“Victory is the outcome of a divine equation whose clauses are simple to solve for: which side has the greater skill; what side has the greater force(s); who has the advantage of position; which side is more disciplined; for whom are the consequences of failure greater. To the more favored goes the victory.”
—The Lost SageTHE RESERVE, NOW
By the time the transport’s wake lights up the drop off point, Obozaya’s already disappeared into the trees.
The pilot—a former squad-mate named Sozulak from her cadet days— had clicked his tongue against his teeth in amusement but kept his peace when she commissioned the flight. She read the smug superiority in the way he tilted his head, and while it irked her, expending energy on anything but her mission was a foolish waste.
The angry buzzing of the ship breaking atmo gives way to the deceptively gentle hum of semi-sentient flora and megafauna deeper in the jungle, and Obozaya can’t help the shiver of anticipation that ripples through her.
She has 12 hours before Solzulak returns. First order of business for the hunt is evening the playing field.
She allows herself to be fully armed as she digs the hole, deep and even with sides reinforced with thick branches she collected around the perimeter of the rendezvous. But when that is done, off come the weapons and armor, until she is left in cloth barely thick enough to keep the cold from stiffening her joints, and a doshko made for vesk who still had their egg-teeth.
Next, setting up the endgame.
The mechanism is as elegant as it is simple, though setting up the tripwire is difficult. The chill of the damp twilight air makes her feel sluggish. It galls her a bit, but she has to admit to herself that she has become accustomed to temperature-controlled environments. This operation, beyond being a tying up of loose ends, is a good reminder to work on lapsed training.
Finally, the seeds of victory are sown, and all there is left is to wait.
THE RESERVE, THEN
A hunter’s moon crawling with bred and imported monsters from across the known galaxy, the Reserve was legend to all vesk.
Though hazing was officially frowned upon, any cadet wanting to come into active service with some glory to their name was welcome to face the wilderness for 12 hours. Surviving meant well-earned bragging rights, and Obozaya Ymeros’s secret visions of being a battle saint were enough to make up for any holes in her armor.
The rules were simple: walk into the jungle and survive until rendezvous, with just your doshko and your wits.
When Obozaya took her turn, it was the wet season.
As soon as the transport was clear, Obozaya ran into the clearing, shouting as hard as her lungs will allow. The rain was coming down hard enough that she worried maybe nothing would hear her call, but within less than 20 minutes it was clear her worries were unfounded.
A whiskered renkroda—female and young but large and vibrating with aggression—leapt from a nearby tree without preamble and nearly knocked Obozaya’s head off. Pivoting toward the change in heat above her, the vesk cadet’s foot slipped in the mud and the claws meant to kill only gouged, and ripped away a small horn.
Bleeding and surprised, Obozaya was still a lethal warrior. She managed to slice the beast across the face with her weapon, opening a wound that swallowed one of its eyes.
The renkroda was like a demon possessed, and Obozaya was nowhere close to being a battle saint. The fighting went on for an hour in the rain, felling trees and obliterating rocks in the fury of their clash, and Obozaya was forced to do something she had never even considered before: retreat.
The beast was not done with Obozaya though, and stalked her for hours, slashing and bleeding her at every turn, until all the vesk could do was use the remains of what must have once been a supply drop to barricade herself into a cave and wait for pick up.
The renkroda paced back and forth in front of the barricade, pawing at the debris and huffing aggressively. Obozaya was dead sure it would break in, but as the moon set, they locked eyes, and after a few tense moments, the beast snorted and loped away.
When the transport came, though she technically achieved her directive, Obozaya felt that she had left whatever honor she brought with her down on the surface of the hunter’s moon.
The bitter truth of the Lost Sage’s words echoed in her mind: To taste of victory, first you must dine on defeat.
THE RESERVE, NOW
Obozaya makes a fire and breaks out her rations. She takes a long, deep breath.
Closing her eyes, she reminds herself of the soldier’s guiding principle. For a warrior, the composure of the spirit and the calm of the mind should never be disturbed by the passions of the body.
When the food is done, and she has stretched her muscles loose, Obozaya stands, cracking her knuckles, and takes up her simple doshko.
Her voice is exponentially louder now as she bellows into the night. Just like the first time she set foot on the Reserve, she does not have to wait long until her call is answered.
A horrible hissing growl is all the warning she gets before a shadow descends from the trees, quick as a lightning strike.
THE RESERVE, THEN
While it wasn’t unheard of for a soldier to return for a go at the Reserve, it was incredibly rare, and always as a sort of confirmation of purpose to the Empire.
When Obozaya returned, it was barely more than a week after taking her Soldier’s Due, bristling with wounded pride and armed to the teeth with the best gear she could afford.
Plasma doshko in hand, bandoleers of incendiary and frag grenades on her armored chest, magnetar rifle slung across her back, she was a vision of righteous vengeance. And if her roar of challenge wavered in the middle, it must have been a trick of the wind.
The renkroda that appeared was huge and bold. It prowled into the clearing and met her gaze with one remaining eye.
Obozaya grinned and readied her weapon; she knew this beast. “Glad to know it’s personal for us both.”
The renkroda lunged and they fought bitterly, splintering trees and chipping rocks. This time though, it was the renkroda who ran, having suffered the loss of a talon and the tip of its tail.
Obozaya was relentless in her pursuit, lobbing incendiary grenades to force its path back towards her, shooting into its hide with her rifle to try and slow it down. She set the jungle on fire with her fury and her weapons, showing no mercy.
In the end, the renkroda, exhausted and gravely wounded, could do nothing but lie panting on the ground. Standing over her prey, Obozaya raised her humming doshko high, catching her reflection in the creature’s single, frightened eye.
Backlit by the fires raging around them, Obozaya looked to herself like a terrible demon towering over a helpless lesser being; it stopped her cold. The words of the Lost Sage came to her mind then: The honor of an action is directly weighed against the cost of that action—with great difficulty comes great honor. No honor can be gotten from ill-intentioned action.
“There is no honor here.”
And, shaking her head, Obozaya gently lowered her doshko.
THE RESERVE, NOW
Claws strike metal, throwing sparks into the air.
Teeth close around flesh, tearing skin and muscle, just missing shearing bone.
Heavy bodies thud together with enough force to uproot trees.
They lock up for what feels like days, titans of war, and when they come together, the sound of it is like thunder. Their battle rips through the trees and rolls over hills, until they reach the dark heart of the jungle.
When they separate, Obozaya understands there is something different about the renkroda. It has the same scarred face, the same scattering of marks where bullets bit into its side, same stunted tail. But there is a nervous frantic energy to the beast now. The renkroda puffs up its body, lunging and retreating, as if to drive Obozaya back towards the path they had carved through the trees—to drive the vesk away.
The trap Obozaya laid earlier was behind the beast, though, and while the soldier was enjoying herself this time around, it was time to bring the game to a close.
“Sorry, girl.”
Straightening to her full height, Obozaya lets out an almost joyful, if menacing, laugh. With a high-pitched scream, the renkroda skitters backwards. Then it turns and runs away at full speed.
“Three, two, one—”
Thwup!
The snare stops the renkroda so fast it runs in mid-air for a whole second.
Stretching a kink out of her shoulder, Obozaya approaches the swinging, shrieking animal. It sounds furious, hissing and swiping at the vesk as she stands just out of reach.
“You let me get you at the end there, didn’t you? Are you tired of the game?”
The renkroda pants, glaring with its one eye, but seems to calm down as Obozaya walks around it.
“Interesting.”
Obozaya walks back around, and the beast howls again, swiping at her, then attempting to lunge and bite through its own feet to escape the snare.
“Huh…”
Looking around, Obozaya sees that just to her left is a felled tree, as big around as she is tall, with a hollow sizable enough to crawl in. She crouches down beside it to peer in, and the renkroda goes berserk.
The soldier has an idea of what she’ll find inside, and she is not surprised to see a clutch of half a dozen eggs.
Looking back at the bucking and screaming renkroda, Obozaya can’t help but chuckle and shake her head.
The nest was well hidden enough that she had missed seeing it when she set up the trap. Incredible.
Obozaya doesn’t hesitate. With a heavy sigh, she walks around to the far side of the trapped beast, avoiding its wild claw strikes as she raises her doshko and prepares to strike.
Bzzzz!
Her doshko buzzes as she swings and severs the line stretched taut above the renkroda.
She backs away as the renkroda lands on her clawed feet. The predator glares back at Obozaya and hisses, but she’s no longer attacking. She’s limping to her eggs. The two predators acknowledge that this is a ceasefire.
“Next time.”
When Solzulak picks Obozaya up, he is relentless about mocking her lack of trophy.
Once again, the words of the Lost Sage come to her mind: The songs that are sung of us are what others claim to know about us, but the honor we gain when no one watches is what we know of ourselves.
Obozaya says nothing as they shoot up and out among the stars. That she knows is enough.
“There is no smooth nor easy path to the peak of the mountain known as Honor.”
—The Lost Sage
About the Author
Vita Ayala (they/them) is a trans non-binary Afro-Puerto Rican writer born and bred in New York City, where they grew up dreaming dreams of dancing on far away worlds, fighting monsters on the block, and racing fish along the bottom of the sea.Vita writes both comics and prose fiction, and has written for publishers such as: Abrams (Song of the Lioness: Alanna), Black Mask Studios (The Wilds), DC (Static), Image Comics (Finders//Keepers), Marvel (New Mutants), Vault Comics (Submerged), and more!
About the Iconic
Obozaya (she/her) is a female vesk soldier who protects her allies with big guns, heavy armor, and her menacing presence. She’s never afraid to swap to her doshko and go one-on-one with an enemy whenever honor demands.About Iconic Encounters
Iconic Encounters is a series of web-based flash fiction set in the worlds of Pathfinder and Starfinder. Each short story provides a glimpse into the life and personality of one of the games’ iconic characters, showing the myriad stories of adventure and excitement players can tell with the Pathfinder and Starfinder roleplaying games.“Learn more about the soldier class in Starfinder Player Core, releasing at Gen Con 2025, on paizo.com, and at your friendly local game store! Be the first to play Starfinder Second Edition by subscribing to the Starfinder RPG or Starfinder RPG (Special Edition) lines and receive a free PDF when your book ships!”
Read more at this site