The Obsidian Wastes

Over the next week, the Wastes did everything in their power to break them.

The alien tundra was unforgiving. Acidic rain fell in brief, agonizing squalls that forced them to seek shelter beneath overhanging volcanic rock. The only food was a bitter, bioluminescent tuber that grew deep within the crevices of the obsidian.

Jax was a brutal instructor. He didn't coddle Orion. He forced the younger boy to dig for the tubers until his fingernails cracked and bled. He made Orion map the constellations of Tartarus-9 to find true north.

“If you rely on tech, you die when the battery freezes,” Jax told him one evening, watching Orion struggle to strike a magnesium spark. “Do it again.”

But the hardest battle Orion fought was internal. The temperature steadily dropped as they moved to higher elevations. Orion’s Morph-Gen biology was desperate to keep him alive. Thick, thermal fur pushed against the underside of his skin; reptilian scales tried to form over his extremities to prevent frostbite.

Orion suppressed it all. He bit his lip until it bled, forcing his human form to hold. The effort was toxic. Suppressing the shifts caused his body to reject its own immune system. By day five, Orion was perpetually nauseous, running a low-grade fever, his skin mottled with painful red rashes.

Jax noticed, but didn't push. He just watched the younger boy with calculated, quiet intensity.

They weren't alone in the Wastes. Vance and his crew were stalking them. Twice, the bullies had ambushed them from higher ridges, raining jagged rocks down on their camp to deny them sleep and attempting to steal the meager rations Jax had hunted. Both times, Jax had driven them back with ruthless, calculated violence, using a makeshift spear to shatter a bully's kneecap.

On the sixth night, huddled beneath a shallow obsidian overhang, Orion shivered violently beneath the thermal cloak. His bones felt like they were vibrating.

Jax sat across from the small, smokeless chemical fire, meticulously sharpening his survival knife.

“Why did you help me?” Orion asked, his voice barely a whisper against the howling wind. “You’re a lone wolf. I’m just… dead weight.”

Jax paused, the blade catching the dim orange glow of the embers. “Vance is a coward. I hate cowards. And you’re not dead weight, kid. You’re just broken. There’s a difference.”

“I am broken,” Orion muttered, pulling his knees to his chest. “I’m a freak.”

Jax scoffed, sheathing the knife. “Because of the Morph-Gen stuff? Command told us you were a mutant. I don't care. I got held back because I punched Officer Vance—yeah, the big bully’s father—in the mouth. He was beating a stray dog to death behind the barracks. I broke his jaw.” Jax looked up, his gray eyes locking onto Orion’s. “The world is full of monsters, Orion. Being able to change your skin doesn't make you one of them.”

Orion stared at Jax, a strange, profound warmth blossoming in his chest, entirely separate from the fire. No one had ever spoken to him like that. No one had ever made him feel like he was allowed to exist. For the first time in his life, sitting in the freezing dark of an alien world, Orion felt safe.