Ripped Genes

While preparations were underway on Chiron, the tiny Junyo pod hovered on the far side of its ghosted mother ship, spying on them. Moxy’s stress level was so high, the volatile poison her pressure-sensitive pores leaked was enough to bring protective froth to her otherwise smooth, semi-dark complexion. Since her cohorts knew not to touch her skin, the poison was harmless right now. She left her long coat draped over her chair, freeing her from its heat and confines. She had worn it when entering Chiron so unsuspecting people wouldn’t accidentally touch her. It came in very handy during a fight, though, unless the foes had on sixer gloves. That Woon fellow had tasted her spit though, felt it eat at his flesh.

The curse the Pandora had brought on her was also a blessing. Her alterations, like those of her companions, were viable, unlike most of those infected. The shock had been terrible at first, and worse, were the reactions of those she encountered. Everyone was revolted by her new way of being, and wanted to fix her or cover her up. She’d started a “Lucky metasapiens” group on Twist-eTies and found her friends. Together they had plotted to hitch a ride on Junyo and find a new place for themselves in a galaxy of hopefully unbiased, open-minded aliens.

The spitting she could control, but she had mixed feelings about the reaction of her skin to contact with others. She had to admit that after she’d woken up able to projectile spit out semi-digested food like a llama, she’d at first been revolted herself. No wonder others didn’t want her around anymore. When they’d found out she had developed an extra gland off of the stomach that injected a caustic substance into the stream of spit, they’d wanted to do surgery. That was when she’d escaped.