Page 5

"No."

More genali step into my cave, their ugly eyes scanning my hoard. I hiss, my skin flashing an angry light purple. More of them swarm in, each one trampling over my precious collection. Rage bubbles up inside me as they start destroying my hoard, smashing my shiny treasures under their heavy boots.

"You filthy slimes!" I roar, my voice echoing through the cave. "Get out of here!"

But they don't listen. Instead, they continue their rampage, tearing apart the collection I've spent years building. My anger surges, and I lunge at the nearest genali, my massive arms swinging. I feel a satisfying crunch as my fist connects with its helmet, but it doesn’t go down. Instead, more of them surround me, their suits glinting menacingly under the dim light.

I rear up on my back limbs, letting my front limbs dangle for a moment before launching into the fray. My hands grab, tear, and crush, but there are too many of them. Formidable as my physiology is, it's not enough against their numbers and their protective suits.

Desperation fuels me as I release a high-pressure mist from my snout, a rarely used secretion meant to make other species sleep. It's my best defense, but the genali are immune to it. Their suits shield them from my misting secretions, and instead of them falling asleep, I start feeling dizzy from the effort.

I pump more and more mist into the air, hoping to overwhelm them, but it's draining me quickly. My vision blurs, and I stumble, my body weakening. The genali close in, their hands grabbing at me, pinning me down.

I fight back with all I have, but it's not enough. They are too many. One of them strikes me hard across the head, and I feel my consciousness slipping away. The last thing I see before everything goes black is my hoard, my beautiful, shiny hoard, being trampled under their feet. The glittering green of my latest treasure fading.

3

Olivia

Alongwiththedamnnear manic reruns ofAncients Behaving Badly,BoJack Horseman, andRick and Mortythat had been on repeat in the background, my personal research has been the only thing keeping me sane the past few weeks as I took care of my mother. She's on one of her downward spirals.

All she let loose was that small little hint, and then left me to obsess about it. So typical.

Had I known she was going to drug herself into oblivion maybe I could have wrested more clues from her as to the second half of who I was. Not that I saw her much in between the boarding schools and all of the failed attempts to fix me.

She completely refused to explain, aside from not denying the truth of it. Now she has so many things in her system to help with her mental anguish she's rarely conscious.

It's a struggle to hold back the keening whine of frustration I want to let out.

She lies drugged in the next room, one step away from mentally checking out forever. I don't want her to leave, but that other part of me… the part that longs to be free? To explore the other half of what should have always been mine?

She's ready.

I might not be ready, but she is.

It’s a thought that doesn’t exactly fill me with the best of confidence. I can’t seem to make myself leave this room, let alone go out into the world. Soon I probably won’t even have a job anymore, so how would I support myself?

I should go, but I can’t. Not until I know. I ignore that small voice saying I won’t leave even if I knew. I’ve had enough change in my life. The thought of more makes me feel paralyzed.

But I should go. I should.

I can't help but feel a surge of guilt at my hesitation. My mother is lying there and here I am, torn between my desire to know more about my heritage and the sheer weight of the resentment I carry toward her for hiding it from me all these years. This guilt gnaws at me, twisting my insides as I force myself to shift my focus back to my research.

I turn back to my laptop, fingers hovering above the keys as I delve into the world ofta moko, the traditional maori tattoos. The intricate designs and their profound meanings captivate me. They're not just art; they're a declaration of identity, heritage, and belonging. Themoko kauae, the chin tattoos of maori women, hold particular significance. Each line, each curve, tells a story, a history that stretches back generations.

I begin sketching, my fingers moving almost of their own accord. Since she hinted at my maori heritage, I've spent countless hours perfecting my drawings. It's become a way to connect with a part of myself I never knew existed. Each design is a step closer to understanding who I am.

I've memorized almost every design I've come across. Thekoru, with its spiral shape, symbolizes new life and growth. Themanaia, a mythical creature with a bird's head, a human body, and a fish's tail, represents balance between the sky, earth, and sea. Thepuhoro, a pattern of curved lines, symbolizes speed and strength. I've learned their meanings, their origins, and the variations within each design. Yet, I know it wouldn't be respectful to create my own variants. Not until I'm accepted as maori.

I ignore the prickles of unease and the fear of not being welcomed. Drawing these designs has become second nature, a meditative process that grounds me as I wait for the inevitable end. They will kick me out soon. Once she is no longer mentally fit.

All they care about is the money. They… I stop myself before I start a mental tirade about materialism. I don’t have the energy for it after all the conflict today.

I should leave.

I wonder… would a maori community accept me? After so many years lost, being outside my birthright, could I ever find a place among them?

A sharp, jarring sound breaks my concentration. The bell from my mother's room. She's summoning me again.