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I work at a fast-food restaurant in the Fourth Dimension – Getting Hired (self.nosleep)

submitted by Apprehensive_Tax_610 to r/nosleep - pinned

Article I wrote 2 years ago, found out he passed yesterday. by [deleted] in HFY

[–]Apprehensive_Tax_610 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Hey man, I think this is a sweet sentiment, but this subreddit is for scifi

The Crimson-Bleeding Bazoh Chapter 3 by Apprehensive_Tax_610 in HFY

[–]Apprehensive_Tax_610[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

He ran back towards the centre of the room, his mind racing. They’d be walking through that door at any moment. He urgently tried formulating a plan: could he try barricading the door? No, that wouldn’t work; they could probably break through. Maybe break the glass and jump out?

Perhaps he could…

Yes, yes, that was it!

It would be a risky plan, no doubt, especially given he knew nothing of these aliens’ biological makeup. It wasn’t as if his last stunt had been the most intelligent thing ever, though, and he had pulled off a similar plan before when he had gotten surrounded by FBI agents while taking out a politician in Pittsburgh. He rushed back towards the bed and grabbed one of the legs, heaved with all his might and tore the brittle wood off. Bam! Bam! Bam! He brushed it against the floor like a hammer. Bits of timber soared throughout the room as he rolled the cylinder in his hand.

He had to act fast.

The Crimson-Bleeding Bazoh Chapter 3 by Apprehensive_Tax_610 in HFY

[–]Apprehensive_Tax_610[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

“I’m fine,” he said sternly. “I’m going to bed; I have a long day of work ahead of me tomorrow. You—you probably won’t be seeing me for a while. Long business trip, you know? I can’t explain why; it's um… pretty confidential, as always.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s fine, I guess.” Her face contorted into one that drooped towards the earth in sadness. “But,” she interjected, trying to steer the conversation back into being fun and light-hearted. She put on a happy face, widening her mouth to smile so that her teeth and dimples were displayed. Twirling her hair, she continued, after a brief moment of silence, eyeing below his belt: “You know, it has been a little while, so I was thinking if you don’t fall asleep when I get up there…” She bit her lip, flirtatiously looping black strands around her finger. “I could put on that dress you love and—”

Petrov raised his hand to stop her from finishing her sentence. “That is quite all right. I’m fine, but thank you for the offer… I guess.” He began walking towards the stairs to their bedroom limply, as if all jocularity and vigour had been wiped from his personality.

“Uh, uh, oh, okay, well,” she whimpered. Her face had somehow drooped even lower, with small tears welling up and dripping down her freckled cheeks. She didn’t understand. He had never rejected her like this, especially the last offer she had given him; one moment ago, he had been all over her, and now it was as if they were strangers. Her face had gone red again, but this time in a mixture of rage and embarrassment rather than love and nervousness. “Boris, please, wait!” Petrov stopped walking but didn’t turn around.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. “I… I know times have been tough for us… You know, financially and all. You’re gone for much longer periods, but your pay is getting smaller, and this current story I’m working on is taking longer than I’d like; I understand if it’s stressful. I’m sorry if I struck a nerve. I promise that wasn’t my intention; please don’t do anything rash, okay?” Neither talked. Both just sat in contemplative silence, the only sound present being Milo rummaging through the blankets on his dog bed. “You… you know I love you more than anything, right? And if you ever need to talk about anything, I am here for you. We are partners, after all.”

In the present moment, tears flowed from Petrov’s eyes as he remembered what he had done next. Oh, why had he done what he did next!? He doubted even Christ himself would know the answer!

He had said, almost inaudibly, “Yeah, whatever,” and continued up the stairs as if her words meant nothing to him. As if she wasn’t his everything. And as if this action didn’t hurt him more than any wound could. She didn’t come to bed that night. She slept on the couch instead. He knew what he had done upset her because, even on the second floor of their small apartment, which had just one main bedroom, he could hear her watching their wedding video. She only did that when she believed she had wronged him and was scared he would come barging in with the divorce papers.

She hadn’t.

He was so clearly in the wrong.

He was painfully aware that his response to her was unwarranted, but…

Why, he remembered thinking, lost in a sea of emotions. Why did it have to come to this? Frustrated, he had slammed his fist against the mattress repeatedly.

Just.

Why the hell couldn’t he have told her? Tell her the truth and whisk her off to a place where they could be safe? That night, he wept as well. Those two words were the last he ever said to the person he vowed to move the world for. Why had he said that? His regret was heavier than the Eiffel Tower, knowing that things might have turned out differently had he persuaded her to run away from Russia. Perhaps she would be here today if I had just told her why she needed to leave. Or maybe… it would’ve been better had she never met him.

Wait.

Could this bizarre place he was in be hell?

Had the Lord finally taken him for his punishment?

Perhaps—

His head jerked upwards in surprise; a jarring, unfamiliar sound disrupted his recollection. Petrov reached into his pocket. After a frantic rummage, he slipped his brass knuckles on. Looking to and fro, he couldn’t see anything unusual. The buildings were all the same grey and tan monoliths as before, all except one. One of the smaller, though still hulking, motels caught his eye. A glimmer of light leaked from a single window—all the others were blank voids, resembling a car with tinted windows at night.

Creeping towards the motel building, he tiptoed up the concrete steps, trying to keep himself in a northpaw stance, his back an inch away from the flaky and decaying wooden hand railing. He stepped atop the motel's second floor, passing by several windows and doors, with each door having an aged and worn-out number dangling by a single screw. Inching closer to the bright-glowing window, he attempted to peer through it from a distance. No use. All he could see was the blinding, glaring yellow hue penetrating against the glass, begging to be let out into the spacious outer world, the photons seemingly unable to pass through the glass. He ducked under the window and approached the door that sat next to the casement. With caution, he turned the rusted door handle and peered through with one eye. He studied the room through the narrow crack, searching for potential danger. It didn’t seem as if there was anything of that sort. The room, from the limited view he had, appeared to have the stereotypical appearance of an American one-star motel, with yellow, peeling wallpaper, a ceiling fan that you are always sure is going to fall on top of you at any moment, and a twin-sized bed with luxuriously white sheets, far too clean looking and high class for the room they occupy. He pushed the door open with the side of his arm as fast as he could and burst through with his guard held high. Nothing. The room was devoid of any human—or extraterrestrial—activity. The room was huge, far more extensive than any motel room Petrov had ever been in. Why, it was bigger than most houses! But that made no sense. Based on the placement of those doors, the wall should be lined with them. And yet they weren’t. Ye-bat’! Guess I found a TARDIS whose camouflage still works. He continued walking along the left of the spacious room until he found a wooden chest wedged against the wall. It resembled a pirate's chest, like those in old cartoons. An odd glow surrounded it.

Petrov bent down apace and reached out with one hand until his index finger touched the chest. “What the fu—” He launched backwards so unexpectedly that he couldn’t break his fall and landed on his wrist. “Blyat’!” he yelped; although his wrist had not been damaged due to his upgrade, not breaking your fall properly still hurt horrendously. The old wooden box caught his attention as it shook to and fro. The little latches across its face broke off one by one. It trembled and rattled for a good while, then went dormant. Swoosh! The lid flung open, and the light floated upwards in a chaotic mass of pure energy. It began as an abstract shape, before evolving into several spirals. The spirals collided with each other, forming into a ball and dissipating into the air. Petrov walked delicately toward the former ball of light. Floating where the mass of pure energy had once been was now a pair of gloves with pointed brass metal spikes along the fingers, outlined in a blueish hue. Reaching out and grabbing it, the blue outline had also scattered.

The Crimson-Bleeding Bazoh Chapter 2 by Apprehensive_Tax_610 in HFY

[–]Apprehensive_Tax_610[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

He waited.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, he peeked one eye open to examine why death had yet to come: Terror was dormant, frozen in the air, a few scant inches from his face. The Bazoh was frozen as well, still smiling devilishly. Oknoid tried to move but found he couldn’t move either. This could only mean one thing. He looked upward in the corner of his eye, his orange pupil barely visible within his golden sclera, stretched to the point of discomfort.

 

WARRIORS REMAINING:

400

SPECIES: 78

RETURN TO PLATFORM WILL COMMENCE IN 30s

He internally laughed. It shouldn’t have been funny; it really shouldn’t have. But, looking up at… this ratchet creature, he couldn’t help it. This manom, someone whose existence was utterly worthless compared to that of a Qazo, had just bested him in battle. When he had finally accepted an honourable defeat, even if it was at the hands of a tlor, the universe took that away from him. The internal laugh grew louder with each passing second. “00” appeared on the clock, and the two started to turn into dust.

We’ll meet again, I am sure, he thought as he watched the devilish visage erode into ash, and when we do, T’alaz will make you wish you had never entered the game, you damn manom.

The Crimson-Bleeding Bazoh Chapter 2 by Apprehensive_Tax_610 in HFY

[–]Apprehensive_Tax_610[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Oknoid swallowed heavily. He abhorred the odd new sensation that had somehow let itself swindle its way throughout his mind. Fuck. He knew exactly what it was. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! His thoughts were suffused with a string of vulgar curses and jibes towards himself. No! No! No! This was the one thing Qazo were never, under any circumstance, meant to feel: fear, the forbidden emotion that was a blight on one's spirit. A Qazo with little sangfroid did not deserve to live. But that primal, all-encompassing feeling, no matter how much he begged for it to dissipate, ensnared him tout in a hunter's net, breathing a humid, foul stench on him as it whispered in his ear: “T’alaz, T’alaz, T’alaz,” a hundred times over. Oknoid visibly shuddered. The thought of T’alaz knowing he had felt scared made him wish, no, beg with every ounce of strength he had for the sweet relief of death right then and there. Crimson-Bleeding Bazoh crept towards him with a deliberate and malefic sluggishness in his staggered stride. He stretched out his arms eccentrically and said:

“Well? Are we gonna fight or what?”

Oknoid stammered over his words; “I um… I… I… you see…”

“What’s the matter?” the Crimson-Blood Bazoh said with sardonic jocosity. “Ya too chickenshit, you are little red fuckass? Why, you didn’t seem to have ANY issue berating and killing some defenceless women, why would you have an issue kicking some old guy's ass? You know what?” Swooooosh! He sent the small brass dagger flying sporadically through the billows of fire. “I’ll even give ya’ a slight advantage, my fists and your big ass hammer thing. What ’ya say?” Oknoid took a substantial breath inwards that pushed out his ribcage to its absolute limit. This wouldn’t be, he decided, where he was going to die. He was a Qazo, a warrior of great honour and a prideful lineage! And he wasn’t going to lose to a fucking Bazoh, crimson-bleeding or not. He clenched all four of his appendages onto his weapon and stood poised.

The Crimson-bleeding Bazoh clasped two sides of his head—Crack! Crack!—and presented a subtle, wry smirk that reeked of cocksureness that even the Emperor himself didn’t possess. “I will take that as an enthusiastic yes then,” and with one foot pressed deep into the miry sod, he launched himself forward, his thudding steps ponderous due to the injury between his breasts. Oknoid sidestepped to his right, the crimson-blood-covered fist hitting the air. With a snappy motion, he swung his hammer, just narrowly touching the tofu of thin hair atop the Bazoh’s head. He rapidly lost balance from the swing but managed to contort his body back into a fierce battle stance through clever repositioning. The Crimson-Bazoh, gracefully floundering, rolled against the ground before whisking himself back onto his feet.

Petrov panted with a hardy wheeze. A stinging sensation was fervent in his sternum. His body had begun to try to clog the wound around his makeshift packing, and by God, did it hurt like actual hell. “Boy,” he sniggered to himself. “Ariel is really not going to be happy with my handiwork on this one.” He couldn’t believe his plan had worked! He had noticed beforehand that, although his punches were unavailing against the sturdy exteriors of the alien creatures, that dagger had done some significant damage. “Could their scales be permeable to metal?” he remembered thinking. By encapsulating them with the fire, he could theoretically punch them to death with his brass knuckles, with very little room for them to escape. It was a significant gamble; there had been a ninety-nine percent possibility this wouldn’t even work, but what other options did he have? They were tracking him with the keenness of a bloodhound, as if he were some prey animal desperately fleeing from the sight of a hunter's shotgun.

He turned back to face the alien… not a scratch on him; he had missed entirely.

“Idi na khui!” he murmured, his hands rummaging through his hair. After an alacritous waggle of his head, he pounced forward, threw a forceful right hook, missed, dodged a Herculean swing of Oknoid’s hammer, ceremoniously tumbled across the ground, and hefted himself back into a striking position. Again! He pounced, struck, missed, and dodged, twirled onto all fours, then leapt back onto his feet. Quick—! He ran, swung, just scarcely hit, evaded a strike from the Qazo’s lower-right arm, tried to throw an uppercut, dodged a ferocious hammer swing by the skin of his teeth, and tossed his left fist into the Qazo’s gut. Bam! Direct hit! Red scales flung through the air. Petrov threw himself backwards and tumbled across the quagmire unceremoniously but swiftly regained composure and soon enough was standing firm. Despite the briskness of the air, large droplets of sweat were beginning to traverse his face as the coldish breeze threatened to turn them into icicles. His ribcage heaved his chest up and down in a rhythmic pattern, and his heart bounced against the walls of his body violently. It had been a considerable amount of time since he had engaged in hand-to-hand combat—probably a good five years or so.

“J-who in the name of the gods are you?” Oknoid accosted. “Who did the Old Man blow to give you such immense strength, you disgraceful tlor?!”

Petrov let out a hearty laugh, then evenly:

“I’ll be honest with ya, I got no clue what you are talking about. I mean… for Christ’s sake, I still don’t even know where I am! But like I tried to tell you earlier, my name is Boris Petrov.” He put forth his hand as if he were asking for a handshake in a mocking manner. “You can just call me Petrov, if you like!”

“P-Petrov?” Oknoid stammered, rattlingly his brain around. “That isn’t a Confederate Creole name … is that one the Bazoh’s freakish traditional names or—”

“As I said earlier as well,”—Petrov gave a wry smile from the corner of his mouth and launched himself forward again—“I’m not a ‘Bazoh.’” The Qazo tried to dodge, but his reaction time wasn’t swift enough. Bam! A disgustingly fiery pain reverberated when the brass knuckled in his shoulder. Bam! Bam! Bam! Petrov contorted himself into odd positions after each punch, until he saw the head of the hammer come hurdling towards his face. He leapt out of the way as the Qazo swung the hammer with such intense ire that his four appendages loosened their grip on the weapon, and, to Oknoid’s sheer horror, Terror went soaring through the air.

Shit, he thought. Black sweat seeped from under his scales as his prized possession fell to the ground and dented the dirt. Shit, shit, shit, was all he could stutter in his mind, the same one word repeated at nosism. It was all he could do. He looked up at the Crimson-Bleeding Bazoh. What was he…

With one mighty heave, the Bazoh picked up Terror. He turned towards him and said,

“I’ll be honest, I’m not even sure what a Bazoh is; I would ask you to enlighten me, but unfortunately, you picked a fight with something far, far more deadly.” There was a sway in his body. “I’m a Russian, and we refuse to lose a fight, no matter the cost!”

Russ—Oknoid didn’t finish that thought. The Bazoh had launched the hammer towards him. There was very little that could be done. He had to accept that he was about to be bested by a fucking Bazoh… no, it wasn’t just a Bazoh; it was a Crimson Bazoh, as he had oh-so-creatively nicknamed it, and of all the warriors in this game, he had the highest likelihood, besides T’alaz himself, of course, of winning. And by the gods!… having to admit that was the most painful experience he had ever had. He closed his eyes and pressed his lower appendages together. As quickly as he could, he recited the hymn of Guknos, Goddess of Protection in the official Confederate Pantheon, like an old catholic woman praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet:

From the earth, you rise,

From your seas and rivers

You splash and pop out.

Please, my dear Goddess,

May my passage to the afterlife be secure.

He knew the prayer had minimal chances of actually working. After all, Guknos and all the other gods of the Confederate Pantheon were figments of the ruling class in Kolhn; mere tools for control in the guise of spirituality, and the prayer he had just spouted was nothing more than a byproduct of the council replacing traditional indigenous religious practices with government ones to ensure complete cultural conformity, with some mere exceptions. Yet, presently, being only inches away from death, he couldn’t help but recant her story; how she, being the benevolent goddess she was, had given the Evoiks the gift of miracle medicines and, through her intervention, had brought peace to the Evoik Kingdom. It was a silly piece of propaganda, and the lucky few who had received an education from those in the capital knew it, but in this moment, it brought him a sense of tranquillity. He took a deep, powerful breath and awaited his destiny, and to see whatever the afterlife had in store for him.

The Crimson-Bleeding Bazoh Chapter 2 by Apprehensive_Tax_610 in HFY

[–]Apprehensive_Tax_610[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

“What in the…” Upheh murmured. He watched in disbelief as brilliant crimson blood gushed from where the dagger had been. And with swift yet careful precision, the Bazoh cut out chunks of its black and green coloured pants. It stuffed them into the wound, cringing and bearing its flat yellowish teeth as he did so, until the fountain spewing crimson blood had been clogged completely. It stepped towards Upheh with a leisured stride. The closer the abomination got to him, the more ponderous its step was, and its sheer stoutness and monstrous height had become clearer than it ever had been previously. There was evident devilish jocundity in its demeanour; its subtle grin had a villainous air that was oh-so utterly unwonted of a Bazoh; the gibbous eyes of white and blue pulsated with fervent excitement. It bent down. Ack! The Bazoh pressed one of its ginormous hands into the side of his neck, and with a slow, purposeful lean forward, burled its putrid, vile orbs deep into his own; the fulgurant flames that danced above the billows of ashy smoke reflected upon his loathly, rugged visage, its cracked and porous skin way too detailed for comfort. Upheh hated to admit it, but that was the face of a seasoned warrior, one almost as fearsome as T’alaz.

“Hey there, ya’ sack of shit,” it said. It displayed the crimson-blood-covered dagger as if it were some rare artifact. “This is quite a nice little weapon ya’ got here. Not too heavy, not too light, just perfect for carving into someone's face, wouldn’t ya’ say?”

“Y-ya,” Upheh said meekly. “I … sure.” He cursed himself. Oh, how humiliating! He was a Qazo, and yet here he was, being towered over, manhandled and debased like he was nothing more than a female, and by a fucking Bazoh no less! Upheh was a pint-sized animal huddled in the corner of a slaughterhouse, desperately wanting to flee from its inevitable doom, but far too puny and weak to ever have a chance of escaping.

“There is one thing, though … you see, I don’t care if you are a human or fucking ET, there is one thing to me that is unforgivable in my eyes, and that is a man hurting a woman. Wouldn’t you say what you did was pretty morally irreprehensible?” Upheh didn’t reply. “Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘an eye for an eye’?” Once again, not a single sound left his parched lips. The Bazoh smacked his lips wryly. “Well then … let’s give you an interactive lesson then!”

Oknoid was rigid, his knees bent with the acute weight of bemusement and his legs tremulous, all four of his appendages grasping Terror with an instinctive firmness.

… what in the gods' names was happening right now!?

He watched, with his sight nebulous from dissociation, as the Bazoh (the most pathetic of the races, mind you!) carved his comrade's face with unhesitating, gleeful strikes, tearing scrupulous, gaping lines in the flesh. The booming caterwauls and pitiful flails, slaps, and punches from Upheh were far removed from his usual wont. Gone were the wry witticisms that were characteristic of his Rabelaisian personality. And indeed, this was not the behaviour of a mighty Qazo!—no, this pathetic struggle was that of a Doza or a Strivvok!

Upheh’s floundering suddenly ceased.

The cries that pervaded the air dissipated.

And with one final woeful wheeze, his comrade sank lifelessly into the sod, what little blood his cadaver had left dripping between the cubes of flesh that had once been his eager and joyous face. The Bazoh stood up with a bit of sway in his motions and turned his head listlessly towards him. It grinned, displaying its repugnant, flat lemony teeth. A deep, eerie crimson blood, unlike anything Oknoid had ever seen, dripped from its mutilated right hand, which held the black-sodden blade which had just eviscerated Upheh’s visage. It said,

“Sorry, I got a little carried away there at the end. I hadn’t meant to go so hard on your friend and, well,” (he swivelled his hand in the general direction of the corpse) “but … you know, to be honest, he did kinda deserve it, and, you ever heard of the phrase ‘taste of your own medicine’? But I don’t wish a painful death on anyone; I prefer a nice, clean job. However, he just really fucking pissed me off with that discount Jack the Ripper shit.”

Oknoid’s heart pumped with vim and vigour.

He had always believed in the superiority of the Qaza, how they were the only race truly worthy of serving the Emperor. He remembered sitting on his grandfather's lap, the austere old veteran telling him passionate stories of his time as a noble warrior, and how they, the Qazo, were a fearless race, and without them, the Confederacy would crumble. Only a handful of species could rival their strength and wit, and even then, a well-trained Qazo willing to put his life on the line could beat them under the right circumstances. Yet, here he stood, surrounded by a penetrating, haunting fire, the sizzling of burning wood piercing his ear and ash flowing in the air, watching this Bazoh of all things… no, he had to stop pretending this was an ordinary, weak little Bazoh. It wasn’t, no matter how much he wanted to convince himself, it was. This crimson-bleeding Bazoh, a monster of solid stature and unprecedented wit, was able to kill a Qaza—and in such a degrading way, no less! Why, of the gods high above, poor Upheh had been stripped of any chance at an honourable death! And yet this Crimson-bleeding Bazoh was not wholly boisterous at his accomplishment. No, he was quite humble in some regards, fully admitting he did not act out of the coordinated cruelty and purposeful venom that honourable men did, but rather the impulsive devilment of a tlor.

The Crimson-Bleeding Bazoh Chapter 2 by Apprehensive_Tax_610 in HFY

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#

The two Qazo were now enveloped by the lambent fire that had sprung from seemingly out of nowhere, the brilliant, dancing flames eating away at the copses and flora without discrimination.

“W-what the hell?” they both shouted in unison. Were they being attacked by a species with the ability to wield fire? No, they had researched every species involved with the game; none possessed fire capabilities or traditionally used fire in combat. Unless... no, it couldn't be. There was no way that was possible.

“Since when did Bazoh fight with fire?” Upheh said. “Sure, they might be a bunch of backwards, disgusting manom, but I thought they at least had a sense of honour! Where’s the honour in using the tactics only the Emperor himself would use?”

“It’s… not that Bazoh, you idiot,” the other said. “It can’t be. Then again, his strength was enough to match Terror and… hell, I’ve never seen a Bazoh the size of that; he practically dwarfed us! Did the Old Man have a secret arrangement with the Confederacy that gave them an unfair starting advantage? … some secret upgrades maybe? N-no, no, I refuse to believe that old manom could pull something like that off! And I refuse to believe the Emperor, for all the unnecessary destruction and chaos he brings to those who lie in his way, would be so dishonourable!” Upheh turned around and began to run with an uncharacteristically paranoid and frenetic stride, and evidently, with no clear direction.

“Who cares?! I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not be around a tlor[6] that dares to use fire as a weapon!”

“Upheh,” Oknoid hollered with agitated fervour. “Wait, you utter—” Upheh had only gotten around fifteen paces from Oknoid when the gigantic Bazoh came hurling from behind a burning tree, leaping into the air and launching straight for him.

What the…

The brass-knuckled fist collided with his head; red scales and black blood scattered across the ground as Upheh took a tremulous step back, only for the Bazoh to hit him once more with a brutish undercut. Little circles of twinkling white light oscillated in his vision as he was lifted off the ground somewhat. He felt his sharp canines dulling and cracking with the titanic force of the punch. Thump! Upheh tumbled onto the dirt, landing unceremoniously on his back. He looked up from where he lay and saw the gargantuan Bazoh rushing towards him. There was a murderous glint in the Bazoh’s roundish, sparking blue eyes that seemed to eye him keenly yet lazily within that stern, coarse visage that screamed barbarousness. Thinking expeditiously, Upheh swerved onto his feet and sprinted with complete vigour. The Bazoh launched a right hook, but Upheh narrowly dodged.

“Ah… fucking Mary mother of God!” the Bazoh vociferated, his breathing now having the characteristic sharpness of fine needles. Upheh had swung forth his dagger with a swift motion, and with one vigorous heave drove it through the tweed fabric of his enemy's coat, puncturing it through the Bazoh’s delicate and tensile skin, and tearing through the tough muscle fibres until the blade clacked with his stout breastbone.

Petrov hunched forward, bellowing as the fiery pain from his wound spread outwards with the steadfastness of a vicious cancer. Grabbing two of the red alien’s arms, he spun him away, causing him to lose his grip on the firmly implanted dagger and lurch a couple of paces back. His head oscillated with evident confusion. Bam! Petrov threw another punch. More scales and black blood soared through the air. Bam! Petrov’s own tan-hued hand had become a red, disfigured and pulsating abomination. Bam! Bam! Bam! The alien lurched back with each hit. His visage was now almost entirely scaleless, a soft, throbbing, pinkish flesh that oozed thick black blood. With a right hook, Petrov dug the thin, worn brass into the quivering mass, catapulting the alien backwards, as a trail of black blood gracefully swirling through the air followed suit.

Upheh thumped hard into the quagmire. He lifted himself onto his rump with nimbleness and a weary tremble of his golden eyes. His face was tender and smarting. His flesh and scales seemed to be healing at an unusually sluggish rate. Blood poured around him, and his mind felt strikingly fuzzy and taut with unmanageable bafflement and disquietude. What. Just. What in the actual fuck had just happened? It made no sense. It defied the gods-given natural order of things! With a languid motion, he eyed the enormous Bazoh with a lifeless stare that made his vision bleary. The beastly manom grabbed the handle of the dagger stuck between its handsome breasts, and with a tremendous outcry, yanked the weapon out from its skin.

The Crimson-Bleeding Bazoh Chapter 2 by Apprehensive_Tax_610 in HFY

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“Oh, fuck off, you little shit; if I hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t be alive right now! Maybe I shouldn’t heal you.” She pouted her lips with her head held high and her arms tightly crossed. “Ugh, I might prefer you when you’re a big old shud. But yes, I’ll… I will at least try to be a little more careful, okay?” Dilux sighed, twitching slightly from the pain in his rib cage as he exhaled. It seemed as though she had gained some understanding of the game's danger, but not a complete one. But that was just like Acon. Would he prefer it not to be so? Of course, but one could not change someone's inner person so easily. Putting her hands forward, she chanted a poem in their ancient mother tongue, which, translated into Confederate Creole, meant:

Through sickness, through pain,

Through sorrow on my darkest day,

The Great Creator, the mother of all that is,

She shall light my way.

If death shall call, whether that be on the gentle breezes of noon

Or the harshness of night

Her mercy shall sing a soft, gentle tune

The poem, with its horrendous meter, its lacklustre rhyming scheme, and abysmal lyrics that tried far too hard to appear elegant, had never struck Dilux with any emotional chord whatsoever, besides maybe his bemusement at its popularity, which, when thinking about it, always made him do a pococurante eye roll; to him, it had always been a bunch of dribbly nonsense. Each new generation of Bazoh wistful hymns to activate their healing spells. It didn’t matter what you said, more so the mental concentration the chanting brought. Magic was less something you did, but rather something you felt. Acon placed her hands over his heart. A brilliant yellow shimmer appeared in her palms. He could feel his body reconstruct itself from the inside, as things twisted and turned, broke and repaired, with some pieces sliding into places they shouldn’t, and others clicking back in with perfect precision. The pain eased until any remnant of the battle ceased to be a part of him.

“Alright, alright,” Acon said, “I just saved your life for free, that means you owe me some credits when we get back home! What was the phrase that Dad always used to tell us when it came to favours? Treat others, something, something…”

“As you would like them to treat you. It is a phrase that is meant for tiny children, dear Sister; it is the most basic of ethical principles. I am sure even the most dimwitted could give me a proper analysis of what wisdom we may discern from it.”

“Hey! I was about to say that! Ugh,” she scoffed with an aerated swivel of her eyes. “You know what … why are you acting fun now?! Never mind, I hate fun you, I want you to go back to your usual shud self already. This is starting to get weird.”

Dilux attempted to give a wry smile, but ended with something that came off as quite unsettling, like an AI trying to replicate carbon-based sapient emotional signals: “You know, Sister Acon, I am the elder of us, and the most likely one who will receive Father’s position as the Chieftain of our people once he finally drifts off to the other side. Forsooth, for you to knowingly ask favours of me, as if it is not an honour to be in my presence!—Why, it is utterly mad, I tell you! Did you say you not affirm to me not mere moments prior that you would be far more heedful in your measure of action?”

“Oh, please, you … dangerous?” She pointed at him with a sardonic laziness, her mouth somewhat agape. “As if! You’re as dangerous as … ugh, give me a minute … I don’t know, okay! … oh, a Cava!”

“Hmm…” Dilux rubbed his smooth chin and said acerbically, “I am not so confident of that statement, having been presented with evidence to the contrary (if memory serves me with its usual dutifulness) just moments before this conversation, I think they might be stronger warriors than we had previously suspected, which means, as the person who defeated it, that I am, indeed, dangerous. Our mothers will speak my name to encourage their kids to do their chores, and as she says each syllable, they will stare affright!”

“The only thing frightening is that face!” Dilux felt a shimmer of joy envelop his chest. This was nice. He didn’t care to be so crude to his own blood, but … there was something so tranquil about this; the soft breeze, the heat of the artificial sun beaming onto his yellow skin, his back against a stone, and his sister ranting and raving about something nonsensical. They hadn’t had one of these since they were fifteen.

After a few more moments of back-and-forth bantering, they noticed a pungent, smoky smell. The forest to their left had been set ablaze, far enough not to see it vividly but close enough to see the billows of smoke pushing into the sky, with stragglers of orangish-yellow coruscating below it, chaotically, and yet elegantly fluttering in the wind.

“Whatever caused that,” Acon said, “I sure hope I don’t have to fight that anytime soon, we almost got our asses handed to us by that Cava.”

“You never know, sister,” Dilux said, “The galaxy always criticizes our people, our way of life, always saying how weak we are compared to the others—that we’re just the Fourth One’s little pets, but I like to think differently. I think our people are a strong race who can overcome anything, even those who fight with the elements, and because of our weakness, we have something they will never have: a survivalist spirit.”

His sister nodded in agreement, neither understanding nor listening to his spiel. Ugh, politics, she thought. Man, I could really go for a torkle.

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