Standing in the pool room, water still dripping from his bare chest and shoulders, Kota flexed his arm. He closed his hand into a fist, then opened it slowly, watching his fingers spread. The movement felt normal—looked normal—but something was fundamentally different.
He could feel it. The source. The energy. Whatever the amulet had become inside him.
It swirled in his chest, just below his sternum, a constant presence that hadn't been there before. Like a second heartbeat, but one that pulsed with something other than blood. He tried to reach for it mentally, tried to grasp it or direct it or understand it, but it slipped away from his consciousness like water through his fingers.
It was just there. Swirling. Unsettling.
"Kota?" Aisha's voice was tight with concern. "Are you okay? You're just... standing there."
He realized he'd been staring at his hand for who knows how long, completely still except for the slow opening and closing of his fist. He looked up at her, trying to find words for what he was feeling.
"I can feel it," he said. "Inside me. It's just... there. Moving. But I can't control it. I can't do anything with it."
"Does it hurt?"
"No. It's just..." He struggled to explain. "Foreign. Like something that doesn't belong but won't leave."
Aisha took a step closer, her earlier embarrassment momentarily forgotten. "Maybe it needs time? Maybe you need to figure out how to use it?"
"Maybe." Kota grabbed the worn cloth he'd found a few days ago while exploring the eastern section of ruins. It was rough and faded, but it absorbed water well enough. He dried his arms, his chest, trying to ignore the constant swirl of energy that seemed to pulse with each movement.
When he looked up, Aisha's face had gone bright red again. She was staring very deliberately at the wall.
"I'm—I'm going to—" She turned and practically ran from the room.
Kota watched her go, feeling nothing but a distant, detached awareness of the situation. Under normal circumstances, maybe he would have been embarrassed too. Maybe he would have cared that he was standing there shirtless in soaked underwear while she fled the room. But right now, all he could focus on was the foreign presence in his chest, the way it moved and shifted like it had a mind of its own.
He finished drying off and pulled on his pants, the rough fabric sticking slightly to his still-damp skin. The energy swirled. Constant. Unrelenting.
What had the amulet done to him?
By the time Kota made his way back to their sleeping room, night had fully fallen. The twin moons of this world cast strange shadows through the glass-like windows, painting everything in shades of silver and blue.
Aisha had gone straight to the pool without saying a word, her face still carrying that faint redness. She'd grabbed her makeshift washing cloth and disappeared, and Kota had heard the soft splash of water as she entered.
He leaned his back against the stone wall of their room, the cool surface pressing against his bare shoulder blades. The makeshift bedding they'd created from gathered vines and the softer plant materials they'd found was spread out on the floor, but he didn't lie down yet.
Instead, he closed his eyes and focused inward.
The energy was still there. Still swirling. He tried to visualize it, tried to see it in his mind's eye. It felt like a vortex, spinning slowly in his chest, neither growing nor shrinking. Just existing. Just being.
He reached for it mentally, trying to grasp it, trying to pull it or push it or make it do something—anything—but it remained stubbornly beyond his control. It was like trying to grab smoke. The harder he focused, the more it seemed to slip away from his consciousness.
His mind began to drift. The exhaustion of the day, the shock of the amulet, the constant low-grade fear of being trapped in an alien world—it all pressed down on him. His breathing slowed. His thoughts grew fuzzy.
The energy swirled.
And Kota fell asleep sitting up, his back against the wall, his head tilted slightly to one side.
He woke to sunlight streaming through the windows, warm and bright. Both suns were already climbing the sky, painting everything in that strange double-shadow effect he'd grown accustomed to.
Something felt different.
Not the energy—that was still there, still swirling, unchanged from the night before. But something else. Something physical.
Something heavy was pressing on his legs.
Kota blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked down.
Aisha was asleep between his legs, her head resting on his lap, her body curled on its side. Her breathing was slow and steady, her face peaceful in sleep. At some point during the night, she must have come back from the pool and, finding him asleep against the wall, simply laid down next to him.
Or on him, apparently.
Kota stared at her for a long moment, something warm and unfamiliar spreading through his chest—something separate from the swirling energy. When was the last time he'd felt something like this? Something that wasn't fear or pain or desperate determination to survive?
His lips curved upward slightly.
Was this his first time smiling since coming here? Since being forced through the gateway? Since watching Marcus fight those creatures while he ran with Aisha in his arms?
Maybe it was.
"Aisha," he said softly, gently touching her shoulder. "Hey. Wake up."
She stirred, making a small sound of protest. Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused and heavy with sleep. She looked up at him without any recognition for a moment, then blinked.
"Mm?" She didn't seem embarrassed. Didn't seem to register where she was or what position she was in. Just tired. Still half-asleep.
"You fell asleep on me," Kota said, keeping his voice gentle.
"Mm." She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes, then immediately looked around for another place to lie down. She spotted the bedding a few feet away and crawled over to it, collapsing face-first into the gathered vines without another word.
Kota watched her for a moment, that small smile still on his face, then carefully stood. His legs had gone slightly numb from her weight, and he had to shake them out to get the blood flowing again.
He moved to the window and looked outside.
Dumpling was already out there, its gelatinous body rippling as it moved through the luminescent grass on its many legs. The creature was rummaging near the base of one of the collapsed towers, its antennae waving in that constant searching pattern.
Dumpling.
The name had come so naturally to his mind. Not "the creature" or "that thing" but Dumpling. Aisha's name for it. When had he started thinking of it that way?
Was he getting attached to this thing?
The thought made him uncomfortable. These creatures—all creatures from other worlds—they were the reason his world was dying. The reason the outskirts existed. The reason his parents were dead. The reason Marcus had to fight those things in the forest.
The reason Marcus might be dead now.
He shouldn't feel anything for this creature except resentment. Hatred, even.
But watching it waddle around on its many legs, harmless and almost comical in its movements, he couldn't quite summon that hatred. It was just... there. Living. Surviving. Same as them.
Kota pushed the thought away forcefully and grabbed his makeshift weapon from where it leaned against the wall. The weight of it was familiar now, comfortable. An extension of his body.
He needed to train.
Three months passed like water through cupped hands.
The days blended together in a rhythm of survival and routine. Wake with the twin suns. Eat the disk-shaped fruit they'd stockpiled. Check the pool's water level—it never seemed to drop, fed by some underground source they couldn't identify. Train with the weapon. Explore the ruins carefully, always together, always watching for threats. Return before the suns set. Eat again. Sleep.
Repeat.
The energy in Kota's chest never changed. It swirled constantly, that same steady presence, neither growing stronger nor fading away. He'd tried everything he could think of to control it, to use it, to make it do something, but it remained stubbornly inert. Just there. Just swirling.
He'd almost gotten used to it. Almost stopped noticing it.
Almost.
But his body had changed in other ways. The constant training, the physical labor of survival, the alien fruit that seemed to provide more energy than it should—all of it had transformed him. He was leaner now, harder. His arms had developed actual muscle definition. His movements were more precise, more controlled.
The weapon had become an extension of his body. He knew its weight, its balance, its reach. He could draw it and strike in one smooth motion. Could adjust his grip mid-swing. Could read the way it would move before he moved it.
Marcus would have been proud.
The thought still hurt, but less sharply now. Time and distance had dulled the immediate pain into something more manageable. A constant ache instead of a stabbing wound.
Aisha had changed too. She moved with more confidence now, more certainty. The fear that had haunted her eyes in those first days had faded into something else—not gone, but transformed into wariness. Awareness. She'd learned to read the environment, to spot the signs of danger, to trust her instincts.
And Dumpling had become a fixture of their lives. The creature's den was apparently in a small hollow beneath one of the collapsed structures near their shelter. It emerged every morning to forage, following the same general routes, eating the same foods. They'd learned its patterns. Learned which fruits it preferred, which areas it avoided.
Learned that it was, in its own alien way, harmless.
Kota still didn't like admitting that he'd grown fond of it. But he had. They both had.
It was the closest thing to normal they had in this strange world.
Kota woke to the sound of squealing and hissing.
His eyes snapped open. The room was dim—the suns hadn't risen yet, just barely peeking over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of deep purple and orange.
The sounds came again. High-pitched squealing. Desperate. Terrified.
Dumpling.
Kota's hand shot out and grabbed his weapon before his mind had fully processed what was happening. The weight of it settled into his palm like it belonged there, like it had always been there. The energy in his chest swirled, unchanged, unhelpful.
He was on his feet and moving toward the entrance before Aisha had even stirred.
"Kota?" Her voice was thick with sleep, confused. "What—"
He didn't answer. He reached the entrance and peered outside.
Dumpling was running—if that frantic many-legged scramble could be called running—across the open ground between the structures. Its gelatinous body rippled and bounced with each desperate movement, and even from this distance, Kota could see the damage.
A large cut ran across Dumpling's back end, deep enough that the creature's translucent flesh gaped open. Claw marks. Three parallel lines that had torn through the soft tissue.
And behind it, moving with the fluid grace of a predator, was something Kota had never seen before.
It was roughly cat-like in its movements—low to the ground, stalking, patient—but that was where any resemblance to a normal cat ended. The creature had no fur. Its skin was bare and ancient-looking, covered in scars that crisscrossed its body like a map of old battles. The skin itself had a leathery quality, stretched tight over visible muscle and bone.
But it was the head that made Kota's stomach turn.
The shape was wrong. Not cat-like at all, but elongated and bulbous, like an eggplant. The face was distorted, features that might have been eyes or might have been something else entirely set too far apart. The mouth was a lipless slash that revealed rows of needle-like teeth.
And the claws—three on each hand, each as long as Kota's fingers—gleamed wetly in the early morning light.
Dumpling squealed again, a sound of pure terror, and tried to change direction. The predator adjusted its course without breaking stride, cutting off the escape route with practiced ease.
Kota didn't think. Didn't plan. Didn't consider the danger or the odds or the fact that he'd never actually fought anything before.
He just moved.
"Kota, wait!" Aisha's voice called from behind him, but he was already out the door, weapon raised, running toward the creature.
The predator's head snapped toward him, those distorted features somehow conveying surprise. It had been so focused on Dumpling that it hadn't noticed the larger threat approaching.
Kota closed the distance fast, his legs pumping, his weapon held in both hands. The energy in his chest swirled uselessly, offering nothing, just there like it had been for three months.
The creature turned to face him fully, abandoning Dumpling for this new challenger. It was larger than he'd thought—easily the size of a large dog, maybe bigger. Those claws flexed, and it lowered into a crouch.
Then it lunged.
Kota swung his weapon in a wide arc, putting all his weight behind it. The creature was fast—faster than anything he'd trained against—but his body moved on instinct, on muscle memory built from months of practice.
The blade caught the creature across its shoulder, and Kota felt the impact shudder up his arms. The makeshift weapon held—the wires and metal and hose all working together like they were supposed to—and the creature screamed.
It was a sound like tearing metal, high and piercing, and it made Kota's teeth ache.
The creature twisted mid-air, those three claws on its right hand extending, and swiped at him.
Kota tried to dodge, tried to pull back, but he wasn't quite fast enough.
Pain exploded across his bare chest as the claws raked across his skin. Not deep—he'd managed to pull back enough that it was shallow—but enough to hurt. Enough to bleed. Three parallel lines of fire burned across his ribs.
He stumbled backward, weapon still raised, and the creature landed in a crouch between him and Dumpling.
For a moment, they stared at each other. Kota breathing hard, blood running down his chest. The creature's distorted face unreadable, its body coiled and ready to spring.
Then it moved again.
This time Kota was ready. He sidestepped the lunge, bringing his weapon down in a vertical strike aimed at the creature's back. The blade bit into flesh, and the creature screamed again, twisting away.
It was bleeding now. Dark fluid that looked almost black in the early morning light dripped from the wounds on its shoulder and back.
But it wasn't done. It circled him, moving with that fluid predator grace, looking for an opening. Kota turned with it, keeping his weapon between them, his heart hammering in his chest.
The energy swirled. Useless. Constant.
The creature feinted left, then lunged right. Kota saw it coming—barely—and brought his weapon up in a defensive block. The creature's claws scraped against the metal with a sound like nails on stone, and the impact nearly tore the weapon from his hands.
But he held on. Adjusted his grip. Pushed back.
The creature stumbled, off-balance for just a moment.
Kota didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, raising his weapon high, and brought it down with every ounce of strength he had.
The blade caught the creature at the base of its eggplant-shaped skull.
There was resistance—bone and muscle and sinew—but the weapon was sharp and Kota's strike was true. The blade cut through, severing the head from the body in one clean motion.
The creature's body collapsed, twitching. The head rolled a few feet away, those distorted features frozen in what might have been surprise.
Kota stood there, breathing hard, weapon still raised, waiting for it to get back up. Waiting for it to keep fighting.
But it didn't move. The twitching stopped. The dark blood pooled in the luminescent grass.
It was dead.
He'd killed it.
His first real fight. His first victory.
His first kill.
The weapon suddenly felt impossibly heavy in his hands. He lowered it slowly, staring at the creature's corpse, at the blood on his blade, at his own blood seeping down his chest and stomach.
"Kota!"
He turned to see Aisha running toward him, her eyes wide. But she didn't come to him—she ran past him, dropping to her knees beside Dumpling.
The creature was still alive, its many legs twitching weakly, its gelatinous body rippling with each labored breath. The cut on its back end was deep, but not fatal. Not yet.
Aisha's hands hovered over the wound, uncertain, and Kota saw something in her face he'd never seen before. Not just concern. Not just worry.
Genuine care. For this alien creature that had somehow become part of their lives.
Kota looked down at his weapon, at the dark blood still dripping from the blade, and felt the energy in his chest swirl.
"You're hurt," she said suddenly, looking up at him. Her eyes went to the three claw marks across his chest, the blood still flowing. "Sit down. Let me—"
"Dumpling first," Kota said, his voice rough. "Make sure he's okay."
Aisha hesitated, torn between the two of them, then nodded and turned back to the injured creature. Her hands moved carefully, gently, checking the wound.
Still there. Still useless. Still just swirling.
But he'd won anyway. Without it. With just his weapon and his training and his determination to protect what mattered.
Maybe that was enough.
For now, at least, it had to be.
---
After Aisha had done what she could for Dumpling—cleaning the wound with water from the pool, wrapping it with strips of fabric torn from the vines—she turned her attention to Kota.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a flat piece of rubble near their shelter entrance.
Kota sat, suddenly aware of how much his chest hurt. The adrenaline was fading, and the pain was rushing in to fill the void.
Aisha knelt in front of him, her face serious as she examined the three claw marks. They ran diagonally across his ribs, not deep enough to be life-threatening but deep enough to need attention.
"This is going to hurt," she said, reaching for the cloth and water she'd brought.
"I know."
She cleaned the wounds carefully, her touch gentle despite the pain it caused. Kota gritted his teeth and focused on the sky, on the twin suns climbing higher, on anything except the burning sensation across his chest.
"You were stupid," Aisha said quietly as she worked. "Running out there like that."
"Dumpling needed help."
"Dumpling is a creature from another world. The kind that destroyed ours."
"I know." Kota looked down at her. "But he's also... he's part of this. Part of us now. I couldn't just let him die."
Aisha was quiet for a moment, her hands still working. Then she said, even more quietly, "I know. I couldn't either."
She finished cleaning the wounds and wrapped them as best she could with the materials they had. It wasn't perfect—nothing here was perfect—but it would do.
"There," she said, sitting back. "Try not to get killed tomorrow, okay?"
Kota managed a small smile. "I'll do my best."
They sat there in the early morning light, two kids from the outskirts of Okala, alone in an alien world, with a wounded creature nearby and blood on their hands.
And somehow, impossibly, they were still alive.
Still surviving.
Still fighting.
The energy in Kota's chest swirled, constant and unchanging, and he wondered when—if ever—it would finally do something.
But for now, he had his weapon. He had Aisha. He had Dumpling.
And that, somehow, was enough.