Samara laughed as she snuggled in close to Azrael, the pair walking through a tiny village on the Zajubaht homeworld. Ever since the day he’d rescued her from the torments of rehabilitation and taken over her training, the two had spent hours together honing her skills. With her newfound abilities, from computer infiltration to weapons training, she soon realized she was being groomed for something special. She’d had strong misgivings on the subject, but Azrael had quickly laid them to rest. He’d even helped pick out her Clan name... Samara. In ancient Sanskrit it meant “Accompanied by Gods”. She’d loved the power of it, the majesty, the way it slipped from the tongue... but the way Azrael said it as he whispered in her ear sent shivers down her spine.

“You know as well as I do how dangerous the Universe is,” he explained, “and if we’re going to survive as a species, we need to learn every trick we can. And someday soon, when we’re ready, we’ll put those skills to good use.”

“What do you mean?” she’d asked.

“For two centuries now, ever since we lost the homeworld, we’ve been treated by the other races as if we were something they scraped off their shoe. But we’ve also been preparing, and there will come a day when we’ll be able to carve out a corner of the galaxy for ourselves.” He smiled and gave her a conspiratorial wink.

“Really? It sounds heavenly,” she sighed, “though I doubt I’ll live to see it.” She turned to face him. “And in the meantime?”

Azrael shrugged. “In the meantime, we earn our keep,” he grimaced. “Our implants, the gene therapies, the training, none of it comes cheap. The races paying the freight all expect a return on their investment. It’s the price of doing business.” He leaned in, and said softly, “But what they don’t realize is what we’re doing with those same abilities, and all that training. To paraphrase something one our own once said; ‘The Troika will sell us the rope with which we will hang them’.”

After that, she’d thrown herself into her training like a woman possessed... or merely one who had finally found a cause worth fighting for.

And now they were out and about, celebrating. Somehow Azrael had wrangled passage to Zajubaht, booking a reservation on a secluded island getaway that rivaled any tropical paradise back on old Earth. For three blissful days they’d enjoyed all the resort offered: sun and surf by day, drinks and dinner in the evening, and at night…

Looking back, she wasn’t sure how it began. Had she leaned in for that first kiss? Had he? Not that it mattered. Soon they were inseparable, both during training and when off duty. For the lonely little cripple girl that still lived inside of her, in those dark places she feared to look, falling in love with Azrael had been a dream come true. It was as if she were some fairy-tale princess whose godmother had given her everything she wished for with a wave of her wand.

The pair came to a halt outside an expensive home. Azrael pulled her in close and pressed his lips to hers as she melted in his embrace. The blood pounded in her ears as she looked up and whispered, “I never want this moment to end.”

He smiled and brushed back an errant lock of hair away from her face. “Nor do I, but... there’s something I need you to do.”

“Anything,” she promised, her eyes glistening.

He inclined his head towards the mansion. “Follow the fence to the right. On the far side, you’ll see a waste bin near the service entrance. You’ll find a box secured behind it. Remove the box from the bin and dispose of it, then take what you find into the house. Top floor, southwest corner.” His eyes bore into hers. “Leave no witnesses.”

Samara froze, the words catching in her throat. Surely, he couldn’t mean…

“I warned you from the start we had to earn our keep,” he reminded her, as she struggled to process it all. “Our Patrons have invested heavily in you, and now they want proof their time and money were well spent.” He glanced back at the house. “It’s graduation day, Samara.”

She found her voice at last. “... and if I refuse?” she whispered.

Azrael sighed. “That would be... unfortunate,” he said. He let the implications of that statement hang in the air, like a timer ticking down to zero.

Bowing her head, Samara closed her eyes. “And after?” she asked.

His lips found hers once more. “Come find me,” he whispered... but when she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

She stood there, hoping it was some practical joke, that he’d leap out of the bushes and yell “Surprise!”, but in her heart, she knew. Somehow, she’d always known.

Fairy Godmothers didn’t really exist, and miracles all came with a price.

Samara turned, following the fence as he’d instructed her... and embraced her destiny.

----------------------------------------

Kalypso and Xeno sat waiting as Samara struggled to respond. “I don’t suppose you’d buy ‘It’s not what it looks like’?” she asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not,” Xeno answered.

“I didn’t think so,” she sighed. I hope you have some idea how to handle this, she silently prodded Guardian, banking he could hear her.

... You must allay their concerns, Guardian countered. Dissuade them somehow.

“I’m wearing a blouse with bloodstains and a damn knife mark,” she snapped. “Somehow I don’t think they’ll be dissuaded.”

There was a long, pregnant pause, before all involved reacted.

“... Shit,” Samara said once again, her hand covering her face in chagrin.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Who are you talking to?” Kalypso demanded.

... Which part of ‘dissuade’ were you unclear about? Guardian sighed.

“Everybody just be quiet for a moment!” Samara shouted, holding out her hands. “Just... give me a minute here.”

Xeno and Kalypso shared another one of their looks, and this one she recognized all too well. It was the one that screamed, “Samara’s lost her vertical hold”.

“Now you listen to me, I am not crazy,” she snapped.

“No, of course not,” Xeno said gently. “We’re your friends, Samara. We just want to help.” Kalypso nodded in agreement too quickly to be anything but an attempt in humoring her before they jabbed her with a hypo.

... It seems we have little choice, Guardian said unhappily. I believe your crew mates are about to secure you some place where you cannot harm yourself. They will fail, but it seems more prudent to explain what is happening than to cause them permanent injury.

“Oh boy,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “So... funny story…”

The two stared at her.

“Right... so much for humor.” Samara took a deep breath. “Okay, the short version is this; that box we found? The one that has been saving my life... our lives? It turns out that it’s sort of... alive.”

Xeno’s eye twitched.

“Okay, not alive, exactly,” she said in a rush. “Just filled with alien Avatars. Kind of.”

Kalypso managed a counterfeit smile. “And they’re... talking to you?” she volunteered, using that tone of voice reserved for small children and the dangerously insane.

Samara groaned. “Forget it. Guardian... and I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but... maybe you’d better take over.”

... It is probably for the best, he agreed.

There was a brief sensation that was distinctly uncomfortable as he slid into the driver’s seat... only this time she was wide awake. Granted, she was now just a passenger within her own body, that lack of control making her want to scream and try to break free, but she reined the impulse in. After all, she’d invited him.

From Kalypso’s perspective Samara’s posture changed slightly, just enough for her to sit up and take notice, and while Xeno couldn’t see her directly, he could infer by whatever arcane process he used to recognize that something had shifted.

“I am called Guardian,” he said, the timbre and inflections of his voice sounding radically different from her normal speech. “I am linked to Samara through her central nervous system. And while her description of myself as an Avatar is not precisely accurate, it is acceptable for these purposes.”

Xeno cocked his head, his brain suddenly in overdrive. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Just how are you altering your voice, Samara? Are you employing the same process you use to shapeshift?” Kalypso, on the other hand, merely gaped at her.

Guardian regarded him in turn. “Do you want me to prove that what I am saying is true? If you wish, I could retrieve the Cognate responsible for piloting this vessel to safety after your aborted attack.”

“I thought... you didn’t remember that” Kalypso stuttered.

“Samara does not possess those memories,” Guardian confirmed, “but as I am attempting to explain, I am not Samara.”

“If you are not Samara, then who are you?” Xeno inquired.

“That will take time to explain,” Guardian demurred, “and I would prefer not to control Samara’s nervous system any longer than is necessary. Already she is becoming... agitated.”

I am not, Samara sniffed inside her skull. All right... maybe a little, she amended.

“Sounds like her,” Kalypso admitted, “but how can we be sure?”

“You say you are linked to her brain,” Xeno said carefully. “How are you accomplishing this?”

Yeah, how are you? Samara chimed in.

“We can form a connection using what you would call nanotechnology,” Guardian explained. “It is also how we repaired her injuries.” He paused for a moment, cocking his head. “I will now relinquish control back to Samara. I fear she is growing increasingly distressed.”

There was yet another shift as everything about her subtly changed once again. Samara shuddered, cringing and shaking her head. “God, I hate that,” she said to herself, shaking out her arms and legs as she fought to calm back down.

“This is crazy,” Kalypso whispered.

“You should try it from this side,” Samara agreed.

“You are saying this is true then,” Xeno said carefully. “Not some elaborate bit of tomfoolery.”

“Seriously, Xeno, what would be the point?” she said, exasperated. “Yes, it’s real. Somehow that box linked with me when Jibril shot me in the back, and it’s only now made actual contact.”

“Then where did it come from?” Kalypso demanded. “Who made that box, and what’s its purpose? What do they want?”

Her forehead wrinkled as she struggled to answer. “All good questions,” she said finally. “Hold on, I’ll ask.”

... Well? she silently queried Guardian.

... I’m afraid I cannot answer those questions, he admitted. I do not yet have the proper reference data to explain the answers to you in any sort of meaningful fashion.

“Seriously?” she exclaimed, startling the other two. “You can’t even tell me what you want?”

There was a moment of silence.

... We want to go home, Guardian said softly.

----------------------------------------

But even as the pair attempted to explain their situation to the others, a vastly different conversation was taking place a dozen meters away.

“If this truly is an Interregnum, then it is by far the most abnormal set of circumstances I have ever heard of,” Cherdor Hosk argued. “Some other factor must be at work.”

“What else could it be?” Erhair Dresh countered. “Guardian’s own internal chronology confirms the time loss. It is... staggering.”

All present turned towards Guardian, who inclined his head in confirmation. For now he was acting solely as moderator, providing data when requested and ensuring the discussion did not descend into some savage verbal brawl.

“I am not arguing the time loss,” Hosk answered, “but there are still far too many unanswered questions before us to assume anything at this point.”

“Such as?” Sothan Golthe inquired.

“It is the genetic coding I find most disturbing,” Rithir Merkott interjected. “Had I realized just how far our host deviated from the projected norm, I would have immediately requested the services of a First Grade.”

“An excellent point,” Hosk agreed. “While the host carries markers that are undeniably tied to the Progenitors, they are so heavily diluted as to beggar all imagination. And given how many other strands have been introduced into our host, how can we be certain the markers are not merely grafts as well?”

“There is a clear delineation between the grafted components of her genetic code and the original elements,” Merkott disagreed. “The strands in question are hers. There is no doubt.”

“And yet she does not know of our race,” Hosk said dismissively, “not even legends. I find this disturbing.”

“Given the length of time that has passed, that could easily explain her lack of familiarity,” Golthe pointed out. “In addition, losing her homeworld may have erased all traces of their racial memory regarding the Progenitors.”

“Do we know if her homeworld is the location of Threshold?” Dresh asked pointedly. “If it is all lost…”

Once again, all faced Guardian, who this time broke his silence. “We are still assimilating and interpreting the astronomical data our host has provided. Given the stunning amount of time that has passed, correlating the data will not be a simple task. Currently, we do not know.”

“Then how are we to proceed?” Merkott asked the others.

“Two possibilities lie before us,” Hosk said with confidence, “either it is, or it is not. If not, we can sever our ties with the host and search elsewhere.”

“And if it is?” Golthe asked pointedly.

No one seemed to have an answer to that.