The cot springs creaked when Roachaline Vaslix sat up.
Gray morning light entered through cracked shutters in the factory office she used as a bedroom. The room smelled of ash, sweat, smoke, and gun oil. Wind rattled the corrugated siding, each scrape worsening her headache.
She touched the scar at her right temple.
The two shards in her chest answered before she asked them to. One burned red under the skin. The other sat lower and colder, violet light beating out of rhythm with the first. They fought each other inside her sternum and kept her blood too hot.
Her Ikona clicked in the corner.
The insect Ikona crawled from under a desk on hooked legs, its black plates reaching the height of a hunting hound. Its mandibles worked through dust while it waited for orders.
Roachaline ignored it and reached for the crushed cigarette on the crate beside her bed. She lit it with a spark striker, drew smoke into her lungs, and let the burn sit behind her teeth.
