Tyrix
TYRIX
T he trail picked up three levels below the bar, in a part of the station most residents pretended didn’t exist anymore. Quarantine warnings plastered the bulkheads, their edges curling in the artificial atmosphere. But there was recent activity - scents and sounds that shouldn’t exist in an abandoned sector.
Nalina’s words about Vami still rang in my head. Children vanishing into some mysterious program, empathic bonds breaking. My markings itched at the thought. Something about it struck deeper than my original mission to find Dr. Gondon.
The air currents shifted, carrying new scents. Antiseptic, fear, sweat. And something else - a chemical tang that didn’t belong in these old passages. My nostrils flared, tracking it.
“...more supplies to Research Bay...” Voices drifted from an intersecting corridor. I pressed against the wall, letting the shadows swallow me.
Two maintenance workers passed, but their movements were wrong. Too precise. Like the security officers at the bar. Their natural scents were muted, overlaid with something sharp and strange.
I waited until their footsteps faded before moving on. The station’s environmental systems hummed around me, but the pitch was off - higher than normal, with subtle variations that spoke of modifications. Someone had been busy down here.
A sealed hatch blocked my path, marked with faded quarantine warnings. The lock had been changed recently - the scratches around it still fresh. Beyond it lay the Education Section, where Vami’s child had last been seen.
The lock wasn’t a problem.
Every hunter worth his pay carried specialized override protocols - expensive ones, acquired through less-than-legal channels. They were designed to mimic maintenance emergency access, exploiting the station’s need to maintain life support systems even in locked-down areas.
But something about the setup bothered me. The exterior was crude, hastily applied. But beneath them... my fingers found sophisticated sensor arrays hidden in the frame. Military grade.
I eased the hatch open, scenting the air. Traces of multiple species lingered - human, Selenthian, Poraki. But old, maybe days old. The corridor beyond stretched empty and dark.
My mind drifted to Nalina, the way she’d leaned close at the bar, the memory of her warmth against my chest when we’d hidden from patrols...
Focus. I forced the thoughts away. Getting distracted would only put us both at risk.
But forcing away thoughts of her was becoming harder each time. A hunter should work alone. Should stay detached. Every instinct I’d honed over years of tracking told me to pull back, to maintain distance. Yet something about her kept drawing me in, making me question habits that had kept me alive this long.
The first classroom door stood partly open. According to the maintenance logs Nalina had pulled up on the bar’s console, this had been Netu’s class. Even after days, traces of Selenthian bioluminescence lingered around the doorframe, confirming it.
Inside, chaos reigned. Art supplies scattered across tables, drawings half-finished and abandoned. A stuffed toy lay forgotten in one corner. The scene painted a clear picture - children rushed out in a hurry, no time to gather belongings.
A datapad on one desk still glowed faintly, the name “Itizi” scrolling across its screen. I picked it up, noting the smudged spots on its surface. Tears? Some sort of fluid?
But something else caught my attention - a faint electrical hum coming from the desk itself.
Something about the setup nagged at my instincts. While children weren’t exactly part of my own life, I’d seen enough educational facilities across the sectors to know this wasn’t standard issue equipment. These modifications were too precise, too carefully concealed to be simple learning aids.
I made myself move methodically despite the urge to rush. Years of tracking had taught me that overlooking details could be fatal.
Gliding my hands along the underside revealed hidden panels. Medical sensors, carefully concealed. The chair contained similar equipment - monitors built right into the frame. I found the same setup at every workstation.
The ventilation grates overhead had been modified too. New dispersal units added, disguised to match the old fixtures. The whole room had been converted into some kind of experimental chamber.
The air itself felt wrong, carrying traces of chemical compounds that set my teeth on edge.
Boots clicked against metal in the corridor outside. I slipped into a supply closet, barely fitting my larger frame among the shelves. The door’s seal caught just as two figures passed.
“...integration proceeding faster in the younger subjects,” one said. Their voice had that same unnaturally precise quality I’d noticed in the security officers - as if something else was pulling their vocal cords like puppet strings. “The K-series modifications take better in developing systems.”
“Resistance decreasing with each iteration,” the second agreed. “Though the Selenthian subjects prove... problematic. Their natural empathic abilities interfere with neural remapping.”
“Noted. Adjust protocols accordingly. The next phase begins at 0300.”
They moved on, their rhythmic steps fading. I let out a slow breath, then froze as I noticed what surrounded me. The shelves held medical supplies, not cleaning materials - specifically, neural interface components disguised as maintenance equipment.
Something clattered behind a stack of boxes - a hollow sound that shouldn’t be there.
The tablet I found wedged in the wall cavity sparked to life at my touch.
I kept one ear trained on the corridor while scanning the data, a skill honed through years of handling intel in hostile territory.
Standard student health records scrolled past, but underneath... My hands stilled on the screen. Genetic scans. Neural plasticity tests. Empathic sensitivity measurements. Each file bearing Dr. Gondon’s unmistakable mark - her distinctive technical shorthand, her precise way of structuring research parameters, even her preferred notation system.
A sound in the corridor.
I pressed deeper in the shadows as voices approached.
“Transfer schedule modified. Moving subjects from Block C to Research Bay in ten minutes.”
I forced myself to continue reading while I counted seconds. The earliest records were clearly imported from Rosicros Station, bearing Dr. Gondon’s meticulous notes on neural plasticity in developing minds.
Her comments in the margins grew increasingly concerned: “Query: Why are you requesting baseline data on empathic resistance?” And later: “Attention required - these modification requests exceed safety parameters established in original study.”
The records grew darker after that - military terminology replacing medical care, test subjects instead of student names. Dr. Gondon’s final note was terse: “These applications violate every ethical standard we established.”
Then her signature vanished entirely, and the project name changed to “Initiative Myriad.”
The transport pods rolled past my hiding spot just as I reached the final entries. Through their windows, I saw the results of those cold military notations - small forms writhing in containment, purple bioluminescence pulsing beneath their skin. The timing couldn’t be coincidence. They were moving evidence, just like these records someone had tried to hide.
The implications turned my stomach. What had they done to make Dr. Gondon abandon her own research?
“Schedule update,” a voice announced outside my hiding spot. “Block C subjects transferring to Research Bay in ten minutes. Full containment protocols.”
“Acceptable. The K-series modifications are proceeding faster than projected. We need to clear space for the next group.”
I waited in the shadows, counting seconds.
The tablet’s revelations about Initiative Myriad still burned in my mind when the procession began. Through a crack in the door, I watched sealed transport pods being wheeled past. Through their small windows, I noticed small forms... and flashes of purple bioluminescence where none should be.
The guards moving them displayed that same unsettling precision I’d seen in the security team outside of Nalina’s bar.
My claws dug into my palms, drawing blood. These were children. Even a hunter had lines they wouldn’t cross. The memory of Nalina’s fierce protectiveness of her bar patrons rose unbidden. What would she do if she saw this? The thought shouldn’t matter. The mission shouldn’t be changing just because she’d somehow slipped past my defenses. But it was. I was.
Everything connected - the missing children, the modified systems, Dr. Gondon’s disappearance. This went far beyond a simple bounty.
I needed to warn Nalina. The information about the children’s location was too valuable to keep to myself, and the connection to Dr. Gondon changed everything. But rushing back to the bar would draw attention we couldn’t afford.
I knew what to do.
Wait. Observe. Track. But seeing those pods, remembering Nalina describe Vami’s broken voice... something else pushed against that training. Something that had started the moment I saw Nalina create that distraction to help Jevik escape.
I moved through the shadows toward the maintenance shaft that would take me back to the bar levels. Nalina’s shift would be ending soon - I could intercept her on her usual route home. Safer than the bar, where too many eyes watched.
My instincts warred within me - the need to maintain my cover fighting against this new, urgent desire to act. To protect.
To protect Nalina.
These impulses were foreign to me. Hunters worked alone for good reason - attachment was a liability, a weakness that could get you killed. Yet every time I thought of Nalina - her fierce determination, her unflinching courage - something shifted inside me. The solitary hunter’s path I’d walked for so long felt suddenly hollow.
The station creaked around me, its bones shifting. Or maybe that was just my world, changing with each new piece of this puzzle. With each moment that pulled me further from the solitary hunter I’d been, toward something I didn’t yet understand.
The memory of Nalina’s fingers brushing mine over that drink haunted me as I climbed. I had to reach her. Had to warn her. Had to...
The thought broke off as voices echoed up the shaft. I pressed into an alcove, watching another patrol pass below. They moved with unnerving coordination, like dancers following music only they could hear.
Time was running out. For the children. For Dr. Gondon. For all of us.