Dreva clawed at her datapad, equally frustrated and confused by what the display was showing her.
Conor, or whatever this Humans name was, had not taken well to most of the drugs and medication she had administered to him over the last few weeks, and she fully understood why.
In all her years as the royal doctor or a medical captain in the Kurlatra Imperial Army, no one had ever been this freakishly wired up. If she could not see the Humans' X-rays and echo-grams, she would not believe someone could be almost half made of metal.
Dreva would have called Huratal a liar if the goddess had said this was possible, but she was looking at proof, which was as unbelievable as speaking to the ancients.
While the man's wiring was a shock, that was not the main thing Dreva initially wondered. She wished to know more than anything where the fifth princess found this cog-head.
The vast majority of the tech stuffed inside him was in no way a standard off-the-shelf part. They were individual augments designed exactly for him and his needs. If only she had half an idea what even a tenth of the larger components did. By Urla, she would surrender half a year's wages just to know about the ones intertwined or replacing some of his vital organs.
If she had that information, all the issues she had been tackling might have been nonexistent.
Drevan was not a technician by any stretch of the imagination. The most complicated technical thing she had ever done was plug in a microwave. She was a doctor and not a multispecies specialist common in the GU; she was a specialist exclusively in Kurlatra. This Human was constant guesswork.
The last two weeks had been filled with sleepless nights, near-death experiences of Conor, and more schematics than she could tolerate. At least Isula, the leading ship engineer, could lend her a hand while removing the Human's arm.
She would rather shove the Human out of an airlock and go back to just having to check in on the sailor's health and deal with minor injuries from the Marines' training.
Too bad the High Champion and the fifth princess insisted on the Humans' survival. Both of them were constantly breathing down her neck for updates and information about him—well, the princess was. It had gotten to the point where Drevan had disconnected her datapad to keep Eivaley from calling her every hour.
With how the Humans body was trying to rip itself apart, she had to always be in the room, ready to administer enough sedatives to put a fully grown Pulaka in the grave twenty times over. Yet this man was barely kept still by them.
But all of that was only a temporary solution. Each new medication, and sedative only lasted a day at most. Then Conors augmented organs adapted to them, and they were as helpful as injecting a placebo.
Drevan had at least one thing going her way in this messed up situation. The nanite therapy she administered the first day to stitch together the broken bones, fileted skin, and the body-wide bruise on her patient.
Now, other than the light scaring left on Conor's lower back, you could hardly tell he had been injured. Even his tachycardia had been fixed, which was a notable improvement from when he arrived.
At the time, Conor's heart rate was inconsistent. It was either so fast her sensors could hardly detect beating, or it would speed up and slow down regularly. Now, the Human's heart was at a slow, steady fifty BPM. At least her reading on humans assured her that was in the realm of possibilities, so she would not mess with his heart at this point.
As she finished her near-hourly check-up on Conor, the Human started mumbling again. He just kept repeating names and apologizing about something. Why he was apologizing to the princess, someone named Brakul, and another named Stitch was beyond her—but she had seen this enough.
The Human certainly had some form of PTSD. Even without building a complete psychological profile on him, she could tell that much. Dreva had treated enough warriors haunted by specters to recognize nightmares.
Sighing, Dreva prepared another injection of Ifuliton, her last sedative, which she had not used on Conor. Once the Human had stopped squirming and calling out to Brakul and Eivaley, she slid back and looked around the room.
It was just a simple medical room in the intensive care unit on the Lanseak Brigandul class ship. There was nothing in the sterile white room that would help her restrain Conor once he awakens.
While yes she hoped he would not flip out and attack everyone and everything when he wakes up, she knows Conor overdosed on Zurega. When he wakes up, Conor will likely try to kill everyone; either that, or he will be as docile as a newborn kit. Honestly, the jury was up on that because Zurega was not designed with humans in mind.
She messaged the High Champion and informed him of the situation. That Conor would have to be restrained shortly, and how she had nothing to keep him in a coma. And to keep her own ass covered, she detailed that with Conor's particular situation, what would happen when he awakes is entirely unknown.
It took a few minutes, but the High Champion messaged her back and told her he and the royal guard would be down there to transport him and her to the brig. He explained that at least there, he and Conor could have a talk once Conor calmed down from his overdose.
—
Conor awakening from the medically induced entombment he had been in for the last several weeks was a long process, even for his wired-up body. Though for his conscious mind, he had only passed out in the middle of their escape from Heavalun a few minutes earlier.
Every moment since he passed out after leaping into the Heavalun River, each fading moment of lucidity and the long periods of dreaming were bursting at the seams with nightmares beyond any he had ever experienced. None of the snapping specters of his past could hold a candle to the weighing guilt these ghasts made him feel.
There was a steady mixture of the sights, sounds, and smells of long-forgotten battles on distant worlds and more recent and vivid failures.
The old memories were filled to the brim with flayed corpses, sobbing warriors, desperate hostages, begging locals, and mangled former allies barely clinging to life.
The vast majority of the haunting events were things Conor had long since made his peace with. While being reminded of them in vivid detail was not enjoyable, it was tolerable for him.
Those memories would have undoubtedly brought a lesser man to the brink of clearing out their grape with a blaster bolt—but not Conor.
The thing about the dreams that slid knives across his soul was the more recent failures; they were violent and ready for him.
Smoke-crafted specters of Brakul, Stitch, and Eivaley berated and insulted Conor's ability to fight and save them. He was not good enough to save them, fast enough, strong enough, a good enough friend, brother, son, or champion.
While those uncountable methods were painful to hear, one dream repeated like a broken record—enough so Conor would never forget its sights and sounds until he met Urla.
The dream would begin with Conor running down the streets of Heavalun, the same one that he had been doing so to rush to save Brakul. It was surreal how accurately the dream began; nothing was different. The cars were in the same spot, Voodals gangers were there, and he slaughtered them just as he had in real life. One searing blaster bolt at a time.
Everything changed once he rounded the corner after dusting the group behind the barricades. A vile, smokey darkness enveloped the world, shoving Conor to his knees and ripping all breath from him.
As Conor gasped in the acrid air, his weapons would crumble to dust in his hand.
Moments before the darkness fully enveloped him and caused his death, an echoing, commanding, yet oh-so-familial chuckle pushed away the darkness.
“You know, when we got out of the gutter, this is not how I saw all this going.” Brakuls voice boomed from all corners of the world, carving into Conor like icy blades.
While sucking in a gasping breath, Conor looked up and saw the figure of Brakul and Stitch standing only a few meters away. But something was wrong with them. It was like they were made out of hard light—that was smoking.
Billowing vapor as black as coal whipped around their bodies and trailed each motion they made. The two specters whisted closer until they were on each side of Conor. Then, the torment began.
Brakul put his foot atop Conor and effortlessly shoved him to the ground. “By Urla, I should have just let you go feral. It would have saved me trouble.”
Pushing against the ground, Conor struggled to move under Brakul's weight. His pseudo-father's words felt like a hammer battering his being, forcing him down more. That made frustrating sense to Conor. Brakul was always the one who succeeded effortlessly. Conor was the one who had to struggle to get anywhere—why would his dreams be any different from reality?
“What’s wrong? Can't make the grade again?” Brakul mocked.
Conor attempted to reply, but no words escaped his lips. It was like they were being absorbed into the cold void of Heavaluns' streets, decaying and vanishing into obscurity, just like countless souls did daily.
At the same time, Stitch grabbed hold of Conor's metal arm at the base and pulled it out as effortlessly as breathing. Unlike usual, when Stitch removed his arm for repairs, the base around Conor's shoulder and chest all came off.
Burning agony shot through Conor's body as his skin, nerve, and nerve endings were slowly pulled apart. After a grueling few moments, the spine-chilling sound of snapping bone cracked like a whip, sending fiery pain through him as the cold air caressed open nerves.
“You know when I installed this, and the rest of your tech, I thought of it as an investment into my safety. Look at what that got me,” Stitch said, looking at the dangling pink nerve endings hanging from the metal arms union point, seemingly fascinated by the masterful union of man and metal he had created.
“But we all make mistakes—you especially; I mean, just look at what you let happen to her.” Stitch finished, pointing a bloody finger in front of Conor.
“Yeah, Champion, take a good long look at your handiwork,” Brakul snarled, yanking on Conor's fiery hair and making him look toward Eivaley—or at least the horrible specter mimicking that gorgeous woman.
Eivaley listlessly swayed back and forth like a wheat shoot in a summer's breeze. The dim light glistened off her nude form, accentuating everything wrong with her; the woman Conor found breathtaking to the point if she asked him to give her the clothes on his back, he would without hesitation.
Now though—none of that woman were within the flesh of this ghoul. She had been battered, marred, and defiled.
Ribbons of scaled skin hung off her now bony frame, detritus flickering out of ripped silken robes and falling to the ground around her.
By Ural, she was skin and bones. Every rib and angular line of her skelature was plainly visible. She winced and struggled as uncountable wounds across her body dripped blood and offered a clear view of lacerated maggot-filled muscles.
Her look was horrific; Eivley's specter looked like a walking corpse. While that was visible, it made Conor feel a noose tightening on his neck; what truly got to him was what the corpse lacked.
Eyes.
Instead of her typical hypnotic gems, two voids of black of all-consuming and incomprehensibly intimidating depth as the long stretches of nothingness between hospitable planetoids stared back.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Despite being unable to emote, those hollowed-out voids somehow communicated an infectious betrayed gaze that weighed the human soul.
“To think I trusted you!” Eivaley hissed, stamping her foot, a large section of her digitigrade leg slopping off and onto the ground. “But look at what you let happen.”
A sinking guild filled Conor's mind. As hard as he tried to save her, he failed. This had to be Urla's judgment of his soul. The god laid out all of Conor's sins to bear against him, the most recent being his greatest.
“Please, I did not—” Conor Started, but Brakul shoved his face into the deck, crushing his nose with a horrific snap.
“Shut the fuck up, mutt,” Brakul growled, wrenching Conor's head back up, letting blood flow out his nose.
“I was ready to give it all to you. I would have taken you all away from Heavalun. But you— let Voodal kill me. Some champion you turned out to be,” Eivaley chastised, stepping closer and letting more flesh fall to the ground, revealing white bone.
“Come on, hero, save her,” Brakul sniggered, lifting Conor by the hair and tossing him toward Eivaley.
With a loud slap, Conor's body barreled through Eivaley, crushing her under his weight. Eivaleys blood soaked Conor's skin and left a trail as he settled several meters past her during his tumble.
Conor scrambled from the ground and rushed to her mangled body. Eivaley looked vapidly toward the sky, her chest crushed and the remainder of her twisted at unnatural, grotesque angles.
“It’s ok, I got you,” Conor said, reaching out toward her head so she could look at him. Her vapid blank eyeholes be damned, he needed to look at her and assure his charge it would all be ok.
The moment Conor's hand touched Eivaley's cheek, it disintegrated into ash. In a panic, Conor scrambled and grabbed at her hand, much to the same effect. Eivaley did not give a word, whimper, or spare him a glance as she faded away, leaving him entirely alone.
That was the last thing Conor could remember about the nightmare because that was where it began again. It repeated again and again, like a broken record for what felt like a millennium.
All Conor wanted as Urla thrust his failures upon him was not to have failed her. To have kept Eivaley safe. She deserved that much. Conor was just not good enough. And she suffered for it.
“Are you awake yet?” A booming commandment echoed out as Conor unsealed his eyes and grunted in pain in front of the sudden wash of light.
Conor squinted, shielding his eyes from the light, “I’m dead; it’s not like being speedy matters,” he growled, still genuinely believing he had died in Heavalun and this was some kind of afterlife. Conor had yet to see whether it was Urla’s or some other god, but he had plenty of time—it wasn’t like he could return to the mortal coil.
“Well, you aren't dead. So get up,” The voice replied.
Something about the voice was odd. It was not commanding like Brakul or himself, but it oozed a reserved confidence. It was a type Conor had seen a few times with sentients around Heavalun. As such, Conor knew one thing about wherever was talking; they must have loads of experience.
Every fiber of Conor's muscles screamed in agony when he attempted to sit up and take stock of his new captor and the situation he was landing waist-deep in. For all he knew, Conor was dragged out of the Up-armored and into the old city's deepest reaches, waiting for Voodal to come and skin him alive.
Down in those tunnels, not even the Zlit rats wanted anything to do with your corpse.
As he sat upright, it was as if his metal arm had phased through the bed, causing him to collapse back to its hard, unwelcoming surface.
“Oh yeah, we had to remove your arm. Something about that, without a drug, it would rip you apart once you woke up. So take it easy,” The voice said, with a cruel chuckle at the end.
Well, at least that told Conor this person had no intention of killing him. They would not have warned him nor have gone through the trouble of disconnecting the limb if they wanted him dead. It also informed Conor of another detail: the length of time he had been out for.
If his augments risked killing him, he must have been out for at least a week. That meant he needed to slow down and treat each motion like it would split him in half. Not having his arm was safer than having it, but his musculature was so wired up that each fiber fired on all cylinders constantly that it made little difference.
Hopefully they still had some of Stitch’s cocktail he could use.
Conor sat back up, moving at a painfully slow pace after years of his augments moving faster and with more force than naturally possible for any human.
Slowly scanning the room, Conor confirmed a thought that crawled into his mind once he hit the hard mattress. He was in a prison cell of some kind.
The room was no bigger than a transport conex box. If Conor had both of his arms, he could touch all the walls while standing in the center. Cramped into that space were the bed, a toilet, a sink, and a small desk, leaving no real room for anything else. At least he knew this was not Heavaluns' prison. That panopticon had no toilet or desk but was roomier than this.
On the other side of a shimmering hard-light barrier sat a man Conor had not met before but was well aware of because of the research into Eivaley Brakul had conducted. Vuraley, the High Champion of the Kurlatra Empire, and Eivaleys, dear old dad, or as she referred to the man daddy.
Vuraley was everything Conor had imagined he would be and then some. Granted, all he had to go on was a mugshot and publicly available information on the man. But that information told him the man had thwarted dozens, if not hundreds, of assassination, attempts against the Kurlatra empress and fought on more battlefields than there were stars in the sky.
That insurmountable experience showed in the confident presence that poured off the man. It was not angelic or caring as one would expect of Urla or her angels. No, this burned like fire yet was as controlled as the blade of a Shelak monk.
The High Champion looked to be about as tall as Conor and was even more of a bruiser. His heavy muscle mass pressed tightly against what looked like meant-to-be loose-fitting trousers.
The top of his V-tapered torso was wrapped in a set of golden half-plate with sleek matching pauldrons and vambraces. How a monster as large as him could fit into that without busting the metal open like a tin can was beyond Conor, but apparently, his armorer found a way.
But considering the Kurlatras' technological capabilities, Conor doubted the armor was as simple as it appeared. The armor likely was some kind of power suit, which, if it were the case, could mean a myriad of things.
Vuraley could have enhanced speed, strength, volt shielding, or plasmitic repulsers, to name a few. In many ways, power armor and suits were used by non-augments to bridge the gap between them and people like Conor. Most people just could not afford the ludicrously expensive pieces of kit.
Vuraley leaned forward, and his dark scales shimmered in the light. Unlike Eivaley, whose scales were as red as the most vibrant ruby, Vuraley's were such a dark crimson that they appeared nearly black.
Like his daughter, Vuraley sported emerald eyes that held a discerning disposition, cutting through Conor and staring into his soul. But unlike her, whatever he saw he must not like. That was evident in how his hand groped at the odd pistol on his hip.
Apparently even with the hard-light barrier, the man was weary of Conor.
Conor’s eyes slowly shifted from Vuraley’s to the weapon and tried to piece together what it was. The pistol had three sharp prongs mounted around a polished golden crystal. It somewhat resembled the plas-casters the Coheliks used, but those only had two prongs and had that odd spiralling grip. This had a handle that looked like a push saw with a trigger.
“So what do you want?” Conor asked, looking up from the weapon and back at Vuraley.
“To talk to you and have you answer some questions,” Vuraley smirked.
“Well, that's wonderful, but before that, I have a question,” Conor said, standing up and walking toward the light barrier, the dull hum of it getting louder as he approached.
Vuraley looked up and raised a brow, pausing to consider Conor. With his head raised, Conor got a look at something interesting about the man. On his neck was a ghost-white design that resembled a coiled serpent. The scales in the design were easy enough to see because of the colors and because they were not in line with his own scales.
Conor did not know that Eivaleys' species could get tattoos, nor was he aware that they performed any body-modding other than piercings. The little gold rings in the small horns running up Eivaley's snout were evidence of that.
“Oh, and what might that be?” Vuraley sniggered, giving the Human some concession.
“Where is she?” Conor almost growled.
Vuraley chuckled in response, and his entire demeanor shifted. He let go of his weapon and set back to lounge. “That was not what I assumed you would have asked. I was expecting you to ask for money for getting her to us.”
Conor paused momentarily, realizing that he had not even considered money. What the fuck? He always cared about money—if it did not get him crit, he would never have done anything over the last few years. Why was the first thing he asked about her?
“Don’t worry, she is safe. She is on her ship and following ours while we are jumping to the GU border,” Vuraley explained, not letting Conor dwell on the idea he asked about the little princess first thing. Instead, Vuraley looked up toward the ceiling and sighed. “You know she has been asking about you every day constantly—you must have made some impression.”
Did he make an impression? Fuck yeah, he did. Conor got her out of a warzone, had her legs weak, and was watching over her for several days. She better have an appreciation for him.
“I’m just glad to know she is safe,” Conor sighed, letting the tension of the dream and her death fade. At least that was one of the three in his dream who was still alive. He could do nothing for Brakul or Stitch at this point. But at least he did not fail her.
“Well, now that you do. I need to know something from you,” Vuraley said, leaning on his knees and gesturing back to the bed so Conor could sit. “I need to know what happened down there.”
“I’m not getting out of here if I don’t tell you, will I?” Conor sighed, not wanting to relive those fresh memories.
“We will dump you somewhere if you refuse. But if you want to see my daughter again. You will tell me.” Vuraley hissed, two fangs shimmering in the light, venom dripping from them. “Now tell me.”
Conor scratched the back of his head and considered it for a mere heartbeat. Yeah, he could start again on a new distant planet. But who knew how well that would go? He would need more stims made and would only have whatever Vuraley let him have—either way, he needed to tell the man the truth, whether he was doing this to see Eivaley again or not.
“Alright, but I want my stuff blacked,” Conor sighed, sitting on the cold metal floor next to the barrier before explaining the last two weeks on Heavalun and what went on.
Conor spent the next hour explaining everything that had happened, from how he and Brakul spotted Eivaley and her entourage being attacked to how they extracted her in hopes of getting money.
Then he explained her treatment by stitch and the follow-up days before Voodal attacked, and Brakul and stitch died. Conor also mentioned that he thinks someone might be out to assassinate Eivaley, but Vuraley seemed disturbingly unsurprised by that.
By Urla, Conor even explained how Eivaley and he almost fucked. It wasn’t like Conor genuinely cared whether the man was royalty or her father. He asked for everything to be explained, so Conor did just that.
For the most part, Vuraley seemed unphased by anything Conor said. He simply nodded and took it all in. The only shift in his expression was when Conor mentioned his and Eivaley's hookup. But it wasn’t angry or anything; no, he seemed curious and looked at Conor like he was uncertain of something.
Once Conor had explained all of that, Vuraley sat silently for a few moments. He pulled out a datapad and sent a message to someone before sighing and looking back at Conor with a smile.
“While I can’t say I appreciate you taking her in the hopes of getting money. In an odd roundabout way, you saved her in the end. So thank you for helping her,” Vuraley admitted.
Conor nodded and watched as Vuraley stood up and approached the edge of the barrier. He reached out and pressed his palm into a section of the wall Conor could not see. He paused for several moments, then looked back at Conor. His expression was filled with a palpable mixture of fear and hesitance. “Tell me, do you want a job? With my daughter's assigned champion having died, she needs a new one.”
“What, you want me to be her champion like she asked?” Conor questioned.
“No, I am asking if I can hire you to be her bodyguard and assigned champion. You, being her actual champion, is between you and her,” Vuraley hissed, something still bugging him about the situation at hand.
“Why the hell would you hire me? I am falling apart without my medication. I kidnapped your daughter and can’t even save my friends,” Conor belittled himself.
Vuraley ran his hand along the wall, and the light barrier faded into nothingness. He stepped over and loomed over Conor, still on the deck. “Because She wants it. And I can’t tell my little girl no.”
Oh that is just precious. The war veteran is weak to his daughter. That was something Conor had not expected but would not deny it could help him.
“Tell me, what is in it for me?” Conor asked, standing up and looking Vuraley eye to eye, chest to chest, man to man, warrior to warrior.
They held one another's burning gaze like two boxers, ready to square off, waiting for the other to flinch or show the slightest hesitation. But neither did.
“I can get you on payroll, into the GU, your precious stims, and of course, you will get to be around Eivaley,” Vuraley said without hesitation, patting Connors' shoulder. It was a gesture Conor had felt from Brakul when he coached him on things; feeling it from this man felt calming, welcoming, and noncombative.
That was not a bad deal. It would take Conor far longer than he likely had to get more stims. Plus a payroll, meaning constant pay, no more contracts or odd jobs—-who doesn’t want that?
Then there was Eivaley. The idea of her being around more, teasing him, and letting him tease her was mouth-watering. He could not deny that he would like that.
“But there is one thing I need from you. Eivaley needs to explain to you what she tried to do by claiming you because that was stepping over a line,” Vuraley said, stepping back from Conor.
“What the hell do you mean it was just sex,” Conor shrugged with his one arm.
“No, it was not,” Vuraley rolled his eyes. “It has more meaning than that, especially if she told you to be her champion.”
Conor considered the concept of it meaning more than that but did not do so for long. It's not like lingering on that would matter. And Vuraley certainly was the type who would ever explain. He would have to ask Eivaley.
“Alright, but what if I want to not stay forever?” Conor asked.
“Don’t worry, it’s just temporary. Unless you become Eivaley’s champion,” Vuraley assured, looking down the hallway at green-scaled Kurlatra, who had just rounded the corner, a large cart being pushed in front of them. “Ah, there is the doctor now. So what is your answer?” He said, looking back at Conor.
Conor sighed and weighed everything but could not think of any reason this was not his best option. Sure, he did not know Vuraley or the Kurlatra, but he trusted Eivaley. Something about that woman just put him at ease.
“I want to see a contract in writing,” Conor said, pulling out a lesson from Brakul.
“I can do that; now, come on. Dreva has your stims and will have to reinstall your arm,” Vuraley replied, walking down the hallway.
Conor followed, and once he heard the doctor asking why he was out of the cell, he figured out something.
Vuraley knew he would say yes. As if the High Champion could read Conor's mind, he looked over his shoulder at the human and gave the most shit-eating smirk he had ever seen