Chapter 28 - Kyrin

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  Green smog sat like a stagnant pond around the refinery, surrounding the structure like an impenetrable moat of gas. The stench was enough to drive away unwanted visitors, though Kyrin and the rest of the workers had to trek through every day.

  The interior conditions weren't much better, and all staff required personal ventilators. But a hazard suit could only do so much; sooner or later, the Rylon found its way through the gear. Kyrin had half a mind to rip the uncomfortable equipment off her face; what was the point.

  The refinery was split into four major sections, each working in unison to produce the barrels of refined Rylon that kept Kleth'altho functioning. The conditions were only slightly better than prison labor yard, but those who put in the effort were rewarded with a roof over their heads and the Government's nose out of their business.

  Of course, Kyrin had other financial obligations.

  A loud buzzer rang through the building, signalling the end of the workday. The factory broke out in excited chatter as production halted immediately. The people of Kleth’altho were resilient, and the gruelling conditions of their occupation weren’t enough to dampen their spirits.

  However, not everyone was impervious to the workday’s unrelenting grindstone. Many fell victim to the allure of Torpe and the blissful oblivion it offered. For Kyrin, the drug was a necessity; she needed something to lessen her heartbreak.

  Torpe… It was all she could think about…

  She needed it as badly as she needed to breathe.

  She wandered out of the factory like a corpse alongside the other torpified junkies. A muted shuffle of feet and ragged breaths echoed through the refinery halls as they drifted in search of their next fix.

  Kyrin staggered outside and ripped the itchy respirator from her face, drinking in the fresh air with choking gasps. Dirty fingernails scraped at the scabs forming on her neck.

  Where could she get more?

  “Kyrin!” A human voice bellowed from behind her.

  Her mind was a slurry of agitated desperation and torpe-induced sluggishness, but the commanding bark managed to stop her. She slowly turned to face the human, an older man with a withered beard and pale green streaks of Rylon scars across his face.

  He shouldered his way through the crowd of drug seekers, “Three times I warned you about the mess at your station; you’re done!”

  The words sounded distant, but the gravity wasn’t lost, “But I need… Job I need-”

  “I have six others who can start in your place tomorrow!” He shoved a clubbed finger in her face, “You’re done, don’t come back.”

  It took Kyrin a moment to register the situation. Her eyes widened, and she tried to grab the man, but he was already walking away.

  “W-wait!” She stumbled forward and tripped, falling hard on her knees.

  The foreman glanced over his shoulder and shook his head in disgust at her crumpled form, “As if I need any more junkies in my crew.”

  The cruelty of his words stung, and Kyrin picked herself up off the ground. Something wet rolled down her cheek, and she dashed at it with the heel of her hand.

  No more crying; she was done crying. What she needed now was torpe, that would make her feel better. The awaiting bliss cracked a smile on her dirty face. As she descended the factory's crumbling stone steps, her dragging foot collided with the other, sending her tumbling face-forward down to the floor of the ravine city.

  She landed hard on the ground, and the impact drove the air out of her lungs. The excruciating pain was enough to sober her, and she let out a rasping wail. Her face was pressed into the dirt, and a burning agony in her arm prevented her from getting up.

  Blood began to drip into her eyes from a stinging gash on her forehead. However, what panicked her the most was the complete loss of feeling in her legs. She began to squirm and thrash, regardless of the broken bone.

  It was as if her legs were gone. Utter terror filled her, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t think about torpe.

  It didn’t take long for someone to arrive, but they were little help. Beyond calling for additional aid, they could do little to ease her pain and panic. Soon, a crowd began to grow. They watched her with horrified expressions as they whispered to one another. A few pointlessly asked if she was okay.

  She was very far from okay.

  Jericho would have known what to do. He would have gotten her help instead of gawking and gossiping. He would have driven the crowd away and carried her to the nearest medical facility. Why hadn’t anyone done that already?

  It was no secret that the torpe had altered her appearance. She had witnessed its physical effects during her childhood and the slow death of her parents. She remembered the foul odor secreted from their pores and could still imagine the scabs that sloughed off their skin. Every night, her mother’s chapped lips scratched her cheek and left behind a film of bloody residue.

  Near the end, the very sight of them had churned her stomach, but she hadn’t reached that point yet; she still had time. She was beautiful! A head turner, a heartbreaker! How many men and women had she turned away before she met Jericho?

  Yet, as she stared up at the crowd surrounding her, she recognized the disgust on their faces. Sure, many looked concerned, but no one was willing to touch her.

  “Oh, you poor thing!” The gurgle of an Ordanian sounded above her.

  She looked up to see the small alien hovering above her, “Please help me.”

  The flapping wings stopped, and the Ordanian dropped to the ground by her face. He wasn’t much larger than a child, “Can you move?”

  A sobbing hiccup escaped her lips, “No, I- I can’t feel my legs.”

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  “Neither can I,” a gentleness in the tone dulled the edge of anxiety.

  Kyrin blinked to clear her bleary vision and refocused on the Ordan. He was holding himself up with his arms, and his two legs, atrophied from disuse, lay limp behind him.

  “You don’t see me crying about it.” The Ordanian smiled.

  “Y-you can fly, though.”

  The small alien ruefully nodded, "We’ll just have to get you your own pair of wings. Wait here; I’ll get my partner.”

  He pushed off his arms, and with a single flap of his leathery wings, his rotund little body was propelled into the air. The crowd eyed him warily and continued to whisper. Not a single person made a move to help her.

  The Ordanian’s red eyes scanned the surrounding area, ignoring the growing crowd. “Here she comes.”

  He dropped near her head and brought his rodent-like face close to hers. He was elderly, weathered from years of life experience on Kleth’altho. There wasn’t the usual narcissistic sneer that she would have expected from his species. Instead, his red eyes were filled with compassion and concern.

  “Well, I don’t know if I’ll be able to lift you; I’m not the same Ordanian I was a hundred years ago. But don’t fret, I know someone who can.”

  Kyrin was about to question the small alien when a voice like a whip cracked, “What’s going on here? Matto?”

  An angry-looking Myrd, she shouldered her way through the crowd, hurling insults and elbow jabs at those in her way.

  “Matto? Are you- Matto!” The elderly female gasped.

  “Hello, my dear.” The Ordanian grinned up at her.

  The Myrd crossed two arms over her chest, and placed the other two on top of her wrinkled head. Her six yellow eyes looked tired, and her bulbous lips pulled back in an irritated grimace.

  “Matto,” her Universal had a heavy accent, “Can’t you see she’s high, we can’t keep bringing these people in.”

  Kyrin tried to move, “No, please, I’m sober, I need help; I can’t feel my legs.” She started to sob, “I can’t move.”

  The Myrd studied her and whipped her head around at the crowd, “and all you cowards sat and watched while this poor thing lay here in pain? Shame on all of you! Shoo! Shoo!”

  She took a menacing step towards them, and the crowd scattered. Myrd’s on Kelth’altho were not to be trifled with, even one with her years. She shook her head at the dispersing group and turned back to Kyrin and Matto.

  “If this is some trick to get a place to stay…” She growled.

  “It’s not I swear,” Kyrin begged.

  “Come now my love, she needs our help.” Matto pleaded.

  The female rubbed her chin with an offhand, studying Kyrin’s broken form. She lacked the compassion that Matto had, but there was kindness in her hardened face nonetheless.

  Without a word, she stooped to wrap her four arms around Kyrin and lifted her into the air with a surprising effortlessness. Despite the Myrd’s evident age, her strength was formidable.

  “Thank you,” Kyrin whispered, her body cradled like a newborn.

  “Don’t thank me, thank my partner.” The Myrd muttered.

  The Ordanian hovered close and gave her a soft smile. He whispered something, eliciting an eye roll and a slight chuckle. Interspecies relationships were rare, and she had so many questions to ask, though none seemed to be appropriate. She thought about the logistics and feasibility for the duration of the trip, a desperate attempt to ignore the burning pain of her arm and the terror-inducing nothingness of her legs.

  ***

  Kyrin didn’t remember much of the trip. From the torpe withdrawal and the excruciating pain, the entire process was a blur.

  She found herself in a makeshift bed on the floor of a dark room. The bed was nothing more than a collection of blankets, but they were comfortable, nonetheless. However, they did little to distract her from the aches, nausea, and soul-devouring desperation for torpe. She might seek relief elsewhere if she had to go another minute without it.

  Maybe smashing her head through the stone floor would provide some respite from the cravings.

  She tried to stand up, but her legs didn’t respond to the neurons firing in her brain. She groaned and writhed in the blankets, twisting her upper body in every direction imaginable. She scratched and banged on the walls, screaming for someone to help her.

  Nothing.

  Was this what her unlikely saviors had been planning? They intentionally paralyzed her so they could trap her in this room. She had nothing to offer, and without the use of her legs, physical labor was out of the question. Maybe they just wanted to torture her. Yes! It was all starting to make more sense. They pushed her down those stairs. Her pain was their fault, and they would pay for it.

  An animalistic urge to hurt her captors drove her to buck and thrash, and a guttural howl tore from her lips. She dug dirty, chipped fingernails into her forearm and dragged them down her skin, blood pooled in the furrows and dripped off her elbow and onto the bedding. The sensation felt good, and it offered a brief respite from the agony of her withdrawal.

  She began to rip at the soft skin until the door burst open and the Myrd walked in. Her yellow eyes were a strange mix of fury and sadness.

  “Enough.”

  Kyrin froze, her blood-stained fingers twitching for more action. The sight of the old alien brought her to tears, and she begged the Myrd for torpe.

  “I don’t carry any of that poison in my house, “ the alien scolded.

  Kyrin moaned and gnashed her teeth at the female. If she could just get her hands around the elder’s leathery neck…

  “I’ll kill you” She whispered.

  The Myrd remained still, studying her with a careful expression.

  A string of obscenities spewed from Kyrins mouth, each one personalized to wound the Myrd the best she could. Desperation silenced her as she caught the glint of a small metal object in the alien’s hands.

  “I can not fight the battle for you, girl.” The Myrd whispered, her voice deep and throaty, “But I will do everything I can to make sure you don’t surrender.”

  Kyrin’s eyes widened when she recognized the syringe. Hope surged, and a gleeful smile split her cheeks. Blood welled from the cracks on her lips as she held out her hands.

  Torpe.

  The Myrd jabbed the syringe into the muscle just above her knee. The fog on her brain lifted at once, and she could think clearly. The pain of her withdrawal remained, as did her lust for the drug, but her judgment returned.

  Almost immediately the realization of her words and actions struck. She tried to apologize but emotion thickened her throat, and the words came out in heavy sobs. The alien knelt and shushed her, patting her head with one arm while inspecting the self-inflicted wounds with the other two.

  “You can do this,” The elder murmured.

  Kyrin grimaced, “I don’t think I can. I need it so bad, I need it more than anything I’ve ever known.”

  “You want to see him again, don’t you?” The alien with a gentle nudge, “Don’t give me that look, you’ve been screaming nonsensical things for the past three hours. Most of which involved particular human man.”

  “I- I’m never going to see him again, he’s gone,” Kyrin whispered.

  The Myrd clucked, “You have no idea about anything, do you? Can you see the future?”

  Kyrin tried to smile, but a wave of nausea tightened her face. “Uhm, no, I can’t.”

  “Then don’t be stupid and throw yours away.”

  Kyrin didn’t know what to say. She stared up at the elderly Myrd and matched the slight grin with her own. There was a look of recognition on the alien’s face, and Kyrin caught a flash of compassion across her yellow eyes.

  She was throwing her future away. It was a future that might involve seeing Jericho again.

  After a few moments, the Myrd left, leaving Kyrin alone with her thoughts. The withdrawal-induced senselessness returned within a few hours, along with her animalistic cravings for the drug.

  The Myrd came back with food, water, and the mysterious medication. Her timing was impeccable, as the pain was driving Kyrin to psychosis. The alien didn’t stay to talk but offered some brief encouragement and advice.

  Kyrin clung to her caretakers like it was the only thing keeping her alive, and it probably was. She was determined to beat the drug and see Jericho again.

  She would do whatever it took, no matter how many brutal cycles of torture she would have to endure.

  The torpe didn’t own her.

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