“Among other things,” she said, finally glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes were the color of burnt umber, and they held a mischievous glint. “You’re not here to collect my bounty, are you, handsome?”
Vesper’s eyes went wide. “Wait. You’re supposed to—the light—it’s very calming—” her glowing buttflap is a trap
She found Vesper in the usual place: the lower docking ring, leaning against the same rusted strut, her back panel glowing like a cozy hearth. “Among other things,” she said, finally glancing over
Her name was Maura Vex. She was a hunter with no sense of humor, no sense of wonder, and—crucially—no sense of touch. A childhood accident with a plasma welder had fused the nerve endings in her hands. She felt no warmth, no texture, no gentle humming. She was, in every way that mattered, the glowing buttflap’s kryptonite. “Wait
But humans, and human-adjacent beings, are not rational creatures. The glow was too friendly. Too inviting. It whispered promises of comfort, of rest, of a brief vacation from the grinding horror of space-station existence. And one by one, they kept touching it.
As they walked through the station, a crowd of former victims—still glassy-eyed, still smelling faintly of cinnamon—watched from the corridors. They looked at the dead, dark panel on Vesper’s pants, and a strange thing happened. They sighed. Not with relief. With longing.
That’s when they called in the specialist.