Ruacar Pleasure District
East Toxis – Ramaxia
7 Bamx 2228 –2230 Hours
It was another randy night at the Uxcalina until a couple of Orta’s finest turned the dancefloor into their own private sparring ice.
Wiser hizaki hauled their fat backsides out of there as Styba Balru marched over to Fuzo Dox, while braver brainers had already raised their Filmarks when star-athlete Zebi Bol sent Balru the drink.
At roughly eight-foot-five, the muscular Balru weighed in at two-hundred forty pounds and boasted a punch that sent her opponents to a recycle beaker. No one knew the power of Balru’s punch better than one-time rival, Bol.
This lasting acrimony started at their Final Trial, a violent tradition born after the femmar first woke from the Vosk’tulak.
When it became clear that not all marixi could live in peace with their sister castes, leader Femitokon marched her fellow thirteen-year-old warriors to the surface. They’d lived apart from the others, building camps in pack snow, hunting seal, and diving for fish.
Hoping to give the eighteen thousand plus marixi some sense of structure, Fusofitakil, the hizak twin of Femitokon, sent thousands of her most contentious brainers to the surface. Cliquish by nature, hizaki engaged in verbal confrontations that were spurred by intellectual territorialism; such bouts of tribal warfare intensified when marixi became involved.
One day, Fusofitakil journeyed to the surface, and having twin Femitokon’s ear, she unwittingly upstaged leading surface hizak, Ulatbant. Soon after, power plays between Ulatbant’s peers and those hizaki devoted to Fusofitakil, caused strife among the marixi.
Ulatbant had confronted Fusofitakil over her plan to move fighting crews west in anticipation of humanity’s return; Ulatbant was confident that the humans would never return, but Fusofitakil remained unmoved.
When their words became heated, Ulatbant’s closest friend, a marix named Tulaxak, had stepped into Fusofitakil. Unlike her fellow hizaki, Fusofitakil had shared a developmental pod with Femitokon and often became physical when threatened. Without warning, she shoved Tulaxak, which prompted the marix Balrusok, her assigned protector, to step in and deescalate.
What followed was what humans call, a domino effect.
Hours after the altercation, a part of Fusofitakil’s dugout shelter collapsed, killing her bizak assistant. Femitokon sought Ulatbant for questioning, but Tulaxak had confronted her instead.
Defiant, Tulaxak demanded that Fusofitakil be questioned. Femitokon and her loyalists rushed the wayward marix, and within moments, Tulaxak’s peers had swarmed the scene in her defense.
Words uttered in the brawl enraged Femitokon enough that she killed Tulaxak.
Ulatbant came out of hiding and attempted to rouse sentiment among Tulaxak’s peers by urging them to take control of the ice from Femitokon. Tired of the strife, Femitokon quickly snapped the hizak’s neck.
Surface hizaki allied to Fusofitakil demanded Femitokon be held accountable, and when Fusofitakil refused, they’d turned against her. Calls for Femitokon to remove herself as leader and Fusofitakil to commit suicide as recompense soon gained momentum among the most ambitious. Faced with mounting opposition, the twins formulated a plan to eliminate rebellious marixi and the mutinous hizaki controlling them.
They’d proposed a final fight amongst the marixi caste.
Femitokon swore marixi organizers to secrecy about the fight’s location, while Fusofitakil leaked the locale to every hizak on the surface; she’d then taken note of which among them instigated counter plans.
Upon awakening from hibernation in Yulitat, all eighteen-thousand four hundred and twelve marixi gathered in a remote icy valley called the Ortosk Plain. They’d set upon one another armed with whalebone clubs and fought under the watchful eyes of at least four thousand hizaki.
After twelve hours of brutal carnage, fifty-four hundred marixi remained standing, including Femitokon. Wasting no time, Fusofitakil gave her victorious twin a list of the mutinous hizaki. Femitokon and her fellow survivors then murdered the disloyal hizaki, leaving less than a thousand alive.
No fight of such magnitude had occurred again in the original marixi subject’s lifetime, yet the practice of allowing ill-tempered brainers to oversee them became an institution.
Following the Second Gen’s birth, the hizaki at the Office of Marixi Administration revived the culling and Orta’s first Final Trial occurred when the Second Gen turned seventeen. Naked, the young combatants had fought with whalebone dultax; the victors achieved rank, while those too injured to finish guarded the surface for the rest of their lives.
Fatalities ceased when the Fifth Gen came of age; they’d fought in skin-tight suits that sensed injury and shut down the body based on wound severity. Those Fifth falling within the first hour had avoided non-ranking surface duty by transitioning to sporting careers.
The Ninth Gen contained more marix than any generation before it, so their Sixth-Gen overseers had implemented a Secondary Trial one decade after the first. Koba Julo had come from a pod with many bruiser sibtox and thus had witnessed three Final Trials in her lifetime. The Tenth’s official and secondary ended with Kul victories, though the latter had felt like Femitokon’s bloody first.
Thanks to Koba’s broadcasting network, the Eleventh’s final fight was the first viewed nationwide. Excitement had sparked in the frosty air that day as two single-file lines of marixi marched barefoot onto the battle ice. Clad neck to heel in a black Mortay Suit, each carried a single dultax club.
The Primary and her second in Orta, Uli Zag, had stood upon a stage that divided onlookers into two sections; divisional scouts and civilian witnesses related to the combatants. The eager bruisers brought a fist to their stomachs in a salute, and when satisfied with the respect shown, the Primary, in return, tapped a fist to her abdomen twice.
Prime Chair Zag had let out a bark prompting both lines of marixi to face one another. Several moments had passed in silence, with tensions growing thick like aging pack snow. Ribat Nox, then Prime of Marixi Administration, let loose the signal horn, setting off a mighty roar from the young marixi who then set upon one another with profound viciousness.
The emotional duality of marixi remained a mystery; one moment, they seemed loyal innocents, donat-like in their camaraderie, until given the order to attack, upon which they carried out such orders with no remorse.
All eyes had been on Styba Balru that day. Many had come for the burly bruiser’s head, and she’d defeated them all without breaking a sweat, her plan of attack becoming clear as she fought her way toward Zebi Bol.
Balru had delivered blow after blow upon Bol until her suit registered spinal damage. Paralyzed on the ice by that suit, Bol laid helpless as Balru lifted her and then slammed her face-flat onto the snow. Kicked onto her back, Bol had taken Balru’s dultax to the sternum.
The nodes on Bol’s suit had gone black, triggering a pair of uniformed bizaki to swoop in from the sidelines on their isurus-boots. How terrifying it must have been for the original bizaki taking part in the first culling, navigating the ice in their bare feet with only sharpened bone hooks to snatch up the dead. The role of clearing the fallen now belonged to the young life-form handlers assigned to Orta service.
A pair of bizak had zoomed through skirmishes, and coming upon Bol, had bounced her paralyzed body off the fighting ice with their pulse wands.
The young marix had fallen moments before the first-hour mark, disqualifying her from surface duty. After a moment of frustrated tears, she’d forced her head up and cheered on brood-mate Fuzo Dox.
The gangling Dox had fallen to Balru’s elbow that day, but tonight, she caught that elbow and yanked the larger Balru over her shoulder and onto a nearby table, shattering its glass surface. With Balru down, Bol hastily entered the fray with fists swinging.
“Don’t stop recording,” Koba turned to her digimar operator and smiled. “The orcas will swarm in any minute now to shut this shit down, and I want that footage.”
The resident zaxiri fled in droves, pushing through a wave of Pure Gen bruisers that closed in on the scene, still naked and fresh from the upper sex floors. They wanted to see noted opponents Dox and Balru fight; the civilians in their ranks wished only to watch the infamous Bol outside a podcresting rink. Drafted by the Vanda Megs, the red-hided bruiser had garnered a reputation as the most aggressive hunter on the ice.
“Bol’s not looking to crack a jaw,” Koba said to her underling. “She just wants to hit Balru hard enough for her to feel it.”
The younger bizak smiled in agreement, careful not to nod and jar the recording digimar unit plugged into her ear and protracted over her left eye.
Before Bol could land a punch, Balru’s dress boot fixed itself to her chest and sent her skidding across the floor and into a wall of naked bruisers.
Suddenly, a trio of older marixi in black and white uniforms appeared and pushed their way through the crowd. Led by a Tenth Gen with the name Yeg stitched onto her armband, the Cit-Guard herded the belligerents outside.
Cooler heads prevailed under the blue lights of Ruacar Walk.
Two of Balru’s bruiser friends joined her, accompanied by a couple of beautiful zaxir. One of them, a plump beauty with a brilliant cobalt and yellow hide, pushed Bol aside to dab at the blood on Balru’s lips. Balru’s creamy gray hide contained enough light blue to arouse most breeders, but her sizable round fronts were a constant source of derisive distraction among her caste.
“You two leave right now,” Yeg ordered, her fingers aimed at Dox and Balru. “Separate directions, you hear me?”
Balru spat a glob of blue onto the ground. “Yes, Podkom Yeg.”
“Thank you, Podkom,” Dox said likewise.
Koba whispered to her underling, “Any officer caught tossing fists with a Cit-Guard faces an immediate loss of rank.”
Bol called out. “You best be on your way, Donmat.”
Balru flashed her blue-stained teeth in a smile.
“I’m going to put you out of my misery, Bol,”
“Let it go, Balru,” yelled Dox.
“You’re right, Dox,” Balru’s eyes shone. “I can’t threaten a civilian.”
Bol lunged at Balru, but Dox caught her midair.
“Go, Balru,” cried Dox.
“Hey, Dox,” one of Balru’s peers called out. “Why don’t you just go. To sleep.”
The others laughed, but Balru cast an apologetic glance.
That day in their Final, her elbow had broken Dox’s nose and rendered the bruiser unconscious. Balru had screamed in victory as the last one standing, waking Dox with just a few moments left on the Trial clock. Koba and other bizaki had crowded the trial-ice barrier and cheered for the leggy Dox, anything to keep the fight exciting to its last moment. Even the Primary stood, eyes burning as Dox snatched up a dultax and marched toward Balru.
Aiming for Balru’s back, she swung with all her might, but the brawny Balru had turned in time and took the blow to her shoulder blade. Her right arm inoperable, a partially paralyzed Balru had held off Dox’s vicious assault. With two minutes left on the trial clock, she’d wrenched the dultax away from Dox and landed a kick to her lower back.
Dox, legs deadened by the suit’s injury sensors, latched onto Balru’s hips. Both came tumbling down, but Balru had struggled to her feet while Dox climbed her torso. Unwilling to fall again, Balru had used her working arm to trap the thinner bruiser in a headlock, folding Dox over to balance herself. Two seconds short of the horns blare, Balru had let Dox fall to the snow.
Unfortunately, many of their peers never accepted Dox as Orta’s second-greatest; many felt she’d played at being passed out on the ice that day.
“They can ride, Dox,” Bol said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You made Division before the recruiters even knew Balru’s name.”
Enraged, Balru leaped over officer Yeg and caught Bol’s jaw before the other two Cit-Guards came together and formed a wall to block her.
“Move it along, or I haul you all in,” Yeg hollered at Balru, then pointed at Bol, “I’d love to haul your girz in for sending our carrier over the rails.”
Dox dragged Bol away by her arm, with Koba and her digicast operator shadowing them three city blocks.
“Why are you still following us?” Dox demanded.
Bol gave her friend a playful shove. “She’s Channel Ramx,”
“Is this for Orta Patrol?” Dox relaxed instantly. “I love that show.”
Bol’s good humor faded.
“Orta Patrol follows Fleeters, not failures.”
Dox put her hand up at Koba and said, “Excuse us, please.” Blocking their shot, the narrow bruiser pulled Bol out of range.
Koba signaled her underling to elevate the audio recorder’s sensor.
“Bol, you got to stop shitting on yourself,” said the gravelly-voiced Dox.
According to Bol, she and Dox had each other’s back before their Final Trial. When tasked to take each other out, each swore to refrain, like Fifth-Gen’s legends Pitana Kul and Wibo Zag.
“Don’t worry about me,” Bol assured her. “I’m smooth as ice.”
“Smooth, huh? Is that why you started shit with Balru?” Dox accused. “You sent her that drink, and when she turned around, you pointed at me.”
“You’re not the only one who hates that mollusk—”
“-I don’t hate Balru—”
“-She tried to have you disqualified!”
“Balru didn’t file the grievance,” said Dox.
Bol’s mouth dropped. “You’re defending her?”
“No,” Dox sighed. “I don’t know.”
“If she hadn’t taken me down in the first round,” Bol’s voice rose an octave. “I could’ve had a ship in ten years.”
“Instead, you got thousands of screaming fans.” Dox then paused. After a beat, she put a hand on Bol’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ve no right telling you what to regret.”
“Orta drama is the best drama,” Koba whispered.
“Don’t they punch the crap out of each other in arguments like this?” her underling asked. “This is boring as shit.”
“Keep your voice down,” she scolded, smiling. “I must admit, Dox is a bit too well-mannered for a marix.”
The young bizak grinned. “She actually said, Please,”
Bol yelled to them. “You still with us, Elder Julo?”
“Waiting for you two to hug it out like a couple of hizzahs,” Koba cracked.
Bol cuffed Koba’s neck, sharing a laugh as they strode into the boisterous crowds of Rigitix Square, where the bright pedestrian walk made their black eyes glow.
“We gotta find a bluz that allows elders,” Bol teased.
Dox turned. “I didn’t think bizzies liked the bluz,”
“I’ve been hitting the citbluz since before a fertility swab scraped you off the lining of some subbies makzol,” said Koba. “Let’s go to Daxakil’s. I know some bellies there,”
“You know bellies everywhere, Koba,” Bol said, laughing.
“I’ve known about two-hundred and three,” she bragged. “None of them, my birther.”
Koba had been sired by a femarctic male, a gift from Kix Julo to her favorite zaxir. The low-level Axyrn agent housed him for years, turning him over to the authorities after that favorite zaxir died giving birth to Koba.
She’d shared her kerma with two hizaki sibox. Genetically unrelated, it was their haughty disdain that gave her the fortitude to forgo fixing routers or waiting tables like most of her caste. Koba crafted stories and wrote copy, avenues her instructors at the Bizaki Citizenry Center had encouraged, and by age thirteen, she’d transitioned to Mynu.
After graduating alongside mid-level brainers, she’d earned a degree in telecast journalism and followed her kerma’s sage advice:
You don’t need to be the best, Koba, you just need to be needed.
She’d perverted this guidance by surrounding herself with idiots; that’s how one convinces their superiors they’re vital.
Koba found her niche working under hizak station managers who’d struggled with their bizaki tech crews; a bizak trained in broadcast production, Koba earned the crew’s respect because, unlike their hizzah bosses, she could do their job.
“This is the place,” she announced.
Daxakil’s frosted glass entrance sat a few feet back from the pedestrian walk, and from its spinning door came the aromas of food, drink, and sex. A large monitor in the lobby flashed glamor shots of Daxakil’s zaxiri residents.
Beyond the hanging panels of blue and green glass, lights pulsed to a beat that guided throngs of vibrantly hided citizens across the dance floor. High in the atrium above them, round-booth tables packed with tipsy patrons whirred about like lazy jellyfish.
Bizaki clad in sheer bodysuits flew between the hover tables like nocturnal butterflies pollinating subglacial tulips. Bluz-bizzies were safe from the erotic machinations of the patrons; anyone caught harassing them faced a lifetime ban from the citbluz circuit.
At the greeting station, an elder zaxir shifted her painted eyes to Koba’s underling.
“No digicasting inside, doe,” she said, smiling.
Koba flashed her broadcast badge. “Channel Ramx.”
“You’re Citbluz Central, right?” the teal and red belly smelled of paluxi fruit. “My prime says you got to make an appointment to record in here, Citizen Julo.”
Koba turned to her operator. “Cut the cast.”
“For real?” the young bizak asked.
“This place is owned by Tenth Gen,” she whispered. “We like our privacy.”
“You’re the boss, Citizen Julo,” the bizak peeled the digimar from her ear. “I’m heading back to the station. Did you need me to pick up anything for you?”
“How thoughtful,” said Koba.
“Well, it is my job to make sure you have what you need,”
She laughed. “You should come inside.”
“Nope,” the bizak said, backing away. “My mak would kill me.”
“Coward,” she hollered after her as she slipped out the spinning door.
“You want to go upstairs, get naked?” Bol asked Dox. “Or you want to drink and dance?”
Dox likely lacked the funds for a clothes locker that would’ve let her walk the sex floors; Orta-service credit didn’t recharge until the last day of the month, and that was ten days from now. In contrast, Bol received an athlete’s stipend of twelve-thousand credits a month, not including performance bonuses.
“Let’s dance,” the grayish bruise decided.
“Bellies love watching you dance, Dox,” Bol teased.
“Not my fault you move like a dolphin without a fin.”
A rotund Pure-Gen hostess decorated in fluorescent body paint awaited them at the arch. Her hide glowed under the incandescent lights and her big fronts tapped together when she brought a fist to her stomach in a playful salute. The three followed her to a docked hover-table, passing a gauntlet of sour stares all aimed at Bol; she was the reason their team lost last night’s podcresting final.
Resident zaxiri made their way down the spiral-escalators, their corpulent flesh bobbling when they stepped onto the club floor. Their luscious smiles enticed the voyeuristic hizaki, who would later haunt the upper floors, naked beneath their robes, masturbating with their heads wrapped in turbans.
“Kobajulo,” an airy voice shouted from above.
A line of zaxiri her age stood along the balcony ledge, their thick fronts hanging like ornaments in the sparkling light.
“Bring that green skinny swell up here,” shouted one of them.
“I’m working,” Koba yelled back.
“What do you think we’re doing,” chimed another, grabbing her delectable belly flab, and shaking it for show.
Koba slid into the booth beside Dox while Bol took control of the operational gears. They flew high over dancing crowds, drifting with the other floaters before anchoring near a fifth-level terrace. Bol inserted her credit-ID into the table’s center console, and from it rose a bottle of chilled itabix beer on a coaster with four glasses.
“Why aren’t you happy, Bol?” Koba asked, filling her glass.
Bol shrugged. “I’m successful.”
“Happiness and success should be synonymous,” said Koba.
“When success comes easy,” Bol downed her beer, “there’s no real challenge.”
“The games look challenging enough to me.” Dox placed a hand over the top of her glass when Koba moved to fill it.
“I wasn’t meant to be a podcrester,” said Bol.
“I wasn’t meant for Division, but I deal with it,” Dox countered. “I don’t make others around me deal with it.”
Koba groaned. “I forgot your friend was Division.”
“What of it?” Bol asked.
“I can’t use the footage we recorded tonight,” said Koba. “Not without her superior’s permission.”
“For real?” Bol asked.
Dox aped, “Seriously?”
“After you dokkers were born, the Primary’s donat went on audio with me about her job in TermSabo,” Koba spoke over the pulsating music. “After that, SOD enacted rules about recording their operatives.”
“Was that the story that got you fired from Showcast?” Bol asked.
Koba sipped her ale and smiled. “I had been ousted from there long before exposing the Femitokon’s.”
Dox lowered her head, no longer chatty.
“Consequence derails life faster than piss melts snow,” added Koba.
Despite receiving awards for breaking the ilitux scandal, Pikalit Showcast, under pressure from Tee Banto, exiled their star reporter to Cloister Telecast, the lowest-rated program in Ramaxia.
CT ran four times a year until Koba changed the format and renamed it Cloistercast Monthly. Her version of the show began covering members of the Chamber, hoping to bring viewers closer to their elected Representatives. Back then, Laxum Jyr was the youngest member of the Chamber, and her desire to overturn the Balanced Citizenry Act had been the new story.
Privately, Koba cared little about the plight of males; her interest revolved in Laxum’s challenging the Fifth Office’s moral character.
Despite clear evidence that Wox Dag’s indifference as leader of the Generational Production Department had led to the ilitux scandal, the powerful bizak emerged from Koba’s exposé unscathed. It was another Polluted Gen ‘do as I say not as I do.’
Koba eventually acquired fresh dirt on the elder Wox and her male-killing division, thanks to Fusada Kul. Then a ranking Komadon, ‘Foos, had revealed the existence of Terminal Sabotage. At the time, Koba knew nothing of ascension and was surprised when, after playing the interview back for Laxum, the hizak politician demanded a meeting.
That meeting was how Koba learned the marix was the Tenth Gen’s future Primary, and Laxum, her intended Fourth Office. Unable to agree on how to proceed, the pair had consulted with Sofita Kul, the newly assigned Secondary Chair of Marixi Administration.
Fusada’s twin was a brilliant hizak whose countenance had made Koba squirm. Despite admitting any move against elder Dag would hinder “the plan,” Sofita didn’t object to Koba running the interview; it would make a perfect segue for Laxum’s motion in Cloister. Unfortunately, ‘Foos died in her paxicol, rendering all of it moot, or so Koba thought. She figured Lax would abandon her move to oust CM Dag after the First Session came and went, followed by the Second.
Never assume when it comes to Laxum.
The young Utama representative had opened the Third Session by calling for Wox Dag’s removal from the Ninth Ruling Platform. The Sernatae demanded to know what grounds compelled CR Jyr to make such a demand, to wit Lax accused the Fifth Office of murdering males outside the scope of Femtrux.
The Chamber had exploded into a flurry of shouting and whistles.
Tee Banto had ordered Koba and her digimar removed from the visitor’s deck. Sernatae Gizul rebuked Banto’s request; live Sessions, no matter how contentious, maintained citizenry trust.
Laxum then presented a playback of Koba’s interview with Komadon Kul, which was then interrupted by Ryo Uym, requesting the session moved to a private hearing. Every Tenth-Gen member of the Chamber challenged this motion, demanding that the procedure stay in the Session Hall.
Koba had been allowed to remain, but the Sernatae ordered she cease recording. Never one to play along, she’d continued to record via audio. Her choice to air that recording many months later would cost her everything.
“Good times are here!” Bol cried.
A pair of Daxakil’s resident zaxiri appeared on the terrace.
Rivo Gix’s long black hair cascaded over her golden shoulders and fell in strands over her pink-streaked forearms. The Eleventh-gen belly painted her thick lips dark blue to match the uzxi lines that ran down the middle of her sapphire fronts.
Beside her stood Pelar Huro, a zaxir Koba’s age.
White freckles dotted the thick-haired belly’s aqua hide, like snowflakes floating atop glacial melt. Her fronts were as hefty as Rivo’s, but her slender arms and lack of belly flab reduced her appeal.
“I hope this booth isn’t taken,” Rivo stepped off the terrace and onto the booth seat, her weighty globes sagging over a copious belly.
“Plenty of room for you here,” Bol leered. Moving over, she pointed her head at Dox. “Riv brought you a Silent Gen,”
Koba elbowed the gray-hided marix. “You divisional bruisers love running on cracked ice, don’t you?”
Young patrons relied on mature zaxiri knowing whom they gave birth to; no zaxxy rode a citizen she bore. Still, riding an older zaxxy was worth the risk because they had more sexual stamina than their younger caste-sisters.
Pelar remained on the balcony.
“Bringing your donats in here now, Koba?”
Bol laughed. “How many times you been here, Koba?”
“Koba’s here so much,” Pelar spoke as Dox helped her from the ledge. “The owner’s going to put her on staff.”
“We’re not her donats,” Dox said.
Bol exclaimed, “I’m here for my victory ride,”
“Hush,” whispered Rivo. “You know how many Koolasooks are here tonight?”
“Megs think their jaws are big enough to handle anything,” Pelar teased, helping herself to Koba’s ale.
“You hush, too,” Rivo scolded. “I don’t want a fight.”
Pelar tossed a piece of ice at Bol. “I want a fight,”
Podcresting was a violent enterprise on and off the ice rink.
Toxis Koolasooks and Vanda Megalodon were bitter rivals, and last night’s match contained its usual dose of nastiness.
Bol had magnified the brutality by tossing the ‘Sook’s carrier into a crowd of spectators. No other hunter had ever flung a ‘carrier’ out of the rink; no precedent meant no penalty, and ‘Sooks fans didn’t like that.
Pelar shifted her eyes to Dox. “What’s your name, Donmat?”
Rivo knitted her brow. “How can you tell her rank?”
Pelar touched the wide collar of Dox’s shimmering black shirt.
“This com-pin means she’s a Donmat.”
“I can’t see your pin,” Rivo leaned over for a better look, giving Koba a view of her fronts. Bol ogled her fleshy backswell, then shifted her eyes to Koba for a silent invite; they would share Rivo later.
“Not just any Donmat,” Koba announced. “Dox is S O D.”
“Is that Surface Operation something?” Rivo asked.
“SOD’s not Surface Operational,” Pelar said, “it’s Sorority of Defense.”
Dox softened. “How do you know that?”
“Ew, they deal with helovx.” Rivo wrinkled her nose. “People are disgusting.”
“Good thing you’ve never met one,” Pelar cracked.
“I’ve seen shows on the BEB,” Rivo said, head bobbing. “They kill each other over the color of their hides.”
“People have skin, not hides,” said Dox.
Rivo pouted. “They feed on themselves.”
“Helovx no longer do that,” Dox said. “They have food.”
“They’re animals, with diseases,” Rivo insisted.
Bol whispered in her ear, “I’m an animal.”
Tired of sparring, Rivo rose to her knees and pulled Bol’s bald head to her fronts. “You’re my animal, Zebi Bol,”
Koba’s gash twitched as the young lovers kissed passionately; her penchant for such displays came from maturing among hizaki.
“Hey Bol,” Koba asked. “Does it hurt when you get hit?”
“I don’t know, never been hit,” Bol sassed, burrowing her face in Rivo’s fronts.
“Our carrier’s getting replaced because of you,” Rivo broke free of the marix’s clutches and moved over beside Koba.
“Taking her out is my job,” Bol followed her, slipping a hand under the table and between Rivo’s fat thighs. “Don’t hold it against me.”
“You’re lucky I’m not the sort that holds grudges,” Rivo flirted.
Koba nudged closer to the flowery scented Pelar, who inched away to give her some room. Dox moved in Bol’s vacated space, lifting her arm to let the older zaxir get closer.
“Never seen you here before,” Pelar whispered to her.
Dox whispered back. “I’m on a citizenry-pass tonight,”
“You get much helovx gash on the surface?” Koba blurted.
“That’s disgusting,” Rivo said.
Dox shook her bald head. “I don’t engage helovx,”
“Engage?” Koba huffed. “What year did you graduate Mynu?”
Bol joined in on the teasing.
“Dox got problems that Orta wants to go away,”
“Bol,” cried Dox.
Pelar wrapped her arms around the marix’s lean torso and kissed her patchy gray neck. “You into the rough stuff, like the Primary?”
Rivo did the same to Koba. “They say Primary Fusa beats up bellies,”
“The Primary beats on everybody,” said Dox.
Koba leaned in, “You assigned to Terminal Sabotage?”
“No,” Dox said. “Nor would I ever accept that assignment.”
“What’s Orta’s problem with you?” Rivo pressed.
When Dox refused to answer, Bol did it for her.
“Dox will only ride one of you at a time.”
“Shut your mouth,” cried Dox.
“Waxam,” Rivo spoke as if it were the cutest thing ever.
“No,” Dox sputtered, her cheeks and head now ashen.
“We can put our thumbs on your pad if you want us to,” Pelar cooed, scratching Dox’s bald head.
Rivo nodded. “This is a judgment-free zone like mak-mak Ilo says.”
The young citizens laughed, but Ilo Cux’s name brought a smile to Koba’s face. Though the nation had chosen a new Prime Citizen, the Tenth’s winner, Ilo Cux, remained the most beautiful in the world. Adored as blue-hided perfection, the stunning zaxir defied convention by falling in love with a bizak.
“Did you get caught demanding exclusivity?” asked Koba.
Dox leveled her gaze, but there was no threat to it.
Pelar grinned at Rivo. “I bet it was another soldier.”
“Now who’s being disgusting?” Bol cringed.
“You bruisers never mess around with each other?” Rivo asked.
The bruisers said in adamant tandem, “No.”
Dox filled her glass halfway as Bol emptied hers.
“Who’s your commanding officer, Dox?” asked Koba.
Dox regarded the bizak warily. “Why?”
“So, you can be on my show,” Bol cried.
Dox hesitated. “I’d rather not say,”
“What’s the big deal?” Bol asked.
“Leave it, Bol,” Dox snapped.
Bol stared at Koba. “It’s Komad Kul.”
“Sofita Kul?” Koba raised an eyebrow.
Just then, the icon on Dox’s lapel began beeping.
“I gotta check-in,” she said, standing.
Pelar looked to Koba for some backup.
“You have forty-five minutes to show up after mission-call.”
“You know way too much about Orta procedure,” Dox scolded.
Pelar hopped up onto the tabletop and opened her legs.
“You want to know my procedure?” she purred.
“Do it, Dox,” Bol said, repeating the command until some bruisers on the balcony began chanting, Do it! Do it!
Koba yelled over the boisterous intoning.
“You should eat before duty, Donmat.”
Pelar parted her thick legs further and reclined on the table. Unabashed, Dox hooked her arms under Pelar’s legs and yanked the hefty beauty toward her. When the bruiser settled between her chunky thighs, Pelar took hold of her ears and dragged Dox up for a quick kiss.
Rivo’s talented palm began working Koba’s gashcol through her pants while the chorus of “do-it” then morphed into a proper chant of Dox-Dox-Dox, drowning out the hum of Koba’s handheld recorder.