way before, just in terms of strength and weakness. I suppose maybe there is a type of strength that might rise from others being physically stronger.
Her fingers deftly untangle the straps, and she begins the process of fitting the armor to her small form. It's fascinating to watch her work. The armor is clearly designed for a braceaaer—a creature much thinner than she is—but she's determined to make it work.
"You look soft," I comment offhandedly, watching her struggle to fasten the last strap. "Soft and squishy."
She glances up at me, her eyes narrowing in irritation. "Do I? And you look like you need an extra hour to turn your giant body around," she retorts hotly. "Slow and stupid, that's what you are. You need more armor to make up for it. Case and point is your giant rear."
I snort, amused by her fiery response. "Slow and stupid, you say? Maybe I take my time because I know I don't need to rush. Unlike some fragile little human who thinks she can hide behind a few pieces of metal when it only takes one hit to crush."
Her eyes flash with defiance as she adjusts the armor's fit. "Fragile? At least I don't lumber around like a clumsy oaf. And for the record, this 'soft and squishy' human has outsmarted plenty of hunters on this planet, including you."
We trade more insults as she keeps trying to readjust the different armor pieces, our banter flowing easily now, each jab met with a quick retort. Eventually she growls out in frustration and seems to concede that the braceaaer armor just doesn't fit, letting it flop onto her lap with narrowed eyes.
It's strange, this weird relationship we've developed.
In my experience, interactions with Maj'Ra females feel no different than how you would interact with a male.
With Kira, there's a sense of companionship that's both unfamiliar in the undercurrents of tension and almost like being back with my battle group.
"Seriously, though," she says after a particularly biting comment about my sense of direction, "what's your deal with always having to hit things just once? You think you're some kind of one-punch wonder?"
I lean back, considering her question. "It's not about hitting things just once. It's about precision. Strength. Knowing exactly where to strike so that one blow is all you need."
She blinks, momentarily taken aback by the seriousness in my tone. But then she recovers, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "I guess that makes sense. You don't waste energy; you just get the job done."
