Page 17

17

Olivia

I'm staring at the dead creature, wondering where to even start. My leg still throbs from where the stupid bug thing stung me, and every step sends a sharp reminder of just how close that thing came to finishing me off. I’m still a bit dizzy from the venom, but it’s steadily getting better.

I can’t believe the sting didn’t kill me. What else knocks you out that fast and you just wake up dizzy and with a headache? Scratch that… I don’t want to know.

But there's no time to dwell on it—I need to keep moving, keep my hands busy. Especially with Kroaicho watching me like that, arms crossed over its chest, radiating impatience.

Then I look back and Kroaicho and realize I can’t keep thinking it . I’ve been stubborn about it, just like I usually am, but it isn’t right.

"Alright, big guy," I mutter, stretching my sore limbs, "we need to prep this thing, and I'm gonna need your help."

Kroaicho's deep-violet skin shimmers in the low light, his tusks twitching in annoyance. "My help?" His voice rumbles, incredulous. "You expect me to help you eat another creature?"

"Yes," I deadpan. "Lower yourself to the horrors of basic survival."

He narrows his eyes but doesn't argue. Good. That's a win.

I hobble over to the dead creature, studying its oily hide. My makeshift glowing mushroom light casts weird, shifting shadows over it, making it look even more grotesque than it already is. "First thing's first," I say, glancing over at Kroaicho, who hasn't moved an inch. "I need something sharp. A knife."

"I have no such crude tools," he replies, his voice thick with disdain.

"Well, that's a problem." Great. I glare at my empty hands, then my eyes land on the pile of random trinkets Kroaicho calls a treasure hoard. "What about that?" I point to a jagged piece of metal sticking out from the pile.

Kroaicho follows my gaze, frowning. "That is not for cutting."

"It is now."

With a groan of protest, Kroaicho strides over and plucks the object from his pile, holding it pinched between two long claws and handing it to me with exaggerated reluctance, like I'm asking him to part with his firstborn. "This is a piece of ancient machinery," he grumbles. "Far too valuable for… whatever it is you are about to do."

I take it from him, turning it over in my hands. "Valuable? It's a rusty scrap."

"Very valuable," he snaps, his skin deepening to a purple hue. "You know nothing of its history. This was a tool held in the limb of someone ancient. Made for a specific task we have yet to figure out, but I assure you it was not made for this."

"History, huh? Maybe it should be in a fucking museum, but that’s not helping right now, if it ever did. Well, lucky for it…" I grin, testing the edge of the metal on the creature's hide. “...it's about to make history as the first-ever tool to slice open alien cat thingy guts."

Kroaicho lets out a long-suffering clicking sigh, and I get to work, slicing the creature open as best I can with my makeshift knife. The stench hits me immediately, and I fight back the urge to gag. Ugh. I turn toward Kroaicho, who's watching me with thinly veiled disgust.

"I'm gonna need some other things too," I say, continuing my messy work. "Like sticks. Dry ones."

Kroaicho's heavy brows knit together. "Sticks?"

"Yeah, you know—wood, branches, twigs." I can already see this is going to be a hard sell.

"Ugly things," he mutters, shaking his head. "They don't belong in my cave."

"Ugly?" I pause, incredulous. "They're sticks, not fashion accessories. What's your problem with them?"

Kroaicho straightens, his voice heavy with indignation. "They clutter. They add nothing of value to my hoard. I won't allow them."

I give him a long, flat look. "Clutter? You're telling me that," I gesture wildly at the haphazard pile of rocks, crystals, and random metal bits in the corner, "isn't clutter?"

"That," Kroaicho huffs, "is an organized collection of treasures."

"You're impossible," I mutter, shaking my head. "Look, I need the sticks to make a fire, alright? Otherwise, we can't cook this thing."

He scoffs, clearly unimpressed. "Fire out of sticks? There are better methods."

"Not for humans!" I snap. "This is how we do things, Kroaicho. I'm not one of your fancy multi-limbed not-quite-a-dragon-but-not-a-bug species. I need fire."

He looks unconvinced, but at least he's thinking it over. I'm about to keep pushing when a thought hits me—what if I can just show him why we need fire?

I pick up a couple of rocks from the ground, clunking them together experimentally. Sparks. Just a little, but enough to catch my interest. If I can get him to understand the need for flame, maybe the stick argument will get easier.

Kroaicho's brow furrows as he watches me. "What are you doing?"

"Just trying to start a fire," I mutter, knocking the rocks together again. Sparks fly, and I can't help but grin. "Look, sparks! We're getting somewhere."

He squints, watching me with clear confusion. "This is yet another form of human entertainment?"

"Uh… sure," I say, trying not to laugh. "Let's go with that."

I strike the rocks together again, sending a shower of sparks into the air. "See? I can't do much with just sparks, though. I need dry sticks and leaves to get it going."

Kroaicho tilts his head, clearly still not understanding the necessity. "These sticks are crucial to your plan?"

"Very crucial," I nod, feeling like I'm trying to explain advanced calculus to a toddler. "Without them, no fire. No fire means no cooked food. And no cooked food means I'll starve. You don't want that, do you? A dead human stinking up your hoard?”

He hesitates, clearly torn between his disdain for sticks and his grudging concern for my well-being.

"Ugly," he mutters again, but I can see him wavering.

"Look," I say, lowering my voice to something more conspiratorial. "I get it. Sticks aren't as shiny or cool as your crystals, but think about it this way—if I have to keep eating raw monster, I'm going to get really cranky. You don't want cranky Olivia on your hands, trust me."

"How would this be different?"

I let out an exaggerated, frustrated groan, slumping down on the cold stone floor of the cave. Kroaicho is still standing there, all four legs rooted in place, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. That perpetual look of mild disgust hasn't left his face since I mentioned sticks, and honestly, it's starting to grate on me.

"Come on, Kroaicho," I say, rubbing my temples. "Why are you being so stubborn about this? I just need a bundle of dry sticks. You act like I'm asking you to fetch molten lava."

He remains silent, eyes narrowing slightly. I notice the faint hue of dark purple beginning to ripple through his violet skin—annoyance, no doubt. This entire conversation has been like pulling teeth, and I don't have the patience for it right now.

I stop talking, biting back the next sarcastic remark that's bubbling up my throat. Instead, an idea flickers in my mind. Slowly, I stand, brushing the dust from my backside. A glint catches in my eyes as I turn to face Kroaicho, and I watch as he shifts uneasily, clearly picking up on the sudden shift in my mood.

"You don't get it, do you?" I say, voice lowering. I begin to pace in front of the dead creature, gesturing with my hands like a storyteller about to weave an epic. "Fire, Kroaicho. Fire is more than just warmth or a way to cook. It's beauty. It's life. Do you know what it feels like to watch a flame dance? To hear the crackle as it devours wood, the glow it casts, the power it holds?"

Kroaicho stares at me, visibly perplexed. The blue of confusion flashes across his skin, but I don't let up. I'm gaining momentum now, and my words flowing faster.

“I know of fire and it is not special,” he says, but I ignore him.

"Fire," I continue, "is the heartbeat of survival. It's primal, yet it holds the essence of everything. Do you know what it feels like to sit beside a fire, the warmth seeping into your bones, to watch the flames flicker and twist, casting shadows that seem to breathe?"

I can feel the passion in my voice building, and I know I've got his attention now.

"It's not just about cooking, Kroaicho," I add, moving closer to him, my tone conspiratorial. "It's about control. About turning chaos into something beautiful, something… necessary. Fire is freedom. It's everything."

Kroaicho's expression has shifted, and I don't miss the way he leans slightly forward, curious despite his earlier reluctance. I press on, hoping to seal the deal.

"Imagine," I whisper, "how valuable fire could be. How much it could add to your collection? A living, breathing thing of beauty you can command. That's what sticks bring. That's what I need."

For a long moment, Kroaicho doesn't move. His massive arms remain crossed, but there's a flicker of light beneath his skin, the faintest glow of orange beginning to spread from his chest outward. Without a word, he lowers onto all six limbs and, with a sudden burst of energy, sprints out of the cave, his six limbs moving in unison like a machine.

I blink, stunned by the suddenness of his exit. It's so quiet now, the only sound is the gentle hum of the glowing mushrooms on the cave walls. I exhale slowly, a grin pulling at my lips. That worked a little too well.

Kroaicho's gone for only a surprisingly short amount of time before I hear the familiar sound of his claws clacking against the stone floor. I turn to see him re-entering the cave, a huge armload of sticks piled high in his arms. His skin is glowing brightly now, a mixture of white and orange, as he strides toward me with an excitement that I haven't seen before.

"These?" Kroaicho asks, dropping the sticks with a dramatic flair that sends a few tumbling and clattering across the cave floor, puffs of leaves falling more slowly.

I stare at the pile, momentarily speechless. "Uh, yeah. That… that's perfect, actually."

Kroaicho's face is lit up a bright yellow glow. I almost ask about the color, but decide I’m more hungry than curious.

"Good," he says, almost puffing out his chest. "Now… what's next?"

I suppress a laugh, nodding appreciatively at him. "Now," I say, reaching down to gather a few of the sticks, "we build the fire."

As I set to work arranging the sticks, Kroaicho settles beside me, clearly fascinated by the process. His tusks twitch with excitement, and I can't help but smile at how completely different he is compared to just a few minutes ago. I've never seen him this animated before.

"You seem awfully interested in this fire now," I tease, glancing up at him.

Kroaicho looks down at me, his orange glow intensifying. "You made it sound… significant. Like a treasure of sorts."

"Fire's more important than most treasures," I reply, flicking the stones together to create sparks. "Speaking of treasures, though…" I pause, looking at him as I keep striking the stones. "Tell me about your home. You know, before you ended up here."

Kroaicho's expression shifts slightly, his orange glow dimming just a bit. He seems to consider my question for a moment before answering, voice low and heavy.

"My hoard," he begins, his eyes distant, "was vast. It filled an entire cavern—a cavern much larger than this." He gestures around the cave as if comparing the meager space to its former glory. "There were piles of gemstones, metals from worlds you can't even imagine. Each item carefully selected, and meticulously placed. I had ancient relics, machines that hummed with power, weapons forged by civilizations long dead."

I strike the rocks again, sparks flying, but my mind is captured by Kroaicho's words. His voice takes on a reverent tone as he continues, the details pouring out like a dam breaking.

"The walls of my hoard glittered with crystals that caught the carefully reflected light of our planet's twin suns. It was not just a collection—it was a legacy. The heart of my people, the zhasie. Each treasure had a story, a history. And I was its keeper."

I listen, mesmerized by the richness of his memories, but I notice a subtle shift in his tone—a dark undercurrent of anger. His skin darkens to a shade of violet, and he grits his tusks.

“What was your favorite?” I ask.

Suddenly, his skin lights blue and light purple, signaling… embarrassment? He wiggles, then sighs. “It was my most recent addition. Snatched in a dangerous trip to the lava fields. Such a rich, whirling, complex glow of green…”

He trails off, skin still lighting up in that odd combination. My brows furrow, then I glance down at the long green hair draped against my chest. “Green, huh?” I ask him. “Like me?”

He grinds his tusks. “Almost exactly like you, but far less interesting.”

I blink. Am I his favorite? No way. I’ve been as difficult as possible.

"But it was destroyed," he growls, distracting me, voice deep and vibrating with fury. "The genali came. They took everything. Burned my cavern to ash before they captured me. How could scavengers like them not see the value of it? My treasures, my home—gone."

I freeze for a moment, caught in the weight of his words.

I mean, I can empathize, but I don’t know how I feel about being the favorite of a collection.

A huff of breath escapes as I circle back around to how terrible it must have felt to lose everything. He was kidnapped too, and his life’s work destroyed. Even more than that, I realize, since he has mentioned that it was passed down. Is he trying to make up the loss?

The fire I've been trying to start suddenly feels insignificant in the face of Kroaicho's loss, but I don't have time to dwell on it, not right now.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, unsure of what else to offer.

Kroaicho doesn't respond, his eyes now focused on the growing flame as it finally catches, spreading through the dry sticks with a soft crackle. He watches, entranced by the fire I've built, the orange light dancing across his skin.

For a few moments, we sit in silence, the only sound the crackling fire and the occasional shifting of Kroaicho's limbs as he watches.

"You like it?" I ask after a while, unable to resist a smile.

He nods, a rare look on his face, which I realize with a start has somehow stopped looking odd to me. "It is remarkable," he says softly. "I never thought of it this way. A living thing, as you said."

His skin glows an even brighter shade of orange than the fire.

I chuckle and my mood shifts lighter. "So," I say, leaning back and stretching my sore leg. "Tell me more about your people. What were they like? What did you all do, you know, besides hoarding treasures?"

Kroaicho's gaze snaps to me, and I can already see where this conversation is headed. His skin glows white again, a sure sign that he’s about to launch into another long-winded speech about his precious hoard.

"The treasures," he begins, "were everything. Every zhasie had a collection. Some were small, but mine… mine was the greatest. We competed, of course. Who could gather the most, and who had the rarest items. Our way of life keeps the treasure’s stories intact."

He’s stuck on a treasure loop and I’m beginning to think their culture doesn’t extend much past it. That fact grates against my long-held distaste for materialism, but I push the thought away. I don’t have the energy for it right now.

I shake my head. "You don't say."

"And the hoards," he continues, undeterred by my sarcasm, "were our history. Each piece was a chapter in our story. A reminder of what we had conquered, what we had survived. The oldest zhasie had the grandest hoards—thousands of years old, passed down from zhann to zhannel."

I sigh, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Right, but… what about, you know, culture? Art? Music? Anything other than treasures?"

Kroaicho looks at me, blue lighting his skin, genuinely confused. "Why would we need anything else?"

"Figures," I mutter under my breath, shaking my head.

Despite the circular nature of our conversation, there's a strange charm to it. I continue cleaning the creature in front of me, my knife making slow but steady progress through the thick hide. Every now and then, I have to stop to retch—the smell is unbearable—but I keep going, determined to make the whole process worth it.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I manage to get the creature onto a makeshift spit, propping it up over the fire. I sit back, wiping sweat from my brow, and glance over at Kroaicho, who's still staring at the fire with wide eyes.

"Stay with me, Kroaicho," I say, giving him a nudge. "Don’t stalk off to treasure hunt. I'm going to go wash my hands."

I make my way to the underground stream that runs along the far side of the cave, plunging my hands into the cold water and scrubbing furiously. When I return, the fire is still burning strong, and Kroaicho hasn't moved a millimeter.

I sit back down beside him, the warmth from the fire already making me feel better. The creature begins to cook, the smell of roasting meat filling the air.

"So," I say, trying to find another way into the conversation. "Where did you get that rusty piece of metal, anyway? You said it was valuable."

Kroaicho's eyes snap to mine, and he brightens again, eager to tell the story. "Ah, that. It was part of an ancient machine, left behind by a species long gone. I found it in an abandoned room, on an odd little shelf. It reminded me of an item I traded some useless, ugly rocks to get. They said it was from a long-extinct culture. I couldn’t figure out the writing, but it was still crisp and new, a testament to how advanced they must have been.

I raise an eyebrow. Crisp… but ancient? I have my doubts, but I don’t share them. As excited as he sounds it would be like kicking a puppy. More and more I’m having to throw out my assumptions about what things mean to him. He sounds more like a nerdy museum curator than a pirate. Or day trader.

"That sounds… interesting,” I say instead of crushing his dreams. “What were the rarest items from your previous hoard?"

And just like that, the floodgates open. Kroaicho begins to tell me story after story, each item in his old hoard connected to some far-flung world, picked up by this trader or that. Some forgotten piece of history. Slowly, I start to piece together bits of information about Kroaicho's home world, the zhasie culture, such that it is. Everything, of course, seems to revolve around treasure.

As the creature cooks, I lean back, absorbing everything Kroaicho says, my mind whirling with the new information.

After a while, Kroaicho stands, his six limbs stretching. "I should go," he says, glancing toward the cave entrance. "There may be more treasures to find tonight."

I hesitate for a moment, then speak up. "Kroaicho, if you're going out again… could you keep an eye out for the others? The other women who were with me when we crash-landed here, I mean?"

He tilts his head, considering my request. "Humans," he murmurs. "Like you, but with different… colors?"

I nod, wondering how he knows about the variation in human coloring. "Yes, exactly. It would mean a lot to me if you could find them."

The alien looks doubtful, and my brain does what it does best. Clutch for straws.

"Humans… yes, they would make excellent additions to your collection."

Kroaicho gives me what I can only rationalize to be a flat look before it mutters something under its breath and summarily turns around its six limbs stretched out as it prepares to leave, my mind whirling. This is my chance, I think. I need to convince it to help me find the others, but there's that nagging thought—what I just said about humans being “additions” to his collection. I should feel ashamed, right? After all, I've basically just offered up my fellow humans like objects to a creature whose only passion is hoarding. But I can't summon up guilt right now.

Clearing my throat, I approach it from a different angle. "Look," I say, adopting my most persuasive tone, "I know humans might not sound like much, but think about the variety. You like unique treasures, don't you? Humans are incredibly diverse. Each one is like a completely different piece in a collection."

Kroaicho pauses, turning his violet face toward me, the orange glow from the fire still reflecting off his skin, but no longer lit up orange from within. I can see him considering, so I push harder.

"Imagine," I continue, stepping closer, my voice dropping low like I'm sharing some grand secret. "A hoard with not just one, but multiple humans. It would be unlike anything you've ever collected. Rare. Unpredictable. You'd be the only one with a collection like that."

Kroaicho's expression shifts, and for a moment, I think I've struck gold. The glow beneath his skin brightens, flashing orange as it thinks over my words.

But then, his response cuts through the air like a slap. "No!" Kroaicho snaps, its voice suddenly sharp. "You… are… are the worst addition to a hoard possible! I will not seek out more of your kind."

I blink, stunned by the vehemence in its voice. What?

Kroaicho shivers, his glowing skin now turning a deep violet, the tell-tale sign of growing irritation. "Your kind are pests," he says, his voice dripping with horror. "Annoying. Loud. I will not collect more of you."

I narrow my eyes, crossing my arms in return. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did my human-ness offend your delicate treasure-collecting sensibilities?" My words are practically dripping with sarcasm, but I can't help it. I've already lost the argument. Now I'm just pissed.

Kroaicho huffs, the noise something like a growl mixed with a snort. "You are more trouble than you are worth. You and the others are no treasure. You're—" He gestures wildly with one of his clawed limbs, "—broken things. Not worthy of hoards."

His words cut deep, bringing up memories of the similar words uttered by family, teachers, employers… but I slip on my mask, refusing to let him see.

I laugh, the sound harsh and humorless. "Broken things? Is that your expert treasure-collector opinion?" I take a step forward, not backing down, despite the fact that Kroaicho could probably squash me like a bug if he wanted to.

"Listen, if I'm so worthless, then why are you still hanging around me? You know what I think?" I lean in, lowering my voice. "I think you like having someone to talk to."

Kroaicho recoils, his glowing violet dimming into a sullen blue. "I do not," he says, but I can tell by the way his skin flickers that I've hit a nerve.

I press on, refusing to let up. "Oh, really? Because for someone who's so determined to call me a pest, you sure spend a lot of time with me."

"You are part of my hoard," he grumbles, tusks grinding in annoyance.

"Right. Just a shiny human rock, right? That's why you helped me gather sticks and started getting all philosophical about fire?"

The creature's skin shifts, the colors swirling in frustration. "I will leave now," he says, and there's a finality in his tone that lets me know I've pushed too far.

I watch as Kroaicho turns toward the mouth of the cave, all six limbs moving in that smooth, predatory motion he has. Part of me wants to yell for him to stay, but I'm too tired to keep arguing.

"Fine, go then!" I shout, the words bouncing off the cave walls. "See if I care!"

Kroaicho doesn't respond. His form fades into the shadows, leaving me alone in the cave with nothing but the crackling fire and the faint hum of glowing mushrooms. Well, that went well.

I exhale sharply, rubbing a hand across my face. My breath comes out ragged, and I realize I'm shaking.

That's what I get for being vicious. My eyes sting, a dull ache starting at the back of my skull. I try to blink the feeling away, but it lingers, an ever-present weight pressing down on me. Fear and pain, I think, though it feels strange to put a name to it. I've been holding so much in. For a moment, I feel it welling up, like a dam ready to burst.

Five and ninety-five , that shattered part of my brain starts to chant. Cannot be reformed .

I lose myself for long moments, before I smell the smoke, the coughing bringing me out of my daze of repeated sayings. A quick glance up confirms that I forgot about a very important part of building a fire. A chimney.

My hunger takes precedence though, and I snatch the meat off of the fire. Hissing as it burns my mouth, then groaning when the flavor is terrible.

I choke as much down as I can, determined to not let this place starve me to death.

Then I gather myself to figure out the smoke issue, but before I can get up the ground beneath my feet shudders.

The fire flickers as the stone floor trembles, a low rumble echoing through the cavern walls. I freeze, my heart pounding as the tremor grows stronger, and then—CRACK.

The ground splits open with a jagged, thunderous tear, and something bursts through the surface, sending chunks of rock flying in all directions. I scramble backward, my hands clawing at the ground as I stare at the thing that's emerged.

It's massive. Easily twice my height, and covered in thick, slimy scales that glisten in the low light. Its body is long and serpentine, with dozens of legs—more like claws—that dig into the stone beneath it. Its head is elongated, with a wide, tooth-filled maw that stretches unnervingly far when it opens its mouth. Two eyes, a sickly green, lock onto me, studying me with an eerie, calculating stare.

My heart races in my chest as I freeze, barely daring to breathe. The creature doesn't move at first, just hovers there, its eyes narrowing as it watches me. I can hear the low hiss it emits, like steam escaping from a pressure valve, and the scent of sulfur fills the air.

This is bad. But I don't move. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, it won't see me as a threat. Maybe it'll just go back to wherever the hell it came from.

The creature tilts its head, then moves closer, its claws scraping the stone with each step. The tension builds in my chest, my lungs screaming for air, but I still don't move. I don't even blink.

And then, without warning, the creature lunges.

I dive to the side, just barely avoiding the snapping jaws as they slam shut where I'd been standing moments before. My heart is hammering now, the adrenaline surging through my veins as I scramble to my feet. I can feel the heat from the creature's breath, rancid and hot, as it rears back for another strike.

I'm not going to outrun this thing. It's too fast, too strong. My eyes dart around the cave, searching for something—anything—that can help me. My gaze lands on Kroaicho's pile of treasures, glittering in the low firelight. The hoard!

Without thinking, I sprint toward the pile, throwing myself into the chaotic mess of rocks and trinkets. My body crashes into the mound, sending pieces clattering everywhere as I burrow deep into the treasure, pulling as much of it over me as I can for cover.

I hear the creature's growl behind me, followed by the sound of claws scraping over the stone. It's searching for me, sniffing at the air, but I keep my breathing shallow, curling up as tightly as possible beneath the treasures.

It’s no good, though. It wasn’t fooled

"Kroaicho!" I scream, my voice hoarse. "KROAICHO!"

There's no response. Of course, there isn't. The stupid alien left, and now I'm stuck here with this… thing, buried in a pile of useless trinkets.

I push up slightly and start throwing anything I can grab in as many directions as possible. It seems to work, the creature whips around to each new sound, looking more and more confused.

Then I carefully lay back down.

The creature's claws scrape closer, and I bite my lip, willing myself not to scream again. I can hear it sniffing, growling, its hot breath so close I can almost feel it. It's circling the hoard, searching for a weak spot. For me.

I press deeper into the treasures, my hands brushing against something sharp—one of Kroaicho's supposedly valuable pieces of scrap, I’m sure. I grab it instinctively, clutching it to my chest like some kind of talisman.

The creature lets out another growl, and then—silence.

For a moment, I think maybe it's gone, that I've somehow managed to hide well enough. But then I hear the faintest sound—like a crackle. Like the fire…

The fire.

It must have wandered too close to the flames, distracted by the thing I had started. My pulse quickens as I realize this might be my only chance. Slowly, painfully, I shift beneath the hoard, trying to reach the edge where I can see the flickering light. If I can just get the creature to move closer to the fire, maybe…

But my movements make noise, multiple clinks of metal against metal. I freeze, my heart slamming in my chest as the creature whips around, its green eyes narrowing in on my hiding spot.

"Dammit," I whisper, gripping the sharp object tighter in my hand.

The creature lets out a deep, menacing hiss, and then lunges straight toward me.