by Pyrodox
So many years that we were one
So many things we've done
The memories alive
But most of me has died
As I struggle with events
I'm offered words of strength
They do not comprehend
The passion we possessed
People tell me what to do
Tell me how I should get through
But they haven't got a clue
Nothing else comes close to you
I see your eyes before they closed
They look right inside my soul
And they asked me not to grieve
I tried but still, I bleed
-Judas Priest, "Close To You"
Duty supersedes personal plans, especially if one is a minister of the Church. Pyrodox did not want to travel to Varuda, but a high-priority target resided in this backwater planet, one that the Church made a priority that could only be trusted to the likes of him. It was an unpleasantly humid world inconvenient to draconic anatomy, and the harsh sunlight compounded the resultant discomfort by necessitating some protective covering: Pyrodox had to customize an unusually large cloak. Also, due to some arbitrary legalism resulting from the planet’s partisan disputes over arms policy, he could only talk his way into bringing one weapon. Prioritizing reliability over firepower, he brought his Gast projectile pistol. To prevent unwanted attention, he chose a craft more subtle than the Mercygiver. It was not going to be the most enjoyable job, and he was hoping that it would at least be over quickly.
The grime was still palpable on his skin, exacerbated by the sweat that remained safely inside the folds of his ample abdomen. Pyrodox could smell himself, and he was desperate for the shower he did not have the luxury to take. Cameron Bix was too important a target to let go, even if it resulted in a stellar pursuit that could take weeks with the dragon’s jalopy. Pyrodox wiped the sweat from his brow and cursed his foul luck.
But he was not going to let his man go.
“I don’t know…” Sorova squeaked, stroking her neck nervously.
“Sorova, listen,” the wolf responded. “You deserve so much better. There are so many worlds I have seen. Some unrecognizable, some barely different. Some of those differences are complementary, and if you knew how many puzzle pieces in some worlds fit in the spaces of others…you would know that those pieces belong there. I found your space. Believe me, I’ve helped so many in this way, let me help you.”
“I’m not sure, I have so much to do…”
“Sorova, trust me. All you have to do is walk through that door.”
She hesitated.
“You can come back if you want to.”
She turned this over for a second and after some time, she cautiously slithered to the portal, and gathering her strength, rushed in.
Zucca sighed and took a step or two backwards.
Directly into a soft wall that that apparently materialized in the spot that instant.
“I really don’t know how you manage to do that,” he quipped as he looked up at slim form that crowned the mass of flesh asnd dug its arms into said blob like the hips so lost in its bulk. It glared at him in a way he had since gotten used to.
“What do you think you are doing, Zucca?”
“I can read your mind, Pyrodox, so I know that you’re just saying that for effect.”
“You know very well that the Church condemns this type of…circumvention of fate.”
Zucca sensed hesitation in Pyrodox’s mind, and he saw the source of that in Pyrodox’s life, as well as the admittedly logical justification for it.
“I can assure you, Pyro, she can make a choice. Besides, it could be said that fate allowed my access and power to traverse dimensions. I can solve people’s problems.”
“Deny the problems, you mean. I do not approve of your influencing my sister in this way. We have our differences, but you do not involve my family. Get…her…back.” He backed the wolf toward the portal, entrusting the work to someone who could physically fit through it.
Zucca suddenly felt trapped.
She was in the same place, one of the many portals that had been hidden throughout the galaxy. The only difference was that The Traveler was nowhere to be found in the ruins, save a token of his preparedness: he had left a starship for her. Punching coordinates into its computer, she sought out the one person that drew her like the exaggerated gravity of a black hole.
As she approached MANNA’s Intra-Galactic Headquarters in the Alpha Sector, she updated herself on the relevant history, which, as it turned out, mooted her current course of action: MANNA CEO Wendell Roussimoff had been missing for seven years. Not being a complete fool, she modified her destination to Church Space.
Home.
The Noskaj-class frigate was no doubt perplexed by a humble civilian light freighter’s ability to navigate the storm that protected Church Space, but after some negotiation she was allowed to surrender peacefully. Sorova was detained, scanned, relieved of her suspensor coils, and transported to Notron-class battleship where she was eventually presented to the authority figure she had requested to see.
As he caught sight of her, Pyrodox’s heavily guarded demeanor melted into bewilderment. Somehow, he knew that this was his sister. “S-Sorova?” he ventured.
“Winnie…it’s me.”
Pyrodox’s face hardened into a cold glare. After some visible struggle he stormed toward the door. “Watch. Her,” he ordered one of the marines. “Category 4 precautions.” He gave her one last uncertain look on the way out.
Sorova was not surprised by this suspion.
Transdimensionality could be confirmed through epigenetic and phenotypical tests, and thankfully non-invasive procedures were sufficient. Sorova was also quizzed extensively, particularly on the location of the Portal. By end of the week, she was allowed to see Pyrodox, who surprised her with a massive hug.
“I wanted to run to you the first time around, Sis. I’m sorry, for the-“
“It’s okay, Wyn, you did the right thing.”
Pyrodox pulled back a bit and regarded her breathlessly with soaked cheeks. “Sorova, you-you’re the size of a house!”
“Oh, yeah, all this? I’ve learned to live with it. Worked out enough to keep in good health, though.”
“You…look great!”
She chuckled knowingly, before something occurred to her. “Oh, Pyro, we have so much to talk about…” She spread her arms and smiled. “I’m a Minister! Just like you!”
“Oh…” Pyrodox seemed uncertain at this.
“Don’t worry, I’m one of the best! I’m really good at…”
She noticed that her brother was nonplussed by the implication that she should have considered and decided not to press the subject further. “Don’t worry, Wynnie, I’m still Sorova.” She caressed his face, satisfying her ersatz brother that she had not lost her soft side.
After composing himself, Pyrodox had something occur to him.
“I almost forgot…there’s someone who wants to see you.”
He stood taller, although he was still extremely short. Even more handsome than the first time she had laid eyes on him. Still present was his flamboyant taste in dress, albeit cleaner, and with a votive skull adorning the collar. He possessed good posture and was well groomed. Gone was the suspicious squint of near-constant inebriation, replaced with wide, alert, and loving eyes. It was Wendell A. Roussimoff as she had always dreamed for.
“Sorova!” Sacrificing all bearing, he rushed toward her and embraced her hard. Out of the corner of her eye, Sorova noticed Pyrodox smiling warmly in a way normally recognized to be physically impossible in this situation. It was everything she had ever wanted.
“Wendy…” she could not contain her own elated sobs.
“That’s okay, let it out, Honey.”
Sorova had never though such a sentence could come from Wendell’s mouth. After a small eternity, she finally composed herself.
“Baby, you look so good, but-I’m sorry…you’re…huge!”
Sorova was surprised he had not mentioned her scarred.
She decided it was for the best not to tell him.
“Are you ready to see the kids?”
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