Reluctant Heroes

I dodged the left hook and stopped the roundhouse kick an inch from my head. My opponent's eyes widened in surprise and I gave him a wink as I pushed. He flailed backward into a table, shattering it under his weight.

For a moment a shocked silence filled the bar. Then the patrons wisely went back to what they were doing, ignoring the unfortunate drunkard on the floor.

"When I say you've had enough, you've had enough," I said. The man groaned and dropped his head back into the rubble.

"Nicely done, Am." Toliver looked down at me, a smile twisting his scarred face even further. At over two meters he had to bend nearly in half to get eye to eye with me, a fact he'd pointed out during my interview.

Toliver hadn't wanted Ike to hire me, but after I'd stopped him from getting stabbed in the back my first week there, he'd warmed up to the idea of a "reject porcelain doll" like me watching his back.

"Idiot space pilot." I rolled my eyes.

"I'll clean it up. Tell Keep to put the damage on the guy's creds."

I headed for the bar. Patrons scrambled over each other to get out of my way and I grinned. The awe was ultimately to be expected.

I didn't look like much, barely skimming 160 centimeters with a heart-shaped face and light green eyes. I was lean and muscled, but still looked more like a child for all my efforts.

All the surface image gave no indication of my five years of training with Radox Corp and subsequent ten years of battle experience against the Yir.

I kicked ass and didn't bother with the names. I had neither the patience nor the interest to mess with it in the good days, and the last two years hadn't qualified as "good" by any stretch of the imagination.

The last two years were what Brant would have called a tour of the five planets of Hell with bare feet and a spent UT-87.

I stumbled on my way to the bar. I had no right to feel, no right to be here. I'd been a cold, empty shell since Brant's death.
The scent of the Wayfarer overwhelmed me and I fought to drag in a breath past the stink of space dust, unwashed human, and greasy food.

This wasn't right, but then nothing about me was right.
The lack of feeling was expected. What threw everyone at Radox Corp for a loop was the fact that I didn't follow Brant.

I didn't Fade.

I tried. Stars know I tried. Initially the grief split me apart and I wanted nothing more than for it all to be over. Then there was nothing, I felt nothing. The days stretched into weeks, then months; and then the whispering started.

UnFaded.

My superiors at Radox Corp did the only thing they could. The contract on my life was a mercy in their eyes. The UnFaded didn't follow their loved ones to death - they just drifted like ghosts. Driven mad by their loss and their inability to follow, they turned on their fellow Phanes and caused more grief and misery.

They were hollow, soulless beings who clung to life to the detriment of all.

The only kind thing was to kill them – even if it meant they'd cease to exist.

For the UnFaded didn't follow their loves and death for them wasn't sweet oblivion. It was, quite simply, negation and the final end.

They wanted to make me disappear and in that moment of realization I fled. I could face the possibility of life without Brant, but not my own extinction.

So instead I disappeared the only way I knew how, vanishing into the sprawl of the universe before they could kill me and take away my one chance at finding peace. For two years I'd been on the run, finally settling down on Carselon and taking up a job at the first bar I stumbled into.

Wayfarer was a dark, dingy dive. Common enough for backwater system stops. People were always passing through, never caring much for atmosphere. They just wanted a drink and something to eat, occasionally a place to crash for a few days before they moved on.