***
“Gels,” my voice didn’t sound like it belonged to me, “did you know Scott’s daughters?”
“Not well,” she replied, “but I do remember them.”
“Can you find them? I know they’re alive, and will need…” My voice tailed off.
Gellica nodded her head in understanding before touching my cheek. “You okay?”
I tipped my head but didn’t trust my emotions to speak. She turned and headed towards the crowd on the arena floor as many more captives were now being lowered down to the ground from all around the stadium. Tears of unbridled joy. Unabashed emotion. The domain of the doomed transformed into the celebration of the grateful. Mesmerised, the Zikalic remained glued in their seats, transfixed by the spectacle playing out in the arena dirt.
In a haze, a fusion of sorrow and elation, I limped around the dusty ground alone, still trying to get my mind around all that had just happened … almost as though I’d watched it all transpire, as a spectator, an observer.
Did I really—?
I was just about knocked off my unsteady feet, jumped by an overly excitable someone; her arms enveloped my neck as she kissed my grubby face, her hands in my grimy hair.
“Ristan! Thank God, it’s you! The memory of you kept me alive … that moment we shared, kept me going ... now, you saved me!”
Her face was painted in several layers of gaudy makeup, making her look both tragic and detached.
I instantly sensed that she was broken somehow, scarred, wounded.
But her eyes, her beautiful eyes, were still all her.
Still alive with energy. Blue ocean.
My head swirled. A tingling sensation ran up and down my spine, and a thousand fluttering butterflies exploded loose in my stomach.
My voice caught.
“Monix!”