Page 2

GUVAN

T he scent of rot and infection hits me before I see the bear.

My nostrils flare, the holographic disguise of Gary Irons flickering for a moment as my true form threatens to break through.

The air is thick with the stench of festering wounds, the kind that drives a creature mad.

I don’t need the tracker embedded in my wrist to tell me I’m close.

The forest is silent, the usual chatter of birds and rustle of underbrush replaced by a heavy, oppressive stillness.

Even the trees seem to hold their breath.

I step over a fallen log, my boots crunching on the brittle leaves.

The bear’s trail is easy to follow—broken branches, deep gouges in the bark, and the occasional smear of blood.

It’s not hunting anymore. It’s lashing out, driven by pain and rage.

I’ve seen it before, in soldiers and beasts alike. When the body breaks, the mind follows.

“Should’ve stayed in the mountains,” I mutter, my voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that doesn’t belong to Gary Irons.

The hologram flickers again, and I adjust the image inducer on my wrist. Can’t have the locals seeing a seven-foot-tall scaled alien wandering their woods. Not that they’d believe it if they did.

The ridge comes into view, the town of Coldwater sprawled out below like a toy model.

The bear stands at the edge, its massive frame silhouetted against the pale sky.

Even from here, I can see the arrows jutting from its back, the wounds swollen and oozing.

It’s a monster, but not by choice. Someone did this to it.

The bear’s head snaps around, its nostrils flaring as it catches my scent. Its eyes lock onto mine, , I see the pain there, the confusion. Then it roars, a sound that shakes the ground beneath my feet, and charges.

I drop the hologram. The air shimmers, and Gary Irons is gone, replaced by the scarred, scaled warrior I truly am. The bear doesn’t slow. It’s a freight train of muscle and fur, its claws tearing up the earth as it closes the distance. I brace myself, my muscles coiling like springs.

“Come on, then,” I growl, my voice a deep rumble that matches the bear’s roar. “Let’s end this.”

It’s on me in seconds, its massive paw swinging down with enough force to crush a car.

I sidestep, the claws missing me by inches, and drive my fist into its side.

The impact sends a shockwave through my arm, but the bear barely stumbles.

It swings again, and this time I catch its paw, the force of the blow driving me back a step.

My boots dig into the dirt as I hold it, the muscles in my arms straining against the bear’s weight.

“You’re strong,” I admit, my voice tight with effort. “But so am I.”

I twist, using its momentum to throw it off balance.

The bear crashes to the ground, the earth trembling beneath it.

It’s up in an instant, roaring in fury, but I’m already moving.

I leap onto its back, my claws digging into its fur as I grab one of the arrows.

The bear bucks, trying to throw me off, but I hold on, my grip like iron.

The bear rears up one last time, its massive body towering over me, its breath hot and rancid.

I drive the arrow deeper, the barbed tip piercing its heart.

The beast lets out a final, guttural roar, its eyes wide with pain and confusion, before it collapses onto the ground with a thud that shakes the earth beneath my feet.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my chest rising and falling as I step back.

I kneel beside the bear, resting a clawed hand on its head.

Its fur is coarse, matted with blood and dirt.

“You didn’t deserve this,” I mutter, my voice low and gravelly.

“You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I give its head a final pat before standing and turning my attention to the arrows sticking out of its back.

I grab one of the shafts and pull it free with a swift, practiced motion.

The arrow is a mess—barbed tip, jagged edges, and a sickly sheen that screams poison.

Illegal, even by Earth’s lax standards. Whoever did this wasn’t just hunting; they were torturing.

And then they left the poor creature to suffer.

My compad hums as I pull it from my belt.

The holographic display flickers to life, scanning the arrow with a soft blue light.

The screen flashes red, then populates with data—manufacturer, buyer, transaction history.

It doesn’t take long to zero in on the name: Henry Lothar.

Of course. Local dirtbag with a reputation for cutting corners and skirting the law.

“You’re not just an idiot, Lothar,” I growl, my tail flicking in irritation.

“You’re a lazy idiot.” I tuck the arrow into my belt and activate the image inducer.

The air around me shimmers, my scaly form replaced by the sleek, polished facade of Gary Irons.

The suit fits well enough, but the disguise feels like a prison. I hate this charade.

I stride down the ridge toward Coldwater, the town’s lights flickering in the distance. The weight of the arrow in my belt is a constant reminder of the task ahead. Lothar’s place isn’t far, and I don’t plan on knocking. This isn’t a visit; it’s a reckoning.

The streets of Coldwater are quiet, the only sound the crunch of gravel under my boots.

Lothar’s house is a squat, rundown thing on the edge of town, the kind of place that looks like it’s one strong wind away from collapse.

I don’t bother with the door. Instead, I kick it in, the wood splintering under the force of my boot.

“Henry Lothar?” My voice echoes through the house, cold and sharp. “We need to talk.”

The stench hits me before I even cross the threshold—burnt chemicals and sweat, the unmistakable reek of human weakness.

Lothar’s slumped in a rickety chair, a glass pipe still clenched between his fingers.

His pupils are blown wide, his greasy hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

He doesn’t even register me standing there.

I let the image inducer flicker off.

The human disguise melts away, revealing the seven-foot nightmare beneath. Lothar blinks up at me, slow at first—then all at once, his body jerks like I’ve jabbed him with a cattle prod. His mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Just a wet, strangled gasp.

"Henry Lothar," I rumble. My voice doesn’t echo. It just stays , heavy in the air between us.

He scrambles back, knocking the chair over with a clatter. His foot catches on the rug, and he goes down hard, the pipe skittering across the floor.

I take a slow step forward. "You shot a bear. With poisoned arrows." Another step. His back hits the wall. "Left it to suffer."

"Wha—I—" His fingers scrabble at the floorboards, desperate. "Didn’t mean—it was just?—"

I reach down and haul him up by the shirtfront. His feet dangle half a foot off the ground. The fabric strains in my grip.

"You ever tortured something to death before, Henry?" His breath stinks of meth fumes and stale beer. "Let me tell you how it feels." I turn, slamming him into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed NASCAR poster behind him. His head snaps.

"—Fuh— fuck ?—"

"You’re going to call the state police." I release him just enough to let his toes brush the ground. His eyes dart toward the door. "Not Coldwater PD. State. " My free hand closes around his wrist, squeezing until the bones creak. "You hear me?"

"Y-yeah, Gary, I?—"

"Gary isn’t here."

He shuts up. Smart.

I drop him. He crumples like a sack of flour, groaning. My compad hums in my belt. I thumb it on, holding it out to him.

"Call."

He does.

He mumbles, stutters, but manages to confess to enough illegal hunting violations that they won’t ignore him. The dispatcher sounds bored until he mentions poisoned arrows. Then she gets very interested.

I leave before the sirens start.

By the time I reach the cabin, the hologram’s locked back in place, and the town’s hatred is spray-painted on my fence in jagged letters. IRONS GO HOME. FUCK U GARY. Someone’s even managed to slop a crude anarchy symbol in what smells like motor oil.

I rub at the tightness between my eyes. The mine had to go.

The spores in that silver vein would’ve turned the whole town into fever-ridden zombies within a decade.

But Coldwater doesn’t know that. They know empty pockets, skipped meals, prescriptions they can’t afford.

And they know Gary Irons took their silver away.

"Fine," I mutter, stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind me. "Hate me."

Mission first. Mission always. Even if it tastes like ash on my tongue.

The door to the cabin creaks open, and I don’t even need to turn around to know who’s standing there. The faint scent of ozone and the low hum of a compad in standby mode give him away. Pyke. Always with the dramatic entrances.

“Make yourself at home, Captain,” I say, not bothering to mask the sarcasm in my voice.

I’m standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a sea of clutter—empty takeout containers, discarded clothes, and a stack of unopened mail that’s been gathering dust for weeks.

The place looks like a tornado hit it, and I don’t care.

“If you would make regular reports, Guvan, I wouldn’t have to take drastic measures like house calls,” Pyke replies, stepping inside.

His red scales catch the light from the chandelier, and his eyes sweep over the mess with a mix of amusement and mild disgust. “You have plenty of money to hire someone to clean this place up, you know.”

“I’m not home much,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest. The image inducer on my wrist flickers, and I adjust it with a quick tap. “What can I do for you, Pyke?”

He steps further into the room, his boots crunching on a stray potato chip that’s been ground into the rug. “Veritas intel has picked up reports of a planned protest against the Coldwater Dam Project.”

I blink, my tail flicking in irritation. “A protest? Why? The dam’s going to create jobs and cheaper electricity for everyone. What’s there to protest?”

Pyke chuckles, a deep rumble that fills the room. “Humans, like Vakutans, become attached to places and situations as they are. They don’t always see the bigger picture. Silver Creek and Mirror Lake mean something to them—memories, traditions, whatever. They’re not just resources to be exploited.”

I snort, my claws flexing at my sides. “Sentimentality. That’s what’s holding them back?”

“It’s not just sentimentality, Guvan. It’s identity. You of all people should understand that.” He gives me a pointed look, and I know he’s referring to the scars I refuse to heal. I ignore the jab.

“So what do you want me to do? Hold their hands and sing campfire songs?”

“I want you to be diplomatic,” Pyke says, his tone firm. “No threats, no intimidation. Just talk to them. Listen. Try to see things from their perspective.”

I let out a low growl, my tail lashing behind me. “I’m a soldier, Pyke, not a politician. I don’t do diplomacy.”

“You’re whatever Veritas needs you to be,” he counters, his voice softening. “And right now, we need you to be Gary Irons, billionaire industrialist, not Guvan, the warrior who’d rather disintegrate the problem than solve it.”

I glare at him, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s right, and we both know it. “Fine. I’ll talk to them. But if they start throwing rocks, all bets are off.”

Pyke claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. “So do we all, my old friend. So do we all.”

He turns to leave, pausing at the door to glance back at the mess. “Get this place cleaned up, Guvan. One way or another.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and I let out a long, frustrated sigh. I glance around the room, at the chaos I’ve let accumulate, and mutter under my breath, “It would be so much easier if I could just disintegrate the protesters.”