Chapter 5: Slug Hunting
Fred woke to the sound of the hideout’s water recycler humming to life somewhere in the walls. It was a low, mechanical purr that had been absent in Red Hook’s quiet loft. For a moment, he was disoriented, the strange ceiling of glowing fungi and rock foreign above him. Then he remembered. The hideout. The Shane Gang. The soup.
A smile touched his lips before his brain fully engaged. He stretched, a long, full-body uncurling that felt good in his well-rested muscles. His arm brushed against the sheet.
A cold, stiff patch of fabric stuck to the skin of his lower abdomen.
Memory detonated behind his eyes.
The shared darkness. The muffled sounds from above. The frantic, secret release. The cooling wetness on his stomach. His own stifled gasp. Her sigh.
He froze, the pleasant stretch now a rigored statue. His eyes snapped open. Morning light—or the cave’s equivalent, a brighter glow from the central mushrooms—filtered into the loft. It illuminated the evidence: a faint, translucent stain on the grey sheet, right over where he’d slept.
A hot cocktail of shame, thrill, and sheer panic flooded his veins. He jackknifed into a sitting position, his heart hammering against his ribs. The top bunk was empty, the blankets thrown back. Trixie was gone.
“Okay,” he whispered to the empty air, his voice gravelly with sleep and tension. “Okay. Don’t be a creep. Just… handle it.”
He moved with the deliberate, focused speed of a bomb technician. He peeled the sheet off the mattress, balling the stained section inward. He’d find the laundry later. He shoved it under the bunk. He needed a shower. Now. To wash the physical reminder off his skin and the twisted, guilty heat from his mind.
He pulled on his jeans from the floor, commando, not daring to look for yesterday’s boxers. He grabbed a fresh grey shirt from his duffel. The bathroom was a small alcove off the main living area, its door a sliding panel of etched rock.
The main floor was quiet. Kord’s workshop emitted a soft, rhythmic tapping. Eli was probably still asleep. Pronto’s hammock by the heater was a cocoon of snoring blankets. Good. Clear path.
He padded barefoot across the cool stone, the ball of tension in his gut tightening with each step. The bathroom door was unlocked, the indicator showing vacant. He didn’t knock. It was vacant. He slid it open.
Steam billowed out, thick and humid, carrying the sharp, clean scent of herbal soap. The shower was a reinforced stall in the corner, its glass door fogged opaque.
Except it wasn’t fully closed. And the stall wasn’t empty.
Trixie stood under the spray, her back to him, a silhouette through the mist. The water sluiced down the smooth, pale expanse of her skin, over the subtle ridges of her shoulder blades, following the dip of her spine to the perfect, heart-shaped curve of her ass. It gleamed on her, made her shine. Soap bubbles traced a path down the back of her thigh.
Fred’s hand froze on the door handle. Every cell in his body screamed at him to slam it shut, to pretend he’d seen nothing. His mind, traitorously, replayed the sounds from the night before. The visual merged with the auditory memory, creating a feedback loop of illicit intensity.
He didn’t slam the door.
He let it stay open a crack. He peered.
She was humming something tuneless, lost in the sensation. She turned slowly, letting the water hit her chest. Her eyes were closed, face tilted up into the spray. Fred’s breath hitched.
Her breasts were small, high, perfectly shaped. The water made her pink nipples peak into tight, stiff buds against the warmth. Her stomach was flat, with the faint, smooth definition of muscle underneath—a runner’s body, a slinger’s body. A line of dark, damp hair led from her navel down to a neat, tiny patch of curls between her legs.
She was unbearably, devastatingly real. This wasn't a fantasy or a stolen sound in the dark. This was her, naked and unguarded, a private moment of simple peace. The intimacy of it was a thousand times more potent than any fantasy. He felt like a thief. He was a thief.
A deeper, more visceral guilt surged, cold and nauseating, cutting through the heat. This was Trixie. The strategist who trusted him to watch her back. The one who’d given him a home.
As if sensing the weight of his gaze, her humming stopped. Her head tilted, water streaming from her red hair.
Fred moved. He pulled the main door shut with a soft, definitive click.
He stood in the quiet hallway, his back against the cool rock wall, breathing hard as if he’d just sprinted a mile. His cock was hard and aching in his jeans. His face burned with shame. You sick bastard, he thought. You looked. You fucking looked.
The sound of the water shut off inside. Moments later, the door slid open again. Trixie emerged, wrapped in a towel that covered her from chest to mid-thigh. Her hair was a wet, dark crimson tangle, her skin flushed and glowing. She held her bundled clothes.
She saw him and paused, one eyebrow lifting. “Line forms behind me, grease-monkey,” she said, her voice light, casual. No suspicion. No awareness.
“Yeah,” he managed, the word a croak. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He stared at a point on the wall past her shoulder. “Sorry. Wasn’t sure if it was occupied.”
“Steam and running water are usually clues.” She smiled then, a small, morning smile that was like a knife twist. “All yours. Hot water’s good today.”
She walked past him, heading for the stairs. The scent of her soap—ozone and something green—lingered in the air. He caught a glimpse of the back of her damp neck, the droplets clinging to her skin.
He fled into the bathroom, sliding the door locked behind him. The room was still steamy, humid with her presence. He stripped and got under the shower, turning the dial to cold. The icy blast was a punishment, a shock to his system. He gasped, letting it pound against his skull, willing it to scour the images from his mind, to shrink his traitorous body’s response.
It half-worked. By the time he stepped out, shivering, he was mostly numb. He dressed mechanically. He found a cleaning bot in a closet and fed it his stained sheet, watching it whisk the evidence away with a soft whirr. Handle it.
Downstairs, the hideout was coming to life. Kord was at the stove, flipping what smelled like slug-egg pancakes. Eli was at the comms console, scanning a news feed, a frown on his face. Pronto was meticulously polishing his explorer’s helmet.
Trixie was at the central table, now dressed in her practical gear, her hair in her signature pigtails. She was disassembling her camera, cleaning the lens with a microfiber cloth. She glanced up as Fred approached the kitchen nook.
“Sleep okay?” Kord asked, sliding a massive pancake onto a plate for him.
“Like a rock,” Fred said, and it was almost true. The exhaustion after his… episode… had been profound.
“Excellent!” Pronto proclaimed. “A well-rested adventurer is a legendary adventurer! Unlike some who snore like a malfunctioning dredge!” He glared at his hammock corner.
Eli spun in his chair. “Picked up some chatter. Blakk’s enforcers are doing sweeps in the lower merchant lanes. Looking for someone. Description’s vague, but it sounds like they’re asking about a new slinger with a red blaster.”
Fred’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. He saw Trixie’s hands go still on her camera.
“They’re onto you, Fred,” Eli said, his expression serious. “The fight at Quiet Lawn got their attention. We need to lay low, but we also need you battle-ready. You can’t just be good. You have to be seamless with us.” He stood up, a determined glint in his eye. “So after breakfast, we drill. You and me.”
The food in Fred’s mouth lost its taste. A drill. With Eli. The guy he’d just betrayed in the most fundamental, hidden way. The guy whose girl he’d ogled in the shower. His stomach churned.
“Sounds good,” he forced out.
An hour later, they were in a broad, natural training cavern attached to the hideout. Stalagmites had been cleared or turned into target posts. The air was cool and still.
“Basics first,” Eli said, his tone all business. He had Burpy perched on his own shoulder, the little Infurnus chittering eagerly. “Slug synergy. It’s not just about aiming. It’s about feeling the slug’s intent, its energy. Your blaster’s a conduit.”
Fred nodded, clipping his red blaster from his hip. Voltage buzzed on his shoulder, sensing the upcoming activity. “I understand the theory.”
“Theory’s for maps,” Eli said, grinning. “This is practice. Ready?”
They started with simple target shooting. Fred’s mechanical precision was better—he could cluster shots in a tight group on a stationary stalagmite from fifty paces. Eli’s shots were less clustered, but faster, and he could lead a moving target dummy with an instinctive ease Fred lacked.
“You’re thinking too much,” Eli called out after Fred’s third shot missed a swinging target. “You’re calculating. It’s a partnership. Let Voltage in.”
Frustration simmered in Fred’s gut, mixing with his lingering guilt. “I am letting him in. I’m the one who built the conduit, remember?”
“And I’m the one who’s been doing this while you were building it,” Eli shot back, his friendly tone gaining an edge. “Don’t get cocky. That shot in Quiet Lawn was luck.”
The words struck a nerve. Fred lowered his blaster. “It wasn’t luck. It was math and skill.”
“Oh yeah?” Eli challenged, a competitive spark fully igniting. “Prove it. Moving duel. No slugs. Just slingstones. First to three tags.”
It was a reckless, teenager’s game. And it was exactly what Fred’s roaring, conflicted emotions needed. A channel. “You’re on.”
They loaded practice stones—soft, chalk-tipped rounds that would leave a mark. They took positions at opposite ends of the cavern.
“Go!” Kord’s voice boomed from the sidelines, where he and Trixie and Pronto had gathered to watch.
Eli moved first, a darting, zig-zag sprint using the stalagmites for cover. Fred didn’t chase. He held his ground, left eye narrowed, tracking. He saw the pattern, the rhythm of Eli’s feet. He led the target, breathed out, and fired.
The stone whipped past the stalagmite Eli was about to dart behind and smacked him squarely on the outer thigh. A white chalk mark bloomed on his black gear.
Eli skidded to a halt, looked down at the mark, then back at Fred, surprised. “One.”
The next exchange was faster. Eli was learning, becoming less predictable. They traded shots that hissed through the air, chipping rock. Fred felt the world narrow to the geometry of the cavern, the vectors of movement. It was pure, clean. No guilt, no shame. Just calculation and motion. He tagged Eli’s shoulder as the other boy tried a feint.
“Two!” Kord announced.
Eli’s face was set in a grin of pure focus. No anger, just challenge met. “Okay. Now you’re talking.”
The third point was harder. Eli was good, adapting, using the environment like a second skin. He forced Fred to move, to abandon his preferred sniper’s patience. Fred felt a stone buzz past his ear. Another grazed his arm. He was sweating, breathing hard.
He saw an opening. Eli was moving across a gap. Fred fired. At the same instant, Eli twisted in mid-air, a move that seemed physically impossible, and let a stone fly.
Fred felt the impact on his chest—a puff of white chalk. A millisecond later, his own stone struck Eli’s hip.
They stood panting, staring at each other across the cavern. Both marked.
“Simultaneous!” Trixie called out, her analytical tone cutting through. “That’s three for Fred, two-and-a-tie for Eli.”
Eli straightened up, walked over, and extended a hand. He was breathing hard, but his smile was genuine, impressed. “Not luck.”
Fred took the hand, the grip firm. “Told you.”
“You’re a hell of a shot,” Eli said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But you telegraph your lateral moves. Your left foot shifts before you dodge. Trixie’s right, you need to work on footwork.”
The criticism was fair, offered without malice. The respect in Eli’s eyes was real. The knot of guilt in Fred’s stomach tightened, became a sickening pit. This guy was giving him a home, trust, camaraderie. And what was Fred doing? Harboring this festering secret desire for the girl Eli was clearly into.
“Yeah,” Fred mumbled, dropping his gaze, suddenly unable to bear Eli’s open face. “Footwork. I’ll work on it.”
“Good!” Eli laughed, already moving on. “Because tomorrow, we do it with slugs. And you, my friend, are going to learn how to really move.”
As they walked back to the others, Fred felt Trixie’s eyes on him. He glanced up. She wasn’t smiling. She was studying him, her head slightly tilted, the strategist analyzing data. Did she know? Had she heard the door click? Seen something in his face this morning?
Her gaze was inscrutable. She gave him a slow, slight nod—an acknowledgement of his skill in the drill. Then she turned back to her camera.
The relief was minimal. The pit remained.
Later, as Fred sat on the couch cleaning his blaster with ritualistic focus, Pronto bustled over, a dusty scroll in his hands. “A moment of your time, Fred! As the newest chronicler of our exploits, Pronto requires your account of the Quiet Lawn skirmish for the official archives! Specifically, the moment of my heroic diversion!”
Fred looked at the eager Molenoid, then over at Trixie, who was typing at the comms console, the line of her braid resting on her back. He thought of the glowing stalactites, the shared breath in the dark, the steam on her skin.
“Yeah, Pronto,” Fred said, his voice low. He clicked the barrel of his blaster back into place with a solid, final sound. “I remember it pretty clearly.”
“I remember it pretty clearly,” Fred said to Pronto, his voice flat. He described the Hooligang’s advance, the positioning, the moment Pronto had shouted and drawn fire. He embroidered just enough to make the Molenoid’s chest puff out further. It was easier than telling the truth about where his mind had really been.
As Pronto scurried off to embellish the account in iridescent ink, Eli approached, his expression shifting from casual to focused. “Hey. You got a sec? Real lesson time.”
“More drills?” Fred asked, standing.
“Different kind.” Eli led him not back to the training cavern, but out through a smaller, disguised exit into a narrow side tunnel. The air grew cooler, smelling of deep earth and stagnant water. “You’re a surgeon with that blaster, Fred. I’m not taking that from you. But if you want to win duels against people who’ve been doing this for years, you can’t just be good. You have to be unpredictable. You have to rely on him.”
He pointed at Voltage, who chirped, a small spark jumping between his antennae.
“I do rely on him,” Fred said, defensive.
“You use him. Like a tool. A really smart, living tool.” Eli stopped in a small, muddy clearing where faint bioluminescent fungus provided a sickly green light. “My dad’s journals… they talked about listening. Not just with your ears. The best slingers feel the cavern. They know it. And the slugs in it.”
Eli knelt, placing his bare palms flat on the damp soil. He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed. Burpy, on his shoulder, glowed a soft, pulsing amber in time with his breaths.
Fred watched, skeptical. This felt like mysticism, not mechanics.
“It’s not magic,” Eli said, eyes still closed, as if reading his thoughts. “Vibrations. Subsonic shifts. Life. Just… shut up and try it.”
Fred knelt, the wet earth seeping through the knees of his jeans. He pressed his palms down. He felt nothing but cold mud. He heard the distant drip of water, the hum of his own blood.
“You’re trying with your head,” Eli murmured. “Not your hands. Let it go.”
Fred took a slow breath. He thought of the schematics of his blaster, the precise weight of a slingstone, the arc of a parabolic shot. He pushed them aside. He focused on the chill against his skin, the granular texture of the soil. He thought of nothing.
And then, he felt it.
A faint, almost imperceptible tremor, like a tiny heartbeat thrumming through the bedrock. Then another, from a different direction. A skittering, a sliding, a deep, slow pulse of something larger sleeping far below. The ground was alive.
“Whoa,” he breathed.
“Right?” Eli grinned, opening his eyes. “Now, you don’t yank. You invite.” He began a soft, low whistle, not a tune, but a mimicking of the cavern’s own rhythms. A gentle, coaxing pulse.
Fred mimicked the sound. His whistle was rougher, off-key. He focused on the nearest tiny tremor, a skittish, fast thing. He poured a gentle curiosity down through his palms, a silent, ‘Hey. It’s okay.’
The tremor hesitated. It moved closer.
The mud three feet in front of him bulged. A dome of earth cracked and fell away. A smooth, blue head with an orange underbelly and a rocky, helmet-like crest poked out. Two intelligent black eyes blinked up at him. An Armashelt.
Fred’s heart leapt into his throat. He didn’t move. He held the whistle, softer now. He looked into those black eyes. “You wanna… come with us?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Be part of the team?”
The Armashelt regarded him for a long, silent moment. Then, it gave a single, solemn nod.
A laugh of pure, unfiltered joy burst from Fred. He slowly held out his hand, palm flat. The slug hopped forward, its body cool and surprisingly heavy, and jumped onto his hand. He brought it up, his hand steady.
Voltage leaned over from his shoulder, chirping a bright, welcoming greeting. The Armashelt responded with a deep, contented ‘brump.’
“That’s it,” Fred whispered, a grin splitting his face so wide it hurt. “That’s perfect. You’re… Bulk. Okay? You’re Bulk.”
Bulk nudged his thumb with its rocky head.
Eli’s hand clapped onto his back, almost knocking the breath from him. “Told you! You’re a natural, man. A total natural.” His joy was uncomplicated, infectious. “Come on. Let’s show the others. Then we eat. I’m starving.”
They walked back, Fred with Bulk settled proudly on his right shoulder beside Voltage. The weight of the new slug was a tangible promise, a counterbalance to the guilt still coiled in his gut. For a moment, it was just pure, good thing.
The smell of Kord’s cooking—something spicy and meaty—greeted them before the hidden door slid open. Inside, the scene was warm. Kord was doling stew into bowls. Trixie was at the table, reviewing footage on a small screen.
“Look what Fred found!” Eli announced, his voice booming with pride.
Trixie looked up. Her eyes went from Eli’s excited face to Fred, to the new Armashelt on his shoulder. Her analyst’s gaze took in the mud on his knees, the unguarded triumph in his eyes. Something in her own expression softened, just at the edges.
“An Armashelt? Solid pull,” she said, a genuine note of respect in her voice. “Defensive powerhouse. Good for the team.”
“His name’s Bulk,” Fred said, the name feeling right in his mouth.
“Hefty!” Kord boomed, approving. “Extra rations for the new recruit!”
As they sat to eat, the atmosphere was light. Pronto demanded a detailed chronicle of the “slug whispering.” Eli teased Fred about his initial skepticism. Fred laughed along, the weight on his shoulder a constant, welcome reminder.
But his eyes kept drifting to Trixie. She was listening, smiling faintly at Kord’s jokes, but her fingers tapped a absent rhythm on the table. She caught him looking. This time, she didn’t offer a strategic nod or a quick glance away.
She held his gaze for three full seconds. Her green eyes were unreadable in the warm light, but they weren’t cold. They were assessing, yes, but there was a new curiosity there, a question she hadn’t asked before. It was the same look she’d given him after the duel, but deeper, now. It stripped away the cover of the team, the lunch chatter, the new slug.
It was just her, looking at him.
Fred’s fork stilled. The noise of the room faded into a buzz. All he could hear was the memory of running water, and all he could see was that question in her eyes.
Then she blinked, looked down at her stew, and the moment shattered. “So,” she said, her voice clear and practical, addressing the whole table. “We need to talk about those Blakk patrols. They’re getting closer. We can’t just react. We need a plan.”
The conversation pivoted, tactical and sharp. Fred mechanically lifted another bite to his mouth, the flavors turning to ash. The victory of finding Bulk felt distant, buried under the fresh, silent understanding that some tensions couldn’t be solved by a new slug or a won duel. They hummed in the space between glances, in unasked questions, in the echo of a shower running behind a door he shouldn’t have opened.
He was part of the team now. And the team’s biggest complication was currently staring him right in the face, asking for a patrol schedule.