Page 18 of Marked By the Bounty Hunter

Whatever the Consortium was doing, it was spreading. And we didn’t have much time to stop it.

The night cycle crowd started filtering in - maintenance workers, dock crews, the usual mix of third-shift regulars. But tonight their conversations felt darker, their glances more furtive. Somewhere out there, Tyrix hunted for answers. Somewhere, Vami searched for her child.

And I stood in my bar, gathering intel drop by drop, while the station’s endless cycle changed around me, each hour bringing new secrets and lies.

TYRIX

The 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.”

---