Page 11 of Light Leech

“Wow,” Naoma said. “I actually love it.”

“Ass kissers,” Boyband scoffed. “Why the zeg did you give yourself an extra eye on your new chrome?”

“To see Naoma’s beauty twice as well, though looking at you, maybe I should have gone blind.”

He flipped her off.

She blew a kiss. “Time for a haircut, du. Your shag is losing its bowl-shape.”

“You good?” I asked Akna while they continued to bicker.

She smiled and nodded. “The break was nice, but I’m ready to get back to work.”

“Ralia keeping you too cooped up?”

“No, she’s preoccupied with her new mods. Without the risk of techbone, I feel like she’s trying to push herself too far into the tech side of life. She does know that techbone isn’t the only risk, right?”

“Don’t stress it. You know Ral. She won’t let any neurocrawler tap into her tech. With the bite and her mind, she’s pulse.”

“Are you sure? Look, I want to believe, but too much has gone wrong for us in the past. I mean, I’ve only known all of you for what, like a month or so now?”

Did my lack of concern originate from confidence or ignorance? I never wanted to question Ralia, but how was I to be sure that what remained of her was her? Who had upgraded her? Was it another medical professional as credible as Naoma’s therapist?

Seeing them–those who had become my family–in such a joyous state, was harrowing under the memory of the therapeutic abomination. Despite our frailties, our past discord, and losses, we were whole in that moment. I clenched my teeth, forcing my composure as I realized that this could not last. Any peace granted to us was but a temporary reprieve until the Gongtide’s end.

Eliminating a clandestine cult was a daunting task. Backing it with a god that had once devoured our native planet made a challenge become a feat we could only dream of. Dreamers we were, though nightmares were more often our companions as of late.

“I’m sorry,” Akna said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. “You’re the one who understands this?”

“No, no. You raise relevant concerns. I think we have to be cautious.” I eyed Abbas, recalling his betrayal as Ali, but looked back at Akna before I could eliminate the forgiveness he deserved, especially after eating Cut’s face. “We’re all just trying to keep an eye out for one another, right?”

Her smile filled me with more relief than she could have ever guessed. “Yeah.”

“Alright,” Abbas stepped over and patted my shoulder. “We should get things moving along.” He cocked his head toward the now-open entrance to what was supposed to be the monastery.

Unlike Bhate Xera, Cixin, and the other monks from Arabasia, this man demanded no respect. It was not that I wanted to pay him any disrespect, it just looked like he had no care for anyone’s opinion. He might have looked young for his age, but I would have guessed that he was thirty at most. His hair was a black mess, his robe had ruffled hems, and he wore socks with athletic sandals.

“Hihow!” he greeted. He waved us in with a large smile, complimenting each one of us as we passed him.

Based on his lack of accent, I soon understood that he was just another Republic man of Arabasian ancestry. “Come on, come on, you’ve made it this far.”

“What’s your hurry?” Boyband said behind me. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“It’s not my fault you pushed this up a day early. I have other matters to deal with than just you. You know that, right?”

“What could be more important than us right now?”

“Even if you manage to succeed, there are other threats to deal with. Don’t act like you suddenly understand everything, got it, du?”

Boyband scoffed. “What kind of a monk are you?”

“Just because I’m a monk doesn’t mean I need to be a shac like those purists who connected us. I have my style, they have theirs, just like your parents did.”

“You knew them then?”

The monk pushed him forward. “That’s a question for later.”

I left Boyband’s complaints behind, ignoring them as did the monk. We descended a dim, blue-lit stairwell with sharp turns. We reached the bottom and proceeded down a long hallway to a white door with the symbol of a traditional Arabasian woman’s mask wrapped in a green-lit serpent. My throat burned, as if trying to force out my questions about Naoma, but they would have to wait. We had so much to ask compared to how little we comprehended.