📟 TIKKA_LOGS

The Spire is gone. Crushed under the weight of its own lies. We barely made it out—sprinting through the dust while Vrax’s corporate goons tried to pin us down. They brought a dropship to a cannon fight. Welwala. The Warranty turned them into scrap before they could even finish the demand for surrender.

I don't remember much of the fight. Just the rage. Fip threw me—literally launched me twenty feet into the air—and I just... I became the blur. Demon blade in hand, somersaulting through the snow. I cut that jetpacking bastard in half twice before I hit the ground. Landed in a superhero pose, too, but the snow was so deep nobody even saw it. Probably for the best. Breakers don't need audiences.

But it's the vision that's sticking. When the Bloodthirster fell, I saw her. I saw Kessa. But it wasn't a memory. It was... shifting. I saw her on Triax with the family, but the joy on her face was wrong. It was too bright. It didn't stop where joy should stop. It kept going until it burned.

I saw the day she disappeared. The tear in the sky. The cold that doesn't hurt. And then... the hand. Reaching through the purple light to take hers. A shape with six arms. Reaching for my sister. When she took it, the fear just... vanished. Like a candle going out.

Rika scanned the chip. The one I’ve been carrying. She’s freaked out. Says it's possessed. It asked her a question before it tried to wipe itself: "Where has the joy gone?"

I’m starting to think the joy didn't go anywhere. I think it got fed to something. And I think that something is still hungry.

Oye, if anyone finds this... milowda ta find something at the Spire. Something pashang should have stayed buried.

We picked up the signature. It felt like her. It sounded like her. Five years of searching, five years of looking at cold stars, and then... Kessa’s voice. Calling me.

But it wasn't a call. It was a bait. I didn't even realize what I was doing. The ship... I just moved us. No engine. No jump sequence. Just rage and a hole in reality. The colors were wrong. Everything was screaming. They call it "Drift Warping." I just call it a mistake I’m probably going to pay for later.

We reached the Amphitheater. The shard was there, floating, wearing her face, speaking with her tongue. It called me "Breaker." That’s when I knew. Kessa disappeared before I became this monster. She didn't know the name "Breaker." She only knew her brother.

The shard wasn't my sister. It was just a mirror reflecting my own grief. I didn't think. I just crushed it. Six arms, all of them focused on one thing: making the lie stop. When it shattered, the Drift bled through. A twelve-foot nightmare of fire and bone—a Bloodthirster. I gave it Fangblade. I gave it everything I’ve become. The head came off easy. The rage is the only thing that's easy these days.

Im ta xat. The Drift lied. But the pain is real.

The incense smell is almost gone now. Used to be, when I pulled Kessa's beads out, the whole bunk smelled like Ma's shrine back on Sejada. Sandalwood and ozone. Smelled like safety. Now it just smells like recycled air and gun oil.

I count them when I can't sleep. One, two, three... sliding them through my fingers. The texture is grounding. Smooth wood, worn down by generations of Vess hands. Then I hit the last one. The cracked one. Snap.

That night she didn't come home. I was squeezing them so hard while I waited by the comms unit. But I knew. The bead cracked right in my grip. It’s sharp now. Catches on my skin. Most people would fix it. But that’s the lie, sasa ke? We want things smooth. We want to pretend the break didn't happen.

I keep the sharp edge. I rub my thumb over it until it stings. It reminds me that the universe isn't fair. It just takes. It cracks you open and leaves you to hold the pieces. Kessa was soft. She was the one who remembered birthdays. She was the one who believed in the River Between. She didn't have armor. She didn't have a Fangblade. I do.

I ain't soft no more. I’m the jagged edge now. And I’m gonna cut the people who took her. Oye, Kessa. I’m still here. I’m still holding on.

Too close. That was too pashang close. I saw his transponder code before the sensors even flagged it as enforcement. The Justicar. Zarn’s ship. My hearts did that thing—stuttered, like a drive failing to cycle. For a second, I wasn't Breaker. I wasn't the guy with a 15,000 credit bounty. I was back in the copilot seat, listening to Zarn complain about the station coffee.

Then the comms crackled. "Unidentified freighter. Prepare for boarding. We are scanning for fugitives." His voice hasn't changed. Still sounds like gravel and duty. Still sounds like the man who pulled me out of a hull breach on the Red Horizon. The crew looked at me. They know I got heat, but they don't know him. They don't know I broke his arm. Left him floating in the dark.

We drifted for three hours. Silent running. I watched his ship on the passive sensors. He was hunting. Quartering the sector like a wolf. He knew I was there. I could feel it. He knows how I think. He knows I'd hide in the trash. I had my hand on the comms button. I wanted to tell him the truth. Tell him Vrax is the dirty one. Tell him I miss having someone watch my back who isn't paid to do it.

But if I talk, he dies. So I let him pass. You stay angry, Zarn. You stay hunting. It keeps you safe. Let me be the monster in your story. Welwala. I need a drink.

They call it "The Hollow Star" now. Or at least, I do. In my head. Out loud, it’s just a piece of scrap metal I keep on a chain under my armor. But it ain't hollow. It’s heavy. Heavier than the plas-steel plating on my chest. Heavier than the guilt of leaving Ma and Pa back on Sejada thinking their boy is dead.

I took it off tonight. I ran my thumb over the scratches—D-626. Officer T. Vess. That guy... he was a good guy. Followed the rules. Thought the law meant something other than who has the biggest gun. Welwala. That guy is dead.

I popped the back. Inside, that little chip sits there. Innocent looking thing. Smaller than a credits chit. But it’s got enough poison in it to kill half the Stewards in this sector. Names. Dates. Credits flowing from legitimate banks to pirate warlords. And Kessa's name. That’s the real weight, beratna.

I keep thinking about tossing it out the airlock. Be easier, yeah? Just be a gun for hire. Live free. Die fast. But then I touch the star. I feel that little chip inside pressing against my chest bone. Nah. We carry the weight. That’s what we do. Until the job is done.