Feeling something soft between her fingers, Marana stirred trying to break the chains of sleep, and in her effortful awakening, she began to decipher shapes through blurry eyes. Furniture that belonged to her, curtains that she had washed just the other day — she was in her room in Yomu’hra District, in Aeroz. Pushing herself out of the bed, though, was harder than she thought. Her head pounded and she winced — too much booze from the previous night. There was some movement in her bed, which startled her, making her instantly awake and aware. 

She sighed in relief when she realised it was just Mr Murderclawz, the Aerozan river cat that had followed her from her favourite bar — Yomu’hra Taps. A stray, adopted by the bar’s owner, who had found the abandoned kitten near the port, Mr Murderclawz was born with only one leg. Upon the owner’s request, Marana had painstakingly created bionic limbs and other organs for the cat, which she had to keep replacing as he grew bigger over the years. She had included sharp, steel, retractable claws for him to use for climbing trees and frightening away the bar’s unsavoury clients. 

Now, at three years old, a full-grown Aerozan river cat, he was slightly larger than an average house cat. His thick golden mane majestically cascaded from the back of his head to his chest, and his large purple eyes, lidless and ever-watchful, were keen and darted curiously. His tail was surprisingly long and fluffy, and his ears were far too big for his face — and though his stature frightened most, he was just a cuddly furball to Marana.   

He would follow her home everytime Marana paid him a visit, making sure she was safely ensconced in her apartment. And when she would take him back the next day, the bar owner would throw his hands up and lightheartedly say, ‘Keep him, why don’t ya? He adores ya more than all us yahoos! What’s he got to do in the bar anyway, ‘cept drag in ‘em dead mice or lap up my brandy when I ain’t lookin’?’ 

Marana thought she had neither the time nor the patience to keep a pet. But maybe now, she just might… 

She had been fiddling with the fur on the back of the cat’s head in her morning sleep — it suddenly struck her how familiar it felt. She had once mistakenly carsessed the silver-grey fur on the back of Zov’ha’s hand — a soft bristle, which she usually covered under thick gloves. It occurred to her that she was yearning to meet Zov’ha, even if it was just for one second — just to know that she was alright. 

Turning around to lie on her back, Marana gazed at the ceiling mirror she had installed many years ago. It was probably the first thing she had set up in her apartment. Being almost completely bionic, her body seemed rather vapid. Zov’ha had a perfectly working human body — apart from the unearthly crystals in her bloodstream. It was her near-perfect anatomy that had startled Marana in the few minutes she had gotten to analyse Zov’ha’s biochip. No human had ever escaped physical impairments after the old wars. Zovhara truly is a mystery, isn’t she?

Shaking her head to get rid of her despondency, Marana arduously slid off the bed and made her way to the shower. There were things she had to attend to; things she had to take care of before she made her next move.  

She had let her hair grow long over the winter. Gracefully parted to the right, some of it falling over her face, she had ostentatiously styled it in an undercut fade. She retained her iconic electric blue hair colour — a concoction of her own making, but this time, instead of dyeing her whole head, she had decided to give herself a dramatic ombre that contrasted well with her true hair colour — raven. Lint had openly been critical about her new look, but she had done this for herself, not for him. Not having had the time, nor the need to alter her style since college, she felt this experience was… liberating. 

Lint — the bastard turned out alright! He had given her the hope she had needed. After the confederacies had made the decision to abandon the incursion and instead look for Zov’ha, Marana had decidedly quit MART — her life’s ambitions, achievements, and her entire world, all gone in a single moment of furious retaliation. 

Becoming overwrought with Parpa Dourne’s sell-out, she had marched up to him and had aggressively berated him, vowing to thwart any move that Aeroz makes against Zov’ha. She was going to leave Aeroz. Her self-exile would allow her to concentrate on things that, she finally realised, were more important than Aerozan politics and her career — saving innocent lives and having meaningful relationships. 

Abandoning Segran and Sinovan to the fate of the raiders; disappointing Zov’ha by stealing her biochip — she was going to fix it all. 

Parpa had admonished Marana’s misdemeanour but had accepted her resignation. The first step she had taken was to vent her frustrations out to Lint, who had stoically resolved to aid her in finding Zov’ha. Like a fox hunting for its prey, he had followed the scent of any information he could glean from his various sources. Three days later, he had struck gold.

‘Sure this shit’s real?’ Marana had asked him in a whisper as they sat at a corner table of Yomu’hra Taps. Mr Murderclawz was asleep on her lap and would occasionally wake up to groom himself with his tongue. ‘I don’t wanna end up with my ass in the middle o’ nowhere, Lint.’

‘Hell yeah, it’s real. Courtesy of my ‘sociates down in the Order.’

‘You got birds down in the Order?’ Marana had been shocked by this, because she had never expected information about Zov’ha to come from The Order of Saint Awynyth. ‘They’re just a bunch of religious kooks! What’ve they gotta do with my girl?’ 

‘Zov’s been hangin’ around in Rud’vyr,’ Lint had replied, lighting up his dooz-pipe, which Mr Murderclawz had decided to stare at as if it were his worst enemy. ‘Seems she’s bein’ revered as a goddess of some sort. Must be a misunderstandin’, ain’t sure. But you gotta go to Neva. It’s just beyond…’

‘Just beyond Urumoi, I know.’ Of course she knew where Neva was — most people did. But none ventured there unless they were stopping by on their way to Kalgez. ‘A goddess though? The bloody hell’s happenin’, man?’

‘Marana,’ he had said, leaning close to her. He had a concerned look on his face, ‘Tell me you gonna be okay.’ 

‘Don’t worry ‘bout me,’ Marana knew she would never forget this man. He was special in his own way. ‘If I’m ever back in town, for sure there’ll be one dog who’ll come sniffin’. That’s all I need… a friend.’ 

Still standing in front of her mirror, she remembered his sly smile. She had never seen his eyes — no one had. He always hid them behind his visor. Maybe he was born without sight, maybe he wasn’t. No one ever asked. Never ask another human about their mutations or where they are from — this was the Aerozan way.

Bloody Grods!  Every single one of ‘em! Sascha was one of the many hundred “bosses” who were standing in serried ranks, in an open meadow close to the raiders’ western encampments.

Calling them ‘Grods’ was derogatory in Aeroz. Everywhere else, all across the known world, Grods were unquestioningly respected and were given the highest status in their countries. Born with horrendously mutated genes, most of them died at birth, but those that survived were revered. Aeroz and other civilised countries like Asenya called them Xalians and put them into incubators. Out here Grods survived on hovering palanquins that functioned with an array of convoluted devices, keeping them alive and stable. They had servants, who revered them, who answered their every call. But being treated as gods? There is no sense to it. Sascha was one of those who deemed it laughably superfluous.  

The five Overlords that presided over the rally were all Grods. They came from the west, they said — from the far west. They came bearing weapons with explosive crystals. These toys were not the best, but they were better than the handful of guns the divided raiders possessed. Over the years, the Overlords had persuaded most of the raiders to join them in battle against Aeroz. It was an experiment, they had said, a prequel to a bigger war. 

Sascha did not care about their big plans. All she cared about was the annihilation and plunder of Aeroz. She despised the Aerozans, oh… how she despised them! What business did they have overthrowing her family’s slave trade that had prospered for hundreds of years? What business did they have seizing her lucrative brothels all across Morowyth? They had freed her employees, demolished the bath houses built by her ancestors, and consequently shut down any human-trafficking in what they believed to be The Jurisdiction of Aeroz. 

Aeroz will burn! 

‘Seventy-one?’ came the voice of one of the Overlords, a bit static as it issued from the in-built interpreter of the palanquin. 

Sascha stepped forward, ‘Outpost seventy-one has had no contact from Aeroz. But our vehicles need refuelling.’

‘The southern town near outpost forty-seven has been raided,’ replied another Grod. ‘You can use their fuel.’

‘But that’s too far…’ Sascha began, but was interrupted by the call for the next boss to speak. She scowled indignantly and stepped back. 

The rally came to a devastating end when a loud blast was heard from an encampment to the east. It sounded like thunder, but the aftermath of the blast shook the earth below their feet, toppling half the ranks. Alarms blared from every corner, and Sascha had to cover her ears. Chaos ensued as the raiders panicked, running helter skelter or preparing to charge with their vehicles towards the distant encampment, whose crenellated walls were visible at the horizon. 

Sascha furtively stepped towards the gathering of the five Overlords, instead of dashing east like the others. The Grods were silently communicating amongst themselves. Dammit, I can’t hear them…  She sneaked in closer, pretending to be one of their servants and casually blended in to get close enough to listen in. 

‘...And why was there a prisoner in the armoury?’ One of them hissed. 

A static voice, almost inaudible, came from a hologram of someone from the distant encampment. ‘... a direct order from a boss. He’s escaped… Blown up half the camp. He’s headed north on a bike…’

‘After him!’ commanded another Overlord. 

That bloody Calcar! Sascha remembered she had secretly imprisoned Sinovan, marking him as dead. Her selfish plan to find out about Zov’ha’s whereabouts, without the knowledge of the Overlords, was now in danger of being revealed — Sinovan had escaped.

Sascha raced to her bike, started the ignition, and dashed off northeast. Sinovan was probably running back to Aeroz. Can’t let you escape alive, now can we, bloody Calcar! 

After packing up and locking her apartment, and with Mr Murderclawz tailing her, Marana had enthusiastically made her way to Farianvale, a small welcoming town just outside of Aeroz. Zov’ha had lived here for a while in an inn, she remembered… but Marana had come for something entirely different. She was visiting Aeroz’s largest garage, owned by Ivalem Skjavok — her foster father. Ivalem had died many years ago, and Marana wished she had visited his grave more often than she had. He had left her his legacy — the garage he had so desperately protected from MART’s solicitors, along with his collection of abandoned vehicles. The rundown shop was now inoperable — his death had put an end to the business, and with Marana busy with her studies at the time, she had shut it down and locked it up. 

Now, she had a need for it — she had never been so thankful to her foster father’s inheritance. Just a dump of machines, she had cast it out of her memory. But now some of the things in here would serve her. 

She stood in front of Ivalem’s most prized possession — a gargantuan, armoured hover truck, abandoned by some forgotten legion in the past. Sturdy as a rock, it had withstood time and weather. Ivalem had brought it to a working condition easily enough, but he had also, as a personal project, weaponized it. He had admitted to Marana that when the time comes, he would reveal it to the KOE and make a fortune out of it, but his pacifistic nature got the better of him, and the truck remained hidden.

Marana knew that a single truck was no match against the full force of KOE. But Aeroz was not her enemy… yet. Zov’ha had to be found, the farmers had to be saved. This truck would have to do. 

She had painted over the dark grey metallic colour that Ivalem had coated it with. She had fabricated striations and shapes in eclectic patterns that she thought seemed fit for her purpose. She had used three colours primarily: fluorescent yellow, to symbolise Zov’ha — Marana couldn’t imagine her without the yellow poncho; electric blue, to represent herself; and bright red, to symbolise the Calcar brothers — Segran and Sinovan. Satisfied, she circled around to make sure she had covered every plate. 

Proud of her work, Marana stepped back to admire her art. Blotches of paint besmirched her loose workshop outfit. Cans of used paint were scattered around her. Positively jubilant, she realised she could not remember the last time she had been this satisfied and carefree. This must be how change feels… something she should have done a long time ago. 

Though the truck had a plain, cuboid body, its edges were rounded — as if the designers had given thought to its aesthetics. Built for battle, but also to exhibit the pride of whatever lost nation it had belonged to. The cabin had an inclined roof, ending in the front in a smooth curve. The back of the truck was broader, which Marana had believed would hamper with its balance when it hovered, but to her surprise it was meticulously designed so as not to topple, even at high speeds. The roof of the truck housed a rotating turret with a long barrel that one could control from within. 

The cabin had two comfortable seats with an array of controls — she couldn’t wait to drive! The body of the truck was equipped with everything one needed for warfare, from spying on and scouting out distant enemies, which included deploying and controlling drones, to rampaging head on into battles, guns-blazing. There was enough space in there for additional troops, and cargo. It even had a shower and a toilet in the back. 

Apart from the turret, two great guns stuck out from the front of the truck, which reminded her of the gloomhog she and Zov’ha had brought down in Pilopia. The strange sensation came to her again — a yearning to meet the white-haired woman — it sent a chill down her spine, and she felt her heart pound against her chest. Guilt? The sudden loss of someone? Longing? She wasn’t sure. But she was now ready to head to Neva. 

‘“The Gloomhog”’, she said aloud, which Mr Murderclawz took as a sign that he could rub against her feet. ‘Think that’s a fittin’ name for a truck, you cute li’l furball?’