Honestly I think I'd like to come back to this some day when I have the bandwidth for it and properly refine it, but for now it's a 'first make it exist' kind of piece. I want to visit Ilum for real so bad.
Imperial Intelligence had learned a lot from Cipher Agent Thirteen. As the first of Intel’s reptavian werebeasts, he was placed squarely on the cutting edge of that arena of science, whether he intended to be or not. Neither bird, nor reptile, nor fully mammal anymore, Thirteen had become a grab bag of werebeast fun.
He showed Intel the need for the reptavian to shed its skin – sometimes in rather spectacular and gruesome ways.
He showed them the need for the reptavian to molt, despite inconveniences to mission timelines.
He showed them the need for a rather carefully curated diet, the desires of both the hawkbat and the human body fighting to be known with preferences that became difficult for Thirteen to spell out.
Reptavian werebeasts were not low maintenance. The merging of mammalian genetics with reptavian – once thought to possess fundamental incompatibilities, until Thirteen unexpectedly survived his first transformation – certainly led to a number of quirks that were not for the faint of heart, or for a Watcher with a lesser opinion of himself than Five.
However, it did prompt the conclusion that the genetic fusion of such dissimilar species would preclude most, if not all, independent maladies. It was listed such in Thirteen’s medical record:
RISK OF HUMAN ILLNESS: UNLIKELY
RISK OF HAWKBAT ILLNESS: NOT APPLICABLE
So, while Thirteen received all the standard inoculations for human agents, per protocol, it was deemed unnecessary – even risky – to burden him with a vaccination series meant for a species completely incompatible with his own.
That conclusion was wrong.
* * * * *
It wasn’t strictly a resort world, but it could have been. The lush, foliage-covered land above descended in colorful cascades along steep fissure walls into the Below. Houses and businesses cascaded with them, steep roads winding up and down the dramatic slopes in tight switchbacks between narrow avenues. Brightly-painted structures, with their rooftop terraces and gardens, clung tightly to the rock, sometimes fusing directly with it. The city was a riot of color in mica-studded paints, bursting floral displays, flocking rainforest birds, swarming iridescent insects and dancing butterflies. And it all thanked its unique existence to the alignment of the Fissure along the slow, daily arc of the sun.
The Fissure itself was no mere crevice, either. A massive, ancient crack in the planet, the north side was several kilometers away, likewise decked with the other half of Fissure City, though it saw somewhat less of the sun, the lower districts curving inward toward shadow. Multicolored blimps traversed the skyways between the north and the south faces, adding to the bright rainbow of color. Somewhere, toward the Below, both sides descended into darkness and bioluminescent growth, where Fissure City became the Outskirts, and then the Fringes, and then … well, if a word existed for whatever might be the equivalent of countryside, except vertical, and down, and dark, it would be that. And then, whatever came after.
The Below.
It wasn’t the Below that interested Watcher Five and Cipher Thirteen, though. That was the realm of adventurers and explorers and fringe science, and possibly Czerka (probably Czerka). What interested Five was some contact, in some fancy, terraced place trying to make Alderaanian marble columns work, and also possibly some ancient, faded, and ridiculously expensive tapestries in a shop several avenues down.
What interested Thirteen was none of that, because he wasn’t needed, at least until later that night, for dinner. What interested Thirteen was the lovely little jacuzzi garden in their three-room suite, the view from the gleaming white resort window across colorful garden rooftops and into the Fissure, and the playful colony of hawkbats darting along the canyon walls to the right.
So, while Five readied himself to head out – in? Up? Down? – to the city, Thirteen lounged in the bed under snow-white, textured covers, gazing out the balcony lit by late morning light as he leisurely finished breakfast. The holoscreen, tuned to some local news station, droned on in the background.
“-rown into a pandemic. Residents are advised to keep an eye out for indications of Shriek Fever …”
Five’s words, also in the background, instructed Thirteen to stay here, enjoy the room service, maybe do some shopping. He’ll be back soon.
Excellent. Lovely. Yes, Thirteen will do exactly that.
He didn’t.
* * * * *
His wings beat hard, wild, and purposeful. He flung himself through abrupt course corrections, his own aerial switchbacks, path chaotic to an outside observer. He’d never smelled air so fresh – alive and unruly, it gusted in cool, brisk updrafts from somewhere Below and warm, comforting downdrafts from Above. Damp with cave dew, it carried the scent of hard, wet mineral; sun-kissed greenery and shaded springs; heady florals; sweet, succulent fruits; and rich, fresh-baked breads.
He’d never seen hawkbats so colorful either. On Coruscant, they came in shades of purple and tan, like himself – a particularly brilliantly patterned specimen (purely objective observation). Here, there were purples … but also blues, some greens, the occasional red. His diamond patterning was stripier in these creatures, and while many had yellow-green fronds like him, more seemed to have theirs bright neon blue.
They darted through the air together. In pursuit of both cave slugs and fluttering insects, this colony was significantly livelier than the ambush predators in most skyscraper cities. Hard to tell if they were shaped much differently – Thirteen understood his own form was still growing, and they matched him in sleek, sharp angles, wickedly hooked beaks and long, lashing tails, and that graceful, tight S-curve to the neck.
It was something to explore the vertical city this way, skirting the rooftops and their gardens, climbing the sheer face of the cliff, wheeling out over the fathomless, dark abyss and knowing there where things down there – but not what. Thirteen flocked with the hawkbats through the beams of cheerful sunlight above the pitch darkness, and flitted among the garden canopies. Someone had set out a large, ceramic bowl of lusciously fresh fruit – for later or for them – and the sweet nectar drew them to crowd around the rim as they gorged themselves and bickered for purchase.
Heavenly.
Thirteen returned with plenty of time to decorate his Watcher’s arm for his fancy dinner with some so-and-so.
He got to preen and eat from Five’s hand.
* * * * *
The next morning saw Five take off relatively early – probably for the tapestries this time, perhaps even with the so-and-so from last night. It didn’t involve Thirteen, so he didn’t care.
The headache kept him dawdling a bit longer in bed than yesterday, where he splurged on more of the fresh, local fruits, smoked grophet bacon, and crispy-fried seasoned tubers. Shrieking hawkbats finally drew him up and out, when the sun was high between the Fissure walls and the up- and downdrafts came to life.
He recognized a few from yesterday – that red reptavian easily drawing his eye. They swarmed out across the Fissure today to bother the airships, catching treats thrown from the passengers until low, bellowing horns rattled their vision and drove them away.
And then it came – the Big One. Chimes on the tethers guiding the blimps provided the first silvery warning. The transports had just enough time to clamp down on the ropes, before the massive updraft hit, setting them swaying wildly. Cold, almost frigid, and driven by some unknown mechanism, the air column howled up from Below, and sent the hawkbats soaring.
Up, up, past the glittering roofs and gleaming greenery, up along the cliffside and higher still, a flashing rainbow swarm. They crested the lip of the Fissure and soared outward across the Above. The landscape stretched wide before them.
Green, leafy forests. Golden plains. The sparkle of a river in the distance. Orchards as far as the eye could see.
The hawkbats dispersed to feed upon the fruits.
* * * * *
What lovely, delicious, succulent thievery.
If only it had helped his headache fade. Thirteen lifted his head from the dripping, hollowed flesh of whatever the local crop was, only to prompt a painful pounding behind his eyes.
Water would be nice. Chronic dehydration had always been his problem. Five kept telling him he needed to drink more.
A familiar scream made the fronds at the back of his head twitch, flashed an echo of the surrounding orchard and the originating hawkbat into his mind and across his vision.
How curious. She was on the ground. Hawkbats didn’t ground themselves.
Another scream. And another. The images in his mind crisped and flashed, like stop-motion, to show her staggering around as if she was drunk.
Oh. Got into some fermented fruit, perhaps?
With a snort, he took another head-sized bite from the fruit. His head throbbed. Right. Water.
The hawkbat screamed again. Why would she call such attention to herself?
Well, he was going to hunt for water, anyway. His throat felt parched. Launching himself from the perch, he winged his way toward her. A sudden throb at the motion reached his horn and turned everything red for a brief instant.
Damn headache.
Her screaming made her easy to find, and after a quick beat around the area, he descended into the middle of the orchard.
There she was. Oh. The large red one.
She shrieked, staggered a little more, and shrieked again. Her colors seemed oddly pale. She’d bring predators down on herself, if she kept this up.
Thirteen watched her. She clawed at the dirt on all fours, wings awkward on the ground. Her head swayed to and fro. She’d start off in one direction, only to change her mind and go in another.
Yes, drunk. Probably.
Well, that wouldn’t do.
With a small hop, Thirteen gained enough air to dart at her, flapping his wings in her face. That’s it, get off the grou-
She recoiled, beating her own wings, only to flop over and remain grounded.
Thirteen tried again. And again, swooping low, trying to prompt her back into the air.
Stubborn, little …
Whatever she’d gotten into, it must’ve been potent, because she was having none of this. Thirteen was only making himself dizzy, and her screams were making his head pound and his horn throb. Fine.
She would just need to figure it out on her own.
He veered away, with one last look.
She continued to stagger, with intermittent screeching, across the orchard floor, a bright, erratic splash of red against the green and brown.
Hopefully, she’d figure it out.
* * * * *
Thirteen wound his way through the orchard, deciding he needed to feel the air a bit before heading back to Five. The shadows were getting longer, air cooling as the light warmed. There was the river, a lively, laughing slash of silver in his enhanced audiovision, a sparkling, luminescent color that didn’t exist in human wavelengths. The trees, leaves beginning to turn for autumn, sighed in gentle tones that tickled his horn and etched every leaf and edge of bark in a strange shade of blue he had no name for. By the shade, he could tell the leaves were beginning to dry out in preparation to fall. The river bank was a darker shade, wetter, matted with leaves already down. Flying insects were sparks of hyperviolet as their sounds pinged against his horn. Others that alternated between sitting, hopping, and strumming changed colors like delightful little sparklers.
And then there was the wind he could see in all its little gusts and eddies, the way it moved the foliage like a three-dimensional ripple. Usually, it was poetic, soothing.
Today, it made his horn ache.
He wondered if that red hawkbat ever got off the ground.
A quaint, wooden hut with a working water wheel appeared around the bend – so that’s what that strange, lumbering noise had been. Thirteen flit around it in minor, disbelieving awe that anyone would still use such a thing. Maybe it was historical.
He settled up under the eaves, talons and hooks nestling easily into the old, soft wood, to watch it work. It was oddly satisfying, the sound rolling over him in rhythmic, clacking waves. His eyes grew heavy.
Maybe he’ll rest here a few minutes.
* * * * *
Consciousness returned with an abrupt, deafeningly painful roar. Thirteen’s head jerked up and whipped around as he prepared to leap away from the threat.
A mistake.
A heavy, iron javelin stabbed behind his eyes, his vision whiting out from the intensity of the pain. It radiated from his nose, through his skull, and down his neck. He recoiled, talons curling tightly into the wood as his eyes scrunched shut, tail hooks tearing splinters away.
The hell.
The initial sharp spear subsided into a dull, but heavy throb that beat along with his heart and placed his head into a vice. The roaring in his ears didn’t help in the least.
It took a good moment before Thirteen realized the infernal sound was the water wheel. The water wheel.
Something is very wrong with it.
Upon that realization, he fell away from his perch, to wing back through the woods and escape. Somebody should see to that thing. If he had any idea who was responsible, he’d submit a maintenance request.
And a formal complaint for disturbing the peace. Unacceptable.
But the noise didn’t really fade as he got further away. It still howled in his skull and made his eyes water. He shook his head, and that was another mistake.
Sudden vertigo sent him tumbling, wings having to beat frantically to set himself upright. A screech to help reorient himself made the world pulse in searing light. Afterimages threw the imminent trunk of a tree into his face, and he swerved to miss it, only to feel bark scrape his other wing. Startling again, he threw himself upward and crashed into a network of leaves and branches.
Talons hooked into them and held them fast while he panted, green eyes wide.
The hell was …?
Okay. Nothing, that was nothing. Dehydration, after all. He’d fallen asleep without partaking of the water. Like an idiot. Five will yell at him when he finds out, and Thirteen will deserve it.
He should really get back to Five. He really didn’t feel very good.
Right.
Which direction, again …?
Talons tightening as he glanced around with his throbbing head, it was … oddly hard to tell. The woods looked different from here. They pulsed, painfully, with his heart, with his breaths, with the wind shuddering through everything, and he wished everything would stop moving.
Okay. Well. He’ll go back to the water wheel and cross the river. And then it’ll look familiar.
… He hadn’t already crossed the river, had he?
No.
Had he?
No. Maybe? No.
It’ll be obvious when he gets back to the wheel what side he’s on.
Okay.
He dropped from the tree.
Immediately, the ground jumped at him. With a squawk, he thrust himself back up; the branches just there scraped his fronds and prompted a yelp. He ducked and the ground was there again, he kicked, felt nothing, and beat his wings with another cry.
The world pulsed.
Fly. Fly.
Just find the wheel.
The woods were a lot more crowded here. Trees jumped at him as he darted through, to and fro, around and about, narrow misses that made his skin crawl. It’s fine. It’s normal. His cries and his horn will guide him through, as always.
But he couldn’t pick out the wheel in his audiovision. The world roared. Beyond the immediate trees it was a jumbled smear, like staring into the sun.
It was bright. Loud. Bright. Deafening. Blinding. It was both, they were the same.
He screamed to find his way, and branches leaped at him like sudden claws. Heart jumping, he swerved, screamed, had to swerve again.
He could barely look. It was so bright it hurt. But he had to keep going.
Lungs became tight from abrupt, last-minute acrobatics. Air began to rasp in his throat. His heart pounded, and his skull felt like it would split.
He’s getting close. Right?
A tree. Swerve. Another. Dodge. Again. Swerve. Left. Right. There were so many. There. Yes. And there. Yes. And- Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No-
If it made a sound when he slammed into the tree, Thirteen didn’t hear it.
Sith Ahuska is a skilled alchemist with a giant chip on her shoulder and everything to prove. Even more likely to bite your face off than sweet fluffy werewolf Ahuska.
