Page 44 of Stalker

The table crashes against the wall. Beer and broken glass spray across the floor. My hands shake as I loom over Vorpa, close enough to count each scale on her snout.

"Do not speak of my mother. Ever."

Her golden eyes stay fixed on mine, unflinching. The end of her nose twitches - the only sign my outburst affected her at all.

"I'm not your enemy, Bruticus." Her voice stays level, maddeningly calm. "Right now, I'm the only friend you've got on this station."

"I don't need-"

"You do." She cuts me off with a wave of her clawed hand. "Security's already processing that DNA from your glove. Soon they'll have a match. When that happens, every exit will lock down tight."

The truth of her words settles like ice in my gut. She's right. I'm trapped.

"My Alliance Interceptor can get you past customs. No questions asked." She leans forward, scales gleaming in the dimlight. "But first, we finish what we started. Daniels goes down, or you rot in a cell. Your choice."

I grip the edge of a nearby table, bone spurs scraping against the metal. The wood splinters under my fingers as memories of my mother war with thoughts of Maryse's smile.

"Think about it." Vorpa slides from the booth. "You know where to find me when you're ready to finish this."

My anger drains away as her footsteps fade. The overturned table mocks my loss of control. I right it, brushing away broken glass and spilled beer.

A handful of cred chips scatter across the sticky surface - more than enough to cover the damage. The barkeep's relief radiates across the room.

The streets offer no sanctuary. Every shadow holds a security drone, every passing face a potential informant. The weight of my mother's unavenged death presses down, mixing with the ache of losing Maryse.

My fingers brush the ceremonial dagger at my hip. The bone-white blade holds the answer - the only path left to maintain my honor without destroying the woman I love.

The ancient rites demand blood. But perhaps my own will suffice.

A Reaper's final duty is to die well. To spill his lifeblood with dignity rather than live in shame.

The metal walls of the station press closer. My ancestors' voices whisper of duty and vengeance. But Maryse's smile haunts me more than their demands ever could.

The dagger slides an inch from its sheath. Clean. Quick. Honorable. The way out of this impossible choice.

Yet my hand trembles on the hilt. The thought of Maryse learning of my death stops the blade's motion. Even this solution will hurt her.

There is no path forward that doesn't end in pain. For her. For me. For the memory of my mother.

The maintenance ladder creaks under my weight as I climb. Wind whips my jacket, threatening to tear me from my perch. Three hundred feet of empty space yawns beneath my boots.

The station spreads out below, a maze of metal and lights. From up here, the people look like insects scurrying through their meaningless lives.

My mother died for this? For these tiny beings and their petty schemes?

Even Vorpa, who I thought understood justice, only wants to use me as her weapon. Like everyone else in my cursed existence.

The wind howls through the tower's struts, a keening cry that matches the emptiness in my soul. Far below, security drones patrol their predetermined paths, oblivious to my presence above them.

My bone spurs scrape against the tower's metal skin as I settle onto a maintenance platform.

I exist to suffer, and to cause suffering." The words taste like ash on my tongue. "If there is an end to this existence, I wish for nothing else."

The ancient words of supplication fall from my lips. "Great Ishani, closest to the Precursors, guide my path."

Only the wind answers, whistling through my bone spurs.

"Show me the way." My fingers trace the ritual patterns in the air. "Mother, if your spirit hears me..."

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