A deadened sting in her stomach dragged Sunundra unwillingly from the lead weight of sleep that hung heavily over her consciousness. Protests from burdened muscles and aching joints assaulted her relentlessly. A shuffling sound to the side of her supine form prompted slurred thought, her mind hazy and weak as it tried to piece together the missing context through the dripping ooze of exhaustion.
What had woken her? Why was she sleeping? Did she pass out? Where did she pass out? For how long? Did someone find her? How many? How much time did she have?
Stupid. She was on the cusp of being hunted down, and yet she had been taking stimulant tablets too sparingly. What use was caution when facing the Void? Why worry about one’s health when she was but a single error from the end.
The absence of a backpack on her shoulders and a pistol digging uncomfortably into her side told her that she was woefully unprepared to fight her way out if there was more than a single assailant. Two might be possible, if they were poorly trained, but if it was more like those securities officers in the depot… Well, she wasn’t confident.
Something lightly brushed against the fur of her stomach, the injury flaring in pain at the disturbance. One small point of contact turned into several. A testing pressure carefully spread the wound open.
They wanted the terminal. They wanted to take her method to find him.
No. Not after she came so far. Not when she was so close.
Her heart stuttered into action, turning into a thunderous pumping in her chest. The kick-started hyperventilation drove dregs of oxygen into her haggard body, hindered by remnants of the caustic fumes. A paw snapped out, grabbing at the offender and clutching the trespassing limb by the wrist. She tugged them off balance, ignoring her screaming shoulder while loading the muscles in her free arm to spear through the flesh of whoever—
“Woah! H-hey! It's me! It’s okay. You’re okay.”
It burned, but she held back the attack, her ear twitching in recognition as rapid and shallow breaths evened out, clearing away the haze of chemicals. Weary blinks struggled to clear the daze of sleep and adrenaline.
Bill…? When…? Did he find her? Where were they? Even in the seclusion of the maintenance tunnels, they still had to hurry. She hadn’t yet plotted a path to escape.
Wait. She was lying on something…soft?
The attempts to orient herself eventually brought bleary focus to the surroundings. Pastel blue walls contrasted a cream-coloured ceiling, a sliver of a door frame resting in the edge of her periphery. Her eyes drunkenly dragged themselves downward. She was so tired. So sore. It hurt so much. Instinct demanded that she be alert, yet he claimed that she was secure—safe. The assurance resonated, draining the pent-up panic and leaving behind a vapid veneer of composure.
Safe… Was she truly safe? She couldn’t be. She had spent endless suns with the caress of the Void teasing her demise, suffered the wrath of another’s explosive, endured shots from kinetic weapons, and subsequently been discarded as refuse… She had skulked through the complex with the threat of death looming over her head for so long…yet just two words melted the concern and stifled the voices that tried to speak. As idyllic as it was, she allowed herself to surrender to the mottled emotions.
Her gaze drifted to the source of comfort, her arms falling limply to the side as her greatest desire entered view.
Bill supported himself over her, a thin sheen of moisture covering his exposed flesh and a warmth radiating from extended light exertion. Blood stained his shirt, though he didn't seem to be hurt at all. His gaze moved from its wary regard of her retracting claws to meet her questioning expression with both guilt and trepidation.
The reason became apparent when she looked at herself; most of her clothing had been removed, though some cloth had been laid over her form to preserve modesty where appropriate. She should have felt concerned about the development, but such thoughts barely crossed her mind, instead being swiftly pushed aside by other observations.
A wet rag lay discarded on her stomach, the fabric stained a gruesome crimson. Even if she had gotten used to it, the wound she substituted as storage still bled slightly, and it still stuck to her shirt when the ichor dried between retrievals of the odd terminal. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to assume her pants had since become sodden from it as well, the discomfort going ignored in favour of moving forward. Yet despite the state she was in previously, most of the blood matting her coat had been removed, and the singed fur no longer looked blackened and unruly. The only explanation was that the male had seen to it.
The fumes of alcohol radiating from most of her cauterized punctures supported the theory, as well as the tender sting that accompanied it. Between that and the damp fur, she figured that he had spent a considerable amount of time cleaning her injuries. It would explain the need for disrobing. She was grateful and stunned that he would take the time to do so, but the feeling only bloomed when she remembered the first time she was indisposed. His tender touch and attentive actions had lessened her struggle when even wakefulness proved to be too much for her to sustain. Here he was again, seeing an enfeebled defect and making it his duty to see her mended, the otherwise pathetic existence being no less treasured in his eyes. She was no less treasured.
The cool prodding of the Void could never chill the warmth in her chest that he provided. It could never eclipse the soft but encompassing affection that grew and strengthened with every breath. She was cared for. What’s more, she was cared for by her bond, the one who was her true other. Her purpose. Her reason for life.
There was an embarrassment that lingered somewhere under her serenity and fondness, the feeling suggesting she had done something wrong worthy of beratement. It was detached, in a way—foreign. Strange, but far from important when he was so near. Still…
Sunundra returned her attention to the male, the confusion on her face apparently asking what her parched throat had failed to utter.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bill voiced softly, the apologetic tone matching the apprehensive wince. He offered an abashed smile, righting himself to sit on his knees beside her. The mattress shifted from the weight.
He grabbed the rag and hesitated when he went to use it on her fur, seemingly debating if continuing his treatment had become less advisable now that she was awake. The guilt in her chest was heavy, yet as she watched his internal conflict regarding her lack of garments and his unbidden actions, a worry grew as well. A desire to aid and treat to the best of her ability took root, as if doing nothing would be equally as harmful. It urged her to assist, while also chastising her for doing so without permission, the sensation not too dissimilar to the voices. How odd it was to feel the compulsion without the ephemeral sounds there to torment and coerce.
She nodded her assent when his eyes drifted back to her, inhaling in preparation for what was to come. Just the confirmation she gave was enough to lighten the burden shadowing his visage, the dense guilt inside her diminishing in parallel. His guilt diminished.
There it was, the reason she came all this way. Wholeness. Unity—influenced by a piece she never knew was missing, yet yearned for regardless.
He returned a wry smile marred by regret, his paw gingerly placing itself upon her stomach. The blunted claws gently pried open the wound on her abdomen, inspecting its severity before he resumed his treatment. Ethanol left a burning pain wherever it touched, the soaked rag brushing over raw flesh. Her focus remained on the male and the veiled concern mirrored by her core.
He reciprocated her flinch when he accidentally pressed too firmly. “Sorry. I'm not a stranger to cleaning scrapes and cuts, but this is a bit outside what I’m used to. I was going to call medical here to look you over, but…”
The pale-furred female drew a deeper breath and tried to piece together what she had missed, finding her memories scattered and fragmented. The blurs of explosions, running, stealth, and suffering had melded together into one long recollection that seemed to loop in on itself endlessly. Had she used the last of her explosives? How much material did she have left? Where was the next elevator up? Could she still move freely?
“Should I?” The male’s reluctant tone snapped Sunundra out of her daze, the jolt straining both muscle and bruise. Bill furrowed his brow at her pain, a critical disapproval wrote across his face. Indecision quickly took its place. “I can still get them over here. It won't take long, and they'll have anything you need.”
Her voice hitched once more, a firm shake of her head being the best she could manage. The alien stared doubtfully.
“This…” His eyes wandered the numerous burns, lacerations, and perforations. He sat back once more, tightened fists resting on his lap. “This isn't something you can just ignore and hope it goes away. I don’t know what happened, but… I mean, look at you! I think these are bullet wounds. It’s like you dove into a bonfire during a firing squad. You're covered in more cuts and gouges than I feel comfortable dealing with by myself, and you passed out right after…”
His tirade faded out abruptly, a paw raising to uncomfortably rub the top of his shoulder.
“You showed up out of nowhere, looking like you got hit by a flaming transport truck, and it just got worse the more I wiped away.”
Her throat began constricting, though it was no longer from the dryness or what little caustic fumes she had inhaled. It was an all-encompassing terror pulling at her from the inside. It was a fear of loss… No, it was the dying gasp of hope as one reclaims that which they thought lost, only for it to crumble once it was within their grasp.
It was a reluctance to accept such was ever felt at all—a futile attempt to steel oneself lest the pain return anew.
The feeling sank into her soul, snugly absorbed into the divot where such had rested many times before. Yet this time was different, in some unknown, minute way. The feeling fit almost perfectly, but it tormented her unlike ever before. That was when she knew it wasn't of her own origin; it was his. Her bond's. He felt it tearing at his core, any decision made or avoided also threatening to be the one which doomed him to repeat his past. The revelation only made it hurt all the more.
“I—” The successful word was followed by a hacking cough, dislodging clotted blood. She closed her eyes to try again, carefully enunciating every syllable. “Do not call for them.”
She waited, but when a response failed to come, and a sense of horror clawed from within, she lifted her eyelids. The male stared at the crimson flecks, hesitantly collecting some and testing the viscosity between two claws.
“Blood.” He pursed his lips together and made to get off the bed. “I'm calling medical.”
He was going to summon them here? The enemy? They would find her. They would see she was with him—no, they would know before even needing to set foot in wherever they were. They would learn that she still lived, and they wouldn't make the same mistake twice, nor would they care if her bond survived as they corrected the issue.
He was beckoning his demise.
“No.”
She wrenched him back by the wrist, her shaking grasp and desperate stare tapering his determination when he turned to scowl at her defiance. The irritation in his visage wavered, his paw gently placing atop of her own.
“I'm sorry, but you really need a professional to take a look. You need stitches at the bare minimum—likely more, if something’s punctured. Not to mention the possible concussion. It'll be quick, I promise. I don’t know why or how you're…” He swallowed heavily, averting his gaze to hide the wisps of suffering within it. “I'm not sitting around doing nothing when you're this banged up. You should have seen someone long before you had the chance to get here. It was stupid of me to wait.”
Her hold remained firm, her teeth gritting as she tried to sit up, only to be guided back down by the male softly pressing against her chest.
“You're hurt,” Bill whispered, a strained wetness cracking his voice despite the attempt to hide it. The subtlest tremor shook his paws as he tried to placate her. “Is it because of the surgery? I promise that I won't let them do anything besides patch you up. I'll be right alongside you the whole time to make sure. You don't need to be scared.”
Every utterance hit her heart twice. The first time was a genuine concern for the pale-furred female, and the second was an echo of words once said in similar circumstances so long ago—a reassurance given to someone who stared down the Void, yet who he never allowed to do so alone.
She…knew…that he had offered this compassion so wholeheartedly before. She knew that he was reliving that moment now, the remembrance of agony and sorrow threatening to overwhelm him. Somehow, she knew he was terrified of losing someone who had penetrated the distance between the world and his affection. He was scared to reach out so sincerely, yet did so anyway, holding a wish that someone else's suffering would lessen, if only just a bit.
It was foolish, considering the circumstances. They needed to leave immediately. She had to alert him to the dangers awaiting them. Her muzzle opened to warn the male.
“Don't go.”
But the fractured soul spoke instead. It was pathetic and timid, unwilling to part with the warmth that even frigid dread provided.
The male closed his mouth, a chastisement for her stubbornness dying before it could be aired. A long moment of silence hung between them, the defect staring into his eyes with the same fragility that she had sworn to never expose.
She wasn't Demo, an upbeat female who believed that another might come to care for her if she just tried hard enough. She wasn't Sunundra, a kit abandoned at the church and turning to prayer when the world wished no more of her. She was his Sunshine. She was a weak and trembling soul who feared nothing more than losing the one thing she had always wanted. All she could do was desperately hold back the crushing weight from forcing her vulnerability out through terrified tears. She had broken a promise once made to herself and harboured something far more than she should have allowed to be felt, but it would only be a burden if he knew just how imperative his presence had become to her. She would be a burden.
“You need help,” he breathed pleadingly, leaning closer while treating the repetition as if even one decibel more would shatter her. It wasn't impossible that it would. Not when it was him. “You need more than I can give, okay?”
She wanted to curl up and hide from the outcome he feared, though it would do no good. The end would come soon enough. It would hunt them down. She matched his imploring words, fighting each one out as clearly as possible. “We must leave.”
“Leave?” he pressed, frowning at her raspy insistence as he tried and failed to restrain his frustration. “You’re barely able to speak! You have an open wound on your stomach, and I can’t even guess how bad everything else is. I… What the hell happened for…this?”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Memories of cracking gunfire and all-consuming inferno replayed, swallowing her vision with shadows of splintering boxes and roaring flame. Greg’s limp form lingered along the edges, crunching glass and choking screams drowned out the voices calling for blood—the blood she had spilled so willingly after a lifetime spent preserving the lives of those who detested her.
An unexpected caress banished everything as quickly as it had arrived. The male cupped her cheek within a paw, dragging her gaze to meet his own. She saw a suspicion in his eyes, the caution and defensive ire awaiting a spark to ignite. He cycled a breath, his voice begging for answers.
“What happened to you? I got a message saying there was a structural collapse and that you were…” The male forced down the anxiety. “They said there were no survivors. It’s been… You shouldn’t have just dragged yourself all the way here in this state. How did you make it out? Why haven’t you gotten help?”
Her exhaustion grew heavy when her core whispered emotions without the voices that had been haunting every thought. He wouldn’t abandon her. She felt it—the need to hold and keep someone else safe. It seeped through her form, the sense of synchrony easing her troubled mind. Fatigue sunk its claws into her with a vengeance.
“My bag,” she murmured, struggling to remain coherent. Bill frowned disapprovingly at the avoidance, but his inspection only saw a tired desperation. He nodded, parting to cross the room and return with the requested item stashed behind a small table.
Her backpack had seen better suns. The blackened materials smelled of smoke and iron, its singed surface separating for her to retrieve what was needed. The first was a painkiller to dispel the fog, the male flinching in surprise when she jabbed the syringe into her leg, the empty applicator clattering against the floor. A stimulant was next, crushed between her jaws and swiftly chased down by the remains of her water, finally sating her thirst. Heartbeats passed as chemicals numbed the pain and cleared her thoughts. She used the opportunity to rummage through and take stock of her possessions.
Charges, empty shells for decoys, ample materials to replenish the previous two…
“Where is the firearm?” she asked, freezing when it donned on her that she might very well have lost it at some point. Bill loosely motioned towards the door.
“I wasn’t… I didn’t know what to do about it, so it’s stashed in a drawer out there for now,” he answered vacantly, his eyes shifting away when she sat up and dislodged the cloth across her breast in the process.
Sunundra watched with a new mix of emotions swirling beneath the surface, though she struggled to pick any particular set out from the rest. She nodded her acceptance, adjusting herself into a slightly more comfortable position. “And the terminal?”
Her bond flinched, giving her an accusatory scowl before redirecting his gaze once more. “Where did you get a staff tablet?”
Doubt. Worry. Concern. Betrayal. She stopped herself from snarling as she remembered the reptilian alien that tried to prevent her from seeking her bond—the one who lied and would happily leave a shattered defect to crumble. The one who now made that bond feel distrustful of her.
The sounds of her paws rustling through her backpack resumed, though she was mostly just distracting herself. “I took it from one who needed it no more.”
The male blinked. “You stole it?”
Her motions slowed, the disappointment in his voice adding to her guilt. Her reply came as a troubled whisper. “I needed it to find you.”
Several expressions formed and were replaced upon his face, eventually settling on a hesitant uncertainty. “We’ll give it back and apologize. Normally, they would use it against you—theft isn’t a good look for this kind of thing—but they might overlook it, given the circumstances. I wouldn’t be surprised if taking it seemed like the only option after the accident.”
“There was no accident.”
She ignored his vacant stare and sorted her bag for easier retrieval of items. As soon as she was confident that she could grab whatever was needed without much effort, the backpack was laid on the floor, additional stimulant tablets, coagulators, and painkillers placed aside to be put in a pocket once she had them again. The pale-furred female slowly looked back at her bond, his visage questioning and perplexed.
“What do you mean there wasn’t… Then what…” He pointed a paw at her injuries, then the door, further speech dying between aborted attempts.
Something suggested that he had considered the truth of the matter. Considered, but had dismissed it as foolish, too worried about what that would ultimately mean for them to allow the thought to fester. She waited for his arm to fall as the discarded musing became a tangible possibility, using the pause to shuffle towards the edge of the bed, gingerly getting to her feet.
The cloth covering the rest of her form fell from an unstable step, quickly followed by herself, her sense of balance failing to correct for the unexpected difficulty. Bill caught her against his chest, stunned into silence until he was sure she could at least stand without too much effort.
“You shouldn't be moving around,” he chided half-heartedly. Despite the reprimand, his comforting embrace remained, exposing the core of concern within. “Especially when you still have cuts that need cleaning—and nothing to wear.”
The full force of his scent struck her, further muddling her troubled wakefulness. Her breaths grew deeper, taking in everything that she could and more, losing herself in the minute details she had been so lost without. Moments passed before she registered that he had spoken and was awaiting a response, yet she simply bathed in his scent, content to let the sensations carry her away.
“There are spare garments in my bag,” she mumbled. The reassurance of security was still there, but it had been weakened by a cautious doubt. He was right to question it. They were in danger. They must flee. They must…but it felt so right to stay there, absorbing his warmth and letting his influence propagate.
“But what…” Her ear flicked as his long exhale tickled the membrane, followed by his conceding tone. “Fine. We can talk about it after. You should probably wash up first, anyway. I can get another towel and some soap if you want, but I don’t think standing in the shower is a good idea. We can make sure there's nothing worse going on once we get rid of the blood.”
He lightly released her in an attempt to coax her back onto the bed, but she resisted, wrapping her arms around him to increase their contact. The cinders within brightened. She wanted more. Her core wanted more; it sparked and flickered, wanting nothing else but to offer form as she had given soul to the one who matched it so perfectly. To continue down a path where naught but she and he stood. If only for now, none knew of her survival. None would interrupt what she wished to occur, and feeling her bond's flesh beneath her paws grew to be an incomparable experience.
The evidence of his efforts in tending to her left a slightly damp residue, the pads of her claws gliding over the shirt covering his furless skin as it memorized every nuance. She wanted to feel more, yet was restricted by his clothing. Although, if it were to be removed…
How oddly addictive the thought became. How intoxicating it would be to know she smelled of his scent. To coat him with her own. How intense the need became when she realized that she could very well do just that.
Danger.
Yet the heat pooled in her centre.
Flee.
But they were safe, for now. There was time. She had time. Time to take and be taken. To give and be given. To taste the fruits she had pined over for so long, and to offer healing of the scarred soul which tensed beneath her touch, mending him as he mended her. They would be two patchwork entities crafting fragments for their other from the shattered remains they once consisted of, every new piece no longer working with its origin, yet repurposed for another.
That is what she desired, to be one in every way—inseparable.
Perhaps she would have feared his reaction before, and maybe it was strange to feel so drawn towards one not of her own, yet it didn’t matter to her now. She heard it within him, the pounding of a heart which cared not for circumstance. Its rhythm quickened when she leaned against him, strengthening as she explored his form with caress after longing caress, tracing from shoulder to the small of his back. Her concerns of what she had become enamored with faded as he reacted to her every whim, only a sense of fear and concern diluting the moment enough for her to resist fully taking what was hers.
The fear was for her safety. The concern was for her health. He fretted about whether she was well enough to make these decisions—a trembling expectation lying shaded under a pragmatic rationale that denied the reality of her lingering ministrations. She parted from him enough to see his face, her soft smile of contentment conveying her every intention.
She denied reality for him, the teasing travels of torturous claws grazing the flesh beneath the garment in playfully light meanderings. Her half-lidded eyes brimmed with more than just gratitude for assisting her; they announced that she was taking pleasure in knowing that he was the one who did. That he was the one beneath her touch.
Something was missing, however; it itched and prodded between the warning urgency of the voices his proximity muted. Just one act was needed for him to lay his claim upon her, then all would be well. It would complete her. She would be complete. One mark separated her from satisfaction and fulfillment. All she required was to give him impetus.
Her breaths became damp with expectation as she watched his resistance weaken, the subtle expression coloured red by unacknowledged understanding. Reason chipped and crumbled as baser inclinations made themselves known. Her reflection of his soul knew the restraint was waning.
She shuddered at the sight of another viewing her as more than a condition she had been cursed with. A few more nudges and then he would claim her as she had claimed him. He would make the years of suffering but an instance in a sea of forever, confirming what she felt beneath the surface.
Bill clenched his jaw as he placed a tentative paw to her shoulder. Reluctance. Confusion. Desire. Concern.
The bond tempered the euphoria, leaving disappointment to weigh on the thin layer of healing and hope. The stress of even that small rejection tore into her at the seams, unravelling the threads of happiness she tried so hard to gather.
She pulled herself into him once more, pushing her muzzle into his neck, lest the fraction of doubt be enough to remove her from his warmth. It was met by a resonated shock, true, and his uncertainty grew threefold, yes, but she felt the flare of need and comfort residing under the hesitation. It was a large effort not to give into instinct and place her mark upon the male who tried to seem uninterested, yet whose scent told the truth. She could almost picture the flesh against her teeth again, taste the iron—
…Wait. Again?
The thought brought all others to a screeching halt, her ears pinning back and her eyes widening in fear.
She remembered it now. The insistent voices had cheered their revelry over finding the one who she restlessly searched for, followed by the foggy sensation of alien ichor on her tongue as she lapped at the light punctures in a languid daze of exhaustion and contentment…
Oh… Oh no.
= = = = =
Illia twitched, her inputs into the stenography terminal ceasing. Heroon struggled to maintain his calmness, a snarl sneaking its way onto his muzzle as he requested a moment from the defect in containment. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms while mentally preparing for what was to come.
“A forced mark!?”
He winced at his den-mate’s volume, somewhat grateful that the intercom required constant pressure to transmit through the microphone. The Quesitar-in-training cared little for if she was heard, it seemed, because she launched into an impressive tirade containing no small number of expletives. It was surprising, honestly; he wasn’t aware she knew so many.
“She is a defect,” he reminded her flatly, feigning composure. “She could attempt it as much as she would like, but it would never serve its purpose.”
“It is a crime.”
“Committed during extraneous circumstances, several events which impaired judgment, untold fatigue, numerous injuries, and…” His attempt to mollify his assistant and restrain his emotions enough to continue the interrogation stalled out with a sigh. Unfortunately, Illia was never one to waste an opportunity to complain.
“A bond made with an alien, which is purported to be fact by a prisoner who would only benefit from asserting the exceptional.” She turned in her chair, jabbing a claw in his direction. “Not to mention that it is impossible for that to bond in the first place!”
He glanced at his readouts. “Yet it seems to be truthful.”
“It’s a defect! You of all people should know how unreliable this equipment is when matched against those abandoned by the Hunt Mother!”
As much as he would like to refute it, she was right. There hadn’t been much variation reported since they started this whole thing, as far as the measurements went. Looking at the contained female, however… Change was evident.
The Special Tactics Officer was far more alert by now, actively looking around while recalling specific details. A permanent scowl was etched into her face, only deepening or abating as she approached one topic or another. Occasionally, it would mute back to the lost, dead gaze of the broken, but it was otherwise consistently twisted.
Save for the flicker of hope that appeared every so often… It wasn’t much, and it never lasted for more than a blink, but it was there. He suspected that whatever the origin might be, it was why she had remained placated enough to be incarcerated. It might be why she still drew breath at all.
She had ceased the limp and desolate posture of a decaying carcass, straightening in the chair as if it had only just become possible. It was strange to see her almost come back to life over the course of her tale, though it only added weight to everything that transpired. Venom mixed with word as she spat distaste, wetness strained her voice as sorrow resurfaced, and a warmth carried an airiness to the shadows of a sardonic smile.
Her claws would flex every so often—chipped and serrated from irresponsible use. The female would slow her speech when she did, inspecting them like she felt a substance matting the fur of her paws, or as if something still stained the colour. Other times, she would absently reopen the wound on her stomach by stretching out a specific way, or pressing against it with her arm. Knowing what they did now, it was likely a habit ingrained into her when it was used to store the ‘odd terminal.’ Feeling the injury seal probably provoked more discomfort than the pain of tearing it anew ever would.
Heroon exhaled, glancing at Illia out of the corner of his eye. “Regardless of if we believe the bond to be true, the fact of the matter is that our laws make no mention of the act against other species.”
“Because there was no reason to believe anyone would be demented enough to seek claim of one!”
“It seems there is at least one,” he pointed out tiredly, nodding towards the transparent wall separating their dark office from the white cell. “And what of the recordings?”
His assistant’s rage stuttered to indignation, the animated gestures coming to an end as her paws returned to her lap. She bitterly averted her gaze. “We have not been presented evidence to support the existence of such. If there was some semblance of proof, we would be having a very different discussion—one that would not involve the mere fantasies of a defective. Were it true, then we would have already left to report this to our superiors.”
“That was not what I asked.”
He met her glower with a neutral expression. “What of them?”
“The conclusion she came to; others—notably, not defective—have possibly taken the species as mates.”
“There is little basis for the assumption.”
“But there is some,” he countered dryly. “If we are to condemn the action, then we must outline when such is acceptable.”
“Consent.”
The male nodded in agreement. “Then we should continue to withhold judgment until more is revealed.”
“But—”
“—You are right to hold our values so closely,” he assured, raising a paw to stop yet another line of argument, smiling when the beige-furred begrudgingly complied. “There is…more here than we are privy to, which is why we hold these sessions. We must divide our hearts from our perceptions; only then may we truly ascertain the truth.”
Illia frowned, but the exasperated sigh told him he had gotten through to her. She swivelled her chair back and resumed her place on the terminal, inclining her head to indicate she was ready to resume. His claw hovered over the intercom, pausing its descent when she spoke one last time.
“Then what does your heart have to say about everything so far?”
He glanced at her, followed by frowning at the contained STO. A sense of unease welled in the pit of his stomach. For all the absurdity of her tale so far, one thing repeatedly echoed in the back of his mind.
The female had adapted to madness.
It was controlled and directed with fervent purpose, perhaps, yet madness all the same. It was shown through the slight twitches and piercing stare that seemed to bore through the barrier between them. It was behind the wisps of revelry nesting in her eyes when she regarded her torn claws. It was in the merciless determination that only strengthened as she ripped and pulled open her wound over and over, as if every spike of pain was a reminder of her purpose. Her composure was but a tool, only servicing a greater goal because it was what she needed to achieve the desired result.
Insanity had taken root within the defect, yet she had not succumbed to it. No, she had twisted even that into a weapon to be used, modifying and altering it into a form she could wield, regardless of the toll it took. She had been embraced by the Void and came away as a maelstrom of sharpened, shattered glass in the shape of a diminutive female. The only uncertainty was over just how much control remained in that fragmented soul.
His heart told him only one thing: take caution when toying with the tendrils of the Void.
Heroon looked back at his assistant, shaking his head with a dismissive huff. “Nothing.”
The button of the intercom depressed.
“Special Tactics Officer, Demo. You may continue.”
= = = = =
The excitement and anticipation of Bill’s embrace washed away under the deluge of guilt, further amplified by the echoes of the bond. The once seductive heat building in her core suddenly chilled to a freezing dread, his regret becoming her own, merging and turning it into a poison which made already laboured breath nigh but fruitless. Concern became an insufferable assault of anxiety and terror. She couldn’t subdue it; it was earned through unforgivable and vile action. She had sinned both against her faith. She had sinned against him.
Of course, he would hate…
A breath successfully breached the cacophony of horrid remorse when the blade of loathing she expected against her psyche failed to pierce it.
He…didn't hate her? The reflection within said as much. If anything, his care only blossomed as he gently led them both to sit on the bed, her sudden panic attack and choking gasps only solidifying his determination to help. He still cared for her. He still wished her safe.
Sunundra blinked heavily, steadying herself around the connection which pulled every string and lever throughout her mind. Why?
“Are you okay? Is it your stomach?”
Her ears turned towards her bond’s fearful voice, his attempts just barely suppressing the self-critical beratement. Her gaze shifted to the edge of redness on his shoulder that peered from beneath his clothing. Why didn’t he hate her? Why was the affection still so strong?
He placed both paws upon her cheeks, lightly brushing the fur as he tried to gauge her condition. “I knew I should have stopped you from taking whatever that was. Does it hurt?”
“Forgive me…”
The male followed her eyes with his own, exhaling sharply in frustration once he noticed what she was referring to. “I don't care about that. I wasn’t expecting it, but it wasn't the most worrying thing at the time. That spot was taken when a dead person showed up in the middle of the night.”
“But—”
“—But,” he interjected, relaxing slightly as he removed his touch. Her paws were held by his own before the absence could register. He hesitated, but eventually spoke once more, his tone firm yet caring. “If you refuse to be seen by the staff doctors, then I want to know what happened since I left… No, I need to know. Please…”
Silence stretched between them as she tried to deny and refuse the compulsion to comply. It felt horrible, like she was tearing a piece of herself out. He would tell her, were the roles reversed, yet she wished not to do the same? For what? To spare him the horrors she had seen? To spare herself of the bonded reactions? Or was it to pretend that she might share in the passion of another while danger lingered around every corner, desperate to have what had never been achievable. Was a bond not enough? Was acceptance not enough?
…No. It wasn’t. She was greedy and gluttonous. The desire to hoard and bathe in another's affection wasn’t new, but never had it been so strong—so consuming. It was suppressed for too long, hidden beneath a veil of too many complacent smiles. She had never seen the signs of another who might be willing to indulge the needs of a defect, yet it burned within him, dampened by his care for her injuries. It was there…
A heavy blink freed the building dampness, a tear soaking into her fur; the first of many, most likely, as much as she hated feeling so weak. She nodded, accepting the cloth to cover herself when Bill belatedly offered it. When she had finally organized her thoughts and decided on a version of events that seemed most coherent, her muzzle opened, her focus returning to the male that had started it all.
The first inhale stole her breath. Under all the layers of apprehension and caution, of fear and suspicion, was unfiltered affection and attentiveness. Nothing else existed to him; it was only her, only what she had to say, and only a determination to help however he could.
It made reliving the events easier. It made what she had seen and done less haunting. It made all of it just that much more worth it.
She began with the sun he left, comforted to know that even the mundane held his rapt attention, his claws lightly rubbing her own as he listened. He wanted to hear it.
She had always wanted someone to listen.