Voj’Kasak took up one of the patarshan. It towered over him as he took up a resting position across from me. His hunched shoulders popped as he rolled them, bare, dirty feet planted firmly in the dust. We’d sparred before. I knew what to expect.

  His posture began in the same way, hunched and bent like broken branches, while his flat gaze was fixed on me. The tension in his muscles would flex and hold, but he’d stay still, trying to trick me into losing focus. He fakes me out once by letting his spear slip, caught it before it hit the ground, and clocked my ear a good one while I stared at him like an open-mouthed idiot.

  Explosive motion.

  A dust cloud flared as he charged with the long spear leveled at my chest, both hands on the haft with a perfectly balanced grip. The tip dipped as he got within range, sketching snake trails in the dirt. His feet switched.

  That warning was enough. I twisted, dragging the butt of my spear low to guard. Voj’Kasak shifted, a foot sliding sideways, weight gliding after it, pivoting into Ghost Step. He dropped his patarshan into Stone in the River. The shaft rolled in his grip, the sweep tight, controlled to hook my ankle. He’d gotten me with that before. Not happening again. The clack of wood resonated along my arm.

  He didn’t stop.

  For such a broken old warrior, he could force his rigid joints into fluid motion when he put his mind to it. The crack and pop was audible, but it never touched his expression or slowed him. Voj-Kasak was old, but with a spear in his hands, he woke the fighter within him. He faked a retreat, heel slipping back, and shoved, trying to break my block with all his might. I had him on strength; hadn’t he figured that out?

  The pressure eased for a heartbeat. He slid along the haft and lashed a kick at the side of my knee. I spun away, the graze of his heel passing like a breeze—only to feel the solid smack of his spear, a punishing switch against my back.

  “Do not turn your back against your opponent,” he coughed, spitting phlegm to the side.

  I wasn’t able to wipe the sour look off my face, and he pointed the business end of his spear at me. Anger surged as I clenched my spear, fists twisting tight around the haft. I bared my teeth at him, but I wasn’t mad at him. Only myself.

  His craggy expression was all vicious smugness, his chuckle derisive. “Good. Be angry. Let your rage be your war drum, Rau’dajal. When you stop making stupid mistakes, you’ll be a warrior.”

  The snort of a buffalo lizard punctuated his words. I glanced at the pen to see a beakish lizard cribbing a thick wooden beam. Its tiny eyes briefly focused on me. Probably judging me.

  Okay. Maybe I was a little pissed at him.

  He tamped the butt of his patarshan on the ground, his posture shifting back into the old man’s hunch he could be found in most times of day.

  “Again?” I asked, exhaling a hard breath. We’d only just begun.

  Voj’Kasak rolled his shoulder. It sounded like gravel in a sack. “Your anger has more strength than you’ve used. You’re not done drilling.”

  I wanted more give and take, another chance to try to catch some miraculous awareness that would make me faster and more precise.

  “One more time,” I blurted, my spear sagging from low ready position to touch the ground. His face had all the answers I needed.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “You’re too frail,” he replied, smacking his lips around his tusks. “Bruise easily. Toughen up, train harder.”

  He sat on the stool and watched me practice the forms. When I was precise, he told me to go faster. When I was not, he’d tell me if the spear was too high or too low. Change my grip.

  Voj’Kasak had said I was too frail, and maybe that was true, but it might have been he was. Fuck’s sake, he sounded like a bowl of rice crispies when he moved. Just that minute of action cost him, and instead of being pissy, I needed to be grateful. He was the only one here that would teach me. I couldn’t go to the yurts across the animal pens, where the warrior class lived, and beg them to teach me. I’m sure that way would lead to broken bones at best. The more likely outcome would’ve been a respawn in the bunk room at Alga’s.

  I came away from the session a little smarter and a lot more sore. I’d been audio off, though I caught some party chat scroll past in my HUD while I was training. After the rousing humiliation of sparring, I just wanted time away from people. Selfish fuck.

  A high fence hid the back of the trading post, but I imagined heaps of junk collected out there, waiting for some craftsman to come digging. The owner, Baruk, traded objects, not gemstones. I gave him an old boot and a bent strut for new clothing. He was pleased with the metal, turning it in his hands, nodding to himself. I’d have killed for a shower. Even Baruk had crinkled his nose at my stench. The fresh set of clothes made from the pebbly skin of the local stock left with me, tucked under my arm.

  The bathhouse beside Bauring Dath was barely more than a pole barn. Wooden tubs sat like giant whiskey casks behind partitions of hide walls and woven blankets. I swung a bucket of water, sloshing droplets as I thought about how little the Salt Spears used the System. They’d carried on, adapting where it left them no room, ignoring the rest. Tradition, I guessed. Most districts leaned toward their own cultures and habits.

  The newest abductees—me, Jake, Akilah, and Elora—seemed better suited to the System adaptations. People like the Symbiots, as well, with their developed parallel tech. I dumped the bucket in the first partitioned barrel and went out to get more.

  The pale sun dazzled above, the water pump creaking under my hands. Water sparkled down into the bucket.

  I repeated the task enough times to lose count. When the basin was full enough for me, I got one last bucket and stripped down to scrub. The shade of the bathhouse dimmed my skin, ashen compared to wood, rusted iron, and geometric cloth screens.

  My green, photosynthetic skin. I ran a hand over my arm, palm roughened by calluses and ridged from healed blisters. These were not the hands that lingered in my memory; this arm was thicker. Bones denser. I couldn’t recall her in detail for a moment. The me that was.

  That scared the shit out of me.

  I quickly shucked my pants—ruined—and undershorts, which were salvageable. I got to work with a scrubbing cloth to distract myself from the clenching in my chest, cleaning this body rigorously, like it was a favorite piece of furniture. It was. A shell I’d designed in my naivety.

  Akilah hadn’t compromised a thing about herself. Maybe a tweak here and there, but I knew her enough to know: the girl I saw was the girl who’d been taken. The rest of us Outliers? We had things we wanted to fix. Fears we couldn’t shake. This avatar was born from not believing my human self was enough for this place.

  I envied Akilah’s bravery. Or, maybe it wasn’t courage. Maybe she just knew who she was.

  When I finished, I poured the rest of the bucket over me, and I stepped into the barrel to soak. I dunked my head in and scrubbed my raven-black hair, tugging out the tangles, and settled in with the water lapping around me. Submerged, I looked at what I’d so carefully crafted. This body. This self.

  Perfect to my eyes.

  My human skin had been fine, and I still missed it. I hadn’t run across anywhere that could change avatar skins—if I did, I couldn’t go back. I’d lose everything with the Salt Spears. They wouldn’t see Dathai the human woman as the same person they knew. They wouldn’t understand that she and the Dathai they knew were the same Rau’dajal they trusted.

  Resting my head on the edge of the basin, I watched dust motes drift in the rafters, the cool water soothing to my sore muscles and half-healed wounds. I lifted my leg to look at the band of flesh where crab pincers had gotten me and sighed, closing my eyes.

  I’d boxed myself in. Not meaning to get attached to anything or anyone, I’d done it anyway. I’d let all my rough edges run wild, and it had been nice… until the consequences caught up. There’d be no seeing my old self again until I beat the Gateway and bullied Archive into sending us home.

  Good job. Go me. Whatever.

  I’d stay in this skin and own it. After all, I made it.

  -ARCHIVE-