Parasomnia

"Yeah, yeah," I waved Skyla off, "I got it—my ass is grass everywhere I go."

"Your ass always had a talent for finding trouble, Ethan. Back on Micronda, it was in particularly high demand."

"Don't remind me," I laughed.

The scorching, bone-dry air was saturated with thirst and suffering. I trudged across cracked earth, searching in vain for even a sliver of shade—an impossible quest in this climate. The complete absence of vegetation on this hemisphere was obvious enough without any advanced knowledge of biology. The only one truly thriving here was Eliot, his solar panels spread wide across the ship's hull, gorging himself on Heliosar's energy to the point of gluttony.

My recent memories guided me deeper into the wasteland via the navigator, my imagination conjuring images of yet another bunker or underground passage where I'd find local Glughets and Glaciuses. Instead, what emerged before me was an entire city—assembled from malfunctioning, wrecked starships. They weren't haphazardly scattered but meticulously interconnected, as if painstakingly reconstructing the architecture of a Kallinkorian Coliseum.

I couldn't tell where the entrance was in this behemoth of scrap metal. From behind the walls came enraged shouts and the sounds of mass brawls, strengthening the resemblance to no-holds-barred arena fights. The prospect of joining in held no appeal whatsoever, so I activated stealth mode and began carefully circling the structure, searching for any promising crevice.

Suddenly, a meter away from me, the ship's viewing window shattered, and right through the hole in the hull an unfamiliar creature fell out, rolling up to my feet. It was mutilated: its eyes held a frozen rebellious spirit, while its paw clutched a whip that had bitten into a wound on its palm. The creature resembled a giant Kallinkorian mutant rat, with four digits on its front paws and five on its hind ones. Short brown fur covered only part of its body, exposing black, dry skin on the remaining areas.

Yet the most astonishing thing – metal plates, like chainmail armor, gleamed across its body. These protective elements began at the shoulders and continued down to the abdomen, forming nearly impenetrable armor. They didn't just protect against physical damage but, it seemed, against radiation too, reflecting it like a protective shield.

I bent over the barely breathing creature, activating the Linguatron:

"Buddy, how are you?"

"Barely got away with my life," the creature mumbled, then opened its dark eyes and scrambled back from me, struggling to rise on spindly legs. "And who’re you supposed to be, Kallinkorian?"

"You just answered yourself—I’m just a regular Kallinkorian," I said, raising my hands to show I was unarmed. "Where’d you fall from?"

"None of your human business," the creature snorted. "I need to get back."

"Judging by your condition, going back isn’t a good idea," I rolled my eyes, following the creature.

"I almost won," the creature unfurled its whip—which turned out to be its tail—hooked it onto the ship’s wreckage, and deftly climbed upward.

"Wait, how do I get in there?" I shouted, but the creature vanished from sight, completely ignoring me.

"Well that's just great, thanks. Skyla, how do I find the city entrance?" I asked, but before I could hear an answer, my jaw dropped.

I approached the gigantic rotating platform assembled from parts of various spacecraft. The structure moved slowly, creating the illusion of a living organism guarding the entrance. Inside the framework, massive gears and mechanisms driving its motion were visible, while embedded doors and passageways leading into the city could be seen along its sides.

The entrance's appearance resembled massive gates formed from fused-together ship parts, creating something like a staircase leading upward into the scorching sky. Rusted metal plates and wreckage twisted around each other, forming a labyrinth, while at the joints and welded seams, traces of long years of use and repairs flickered into view.

The entrance itself was adorned with massive metal arches, carved with fragments of ancient symbolism that had barely survived yet still evoked a nostalgic presence. The arches displayed engravings of mechanisms and strange figures—perhaps creatures that once inhabited this vessel.

As I approached, the mechanisms emitted a low, ominous hum, as if preparing to activate. Intermittently, dim lights flickered to life along the passage walls, making it clear that even this ruined, "frankensteined" city maintained its own defense systems.

The interior greeted me with harsh light pouring through open hatches and ventilation shafts, weaving an atmosphere of tense mystery.

"Next bout in one hour," another rat-like creature—similar to the one that had fallen before me earlier—addressed me. "You signing up?"

The creature dazzled me with light reflecting off its metallic "armor," forcing me to turn sideways to avoid being blinded.

"I need to buy weapons and sell my own," I said, blinking rapidly as tears blurred my vision. "Where can I do that?"

"After the fight," the creature replied flatly.

"I'm not here to fight—you must've misunderstood," I frowned. "I'm a buyer."

"To buy or sell weapons, you must first use them—that’s how we confirm your devotion," the creature said. Two hulking rat-like beings materialized beside me, holding out a dark bronze metal tray. "Place all weapons you’re carrying on the tray. They’ll be returned after the fight."

"Then what am I supposed to fight with?" I tensed.

Adrenaline ignited in my veins.

"You’ll be given a choice. Please register for the next wave and follow the Dumonogs. They’ll guide you."

I studied the creature that had identified itself as one of the Dumonog race, then scanned my surroundings.

"And where do I sign?"

"Remove your protective glove," the creature ordered.

"It's too hot here for a Kallinkorian—no offense intended," I said, grateful my suit’s cooling system was holding up.

"Remove the glove. Now." The creature didn’t relent, and two others closed in, cutting off any retreat.

I sighed and peeled back the suit's forearm guard, exposing my skin. The rays bathed my flesh in scalding heat—but didn’t reduce it to ashes. I stretched my palm out in surprise, testing the searing air.

"Doesn’t burn," a Dumonog observed. "Ship-grade shielding here. Reliable construction."

I opened my mouth to reply—when something sharp pierced my palm. Blood pooled rapidly in my cupped hand. The Dumonog dipped its single metallic finger into the crimson puddle, then smeared a symbol across my bare shoulder: three parallel lines that never touched.

"Couldn’t you have signed me up the civilized way?" I grumbled, shaking off the remnants of blood that had already crusted into a dry scab.

"This is where Galactic Civilization ends and anarchy begins. Welcome to the heart of Heliosar—to Radigard."

The Dumonogs let out a victory cry eerily reminiscent of a Kallinkorian war chant, then shoved me deeper into the ship’s bowels. I wasn’t sure my self-defense skills would be enough to walk away intact—but one thing I knew for certain: this was still better than turning into a frozen corpse.

"Kell, seriously?" I stared at my brother as he dropped into a combat stance, flashing an exaggerated, intimidating grin.

Kell and I shared the same dark hair color, but mine still had the waves of youth, while his had straightened with age—now always tied back in a tight low bun. On Kallinkor, long hair on men was rare, and my brother wore his like a banner of individuality and rebellion. Not that it stopped Mom from sneaking up with scissors whenever he dozed off.

"Hand-to-hand combat is essential, Itty. You’ll thank me later," he said, still grinning.

"I'm telling you, hand-to-hand combat is essential, Itty. You'll thank me one day."

"And who exactly am I supposed to defend myself from? So far, you're the only one giving me trouble," I sighed.

I'd just turned thirteen, and my wishlist included new boots—not combat experience.

"What kind of brother would I be if I didn't teach you to fight?" Kell clicked his tongue. "You're not a kid anymore—time to learn to stand your ground. Come on!"

Kell lunged abruptly and punched my shoulder.

"Ow, quit it!" I yelped, rubbing the sore spot. "I don't want to fight!"

I turned to leave, but Kell grabbed me by the belt, spun me sharply through the air, and slammed me onto the ground—though I realized later he'd cushioned the throw to keep me from breaking bones. Even so, the impact made me feel every ounce of Kallinkor's gravity.

"Get up and fight back. I won't ask nicely again," Kell growled.

"How about a crossbow then? Or even a slingshot?" I muttered, dusting myself off.

"Any fool feels safe with a weapon," my brother snorted. "But beating someone empty-handed? That's an art. And I'm going to teach you."

"Skyla, run combat mode again," I ordered, wiping sweat from my brow.

We'd been drifting through space for a year (by human reckoning), and since I'd turned seventeen aboard this ship, I'd decided to resume the training I'd abandoned after leaving Kallinkor. Back then, Kell had been my instructor—now I'd programmed the hologram to take his place.

It took the form of a crimson orb, deftly evading my strikes and forcing me to move faster, sharper—until even Skyla's motion sensors struggled to keep up. In this dance of artificial intelligence and human grit, we sparred for two hours daily, sometimes longer.

"You're fatigued, Ethan," Skyla observed, her tone almost caring. "Perhaps a break?"

"Says the one who doesn't even breathe."

"Fatigue doesn't compute for me, but even a Kallinkorian needs energy replenishment occasionally. Your clothes are already drenched."

"If I end up in a firefight with some galacto-headed freak, there won't be time for breathers. I need endurance."

"Just carry a weapon—you'll have the advantage over any attacker."

"Any fool feels safe with a gun. But beating someone bare-handed? That's art," I smirked.

"Who needs your 'art' in space, Ethan?" The hologram shifted to a blue glow, morphing seamlessly from orb to wave.

"No, activate the training function again."

"In the process of survival, all means are justified. No matter how skillful you are with your fists, the time will come when you'll have to pick up a weapon. Whether you want to or not, Ethan. Life beyond Kallinkor isn’t just a celebration of endless experiences."

"When that necessity arises, I’ll learn how to shoot. For now, we’ll train speed."

"Initiating training," Skyla announced, and the compartment flooded with crimson light once more.

This time, the hologram wasn’t pulling any punches – a three-eyed, galacto-headed predator emerged before me, its chitinous armor gleaming, a fan of blade-like tentacles swaying with the slow grace of a dancer rather than a killer. Beneath its translucent “skin,” streams of energy pulsed in elegant patterns – a meticulous simulation of every strength and weakness. Clearly, someone wanted to make sure I didn’t mistake this session for a casual warm-up.

"Watch this, Eliot!" I shouted, lunging at the orb—"We’re winning this round!"

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