Little Pink Starfish

The aurora cast a faint green light on the ground. Reflected on the man’s dark skin, it formed an eerie green glow, like the skin of a lizard or toad.

Finally, the man spoke: “We’re not Judges. We can’t confirm he’s 100% human.”
“Well, sure,” Hawthorn crossed his arms and drawled, “but the contamination level on Plain No. 2 is only two stars.”

The black-skinned man was silent for a while longer before saying: “The average mutation time on Plain No. 2 is four hours. If he doesn’t mutate after four hours, then fine.”
“Alright,” Hawthorn said, “if we finish collecting the loot and he hasn’t mutated, we’ll take him.”

The black-skinned man finally nodded. The three exchanged looks, seemingly reaching a consensus.

“My name’s Vance,” said the tall man in the center, turning to An Zhe to introduce himself.
An Zhe: “Hello.”

Hawthorn, the one An Zhe found unpleasant, added: “Hawthorn.”

The last man, referred to earlier as “Blackie,” was silent for a moment, then muttered: “Anthony.”

An Zhe also greeted him, then added, “Thank you all.”

“No need,” Vance smiled. “We’re all fellow humans. Plus, we just lost a teammate—short on manpower.”
Then he turned to the monster’s severed head and ordered, “Finish scavenging. Move fast.”
As he spoke, Vance pulled a pair of gloves and a long dagger from his backpack and tossed them to An Zhe. “You go detach the legs.”

An Zhe caught them and obediently responded, walking a few steps forward to the monster’s severed torso. He put on the gloves and began examining the body.
The arthropod’s body was massive. Its shell was smooth in places but had long sharp bristles and protruding bumps in others. An Zhe looked at its legs—six in total, long and thin, divided into three segments, covered in dense, shiny black fuzz.

Vance and Anthony were dismantling the creature’s head, removing the shell to let the brain matter and other fluids drain out, then cleaning the inside. Hawthorn stood watch on the perimeter.

An Zhe drew the dagger and focused on carving into the creature’s joints. It took about five minutes to sever one joint, detaching a leg from the torso. At the break, a white, sticky, brain-like fluid slowly seeped into the yellow sand.

He heard Hawthorn jeering, “Little darling, don’t puke on us.”

An Zhe didn’t respond, calmly continuing with the next joint.
He didn’t feel anything toward the monster. In fact, he thought it was cleaner than many animals from the Abyss.

But Hawthorn didn’t seem ready to leave him alone. Footsteps came up behind him. Hawthorn walked over and pressed a hand to An Zhe’s shoulder, fingers sliding around. “Baby, how old are you this year?”
From his tone, An Zhe heard greed—the kind beasts show toward food. But in his limited knowledge, humans didn’t eat their own kind.
So he calmly answered, “Nineteen.”

An Ze had been nineteen, and since An Zhe had absorbed his genes, he supposed he was too.

“But you look only seventeen.” Hawthorn let out a hoarse chuckle, voice raspy and sharp.

An Zhe frowned, unsure how to respond.

“Hawthorn,” Vance called from nearby, “Focus on the watch.”

Hawthorn snorted, squeezed An Zhe’s shoulder once more, then strolled off.

An Zhe realized again that each human might have different traits. An Ze had been different from those who stole his spore. Vance was different from Hawthorn. He felt grateful to Vance.

He looked down and continued severing joints—each leg in three parts. After cutting them, he stacked them neatly. The outer shell had a metallic sheen and was as hard as stone. When stacked, they made crisp clinking sounds.

When he had detached all six legs, Vance and Anthony had finished dismantling the head and came over. Vance glanced at the neat pile and smiled, “You’re pretty meticulous.”
Then he called to Hawthorn, “Bring the vehicle.”

Hawthorn said nothing and walked off.

An Zhe stepped aside and watched Vance and Anthony work on the torso.

“Need help?” he asked.

Vance, wearing gloves and holding black pincers about the length of a human calf, replied, “You haven’t been out much, have you?”
An Zhe: “…No.”
“Then just stay back.” Vance pried open the plates on the monster’s chest and belly. The edges were irregular, forming sharp black spikes where they connected, glinting with a cold gray light. Vance said, “These spikes are nasty. Easy to get jabbed if you’re inexperienced. Even though Plain No. 2 has low contamination, infections are still possible.”

An Zhe obediently backed away, watching them dismantle the corpse. One black plate after another was lifted, revealing white innards spilling all over the ground.

A low rumble sounded. An Zhe turned and saw a black rectangular armored vehicle driving toward them, like a giant shelled creature. He recognized it—An Ze’s old team had five of them.

As the vehicle neared, Hawthorn jumped out.
Vance didn’t even lift his head. “Help him load the parts first.”

An Zhe responded, gathered some armor plates from the ground, and carefully tied them with rope. He handed them to Hawthorn, who tossed them into the vehicle’s storage compartment.

As the monster got smaller from disassembly, An Zhe collected more plates.
He was tying a stack when his hands suddenly paused.

Beneath his fingers, on a black spiked plate, a few tiny, dark-colored droplets had formed—liquid beads.
He looked at the stained ground—inside the monster, fluids had been white, yellow, or clear.
So what were these dark droplets? He remembered the blood that had leaked from An Ze’s dying body.

He glanced toward Vance and Anthony—both were still working, calm as ever.
So he acted like nothing happened and finished tying the plates.

Much later, after the disassembly ended, the three seemed convinced An Zhe wouldn’t suddenly mutate into a deadly monster.
Vance said, “Get in, heading back. An Zhe, you too.”

An armored vehicle could hold seven or eight people and had spaces for rest inside—divided into three compartments, each very cramped. Humans had to stoop to move around.

An Zhe was placed in the outermost space, next to the door. He lay down with his backpack as a pillow.
Anthony drove in front, Vance sat beside him, and Hawthorn was in the rearmost compartment.

The door shut. Darkness filled the space, with only faint light through a small side window. The vehicle started moving—steady, occasionally bumping.

An Zhe stared into the darkness, feeling like he was floating in black tides, being carried toward the Northern Base.
He knew nothing about that place. A faint sense of unease and confusion surrounded him.

As the light in the window grew, the compartment brightened a little. The vehicle stopped.
He heard Hawthorn get up, walk forward, and open the door to the driver’s seat, switching places with Anthony.
Anthony returned to Hawthorn’s previous spot, lay down, and his heavy breathing shook the floor.
Vance asked, “What’s up?”
Anthony replied, “A bit tired.”

Later, it was Vance’s turn to replace Hawthorn.

An Zhe instinctively curled up—he knew that meant Hawthorn would now sleep next to him.
He felt uneasy.

But the expected sound of someone lying down didn’t come.

An Zhe widened his eyes and waited.
The next second, rustling footsteps—someone pounced on him.

“Baby…” Hawthorn’s voice was low and raspy. His legs pushed between An Zhe’s, arm wrapped around his shoulders. An Zhe reflexively struggled, but a stronger force pinned him.

“Vance isn’t here… I know what you are. I’ve been with more merc teams than he’s ever seen.”

That short struggle had drained An Zhe. He panted, “Please don’t…”

“Don’t what?” Hawthorn laughed. In the dim space, his smile looked twisted.
An Zhe said nothing.
Hawthorn let go of his shoulder and reached for his belt. He could restrain An Zhe with one hand, which seemed to delight him. His grin widened, tone taunting:
“Baby, what can you do with this little strength? Can’t drive, can’t handle heavy weapons. If a monster shows up, you’ll just die. What did your team bring you for? Decoration?”

As he spoke, he gripped An Zhe’s neck and leaned in. Stubble scratched An Zhe’s skin. A choking stench of smoke filled the air.

“Sluts like you, I’ve seen plenty… but none this pretty. Which team were you with before?”

An Zhe panted hard. Hawthorn pressed on him. A hot tongue slid over his skin. An Zhe turned his head, coughing from the smoke, and his right hand groped blindly in the dark—finally finding the dagger Vance had given him.

Just then, from Anthony’s compartment came a loud crash—like something was knocked over.

“Wait your turn, Blackie,” Hawthorn laughed loudly.
But it didn’t seem to help—the sound of footsteps approached.

Hawthorn cursed and yanked An Zhe up, slamming him against the vehicle wall. He roughly tugged his collar.

An Zhe stopped struggling. He gripped the dagger tightly and quietly stared down the dim hallway.
White mycelium silently spread across the floor near him—gathering for something.

But in the next second, all his movements froze.

—A monster with a human torso, six slender limbs extending from its back, and soft curled wings trailing behind it, slowly stepped from the passageway. Two glowing red compound eyes gleamed on its head.