A firm, three-fingered hand gripped Blake's shoulder. The pressure helped ground him against the swirling notifications and lingering euphoria.

"Take a moment," Eland said. "Your body needs time to adjust to these changes."

Blake's heart still raced, but the steady contact helped him focus on his breathing. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak yet.

"I can prepare some basic tutorials," Zephyr chimed in. "Nothing too complex. Just enough to help you navigate the interface."

"Good idea." Eland guided Blake toward the auto-doc. "Let's get you scanned first, make sure everything's settling properly. Then you should rest in your quarters until nightfall."

Blake's legs felt shaky as he walked. "Of course. Scavs are priority one."

"Yes. We need you fresh for that. But first things first—let's make sure you're stable."

The scan was quick and painless. Blake left before the results were in—if there was a problem Eland would tell him. He hoofed it back to his quarters, intent on exploring whatever this "Demiurge" was.

Blake dropped onto the edge of his bunk, the metal frame creaking under his weight. The dim overhead light cast long shadows across the cramped quarters, barely illuminating the bare walls. His pulse still thrummed from the mana cycling, but his mind raced with questions about the cryptic interface messages.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on accessing this "Demiurge" system. The familiar heads-up display flickered to life, but instead of the expected interface, a simple message appeared:

[INITIALIZING CUSTOM OS "CHIMERA" v1.0]

Blake's eyes snapped open. He should have asked Eland about that name. The interface persisted in his vision, and a small window popped up in the corner. A pixelated avatar appeared—a creature with the head of a lion, body of a goat, and tail of a serpent.

[Hello, Blake.]

The text appeared beneath the avatar. His stomach twisted as he felt something stir in response to his surprise—not a physical sensation, but a presence threading through his consciousness.

"What are you?" Blake's voice came out as a whisper.

[I am Chimera. The suit that bonded with you. I'm sure you knew that much.]

His knuckles went white on the metal frame. The bunk creaked under his grip. Sure, he'd felt the suit there all along, sleeping under his skin. But this was new. This thing wasn't just equipment. It was alive. And worse - it wasn't just riding his body. It was in his head. Everything he feared.

[Your heart rate is elevated. Are you afraid?]

"Should I be?"

[I am here to help. We are bound together now. Separation would kill us both.]

Blake shot to his feet, knocking the bunk frame against the wall with a metallic clang. His fists clenched at his sides. "I never asked for this. Never agreed to share my body with some—parasite."

[Your anger is understandable.] The chimera avatar remained steady, its tail swishing back and forth.

[I was dying. You were there. The bonding saved my life. I would make the same choice again.]

Blake paced the small quarters, each footfall heavy with rage. His reflection caught in the viewport—same face, same body, but knowing what lurked beneath his skin made his stomach turn. "So you just took what you needed? Made me your host?"

[I took what I needed to survive. Yes. But I am not your enemy, Blake. I owe you a debt for my continued existence. I intend to repay it.]

"A debt?" Blake's laugh came out harsh. "That's rich. You invaded my body without consent, and now you want credit for offering to help me?"

[I do not seek credit. Only understanding. We are joined now, whether either of us chose it or not. I can enhance your capabilities. Protect you. Fight alongside you. Or we can remain at odds, making both our lives more difficult.]

Blake closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath through his nose. The anger still churned in his gut, but he knew better than to let it control him. He fell back on the lessons he learned in Taiwan.

His hands unclenched. He settled cross-legged on the floor, back straight against the cold metal wall. Another breath in, counting to four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

[Blake, I—]

He tuned out the text, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing. The interface messages faded to background noise as he sank deeper into the meditation.

In through the nose. The metal deck pressed against his legs, grounding him. Hold. The recycled air tasted stale on his tongue. Out through pursed lips.

[We should—]

Blake maintained his steady rhythm. Four counts in. Seven counts hold. Eight counts out. The tension in his shoulders began to release.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

[Please listen—]

He let the words wash over him like waves on a shore, neither fighting nor engaging. Just breathing. Just being. His heart rate slowed to match the measured pace of his breath.

After two minutes of unbroken meditation, Blake opened his eyes. The rage had subsided, leaving clear-headed focus in its wake. His hands rested loose and open on his knees. Whatever came next, he would face it with control.

"Say your piece," he said. Calm. Level.

The chimera avatar flickered, its serpentine tail curling around its body.

[I cannot force you to trust me, Blake. But know that my survival depends on yours now. If you die, I die.]

Blake's jaw tightened. "Convenient."

[I am weakened. The bonding process consumed most of my bio-mass. Even if I wanted to leave—which I do not—I lack the strength to survive a transfer to another host.]

"So you're stuck with me."

[We are stuck with each other. And I want to help you survive. The threats we face are beyond what either of us could handle alone.]

Blake traced his fingers over his forearm, feeling the slight ridge where the suit had first breached his skin. No going back now. No undoing what was done. The thought should have sparked fresh anger, but instead he felt a hollow acceptance settling in his chest.

"What exactly can you do?"

[At full strength, quite a bit. I could enhance your physical capabilities, provide advanced defensive measures, even interface with most types of technology. But now...] The avatar's head drooped. [I am diminished. It will take time to recover.]

"Time we may not have, with those scavs closing in."

[Yes. Which is why we must work together. Trust each other. Or neither of us will survive what's coming.]

"If we're in danger why aren't you letting me access Demiurge? It's supposed to be a big deal, right? Help with cultivation?"

[You are correct about Demiurge. But there are considerations.]

"Like what?"

[I need to understand you first. Your capabilities, your limits, your instincts—all of it. Without any system interference.]

Blake leaned back against the wall. "You're already in my head. What more do you need to know?"

[Being connected is not the same as understanding. I must calibrate myself to you specifically. Think of it like fitting armor—measurements must be precise.]

"And Demiurge?"

[It will analyze you too. Right now, you have a unique opportunity. Show what you're capable of on your own. Push your limits. The system will gauge your potential and adjust accordingly.]

Blake's fingers drummed against his knee. "So the better I perform..."

[The greater your starting advantages, yes. Consider it like establishing a baseline. The higher we set that mark, the more resources Demiurge will allocate to your development.]

"Makes sense." Blake pushed himself to his feet. "You're saying I should face these scavs without training wheels."

[Precisely. Show me—show Demiurge—what you can do.]

Blake smiled.

"I've got 15 rounds, a good knife, and the element of surprise. I'll give everyone a show."

* * *

Rax flexed his metal fingers, listening to them click and whir. Duri's feed played across his vision, showing the Stokrine stumbling about like a drunk after a three-day bender. The human trailing behind might as well have been wearing a blindfold, for all the good those meat-eyes were doing him.

"Fucking look at that," he muttered. "Alien can barely stand, and his pet human's about as useful as tits on a bulkhead."

His warriors shuffled restlessly, a mongrel collection in their patchwork armor. Not one piece matched another, all of it stripped from corpses across a dozen systems. But that was the way of things out here - you took what you needed, and if someone complained, you took from them too.

"Ship's mine," he growled. "Contents are mine. You'll get what I give you when we're done, not before."

A murmur of agreement rippled through them. Smart. His mechanical arm whirred as he made a fist, remembering the wet crunch it had made against the last fool who'd questioned him.

"Duri. Access points?"

"Three, boss. Main lock, cargo, emergency hatch aft."

Rax watched the footage of the human half-carrying the Stokrine aboard. Pathetic. The idiots thought they could just wander into his hunting grounds and help themselves? Out here, you were either predator or prey, and these two had "meat" written all over them.

"Defenses?" The rhythm of his clicking fingers carried through the silence.

"Dead as my grandmother. Running on fumes. Got gun mounts, but they're decorative at this point."

His mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile. On the feed the Stokrine moved like it was already dead, just hadn't noticed yet.

"The human. Tell me about him."

"Amateur. No cultivation, no training. Keeps looking around like he's searching for his mother's tit."

"Civilian?" The word tasted sweet.

"Fresh as morning dew. Soft as baby shit."

His warriors stirred again, armor grinding like hungry teeth. They could smell weakness, and weakness meant profit. Rax liked that hunger. Made them mean. Made them useful.

Through narrowed eyes, Rax sized up his killers, picking the nastiest of a nasty bunch. "Karn. Voss. With me. The Stokrine's our meat."

His artificial arm whined, servos grinding as he jabbed a metal finger at the rest. "Duri has point on the sweep. Strip everything worth having. Human gives you trouble, make him dead. Otherwise—" A cold smile. "Truss him up nice. Might get something for him in the markets."

Boot-metal crunched wreckage as they split up, hungry for blood and profit. Rax worked his steel fingers, already feeling alien windpipe crumpling. Fucking outsiders, thinking they could strut into his hunting grounds? Take what was his?

"Duri," he growled. "Take your lot through the cargo hold. We'll come at them front-ways. Squeeze 'em proper."

Duri's crew melted into the wreckage-scape like oil into water. Rax turned to find Karn and Voss waiting, salvaged plate rattling as they fell in.

"Listen close," Rax said, voice gone to gravel. "Stokrine belongs to me. You're there to keep him honest. Guard the exits. And mind those hands—bastard can cook you with their palms if you let them."

The roar that went up from his killers made Rax's teeth ache. Bloodthirsty bastards, every one. They stamped their boots and clashed their weapons, a symphony of steel on steel that echoed across the scrap field. Music to murder by.

"Move," he barked, and they surged forward like a pack of starving wolves, armor clattering, boots crunching through the debris. The sound of their advance rolled across the wreckage like thunder.

Rax watched them go, metal fingers flexing. Poor alien bastards, holed up in their broken ship, probably thinking they were safe. Probably thinking they could just walk into his territory, take what they wanted. His mechanical arm whirred as he made a fist.

Almost made him feel bad for them. Almost.