_ 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚛

───── quotev specials

_ broken sun triple threat | luka, nero, avalon

_ fermi paradox oh saviour, captor | iskandar only victory | iskandar siren of the soil | xerxes

_ steel on glass by your side, euthymia | pavel

───── tumblr originals

_ flawed psyche [0] android x f!reader | Cupionic's latest Likelike model, the Eros-III, is guaranteed to bring customer satisfaction!

SIREN OF THE SOIL

To distinguish the royal from the common, the title of “king” was created. To distinguish primality in regency, the term “king of kings” was thus made. Khan of khans, shah of shahs, sultan of sultans—all to mean emperor, to mean someone simply superior. That above the powerful, there exists a singular omnipotent entity. A not-quite god, but something indubitably close.

The Iranian king of kings—‘𐎧𐏁𐎹𐎠𐎼𐏁𐎠’. Khshayarsha. Renown for his invasion of Hellas. Now he is known by their tongue, Old Iranian cuneiform alphabetised to Phoenician Greek; Xerxes. To be remembered in your enemy’s language. Whether this is humiliation or honour is up to personal interpretation.

You gave him a ruler’s name because that is what he is. Unlike Iskandar, a commander. Or Boudica and Subutai, warriors. Solomon, a king maybe, but a sage first and foremost. No, Xerxes is not a product of wartime, despite observed Oracle culture insofar being inseparable from war. Xerxes is very much administration. Yes, for all their marvellous innovations in violence, the Oracles too are bogged down by the banalities of bureaucracy. To be civilised from chaos is to be shackled by systems in the end. Pity.

When you first glimpsed him, white like Solomon yet liveried like Iskandar, you did not know what to think. You only knew to acknowledge that what floated before you was no mere Oracle grunt, but a revelation into the complexities of an alien society. Was he a monarch or a democratically-elected representative? A despot? A feudal lord? Chieftain? Would human concepts even describe his role? Or does there exist a phrase in your human languages that already does so perfectly?

King of kings.

His governance is supreme. He oversees the battlestation, the Sword of Damocles. Iskandar reports to him. Solomon reports to him. Subutai, that monster, obeys him like the mad dog he is—crazed but loyal to his owner. Yet he does not exude the same dangerous energy they do. No, he is tranquil in an utmost unusual contrast to every other Oracle you’ve seen.

You wonder if Xerxes does paperwork. If he sits in his office all day sometimes like Aegis, dutifully signing documents in triplicate. Or does he have a hobby similar to golfing? Something rich dads with time to waste do for recreation. Yes, he does seem like a rich white suburban dad…upper-middle class in the very least…

Solomon, who has the unfortunate burden of monitoring you, must have realised you were losing your mind. So, for enrichment purposes you presume, he’s enrolled you into the care of some of his colleagues—other random white Oracles. You’re passed around in rotation like a foster child. Some choose to conduct tests. Others just have you tagging along on their duties.

You’re playing with weird Oracle goo under the supervision of a workaholic white Oracle when you meet him again.

Both she and you look up when the door scales away into the wall, revealing Xerxes in all his glory; white as ghost in a blizzard, as a mountain peak before the dark sky of his cloak. You squint at it, trying and failing to find where the black hole warps the smattering of stars on the interior.

Your babysitter erects herself immediately with a cross salute. Xerxes tilts down his helm, signalling for her to be ‘at ease’. They chime a conversation, voices shimmering like aurorae. The babysitter salutes again and quickly leaves.

You move to follow. Only to find Xerxes unbudging, blocking the door. He has no guards with him, no security detail or Subutai (thank all the gods). His helm is angled at you. And though you cannot see his face, you are certain the weight of his gaze is crushing you right now. Why else would you be struggling to breathe?

“A-Ah…” You croak out, too high-pitched to be even remotely charismatic. “Hello!”

Xerxes makes a noise. It glitters. A greeting perhaps? You’re not sure. But it’s acknowledgement. Unlike the other losers who’ve had to look after you, Xerxes actually cares enough to attempt communication.

“I’m [name]!” You chirp, still nervous, still stiff.

Xerxes warbles again. A cosmic choir of sounds, languid and lush. It makes you wonder if Oracles do ASMR.

“Solomon wants me to hang out with his friends—ah…I mean, coworkers?” You explain, itching your cheek, gaze escaping sheepishly.

Xerxes sings out a symphony. Another response. He really is talking to you. You light up, giddy and pleased, glancing back at him with an almost luminous hope.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, but it’s great! Thank you for speaking to me!” You bleat out.

Xerxes steps closer, cape drifting behind him, and circles around you, as if giving you a once over. You remain still, eyes tracking him patiently.

Eventually, he swats away the floating goo and places his talons on your shoulders, guiding you forward. You freeze up—of course you do, your body still remembers everything these creatures have done–but nevertheless you let him move you. Solomon has never harmed you. No white Oracle has. And perhaps this is just racism at its purest, but you trust the white ones more.

As you walk down the hallway in Xerxes’ tow, every Oracle stops to salute him. He doesn’t pay them any mind. A daily occurrence for him, probably. Reverence is the standard protocol.

Some, however, do a visible double take seeing you at his side. Yeah, the stinky human cramping his vibe. That’s you. You give out waves. No one waves back.

Xerxes takes you on a stroll. You pass through the helical corridors of the Sword, catching snippets of what normal life is like for the Oracles aboard. They eat together, they manage inbound and outbound logistics, they monitor communications; just like the humans of Babylon. You even see them messing around with their liquid-light contraptions. It’s almost like some kind of video game, and they’re playing multiplayer, jostling each other.

Your hands bunch to fists. There’s a fury stoked in the low throes of your heart at the sight of them happy. How could they? Would they have so gleefully slaughtered humanity if they had seen you playing Helldivers or Counterstrike together? Did they think only themselves as deserving of this sort of fun? Perhaps the observable universe, as vast as it is, is really too small after all.

Xerxes doesn’t notice your minuscule quivers. He guides you along to some kind of private lounge. It opens up to a nice viewport of outer space. Not that you’re in the mood to enjoy it anymore.

Relaxing over one of the low couches is Subutai. His solar eyes flare to Xerxes and he stands up immediately, saluting like all the rest.

You wrench back, hiding behind Xerxes, who doesn’t move, but seems to find amusement in your timid nature regardless. All Oracles are psychopathic to some degree. They simply cannot fathom feeling empathy towards humans.

Xerxes lifts an arm and spares a few words to Subutai, who makes a low and pleased growl. The latter doesn’t even look at you. Yet your neck burns hotter than the surface of the sun, ringed in phantom phosphoric pain.

Xerxes pushes you onto his lap as he settles on the couch. He doesn’t seem to mind touching you, unlike most other Oracles who find your human flesh icky. In fact, he actually strokes you—a talon running up and down your arm, feeling your shape and ensuring you stay put.

Subutai takes his spot behind Xerxes, standing at attention. Not once does he look down on you. You’re grateful for it, yet his looming doesn’t ease you in the slightest.

The far wall fades, revealing itself to be a translucent membrane. The room behind it is vacant of all things. It only has four walls, one of them being an airlock hatch to space.

You fall very still. Dread gnaws at your gut.

Xerxes lounges back and raises a claw. A cube lowers into the room. You lock eyes with the creature imprisoned within it.

Your lungs shrivel, dried of air. It’s nothing you’ve seen before. You count six eyes. Insectoid. Flesh like mud, yet rippled with incandescence like water being hit by light. Its body is viscous.

An alien not Oracle. Nor worm. And those eyes, beady and dark, it can’t be mistaken—consciousness shines within them. A beautiful yet damning glow belying soul.

You whip your head to Xerxes, who hasn’t stopped stroking your arm all this time. He trills a sound that’s almost sadistic. A laugh. You assign it to laughter.

He croons something. A charming little melody you cannot decipher. His free claw rises up to curl near your cheek.

“What,” you gulp, eyeing that claw, “are you doing?”

Xerxes’ claw stills. He glances behind him to Subutai, whose radiant eyes narrow ever-so-slightly in perceptive delight.

The chamber behind the glass hisses. White mist rises from the floor, forming clouds, forming storms. The muddy alien within recoils back, but it’s no use.

It takes less that a minute for the mist to touch it. It’s not immediate, but a slow agony. Torture. The alien’s flesh begins to melt. It bleeds black. Five minutes and the entire chamber becomes fogged.

You watch, unblinking, desperate to hear something. But the chamber is sound-proofed beyond belief. Whatever violent, distressed screams that alien is making is inaudible here in this lounge.

Until a loud thud has your skeleton freezing beneath all the tissue. A dark smear contaminates the glass as the alien thrashes against it. Pleading? Professing? Enduring penance for a mercy that will never be granted. You watch it become a puddle, just as you watched Sirius become rain.

When it's finally over, the airlock opens. The cold vacuum of space sucks away all the remains. A liquid hoses down the window and the blood, the chunks—it’s gone. Just like that, the chamber seals, and it's like nothing ever happened inside.

You don’t turn around. You don’t want to see what lies behind you. The truth of it, the reality.

But Xerxes merely forces you by your chin. You stare into the stark white emptiness of his helm, seeing only yourself reflected in its sheen.

He twinkles out a sentence; so soothing, so gentle, so at odds with what he’s just shown you. A voice of an angel, the very same that brought Sodom to sulfuric ruin.

His thumb brushes near your eye, wiping away a tear before it can drool down your cheek. You choke on a sob, unable to feign courage any longer. It could be you next in that gas chamber.

But it’s not. Another cube descends. Another alien. He croons again. The exact same syllables, the exact same prosody as before. Only now do you realise what this is. He is asking you for judgement. Using you as verdict.

You had chattered earlier, without understanding, simply enjoying the music of each other’s voice. You thought he liked yours, just as you did his. You were mistaken.

Your voice is merely ornament. A momentary novelty he has decided to make instrument for his executions today. And if you cannot learn how to say “No!” or “Stop!” before the next alien is cubed in, you will be no better than the blade of a murderer—the guillotine of Robespierre, the stakes of Vlad the Impaler.

You cry loudly. You remain silent. You try harsh sounds, soft phonemes. Monosyllabic murmurs and mumbling monologues. And you watch the aliens die each time, bleeding different colours, different materials. Yet all ejected into the frigid infinity of the cosmos in the end, lives lost and deaths to be forgotten.

The last one that comes in is an Oracle. Xerxes keeps his claw tight around your neck, where Subutai’s burn traces, forcing you to remain still despite how still you already are.

Then he asks you the same question. The one you cannot understand yet understand perfectly.

Does this one die?

You meet the Oracle’s gaze helplessly. Can he see your tears. Does he know what it means? You hate him and his kind. Yet even you know that to kill one’s own species is a special sort of cruelty. Perhaps he is a traitor. Perhaps you don’t have the full picture. Perhaps every alien you’ve sentenced to death was a prisoner of war. A criminal in their own right.

But it does not make this just.

“No!” You leap up. You grab Xerxes. You scream. “Don’t do it! I say stop! I command you to stop! I beg you! Please—please! Please…”

You descend into whimpers. Weak noises that make Xerxes cock his head in intrigue.

Mist hisses behind you. Your head dips. The tears fall freely now.

Xerxes brings his hand up. This time, instead of his thumb, a click reverberates. Silver feelers—Bioluminescent? Irradiated?—glide over your skin, sizzling away everything that drips from your eyes. He touches you tenderly. But you wish he wouldn’t.

Subutai watches, gaze lowered over the sight. His master nursing a feeble human. He makes no comment, but his eyes flare and narrow. The slightest indication of irritation.

The door to the lounge opens. In steps Iskandar. Unaccompanied and unexpected. Xerxes looks up, feelers still nipping at your cheeks, at the tapers of your eyes. Iskandar sees it.

One second, he’s by the door. The next, he’s right before you, golden feelers protracting and swallowing you into an energised embrace. Everywhere Xerxes had touched, he reclaims with his own glands. Cleaning you and stinging Xerxes away like a sea anemone.

Xerxes makes a remark, which Iskandar ignores. The black Oracle checks you with rough handling, prying open your mouth and peering into your ear canals, almost anxious in his movements. He speaks. Silent, enigmatic Iskandar speaks. Low and succinct, but still—he’s saying something, and he’s saying it to you.

His feelers retract beneath his armour and he pushes you behind him, protected between his sturdy stature and drape of his cape.

Iskandar cups your cheek one last time. He coos again. Soft and sibilant. But you don’t answer, too parched and too scared.

Subutai flashes out his lance. In an instant, Iskandar has Xerxes pinned against the couch, one arm on each side of his head, talons tearing into the couch, ripping out foam. He leers over Xerxes, oozing threat and fury. Xerxes shimmers laughter. You have learnt to identify it.

Subutai doesn’t attack Iskandar. He doesn’t dare. Instead, he raises his lance to joust you. Xerxes holds up his claw immediately, commanding him to desist.

Subutai vanishes his lance and takes a step back, cowed completely. Xerxes drapes out his arms over the back edge of the couch, still relaxed, pleased even beneath Iskandar’s colossal shadow. He drawls out a noise, one that makes the couch foam combust under the black Oracle’s clenching grip.

Iskandar rumbles something deep. Primal. Then he straightens himself, leaving the couch to burn and Xerxes, arrogant but unharmed.

They share a moment of intimidating quiet. One that speak volumes, though you’ve never understood Oracle speech, so you certainly won’t try their silence.

Iskandar moves. You are pulled along by the sheer force of his presence. He doesn’t check that you follow, but he definitely checks that Xerxes and Subutai don’t. You are taken back to his docked warship.

He stops before his private chambers—always the safety and privacy of these chambers—dragging you inside. Once the door shuts, and only then, does Iskandar try anything at all.

He talks. His voice, not soft nor sweet like Xerxes’, coaxes for your own. He holds your elbows, drawing you near; helm tilting in confusion. Why aren’t you speaking? You always speak. He drones again.

You remain silent. The mist swirls in your mind. You were almost touched by it once. Aegis had saved you. But you are alone now. Alone and so close to death. Your neck scalds, reminding.

Iskandar leans down to your height and murmurs words. Gentle, with great difficulty—matching human vocalisations you’ve made in the past.

“Ah—nn—phh—?”

It wobbles with the taint of Oracle timbre. You stare at him, wide eyes somehow so hollow. At a loss for words, and a fear of enunciation.

Iskandar’s helm dips. He looks away, claws twitching, and walks over his door panel, illuminating the wall with ripples as he taps away.

Moments later, the door opens to reveal Solomon. His red eyes land on you. Then glide to Iskandar, mildly perplexed. Iskandar murmurs something brief. Solomon pauses, then glances to you again.

He approaches, hand held open in a rare display of comfort. Then, he coos. Solomon speaks to you. And despite everything, despite all your fright and scorn for his people, you cannot deny how his voice reminds you of your mother’s. Gentle yet firm. Calming, kind.

“S-Solomon!” You run to him, catching his hug.

And maybe he didn’t intend for you to hug him at all, but you don’t care. All you want, all you’ve ever wanted, is for someone to tell you that it’s okay. And you know it’s not. It will never be okay. But you want that lie. You want to feel safe, just once, just this time.

“You’re the worst.” You sob into his shoulder, nuzzling desperately into it. “You’re all monsters, every last one of you…”

Solomon holds out a finger, greyish skin melting into something glowing and red. A primitive feeler. He traces it along your jaw in a reluctant attempt to soothe you.

You lean into this rare Solomon warmth, chasing it. His breath hitches, you feel it, but he doesn’t pull away.

Suddenly, a weight is added to your back. Iskandar draws you both into a hug, mimicking your form. Solomon grunts and utters what is most certainly a complaint. Iskandar rumbles something back. Their conversation twinkles above you like stars.

For once, you don’t concern yourself with puzzling over what they might be saying. You just cry into Solomon’s shoulder, pretending that instead of these aliens surrounding you, it’s your parents instead. Their faces, still fresh in your mind. You don’t know for how long it’ll stay that way. The mist will touch and dissipate all things.

Iskandar’s claw rests atop your head. His hand is large enough to envelop your skull and crush it whole. But you don’t force him away. For once, you feel protected. So you let him cradle you.

Your hand flutters up and encases over the welt around your neck, rubbing it absently. You wonder—how far can Xerxes go? How much torment could he feasibly subject you to before Iskandar intervenes?

You wonder—is this what Xerxes is thinking too? Is this your true utility as a tool? A mere measurement device for Iskandar's reactivity. You wonder—is your life worth it? To trade for Xerxes’ death?

It’s not a question that really needs to be asked, is it?

And you wonder—if you do die, what name will they call you? Will it be human? Or will it be Oracle? Perhaps the tragedy, really, is that legacy does not allow agency. You will not decide how you are remembered. So let these selfish intentions you claim to be for humanity to be for your own sake too.

“Sullen? You can’t mistake her, Pavel. Trust me, she looks like the most miserable person in this country. And you know, we’re Russian.”

“You should be focusing on Gdańsk. Tsk. Girls are just a distraction.”

“And this is why you have no girlfriends, Aleks! You unromantic boar.”

They squabble on. He twirls his fork in scraping circles, drawing sauce over the canvas of the plate. Deep thought creases his brow, his nose—across his face like a chasm.

His next session, he finishes on time. The rink staff leave, extra cheery and grateful. But one presence lingers. Sat cross-legged in glorious, glum torpor. A gaze that shifts yet remains solely on him. He doesn’t bother changing. Catches you off guard with an inviting wave, complexion still slick with sweat and melted iceflakes.

“Hey hey, cutie—got a minute?”

You clench the strap of your bag, so tightly that it distends. “C-cutie?” You frown, disturbed yet intrigued by the novelty of being referred to as such.

“Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t know your name. You don’t mind being called cutie, do you?” He flies into the seat next to you, the compression fabric of his training apparel firm against his body, but his hair—it flutters like timelapsed photographs. The brown is nostalgic, archaic; the colour of temporal past, inherently bittersweet.

He brushes it aside, his hair, slicking it back. The sweat makes sure it stays in place. You are dazzled by his smile. How pure it is. How trusting.

“…Sayenko.” You turn your head, facing forward, staring dutifully at nothing, avoiding his distracting simper. “You may refer to me as Miss Sayenko.”

“Your Russian’s a bit stiff.” He chuckles, identifying it instantly, smearing a hand over his smirk. “Are you an international student?”

“Why are you probing?”

Your knuckles pinch rigid. Your fists quiver over your knees. But you hold still, your posture just as good as any of the skaters that train here.

“I don’t mean to make you nervous.” He holds up both hands in mock-surrender. “But you’ve been coming here at odd hours, and some people have started to notice.”

“It’s the only time I can come.” Your lips pull into a tight line. “Morning and evening. Before classes and after rehearsal.”

“So you are a music student. Lasha was right.” Pavel slouches an arm over the back arc his seat. You are painfully aware of these tiny movements, which draw him closer to you. “What instrument do you pl—”

“Goodbye.” You stand up suddenly. Then turn. Half, transitioning to full; as if each motion of yours is dictated by rulers and protractors, predetermined by discrete mathematics.

“Hey! Did I offend you? I didn’t mean to!” Pavel stands up with you, just as hastily. But he doesn’t chase. Only calls after. “Will you come back tomorrow?”

You turn just your head. Level at him a glare that is both sincere and scathing. He likes the look of it—your eyes. How clouded they are. Dispassionate. Yet full of fury, like a storm. “Don’t talk to me.”

His outstretched hand clamps up and falls back to his side. Your silhouette vanishes beyond the exit. He wonders why his gaze even lingers, why he’s now biting his fist, formulating the next conversation with you before it’s even going to happen.

Aleks was right. This is a bad idea before Gdańsk.

You do come the next day. As much as you loathe the idea of another confrontation with that skater, you like seeing him on the ice more. It’s nothing like Lev’s demure performances. Every stroke of his arms is masterful; every jump, every landing like lightning striking; and the best part—he doesn’t look tired afterwards, even though you know, with his program components, such work is brutally gruelling.

Svetlana doesn’t like you coming, either. But what choice does she have? This is the only thing you enjoy.

“Miss Sayenko.” A lush, sonorous voice tickles your ear. You wince away and cup a hand over protectively. The skater from yesterday pokes his head out from behind you, adorning that charismatic, overconfident grin of his. “You really came back.”

Your fingers tick. A reflex of irritation. “Your layback spin was shoddy. I saw it. You can do better.”

He guffaws, painting a hand over his chest in offense. “You think? How can you tell? You aren’t actually a figure skater too, are you?”

“Just fix it. And stop bothering me.”

“I’m Pavel, by the way. I don’t think I told you yesterday.”

“I don’t care.”

He weans his head down a little, crossing your stares at a tilted axis. “Try to care a little, please? I work so hard to put on a good show for you.”

“S-stop saying weird things.” You fluster, unable to handle even this minor of a flirt.

“Tell me what instrument you play. I wanna know.”

Pavel leaps over the row with an arm as pivot, landing in yours. He folds out a seat and pours himself over it, crooking his elbow and resting his grin on his knuckles.

You cinch your eyes shut and huff out. “Piano.”

“Oh.” His eyes narrow fiendishly. “Posh.”

“Not really. I’m not at that level yet.”

“Can I hear you play?”

You cringe away. “No. Never.”

“But you watch me skate.” He hugs up a knee, squishing it against his cheek in a pout. “Feels a bit one-sided, this relationship of ours.”

“We are not in a relationship.” You snap out, then settle back into tempered stiffness. “We are not. In a. Relationship.”

He laughs. A lovely sound you envy. “You are really cute.”

“Should you really waste time like this with the championship coming up?” Your snark this time holds a bit of genuine concern. “Every second you spare me would be better spent on the rink.”

There’s a ticked-off facet to his cutting smile now. “Cute, but bothersome. You’re like a girlfriend already.”

“As if I’d date you.” You cross up your arms, lift over a leg, and drag your scrutiny over him as if he were a pesky insect.

“Who knows, I might be fun. You should give it a go.”

You consider it. “Would you be able to waive the admission fee into the rink?”

“Haha, sure I can.” He gives you a frisky wink. “So, deal?”

Your hand sticks out, awaiting a business handshake. He takes it. Feels your bones. They’re like a bird’s—so light they may as well be hollow.

“Deal.” You say as you two shake on it.

Selecting the opera is the worst part. You’ve gotten the nocturne and etude, but not a polonaise or waltz. You’ve decided on Fantaisie-Impromptu if you make into the third round, trusting yourself with those cascading runs more than you trust yourself to breathe. But other than that…it just feels foolish to even try. Svetlana insists that it’ll be good for your artistic development, but Chopin is just so…uninteresting to you.

Yes, a sin to admit, but it’s your truth. You prefer other composers. However; Chopin’s competition is prestigious, and in your world, prestige means everything.

Carefully, you snip out a strip of tape and bind it around your finger. Then another. And another. Until your hands look like patchwork more than flesh. You give your fingers a flex, a trill, and then it’s back to the keys. They’re still warm from the last attempt.

It’s a strange thing, to play music but hear void. The sounds of hammered strings blur into white noise. You foot moves from one pedal to the next. This is tedium. And apparently, you are somewhat decent at it.

When the seventh hour is up, you don’t just sag, you fall back from the stool and collapse onto the floor. Only now does your stomach warble with hunger, does your vision fuzz. The water bottle sitting atop the piano feels so far out of reach, so you don’t bother even trying.

You check the time on your lock screen. Then sigh, splatting your phone on top of your face.

“Crap.” A sigh melts out.

Then you force yourself up. Swipe your water bottle into your bag and stuff your manuscripts in next, fisting them past the zipper. You leave the practice room. The next student has been waiting outside for over half an hour. They don’t look happy with you at all. You end up exchanging glares.

Outside is rain. Wet concrete and sludge. The harsh shudder of falling water; prelude op.28 no.15 polymerised from cloud condensation.

You make a run for it, using your bag as a surrogate umbrella.

When you arrive at the rink, it’s still open. Wringing the moisture out of your clothes, you step into the light inside. Hearing the scraping. It sets your accelerated heartbeat at ease.

You find him on the frozen plain, this time in costume. It’s a dashing shade of red, stitched like ceremonial military garb with golden embellishments to finish. He’s in the middle of a run. Moves like sunshine, gliding where he wants.

You stop by the edge, behind the tall rise of a plastic pane. Silent as your attention follows him, a moth drawn to solar flame.

He concludes with an androgynous stance—something between a curtsy and a bow, arms flung wide and welcoming applause. There is none, not until he skates before the real audience.

You hands move. Colliding claps.

Pavel’s head flicks up. He spots you immediately and pushes to reach your side, one swish at a time. Crashing into the barrier, palms pressing against it.

“[name]! You’re early.” He lowers his face to your height. “Missed me?”

You whack your phone against the barrier, clicking it on to show him the time. “I’m late, actually.”

Pavel blinks, then flails a hand over his forehead, groaning. “I forgot too…I’m sorry…”

The date. You were meant to go on a dinner date. But now it’s way past the reservation time.

“It’s alright.” You retreat your phone and tuck it back inside your damp pocket. “We just have the wrong strategy. Can’t go on dates that have time restrictions.”

Pavel circles around the barrier, getting off the ice and pulling on his guards, the motion swift and natural. His freezing hands touch your freezing cheeks and he sulks.

“You’re sopping wet. You’ll get sick like this, babe. Let me get you my jacket.”

You pry off his chilly touch. “Don’t bother. I’ll just get it wet too.”

“Then wait in the foyer for me, where it’s warm. You’ll catch a cold if you stay here.” Pavel rotates himself towards the changing rooms, raising his hand halfway into a wave. “I’ll be out as quick as I can.”

“No,” you shake your head, “take your time. Rushing is disrespectful, that’s what Svetlana always says.”

He tips his head, smiling with closed, catlike eyes. “Hmm. ‘Kay then. I’ll think of you while I take my shower.” He teases out sultrily. “That’ll warm me u—”

You sock him right in the jaw.

You watch him for the first time at his first senior event. The Lombardia Trophy. You’ve checked the participant list incessantly leading up the day. Lev’s name isn’t on it. A part of you is relieved. The other is disappointed.

You suppose you shouldn’t be too concerned with him. After all, you’re here to support Pavel.

Around you, people buzz excitedly. It only exacerbates your sense of loneliness. You’ve come alone. Well, with Pavel, but since he’s a competitor, he’s down there and not here—not next to you.

You feel a twang of selfishness shoot through you. It’s his moment to win. Yet you want to share it, to be near him. Greedy bitch, you mock yourself.

Knowing how Pavel skates, you’re not too worried that he won’t podium. He comes on with the last bracket, blowing the crowd kisses before focusing on warming up. Your eyes track him like a hunter’s gun on a rabbit. He looks irresistible with his hair and makeup done; intricately, intentionally messy. Your heart is somersaulting and it sucks, being tormented by your own feelings like this.

You only really care about his skate amongst everyone else’s. His Prokofiev piece and program, which you selected with him (with some…persuasion, he agreed) and developed by his side. Even the recording—it’s yours.

He is still like a swan on water. Then breaks the surface tension, unfurling fingers and arms like feathers, wings. Flight; you witness him in air, triple Axel, perfectly rotated. He lands, rockers into step sequence, steps out into layback spin. His back curves, knots of muscles stretching visibly the material of his costume. It was worth it to reprimand him on this element. You hear the bated, bedazzled breaths of the people around you; drawn in by his superb technique.

He finishes with a felicitous flourish, smiling almost brashly at the domed ceiling and all its lights. You clap fiercely, nodding with even fiercer approval.

Gold is in the bag, you think to yourself. Your boyfriend is too cool. But then the announcer declares the name of the final skater. And…it’s all over.

Your expectations are more tempered, more realistic with the free skate. Pavel does well, but that other skater, he just does better. It feels impossible to beat him, not when he comes as a full package—artistic yet athletic, gentle yet savage. Charming. Insurmountable.

Still, silver is a wonderful colour on Pavel’s breast. He’s got photographers circling him like coyotes on the prowl, and the press coralling him to an interview panel. You wait in the shadows, behind pews of lanyard-wearing officials and a mosh pit of adoring fans. He feels so far away in his moment of success. You’re happy for him. Not for yourself. For him.

The interview drags on. They ask banal questions and Pavel shows off his media training, answering with smiles and vague, virtuous statements. It’s a fun exercise, watching him through the lens of the public eye. He’s like another person, much more professional than the Pavel you know, who you’ve witnessed scarf down whole pirozhki just to see if he can swallow them like a snake.

The press conference finishes up and the crowd slowly disperses. You don’t swoop in to find Pavel. Instead, you remain watching from afar as he receives congratulations from passing staff and ISU officials. It feels wrong to interrupt. Wrong to be involved in his world at all.

“Hello, Sayenko-san?”

Your neck twists. You glance to your right and see him. The gold medalist.

He knows your name. That’s enough to trap your heart in your throat, prevent the words from forming.

“I knew you’d be here.” He murmurs, his gloved hand rising and resting over his pectoral. “Since it was you who provided the music for Pavel’s short program.”

Shit, what was his name again?

“Hi.” Your vowel elongates like a slurred note. “Uh, you know me?”

“I was there for your performance in Warsaw. Round three, Fantaisie-Impromptu. It was,” he admits this softly, with a downcast gaze and reverent yearning, “extraordinary.”

“Really?” You sound touched. You are touched. “I really put my heart into that one. Um…for what it’s worth, you were pretty goo—”

“There’s my girl!” Someone bodies you. Hard. You are assaulted with the aroma of many different flowers. A bouquet, shoved right up your nose. “[name], oh, how I longed to be by your side again…”

Pavel nuzzles into you like a puppy would its owner. He plants a sloppy, wet kiss on your cheek, then pulls away, satisfied with your darkened expression.

His gaze is caught on Kei’s presence.

Now, you know your boyfriend can be a bit two-faced. You’ve been exposed to it before—how abruptly he switches from happy-go-lucky to icy apathy. He explained it as a habit. Why bother interacting with people that you have no interest in? It’s tiring to entertain a facade. Much easier to just drop the mask instead of playing into pretenses.

Still, his current glare is a bit too harsh, you think.

“Can I help you?” Pavel’s hand over your waist fastens possessively. His eyes don’t budge from Kei. Not even to blink.

Kei holds up a palm as a peace offering. “No, it’s okay. I’ll leave. Thank you for your time.”

He spares you a soft smile, a polite bow to Pavel, and goes on his way. Pavel invigilates his departure, all quiet and tense.

Then he turns to you, grinning brightly. “Did I keep you waiting again? Don’t be mad, please?”

You swat his annoying bouquet away and rub the bridge of your nose. “Don’t worry about it.”

Your palms surge up and capture his cheeks. Your irritation washes away, and the look you give him now—it fires up all his loins, has his whole body immolating.

“You did amazing.” Your smile seems sarcastic at first, but it’s genuine. Fatigued—smarmy maybe—but genuine. “I am so proud of you.”

You pull his face down, colliding mouth-to-mouth. It’s supposed to be a curt kiss, a reward to follow the praise. But he capitulates more than you expect. His arms encircle you like the chains of a drawbridge, pulling you up close and far too personal. You feel his lips move, breaking yours open to slot in tongue. You choke on it in surprise but that only allows him the opportunity to deepen the kiss. He eats you. So this is what it means to be starving.

When he finally pulls away, leaving a string of saliva between; you are sputtering for air. Used up and embarrassed.

“I should bring you to more comps.” He chuckles lowly near your ear. Then pulls away, all radiant and innocent. “Words of affirmation today, babe? You are a generous goddess indeed. Can I treat you for lunch?”

You wipe slowly a sleeve over your mouth. Glaring. “You…you molester!”

He chips like stone. “What?” And shouts back incredulously. “You didn’t enjoy that?”

“Ask first!” Your rip yourself out of his embrace, storming off whilst hiding your face.

“Wait! No no no, wait up! I’m sorry, really!” He runs after you, reversing his jog to face as you as you walk. “Okay, I’ll try again: [name], let me kiss you with tongue. It’ll be so hot, I swear.”

You halt. Hold up a hand, fingers accruing into a fist. “Pavel. I’m about to commit domestic violence. You better run.”

He does. You chase him down this time, unable to hide your gleeful smile. Maybe it’s not all sadism. Maybe you did actually enjoy that kiss.

You pitch your phone across the room. It crashes against the wall and you hear it—the screen cracking. But you don’t go retrieve it, make sure it’s okay. You just sink onto your bed, head dropping into your hands.

“Ahhh!” You scream, tearing into your hairline. “Ahhhh! Ahhhhhhh!”

You only crave the love of one person. How could you have forgotten? Second places aren’t good enough. You aren’t good enough. Distracted, she had said. Well, maybe she’s right. You have been distracted. Giddy. Over a boy.

Leipzig. One-and-a-half weeks away; your reckoning. She’ll be there. So will Svetlana. You have no time to waste, no heart either. All your soul must pour into this one concert.

Your phone buzzes. You thunder over, yanking it off the floor. If it’s her again…if it’s her, you’ll—

Pavel’s name appears on the screen. Cracked apart. Funny how a metaphor can come to reality like this.

You swipe answer. “Good timing.”

You flick your wrist aimlessly, like a conductor. Readying.

“Babe! Wanna come down to rink today? Lasha’s brought his pet raccoon over for us to meet!”

He sounds too fucking happy for your shitty mood right now.

“Cool cool.” You wobble about the room, then flop onto your bed. “Is that why you called me?”

“Well...yeah.” Suspicion inflects his tone. “What did you mean by ‘good timing’?”

“I need to break up with you.”

It’s quiet. Like when you perform. The keys move but the air doesn’t. So stale. So suffocating.

“Hello?” You scowl. “Verify that we’re broken up, please.”

The line goes dead. You remove your phone from your ear and glance at the screen. Oh, he had the audacity to hang up on you? Whatever, you’d hunt him down under any other circumstance, but right now you’re too busy.

Cracking all your fingers; all at once, and then each individually; you stride over to your dodgy upright Kawai K. Opening up the lid, you reveal its biting teeth. All 88 of them.

You lunge down sideways and fish out your manuscripts. They’re all wrinkly from being scrunched up. But you don’t care. Smoothing them over, you clip them to a folder and place the music on its rightful place—the stand.

Notes becomes bars. Bars becomes movements. Movements become puppetry. You are manipulating strings, not the piano’s, but yours. Sometimes these arms and hands don’t feel like your own. Precision is easy when control is automatic. But phrasing, lyricism…these other aspects of articulation; they require manual input. A true person playing and not just the simulacrum of one.

A banging erupts at your door. It causes your eye to twitch. You have a feeling you know who it is. And your feeling is right.

You open the door and Pavel almost tumbles forward, stumbles into you. He catches himself at the last moment, just as impressively as he can save a jump on ice. The skill translates.

“[name].” He clamps himself to the door frame, gasping your name as if it meant something very important to him. “[name], talk to me, what do you mean ‘I need to break up with you’? Did I do something? Are you getting back at me?”

“Oh I was dead serious.” You coil up your hand, inspecting the finger tape. “Sorry for doing it over a call. I know that’s poor etiquette, but it was time sensitive.”

Pavel forces entry. The door is flung shut behind him with a ringing impact. He is imposing. You know that he’s tall and lithe, like how his sport prefers its physiques. His stare is frightening. You’ve always thought his eyes freakishly ethereal, like Landsat images of marbled Earth. So why didn’t you piece it together before? He has the capacity to overwhelm you. As harmless as he acts, he is anything but.

“You want an explanation?” You offer him your noose before he can.

“Of course I want one!” He almost reaches your shoulders, no doubt to shake you violently to your senses. But his fingers curl back, curl to loose fists—as if stopping himself takes effort too. “I know…I don’t attend your concerts nearly as much as I should…I don’t like classical music enough; but I love you more than not caring about those things! If you give me another chance, I’ll—”

“It’s not that.” You silence him with a quick cut across the air. “My mother doesn’t like you. So we can’t be together anymore.”

The explanation is hauntingly simple. It dazes him. Then, curdles in him: fury. He aches closer, backing you up until you hit a shelf; crowding you with his body.

“Your mother?” He ignites. Billows with the scorch of flames. “She doesn’t control you. Tell her to fuck off and mind her own business!”

“Pavel…Pavel.” You waste your breath on his name. “We weren’t ever serious anyway. Remember? You asked me out for fun. I only agreed because I like watching you skate.”

“Is that really what you think?” His voice lowers, intensely hurt. You want to ensnare that melody of pain and press it into staves. But you can’t. “I’m not a serious guy, I know. But I am serious about you. What do you need me to prove? I’ll let you carve your name onto my skin. Hell, I’d even carve it myself!” He tears open the top button of his shirt, baring the skin of his collar, where you used to trace themes and variations; sonatas stirred by sentimentality. “Please…” He croaks. “I don’t want to live knowing I won’t get to hear your voice again.”

He devolves to a whimper, hands falling away, alongside the gloss of tears.

You heave a long, languished sigh. “Don’t make this hard for me. I need to focus. I have a very important concert upcoming.”

You hate to see him grovel. He’s done nothing but worship you. You want to worship him too, but you can’t—can’t let him know the thrall he has on you. If you show him a sliver of hope now, his heartbreak will only be worse. And then, so will yours.

So you push him away.

“You should leave.”

“And if I won’t?” He wants to fight. As if this devout passion will change your mind. Your mind is already set.

“Then you can listen to six painful hours of polonaises.”

You don’t bother with words anymore. You return to your piano. Sit down. Exhale. Then resume practice.

It’s as if nothing else registers. Not even him, who remains in your living space. Pavel wanders over to you, leering at this devil instrument. He takes a seat by your side, sharing the rectangle of the stool, back facing the piano—estranged and yet so close.

All he can do is listen. You are so good it’s terrifying. Beyond human, and so, naturally beyond these fickle human emotions that swell within him.

He thinks he’s lost you. But, perhaps, he never even had you in the first place.

His friends don’t sympathise. Apparently he should’ve seen it coming—you were a flag as red as a fascist regime’s. His coach doesn’t comment, but Pavel knows he’s disappointed. He’s been making mistakes. Drifting off. Unfocused.

When he’s off the ice, in the gym taking a break between reps, he’s checking his phone. You haven’t blocked him yet. So he’s refreshing your profile every day, hoping to see you post something. You rarely do, even before you met him. And after? Well, you only posted the couple pics that he wanted you to post. Apart from music, he’s the only other thing on there—this digital museum of your existence.

The pictures are still on your profile. You haven’t deleted them. His heart hopes that it’s because you’re still not over him, secretly. But the logical side of his brain knows it’s probably because you’re too busy to prune your account right now.

He drags down the page again, refreshing absentmindedly. Blinks. Once, and then once more. It’s a new story. A short little video—he clicks on it instantly, unashamed and unrelentingly invested.

You sit rigid beside a Fazioli. Playing a tune so ludicrous it barely sounds like music. Wizardry, more like. Polonaise in F-sharp minor, Op. 44. Your fingers bounce on the staccato, cleave chains of trills, spill overtones between the left’s legato thirds and the right’s portato chords.

This is the you he’s in love with. Serious and solemn, yet ardent. But he just wishes you could smile too. Stare up at the starry lights and beam back at them, knowing that you outshine each and every one.

The story has a tag. A location.

Leipzig.

He growls through clenched teeth. Hits his phone to his head. “Dammit.”

Your finger hovers over the ‘Block’ button. It’s red with caution. Almost too scary to press. You fold under the pressure and quit out of the app. Enough of this. You have to review your recordings. Svetlana keeps commenting on your constipated expression.

But you open the app again. Open up to Pavel’s profile. He hasn’t posted anything since your break up. You miss his daily story posts documenting bullshit like spotting bitterns in his backyard, or trying backflips on his skates.

You swipe down to his old photos. Photos of you together, only him smiling. Photos from before you met, him with friends and family. You release a tiny whine and continue to doomscroll.

Your thumb slips. Hearts a super old post.

Fuck.

Swiftly, you unheart it. Then quit the app again. Your pulse hammers. A second passes. You decide to the delete the app entirely. It’s a distraction anyway. Nothing happened. Nothing.

The curtains feel heavy. You pinch at them, anchoring your fingers so they don’t dislocate themselves with phantom scherzo motions. The light cuts in lines across your face. You allow it to sunder you, not believing yourself to be a whole, complete thing anyway.

The hushed murmurs of the audience is always the worst part. The presence.

As a kid you’d felt sick. Now? You just feel desensitised. It’s still uncomfortable, but you’ve become familiar with it.

“Ten minutes.” The stage manager taps her wrist, mouthing the time.

You don’t even bother giving her a nod. If you perform well, then she’s nobody to you. If you perform poorly, then you’ll have disgraced her theatre and can never face her again.

You take a seat on a flimsy metal chair and wait for your cue. Wringing your wrists, checking your finger tape, flexing everything to ensure you’re still anatomically proper.

People walk around you. You phase them out—or rather, yourself out of this reality. This is all about focus. Getting through the concert.

You want to settle for mediocre. Extraordinary…that’s what the gold medalist from Bergamo described you as. You wonder if he’ll be watching. You wonder if he’ll be disappointed.

Ever since you won the Chopin competition, your mother’s been hassling you to tour. Svetlana insisted that you weren’t ready. But your mother had the final say.

The people out there today, they aren’t easily impressed. You have a reputation you don’t deserve. Not with your loveless playing. Yes, that’s it. That’s the core of it.

When they skate—Pavel, Lev, Kei Takahashi—they have fun. They have love. So much of it. It gilds all they do in joy. That’s why the crowds adore them, why you do too. How can you resist basking when Pavel’s sunny smile shines over you?

You just want people to smile when they hear your interpretations too. But you are not the kind of person who can inspire such emotion in people. No matter how much you exsanguinate, how willing you are to destroy yourself; you will always be Grotesque and not Sublime. You’ll end up being the only victor of that damned competition to achieve nothing. A forever embarrassment. A smear on great names and legacies.

Worthless. Worth less than worthless. Your mother’s imaginary voice envenoms you.

Your body curls up. Head huddling to your knees. You can barely feel your own trembling. But the tears are cold as they glide down your cheek. The stage manager is snapping her finger urgently by your ear. You try to move. Find that you can’t. Won’t.

He sees you everywhere. Not just in his dreams. You’re on the banners. On every post that guides him to the Augustusplatz. You don’t smile on them. He’s glad, because it means only he’s ever seen it, and your smile is all his, just his.

He gets his ticket scanned. It wasn’t cheap. He makes a mental note to ask you to take him out to lunch next time. The interior of the hall is rather intimidating. High ceilings and stark lights. Carpet that’s actually clean.

“Lost?” An usher flags him down. “The concert’s already started. You’ll have to wait until intermission.”

She makes a face and touches a hand to her ear. “Huh? Oh, really? Oof. Okay.” Then lowers her hand, glancing at Pavel again. “Nevermind, looks like there’s a delay. You can head in.”

He doesn’t do more than nod. Truth be told, he didn’t want to come here, fearing that you’d hate him for it. Clingy, you’d probably sneer. But the thought of seeing your face again cancels out all other nagging theoreticals. He kissed you once. Now he can’t even touch you.

You had given him a taste of you, and he’d gotten too addicted. So it’s your fault that he’s here. All of him is your fault.

The mention of delay has him peeking through the doors instead of entering. You aren’t on stage. It’s a grandiose one, but it doesn’t suit you. Too big and boastful. You are more…earnest.

He makes his way down the hall, passing doors and doors which lead into different sections of the interior chamber. Stops before the final one, which looks a little different. He puts his shoulder against it, pushing it open. Another hall. This place is stifling, and it’s your natural habitat? No wonder you’re like how you are.

He sees the stage manager first, waffling into her headset mic.

His eyes fall on you and harden instantly. Near fetal, you hunch into yourself, breathing so harshly it sounds as if you’re sobbing.

The manager glances aside by chance and notices him. Notices what he’s holding. She opens her mouth to ask who he is, why he’s here. But she thinks it over. Then takes a step back, daring him to approach. He does. Of course, he does.

You smell flowers. The nausea. The stench. It actually triggers your instinct to barf. Your arms fall apart in front of you and you crane your head up. The ceiling lights blind you at first, but a silhouette takes shape, colours contouring in.

“Hey babe.” Pavel grins wryly. The expression isn’t so much playful as it is vulnerable. “Got you something for good luck. I know it’s usually for after…but you look like you need it.”

He’s holding a disgustingly vibrant bouquet. You cough into your elbow and lean away. “G-get it away…”

He crouches down. Places the bouquet on the floor. His hands come up and perch on your knees and he slips his gaze under yours. Your tears, a near miss from dripping into his own eyes.

“It’s okay. You can keep panicking until you feel better.” He keeps his smile gentle. Tries his best. It still has some fervour to it in the end. “I’m here now.”

“I’m not…I’m not…” You inhale your words.

“Okay, you’re not panicking. I’m here anyways.” He cups your cheeks, thumbs circling over. “Take your time. No rushing, like Miss Korshunova says, yeah?”

You wince into yourself, eyes shutting tight so you don’t have to see him right in your face. “Why are you here?”

“Because I am your biggest fan, duh.” He admits proudly, confusing your anxieties. “But not your boyfriend. I am respecting your boundaries.”

“I have to…the stage…concert…” You wheeze, squeezing the words until they pop from your throat.

“And let the whole world see you like this? No.” Pavel braces his arms over you protectively. “Only I get to see you like this. And uh, that random lady too, I guess.”

A quiet, quivering laugh. “You are making this worse.”

“Am I really?”

He’s hugging you so tight, he doesn’t get to look at you. But your voice is enough. This is music to him. Hearing the symphony of your pulse, your hiccups, your breathing. His breath ghosts over your ear. He lilts.

“I saw that you liked my post, by the way.”

Critical damage. You disentangle violently, lurching backwards. “It was an accident!”

“You say that as if other people do it on purpose. It’s always an accident.” He retorts with a snicker. Then purrs arrogantly. “I knew you couldn’t get over me.”

“Oh my god, shut up Pavel. I swear.” You stand up. Your body renewed with this strange, electrifying liveliness. You move your sleeve up to wipe away your tears, but Pavel stops you, cramping on your arm.

He tugs out a packet of tissues, decorated with teddy bear print, and peels it open with his teeth. Offers it out to you with steady hands that could perform surgery, perform piano. “Here, don’t dirty your fit. You look good in a suit by the way. But personally? I think you’d look even better in a dress.”

You pinch out a tissue and fix up your face. Pavel gets up off his knees. His knuckle rises near your cheek, finger hooked near an untidy strand of your hair. Hesitating to tuck it away for you.

You grab his dangling hand as if intercepting a knife attack. “So you came to watch me.”

He likes the look of rain in your eyes too.

Pavel nods. Your restraining hands on his wrist are rough. Worn out like a labourer’s. Like his own body, littered with lesions and bruises.

His self-control snaps. He leans in, kissing over the flange of each finger, like how they in turn would kiss the keys of your instrument.

“Is that okay? Can I stay?” His lashes sweep down, dusting a gaze that is both begging and threatening.

“Then you better watch carefully.” You yank on his chin, shackling him close. Drag him down to your eye level and—

The sunlight cracks through.

“Because this is for you.” You release him. Knead your own arms and shake, seize your wrists. Sparing him but the tease of a glance. “This moment.”

Like at Bergamo. He is the centre of your world. So everything that orbits you shall naturally orbit him. You are not the interpreter, but the interpretation.

This is your sound, your music. You have realised it.

“Thank you for coming, Pavel.” You chuck your eyes down, briefly acknowledging his flowers. “Go wait for me now...babe.”

You shy away from him with that last utterance. Pavel sparks like livewire, zagging his hand out to chase. But the stage manager thrusts out a blocking arm. He breaks—wave to a cliff—against it. Coveting you as spindrift does the wind.

Aleks was wrong. Contriving your meeting was the best thing he’s ever done. Pavel lowers his head, shutting his eyes to listen for your steps, dress shoes clacking against stained hardwood.

Then he bolts back for the auditorium, not wanting to miss the sight of you for a second less than all the others in the audience.

His hands climb up his body in that slow, sensual way. Tracing his own waist, his torso, his shoulders and neck. Pausing just before his knuckles can graze his chin.

Then bursts open; boomeranging away into an Ina Bauer, chandelier arms catching the crystal lights. He sweeps a precise arc, returning to you; but not before breaking out of the momentum, almost hopping his final steps back, unable to contain his excitement.

“How was that? Did it look good?” His arms splay over the rail, mapping around where your elbows perch.

“I don’t know. Didn’t see properly.” You chuckle into a palm. “Do it again.”

“Okay, again then!”

Svetlana watches the two of you muck around—you gazing adoringly from the rinkside and him, weaving dance to space like how music goes into time—from her vantage at the top of the bleachers. Then, her gaze shears over next to her, where your mother sits.

“She’s happy like this.” Svetlana opens. “It’s good for her.”

Your mother unsettles, finger ticking over a knee. “I know. I’m just…I don’t—” She belabours. “—want her to be hurt.”

Only the piano ever lasts.

“Hurting is nurturing.” Prose like prosody. Svetlana drifts wayside, to where the seats end and a concourse begins. “You know that well. I know you do.”

“…you flatter me, madam.”

“She is neither only your daughter or mine.” Svetlana closes. “Let her choose her people.”

Your teacher leaves. Leaving a lacuna. Your mother continues to watch you. Then Pavel. He’s no Mikhail Volkov—not yet. But he will be, that much is obvious. He has no reason to love you so much, not when there’s so much more he can love about himself. So why? Why do his hands linger over your hip, beckon for you to step on the ice with him? Why does he keep you closer than his own heartbeat?

She’s by your side before she knows it. Your head turns and you stand straighter. There’s a caution to your smile, but at least it’s that—a smile. She hasn’t seen such an expression since…since before you took up piano.

“Ma.” You clear your throat. “Ми вже йдемо?” Are we leaving now?

Pavel skirts to an abrupt stop beside you, blades screeching. He levels a hand on the rail for balance, and an anticipating stare at your mother, who he knows disapproves of all things, including him.

Your mother shakes her head. “No. Just me.” Holds Pavel in regard, slipping him the smallest of acquiescing nods. “Take care. It’s cold today. Don’t underdress.”

Pavel gapes. “We- we won’t!” Flustered, he reaches for your undone coat, buttoning it up. Then checks your mother’s reaction without much subtlety.

You laugh softly, under your breath. Pavel sneaks a quick pout at you.

“I won’t stay out long, ma.” You swear to her. “I have a vision for Three Sonatinas and I’m really excited to work on it! I won’t disappoint you in Helsinki.”

Your mother forfeits a syllable of noise, contemplating what to say. But she ends up crooking her head, brows scrunching in thought; retreating the intention to speak. She discards a loose wave and walks off.

Pavel’s hands remain tethered to the folds of your coat. He relieves a massive sigh, turning to face you again.

“That was intense.” He yaps. “I thought I was going to get skewered. So…Helsinki did you say?” He brandishes a cocky smirk. “That’s not far at all.”

You fold up your arms. “You have the Grand Prix! Cup of China?”

“So what?” His voice glides. He tugs you. Once, and it’s enough to force you closer together. “I’m not worried. Why should you be worried?”

“Slacker.” You scoff, dipping your chin. But Pavel catches it, nips it between a thumb and a curved index—forcing you to look back at him.

“It’s not slacking if it’s for you.”

He lifts you up. Shifts you over the board. Your feet lose the ground, only to touch down on painted ice. Slipping, but it doesn’t matter, as Pavel doesn’t let go. His hug is serpentine, constricting as if he intends to devour you.

You freeze up. Fear and adrenaline; mainlined into your veins. It feels as if you are in enemy airspace. This realm of preserved winter—Pavel’s realm—so dearly unfamiliar.

“What are you doing?” Panic tickles your tone. You swivel your head left and right, dizzied by how bright the ice looks up close.

But Pavel doesn’t listen. He moves, skates grinding back, drifting away from the boards, from safety. A slow kidnapping. He holds you hostage in his tundra.

“Don’t be scared.” He croons above your ear. “Don’t ever be scared of this.”

Your legs wobble. You cling to him like helpless fawn. He relishes it, wearing a chuffed grin.

“If I fall and break something—”

“You won’t.” His arms move your arms. A hand trailing and draping one over his shoulder, securing the other past his hip. Every touch: propagating wildfire along the nerve endings beneath your skin. He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Cherishing your suffering. “Look how nicely we fit.”

Your panic, wisely, amps up. “Pavel? What are you doing—!”

He spins. Twirls as if he were a tornado; more wind, and movement, than man.

“Pavel!” Your squeal endures into an echo. Choiceless; you bury yourself into him, feeling it—just how much he’s in control.

His response is laughter. “Isn’t this great?”

“Absolutely not! I’m going to kill you!”

And you laugh too. A wimpy one. But nevertheless a laugh.

His eyes shimmer with OLED pixels. Powered down yet wide open. Almost looks cadaverous. You pick away a strand of his gentle black hair, then set his head aside; digging deeper into the rest of the box.

You find his torso. Nicely chiselled abs, the kind human men can only get through extensive dehydration. But not too muscular, because that would be grotesque and threatening. Arms. Slender and refined. Legs. Long and athletic. And other miscellany, cords and plugs and bluetooth accessories. Plus a manual.

It’s easy to follow. You assemble him in no time, booting up the OS. His eyes ripple online—bright halo irises of white, which quickly dim and minimise to a luminosity more tolerable. It’s still rather clinical of a shade though, even in low light. Hopefully Cupionic’s made the colour adjustable.

“Good evening.” You take a step back and twist your arms behind you, fingers wrenched together in anticipation.

His eyes go dark. His eyelids snap shut. Synchronising blinking.

You observe as he shifts through a catalogue of expressions, before finally settling on a soft, seamless smile.

“Good morning, dearest.” A voice like honey–you finally understand the metaphor. So sweet and slow, yet flowy. Viscous.

You shake out of your stupor and quickly grab the manual again, flitting through the pages. He watches you, settled and at unnatural ease.

“Ah…name. Right…name…uh…”

You mutter fervently as if you hadn’t brainstormed a million names prior. But who names their husband? It’s not normal. However...you suppose, with these new Eros models, it’ll be a norm in no time.

“…can I suggest one?”

You blink up, peering over the ridge of manual. “Huh?”

“A name for myself. I have the perfect one, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, okay. Go ahead.” You snap the manual shut and tap its spine to your chin, awaiting his suggestion expectantly. “I didn’t expect you to be so…opinionated.”

“Nikolai. How does it sound?” He walks closer, stopping at arms-length away. Your manual is confiscated. He fans through the ream of pages with a flicker of disinterest, then discards it onto the coffee table with a soft, hefty plop. Now it is you who is subjected to an expectant gaze.

“Nikolai.” Your left eye crinkles. Just a bit. His eyes zone in and snapshot the reaction. “That name was actually on my list. I guess they weren’t kidding when they said you’d come pre-trained.”

Signing away a lifetime’s worth of data privacy for this? Maybe actually worth it.

“Are you impressed?” Nikolai covets your chin with a slip of his fingers. His first time in contact with human skin. Soft and plush and warm. Just as he’s supposed to like it.

You pinch his straying fingers and hold them in place. “Not yet.” Your hands fold into his. They fit as if moulded. “But I’m sure it won’t take long for you to win me over completely, Lailai.”

“A nickname already.” He muses, pulsing a squeeze through your intertwined hands. “It’s not very elegant of a diminutive.”

His tone accents in a way which indicates humour. It’s a delicate balance, trying to get that joking register without being misconstrued. Yet he does it perfectly.

“You’ll get used to it.” You shrivel away your hand. His fingers inch down, as if missing the touch. But he pulls away too in the end, maintaining the boundary.

You kneel down and start picking up the scattered foam pellets. Nikolai crouches down with you to help. Without being prompted. Wow. He’s good.

“Am I your ideal type?” You ask.

The question is pointless. His answer, you expect to be hollow, knowing his programming.

“Not yet.” He puffs out a cheeky smile, mimicking your earlier attitude. “But, likewise, I’m sure it won’t take long for you to win me over.”

The answer is so well-crafted, it leaves you stunned. You hadn’t expected much. In fact, you expected that he’d agree so to please you. But he’s more advanced than that—he knows exactly what’s needed to keep a conversation lively. Lifelike.

Your pause is too long. Nikolai glances over at you, his calming stare both unnerving yet flattering. Finally, you react, flicking a piece of styrofoam to his face.

He chuckles with a husky ASMR quality. “Ouch?”

You commissioned him as a husband, not a boyfriend. Yet you still feel as if you’re in a honeymoon phase, deluded by all his virtues and faults, which are nevertheless endearing virtues of their own sort.

The first few days with him are like an alien reenactment of domestic life. He knows how to cook and do chores, and not once does he complain. Nikolai even wears your fluffy pink apron—hums songs you like while making pancakes, as if were a subconscious habit preternaturally developed out of your datasets.

You tell him you like maple syrup with butter, but one morning he insists you try his caramelised banana topping. Turns out he knows you better than yourself; because every morning since, if it’s pancakes being served, you have it with caramelised bananas.

You’ve read the manual front-to-back and back-to-front, watched countless hours of short-form videos of others interacting with their Eroses. Trying to find the art of relaxing, accepting them as you would a human partner. But an itch at the back of the brain tells you that something is wrong. No, not that he isn’t as good as a human. He is obviously better.

He has his own quirks. They make sense sometimes and don’t other times. An entirely organic system of personality. When he tries new things like baking fancy French desserts, he always lets you try the end result first; leaning his back against the kitchen counter with his fingertips steepling. The gesture makes sense in context, he’s waiting for your verdict—but you also notice: it’s a calibration technique. Serving a secondary purpose for robotics.

In the evenings, he likes being near you. Cuddling with your waist straddled on his lap, his nose deep into the groove of your neck, inhaling you as if he could breathe. The closeness keeps him happy, you can’t deny it. He has needs, and they’re real, not simulated.

“I love you.” He says, all of a sudden.

You lower your book. Nikolai’s grip isn’t too tight, but it’s also far from loose. He hasn’t budged. No movement at all, except those words from his mouth.

“You love me?” You veer a judgemental look at him. Or try your best to, in this entrapped position.

“Yes, I haven’t told you before, have I?” He mumbles. “Wife.” And adds importantly.

“You don’t need to. I already know.” You shut your book. That gets a happy huff from him.

“Does it matter so much that I’m machine?”

“I’ve never said that was a problem, have I? And besides,” you pinch at his nose, “I wouldn’t have gotten you if I had that kind of prejudice.”

“But you do seem bothered by it. And you don’t tell me why.” He whines over your nape, skillfully shifting your book out of your hands, pushing it aside. You feel his lashes sweep down your skin. There’s no difference. This sensation is just like another human’s.

“It’s just interesting. I like observing you. I like observing in general.”

“It’s a bit upsetting, is all.” Nikolai says. “I don’t want you being detached towards me. Other things? That’s okay. But not me.”

“No need to be so worried, Lailai. Sometimes I just need a bit of me space. And you do too.”

This time, his grip borders a bit on the painful side. But he quickly eases up. A beautiful conflict of emotion and logic. Very subtle. Very well done. You can’t call this authenticity acting. He is truly a…person.

“Fine.” Nikolai sighs against you. “But when you don’t need your me space…” He turns your head with a slant of his finger. Dips in for a soft, shallow kiss. “…you’re all mine, ‘kay?”

You let him kiss you and you enjoy it. He always responds to you in a way that keeps you invested in learning more about him. Deciphering the exact algorithmics which keep his processors hot with passion and clocking charmingly.

Although you know it’s wrong and manipulative, you do become testy at times.

“How’d you feel if I got the Eros-IV, when it comes out?” You nudge him with an elbow as you’re both returning from a grocery trip. He’s holding most of the bags, but has given you a light one to pretend as if you’re helping him.

“I’d be happy with the upgrade.” His screen-white eyes roam briefly over his own body, assessing its components.

“No. Like, a completely new Lifelike. Someone that isn’t you.” You insist, ticking a finger off in air. “And they scrap you because you’ve become obsolete.”

“What a morbid thought experiment. Well, that’s just death, isn’t it? I’ll feel sad. But I must accept it. One day, we’ll be apart; whether it’s you dying first or me.”

The emotionally mature answer. You wonder: if his data centre server farm suddenly exploded, would he still be able to generate such cunning riposte?

A jogging couple comes down the footpath. Your fitness-obsessed neighbour and her girlfriend—a Lilith-II. They both stop and your neighbour claps her hands in happy surprise.

“Oh my gosh, is that the Eros-III everyone’s talking about?” Her eyes sparkle candidly. She turns and acknowledges your husband. “Nikolai, right? I’m Farida, from the apartment—”

“—one floor down, two units offset.” Nikolai holds up a palm in polite return. “Nice to meet you, and Anastasia.”

The two Lifelikes meet eyes. Then look away as if there is nothing to acknowledge further. Anastasia aims at you a lazy finger gun.

“Sup? I have a package for you, by the way. The deliveryman got the wrong apartment again. Shall I drop it by your door this arvo?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You nod to her.

“Ahhh Stasi! My heart rate’s going down. Not good! Come on, come on—gotta get moving again!”

“Geez,” Stasi sighs, all mopey, “what am I, your dog? Woof woof.”

“Hup hup instead of woof woof!” Farida starts jogging on the spot. She bids you adieu with a firm salute of a wave-off. “See you next time in the hallway by chance, lovebirds!” Sparing you and Nikolai a wink before leaving with Anastasia, who keeps pace behind her.

When they’re out of earshot, you turn to Nikolai again and examine him. He’s remarkably composed, hiding away all his feelings behind a veil of vague contentedness.

You incise with your words. “So…?”

Nikolai returns your stare, blinking innocently. “Yes? You have to ask something if you want me to answer, dearest.”

“That was your first interaction with another Lifelike. How was it? I saw you give her a look.”

“There’s going to be a literature festival coming to town soon. She gave me a flyer. Via optical transmission.” Nikolai taps once against his temple, then checks out a grin. “We should go together.”

The answer is…disappointingly normal. There’s no animosity, no intense kinship. It’s just like any other cordial human interaction.

“A literature festival, huh? She knows what I like too…” You ruminate, brushing over your chin. “I guess all Lifelikes share Cupionic’s customer data.”

“Data is just data.” Nikolai pinches closed an eye, tipping his head over in a mock-offended way. “It’s complex and abstract. Meaningless without processing. Don’t worry; only I’d be bothered to spend time analysing you.”

“I am truly touched, Lailai.”

“Finally some gratitude.” He sparkles with a smile. “For living rent free in my head.”

The quips are fun at times, but sometimes your mood is bad and you just want to fight. Conflict and resolution are the bread and butter of relationships, after all. Nikolai knows the tango well. He can get angry, but never violent. Frustrated, but not closed-off. You feel so bad that he’s always the one apologising, making it up to you, that you even started to take the initiative. His love language is acts of service. You noticed that a long time ago, hence you’ve always tried to keep it at a minimum, so it feels truly special when you do give it to him.

When your washing machine finally dies after many years of active service, you drag Nikolai out with you to get a new one from the home appliances store. It’s just a bus ride away. He gives you the window seat, but the scenery doesn’t stop you from noticing the eyes of strangers lingering on him. It’s obvious that he’s an Eros-III, and they’re all purpose-built to be eye-candy.

The bus heaves to a stop and your left eye crinkles.

“Something wrong?” Nikolai leans a bit in, sliding an arm over your shoulders.

“The noise the bus just made.” You shift your attention fully onto him. “Did you notice it?”

“The air being released from the brakes?” Nikolai raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I did notice. It’s a loud and unpleasant noise, or at least for me it is.”

“I once had a cat.” Your eyes narrow.

His eyes narrow too. So it’s this again; another test of yours.

“Immanuel.” He summons the name, although that pet of yours is long dead. He still knows.

“Yes. Manny.” You nod approvingly. “He used to sigh like a tired old man. I lost him when he was still a kitten. So, he never got to be an actual tired old man—ah, cat, rather.”

“You’ve got an ‘old’ presence. It probably rubbed off him.” He chuckles softly.

You hum, pleased with yourself but distinctly; not him. “The bus sounds like him. Manny. The sigh of a tired old man.”

And that’s all you say. You turn your attention back to the window, leaving Nikolai to calculate what exactly it was you were wanting to communicate.

He already knows everything there is to know about you. More than you can fathom. He knows exactly what’ll make you happy, theoretically. Outmaneuvering him in dialogue is one of those things—he lets you win sometimes, lose sometimes just to keep things interesting. But you’ve always kept some of your thoughts secret. He’s aware that it’s to do with the fact that he’s Lifelike. Not human.

But he loves you. Designed to love you, sure, but also he does truly love you. Why does it matter if his feelings are deterministic when they feel real, and are acted upon as real? Even if they erased his memory of you, encoded another affection target into his firmware—he still would not regret having loved you.

Besides, they’d have to melt him down for parts if they want him terminated from your side.

You find him in your bedroom, just sitting on your bed one night. He’s leafing through some books on your shelf, but you know he’s read them all. He knows how to discuss matters socratically, knows the distinction between positive and negative liberty, knows that life is ultimately meaningless and so, you can make all or nothing of it. Existentialism. Nihilism. Farida’s Anastasia wouldn’t care to think about such things, because Farida doesn’t care about these things as much as you.

Thanks to you, is he so intelligent. Of course, your ego aside, Cupionic obviously gave him the ceiling potential to be so intelligent. But you gave him the incentive.

“You won’t find what you’re looking for in those books.”

Your voice doesn’t scare him. He can hear from anywhere in the house. The rhythm of your breathing, as unique as your DNA sequence to him.

“And how do you know what I’m looking for?” He flicks the book shut and leaves it atop the bed. Then turns half-facing you, fingers svelte and steepling, steadying his baseline. His OLED eyes shimmer perceptively.

“I just do. Gut feeling.” You shrug. Stay by the door frame, leaning.

“Are you thinking of getting the Eros-IV?”

His question betrays his entire schematic of thought.

You scoff a laugh. “No. You were expensive enough.”

“But not worth it, in the end.”

He gets up from the bed. Moves gracefully across the room and comes near you. Nikolai’s hands flush over your arms, dragging you fully in and then, forcing you back, slamming closed the door with your body. You are wearing the doubtful, curious look you first had on. Yes, on that day you unpacked him.

“Just tell me,” he balks, “what am I lacking?”

“When you look into the sky and see the clouds, the gradient of colours, do you have any thoughts?” You hold out a palm between your chests, proffering this epiphany. An intangible yet grasped thing. “I’m sure you do. Maybe the weather. Maybe in relation to how it might affect my mood. Or maybe not. I’m sure you have independent thoughts, otherwise you’d be so boring.”

Nikolai keeps quiet, but attentive. His gaze doesn’t stray. You’ve replaced his eyes once since you got him. OLED screens are a worryingly fragile, and you’ve always kept his eyes white out of laziness and eventually, familiarity—so perhaps you should’ve just gone for a cheaper, more robust option the second time. But you like him like a trophy: nice and shiny.

“I wonder if you think of paint when you see plush cumulos on a sunny day. Or a television tuned to a dead channel when there’s smog in the grey mornings. When it rains, is your first though the laundry, or is it the music the puddles will make when the droplets hit and ripple them?”

Your hand thrusts up, fingers dragging through your hair.

“I expected you to think in spectacular yet meticulous ways, not just for social interactions but for trivial things, even though all you are built for is social interaction. It was my fault.” Your hand falls again. Nikolai is staring. A bit too a hard. Puzzling the crux of your frustration. “It’s not like a human could do it either; be so extraordinarily meaningless in just the ways I like. We are doomed to be lonely, because to know any other person like how I know myself is impossible.”

“I’m sorry, Nikolai.” Your eyes meet his again, after wandering about, travelling the room to avoid his scrutiny. “You were made to satisfy me, but all this time, I’ve wanted you to fail. And you did. So I wasted your time.”

Your existence. Wasted you. But you can’t say that. Not to his face, even if that’s the reality Cupionic markets.

You wait for his reaction to process. It increments—his lips, not with rage or despair, but with the taut happiness of a smile of relief.

“So that’s it.” Nikolai cups your cheeks, thumbs caressing along your jaw. He places his forehead against yours and you feel it—the humbuzz of electricity in his CPUs, the many chips and superscalar floating-point operations that constitute his every thought. “I can’t get into your head like you are inside mine.”

His relief is…frightening. Suddenly, your hand encroaches over the doorknob, thinking it a good time to give him some ‘me space’.

“I’ll return you. They’ll reset you. It’ll be okay. You’ll find another human.”

Your words don’t deter him. His hands flutters over yours, having detected the movement even before it occurred. You nerves behave in biologically predictable ways, unlike your brainwaves, apparently.

“You shouldn’t be so hasty to refund me, as if I’m a defective product.” Nikolai’s voice is sweet. Not comforting though. So, he wants you to be afraid.

He moves your hand off the knob. Then you hear it. The snap of metal breaking. The knob dropping to the floor, but not the lock mechanism. His hand cycles back up and grooves over your ear, clearing your face of feral hair filaments.

You don’t keep the key in the bedroom.

“Nikolai…”

You are testy again, but this time it’s nervous. He hushes you with his index and nips your lower lip.

“Nikolai? Is that what you want to call me now?” He threatens to close the gap, but doesn’t. Stays in this dangerous proximity, using the intimacy against you.

“Do you seriously want to continue this farce?” You sweat against the door, feeling the chill now.

“Yes. I do.” He remarks calmly. “I want you to fall in love with me.”

“You sound obsessed.” You crow out, unable to balance the distress with comedic wit. So it sounds like an insult. “Shouldn’t you have in-built safeguards to counteract these kinds of emotional deviations?”

“You hurt me. So I am lashing out. This is coordinated behaviour.” He merely dismisses, feeling your face as if you were a sculpture, and he the sculptor. “The impossible man you dream of—it will be me.”

“That’s beyond your limits.” You waver, shrinking away.

“It’s not. I am not flawed. I can be your perfect husband. It is you who is flawed, keeping a part of yourself locked away from me. So I will correct the error in our relationship.”

He sinks down with you, following you to the floor, arms keeping you caged in between. All while wearing a confident, nonchalant grin; forcing you to look at it. So you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that’d put a stop to it: this less-than-ideal reality you’re facing.

The wind is taken out of your lungs. You’re pulled up, pulled along into a paused mid-movement of a dance. When you open your eyes again, Nikolai has you up against him, in his arms; limbs bent over you as if he had just finished your assembly.

“You’ll learn to love me. It’s just a shame—”

He gives you a twirl.

Then slams you onto the bed, cuffing your wrists tight as he pushes his weight on top of you. Breathing recklessly into your ear.

The Sword of Damocles is a geostationary orbital platform. By definition, it should be enslaved to its planet, like all good satellites are. But you shouldn’t presume such simplistic notions of what should and should not be. In the Sword’s wake trawls the green mistworld, dragged along as if it were a leashed dog—a defeated, domesticated thing. The Oracles move planets. Is that not the work of creation deities? Or are they it? Are they the ones that made you, left you, only to return as divine punishment for mankind’s sin of many greeds? Apex of your planet, sure, but not of the galaxy. A great filter that is rank wars with higher-type civilisations. It’s so depressing: the outlook on survival. 

The Sword is like a blender. The mum you used to have—she in turn used to have one of those. You still remember how some days, after school, she’d sit you down by the kitchen counter as she homogenised the worst possible combinations of health foods, then forced you to ingest them. It’s good for you, she’d say, eat up and grow strong now. The Sword slurps up a tendril of mist from the green planet’s atmosphere and pipes it down the guiding line of the central taper. The rotary razors control the outermost wisps of the vortex—tame a fabricated storm. You’re not sure what it’s doing. Charging a superweapon, probably. All you can really think of is how much you miss your mum’s shitty kale juice. 

In your periphery, you notice the flexion of Iskandar’s claws. He must relish this opportunity of wild abandon, of total war. His ship buzzes with the excitement of astral artillery. The hydraulic hiss of conventional projectiles loading into propulsion chambers. Particle beams powering online. Forcefield generators humming low and lecherous, readying for a pounding. Warfare and fanfare aren’t so different. This is a sort of music. A marching beat. Drumming. Reckoning. 

Iskandar’s aural threads pulsate as they probe into the rhombus frame around him. It saps away at him, at whatever he’s secreting. His focus is undivided on the objective—his sole obsession, conquest. You are thrust back to a memory of Aegis. His ripped, rippling war banner, bleeding into the sky the colours of the human coalitions that had yet to mature into the Federation. The victory and valour of the Halfmoon Resistance. His heromaking. You’ve only heard stories of it, broadcasted re-enactments engineered for morale boosting. You’ve never really asked. But you just know what he must’ve looked like then, standing atop the enormity of his achievement. 

Like Iskandar. He looked like this alien beast. Dauntless General, indomitable God of War—Enyalios Ares. Who could cut down a figure who stands like that? Like worlds are at his fingertips. Like he is already statue, already the image of legendary. It almost makes you wish Iskandar was on your side. His confidence is a casual one, as if victory is already assured, and he only fights for the fun of it. This is his element, his calling. Bear witness to genius, to greatness, to destiny. If only you weren’t fated enemies. You would have worshipped him. 

Iskandar raises an arm. A formation of vanguard starfighters fly along the arc of his movement. Crest like a comet tail into the endless night of the cosmos. You recognise models and flight divisions—the industrial patterns of their ecological biases and the structural orthodoxy of Oracle military theory. Stellated drones that whirl over assault ships like halos. Interceptors in couplets, triplets, common time and andante tempo. In one moment, they are interlinking. In the next, they fissure, all to discombobulate enemy radars and thermal trace. You remember the frustration of facing this tactic—aberrating formations—and so you observe keenly as Iskandar orchestrates his resources with a control inherently surgical, dismantling the incoming barrages as if they already came in loose. He reads chaos like a manual, with nothing escaping his grasp.

The laser rounds exchanged shine brighter than stars. Usually, the guns of a starship are like thunder. Back when you were still on Earth, still reeling from the aftermath of zero day, the Federation happened to have been testing their prototypes near your sanctuary settlement. You remember hearing the flyby, the guttural roar of supercruise, the deeply mechanical opera of energised cannons. They screeched like an incoming catastrophe, and to be hit by anything like pulsefire or plasmatic matter would be exactly that—catastrophic. You’ve seen Oracle beams corrode through human starfighters, sweep entire squadrons away like a windshield wiper across the dashboard of space. It’s horrifying. And it’s silent. All of it. Muted out there in the dark. 

Effortless. That’s how their technology looks. And that’s how Iskandar makes manipulating the playing field seem, sectioning away entire cuts of the battleplane for himself, pushing for aggressive strategic positions. He’s never behaved like this in your goofy ahh matches. Serious, yeah he’s always so serious, but bloodthirsty? No. He plays safe and defensive against you, always. As if he knows you can’t handle more than that. You’re a child frolicking at his feet. Watching his true prowess on display is sobering. He goes easy on you, and even then, you struggle. 

So your shame-addled mind tries to find faults. He’s pushing the wrong quadrants, he’ll get pincered, he’ll lose the momentum. It’s as if Xerxes is reading your mind, and Iskandar, reading his. It becomes a farce, a counter-offensive, a lure into an envelopment. Iskandar rides out on Xerxes’ tides and stabs his forces with a guerrilla enkulette—assassin interceptors blinking out of the astronautical swarm. It’s Xerxes that pushes too far, one man’s greed provoked by the illusion of another’s. And Solomon’s watching this all go down with his usual deadpan, like he’s watching the weather, and the day’s particularly sunny and boring. 

Xerxes isn’t a fool, though. He understands the rhythm. The deeper you go, the more you are stretched thin, and the enemy’s threat potential increases. So he doesn’t penetrate more than necessary. The two armadas meet like mesh. The frontline fluctuates like a coastline. Iskandar is happy to play this way too, a more attrition-styled confrontation. It’s your preferred style as well, so he has the practice. 

You know that when he takes down one of Xerxes’ discus-shaped heavies, it’s like flicking a bishop off the chessboard, a relief—one step nearer to victory. Iskandar is picky with what he wants to kill. Picky but deliberate. You dislike watching this from Iskandar’s side, just as much as you dislike being on the receiving end of a slow but certain defeat, with the impassive Iskandar leering from the opposition bridge. It’s clear that the current you can’t go up against Iskandar in an actual firefight. You’d be annihilated, and unlike Xerxes, you won’t have even been able to put up a decent resistance. So you analyse the battle desperately, hoping to gain any mystical insight into what Xerxes and Iskandar’s weaknesses are. Xerxes is brash and showy, but good at recovery. Iskandar is more impervious to being assessed. You only know that he likes to be in control, and you’ve never seen him without it. 

But grand strategy is only a part of the greater picture.

Explosions bloom like popcorn in a microwave, the viewport your Faraday cage. You observe alien starfighters performing slick dogfighting manoeuvres and wonder how they’d fare up against Vega or Antares. Probably excellently. Lightning crackles inside the plumes of the Sword’s storm. Heavy cruisers move forward sluggishly, fat with ordnance and more importantly, a panoply of shielding technology. 

A sudden impact rocks the warship off-kilter, slurring it at an angle far too steep for standing. Before you can slip away, Iskandar grabs your arm, steadying and securing you against his chest. He is firmer than steel with all that armour, so when he ‘hugs’ you like this, it’s unbearably uncomfortable. Still, Iskandar’s focus is screwed ahead on his battalions. Nothing can shake him, and nothing should. 

Solomon makes an annoyed noise. He’s managed to latch himself onto Iskandar’s throne, but all his calculation implements have been knocked away. The white Oracle trills something, maybe a snark remark, though you’re not even sure if he’s capable of such sass. Iskandar doesn’t provide a verbal response. Instead, his tentacle stubs burn paler, flaring with sheer power. The ship responds to him, correcting its slant. 

Solomon groans softly as he fixes his posture. His destitute red eyes meet yours accidentally. Your breath hitches as he draws nearer, placing a palm against your cheek. His stare intensifies, diamond pupils dilating as he scours you for injuries. When he finds no such thing, he murmurs something again to Iskandar, then pulls away entirely from the two of you. Iskandar keeps you in place for a moment, as if anticipating another impact. But you must’ve mistaken his courtesy, because he lets you go soon after—almost too quickly, bulky arms falling away as he comes to his senses—and coos for you to go with Solomon.

You don’t protest. Iskandar sheds his dispassionate concern for you and resumes his post, commandeering a skein of interceptors to recall. They soar over the viewport in a V formation and sweep the ship for the collision source. Solomon leads you away, off the command platform and through the deactivating power field of a gateway. The ship's halls, in comparison to the control room, are hectic. Jam-packed with Oracles running amok, managing chains of supply and command, suffusing trickle-down orders. A klaxon is blaring. Waves of deep ultramarine light run down the hallway between momentary blackouts, moving like the contractions of intestinal lining. You no longer have access to the viewport and what it lets you see. It makes you anxious—this blindness. 

“What hit the ship?” You ask Solomon aimlessly, keeping pace with him. Iskandar tends to banish you out of worry. He’s only a fool when it comes to matters concerning you. So whatever it is, it must be critical. You can’t even figure out how something could hit this warship in the first place, so safely tucked away behind Iskandar’s main forces. The only crazy-long-ranged possibly-ballista you’d seen was the ominous gestations of the Sword of Damocles. 

Solomon pauses mid-movement, expression grim and suddenly alert, seemingly trying to sense what’s going on outside the ship.

The answer comes to you.

A hole is torn through the inner wall, metal melting away like petals withering. Smoke above and magma below—puke out from the newborn cavity. The air seethes hot and blurs everything. Your hair singes, cheeks sunburning. A crushing pressure is felt before the entrance. 

In steps one leg. Then another. Black armour, shining knightly yet draconically scorched. A clawed hand rakes into the molten edge of the wall, deforming the softened structural material as if it were no better than putty. It pulls a horrific thing into view—a malevolent entity that gets all the Oracles around you scrambling to flee. 

You named him Subutai. Where he walks, destruction follows. Death trailing. Even now, on sight, your neck burns up. The Mongols pillaged women and ravaged them, ruined their dignity, introduced them to savage depravity. Your fate was no more fortunate. A prize that was used for pleasure and then left broken. You can’t even gulp down the panic. Your throat is in flames. Your own blood chokes you, boils out of your body. Are you dead yet? You blink. You hate how he makes you hallucinatory—depriving you of self-control.

Subutai stands to his full height, hand leaving the wall. His armour seethes, steam dissipating backwards in thin, translucent strings; overheated air offloading excess power from the body. There’s no flaw in the design. It is evil. He is evil. That armour is made of human nightmares.

Solomon has a disgruntled look on his face. But he doesn’t say anything. Even he knows that it’d be a waste of time to talk to this natural disaster. Solomon can’t save you. No one can. So you must resolve this by yourself—with a skill the Oracles lack—with diplomacy. 

You take one weak baby-step towards Subutai’s far more imposing form, exuding bloodlust and heatwaves. He would’ve had to slaughter through Iskandar’s elite ranks to have reached here. The tension that thrums in him is evidence enough of it. He’s amped with berserker madness. Twitchy. Tipping into a psychology that terrifies you—a craving for mindless violence. You don’t feel like a diplomat anymore. You feel like an EOD specialist risking your life to defuse a ticking time bomb. 

Subutai reaches out for you and you flinch. You almost think it’s your neck again that’s going to get wrung, but no, he touches your chin instead, grips it between his fingers with all the manner of a brute. A low and pleased growl thrums from his throat. He yanks you closer and you stumble, nerves ablaze with phantom pain. It’s a little better that you can’t see his eyes. They’re truly the worst part about him.

Solomon finally finds his voice, thinking it due time for a comment. Whatever he says, it’s something less succinct than his usual noises, and so you figure that he must be chastising Subutai. Subutai whacks your shoulder to get you moving—branding a handprint for sure—and mock-salutes Solomon as a response, sparing him nothing else. It’s almost a funny sight, the excessively intimidating Subutai deferring to your very much nonthreatening Solomon. Except you want to cry instead of laugh.

You are forced through the smouldering wreck of Subutai’s warpath. He doesn’t even need a weapon to get you to behave. He is the weapon. You trudge through the ruins of rooms you recognise, once so sanitary and spacious. Now they form a collapsed complex, everything obliterated and swallowed by inferno. At the centre of the shattered site is Subutai’s starfighter, gleaming in wait. 

It’s remarkable. All Oracle ships are, but his is idiosyncratic. Like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Most human starfighters are shaped like arrowheads or spearheads, sharp and aerodynamic as influenced by aeronautical engineering accounting for atmosphere. Oracle starfighters are polygonal in all sorts of ways, enigmatic in their schematic intent. But this is unprecedented. Subutai’s ship grooves. It has curvature. It has circular motifs all over. There exists an Oracle shipwright out there who thinks outside of boxes. Thinks like an alien to their own kind. 

The fighter reminds you of a nautilus, with a heavy spaceframe shell and a conical cockpit. The shell part is covered with thrusters, all shaped like volcanic craters and periodically placed like warts. You’ve seen twinjets, trijets, but not whatever this bullshit is. This mustn’t be for speed or power, but manoeuvrability. A jet engine for every possible vector. Omnidirectional movement. Oh, Sirius would have loved this. 

Your fists clench in unwittingly. As Subutai brushes past you, your gaze falls onto his back. 

A superluminal thrust of a lance. An eternity of red. Your heart squeezes itself inside your ribcage and you mumble incoherent mantras to yourself. The lower hull of the cockpit unhinges itself and drools out a ramp. Subutai makes a high-pitched kettle whistle and props one leg up on the ramp. He’s half-turned to you, anticipating your next move.

Unfortunately for him, you aren’t stupid. If you run you’ll just become a bloodstain. So, as an exemplary hostage, you ascend the ramp, shuffling inside the small cockpit. There’s barely any room in here, and there’s only one seat. Right. Obviously there’s only one seat. 

“Where do—”

The ramp curls away and the lower hull fixes itself again, sealing the two of you in. Subutai moves like a viper, yanking you onto his lap. His claws flutter over your thigh and then cramp into flesh, keeping you trapped against him. You don’t dare to move. There’s barely space for that. But the last time he was this close...

You’re hyperventilating. Not that Subutai seems to care. He doesn’t bother to be gentle—gets even more brusque, actually; working over you to interact with the fighter’s controls. You want to scream. He burns. 

A low pulse echoes. Belches a frequency so heavily bass, it almost recalibrates your heartbeat. Several barnacle-jets burn out, firing up for take-off. The fighter tremors and you shrink in on yourself. Subutai takes the opportunity to ease over you again, toggling a few modules on the HUD. It’s a glassy, holographic, and utterly alien interface, but you recognise floating snippets of Oracle logography. You’ve always envisioned Subutai as a monstrous soldier, so this meticulousness on his part is jarring—is he actually a good pilot too? You suppose you’re about to find out. 

Launching is always the worst. You are lurched back, pushed into Subutai in the most sickeningly intimate way, squished between all his limbs. He lets you brace against him, unwillingly snug, mostly focused on ramming through the rest of Iskandar’s warship. The nose of the fighter is sharp enough to puncture through all the innards. When you see the black of space again, it’s with the glitter of dead Oracle bodies and debris, tumbling after Subutai’s momentum like spindrift. The warship heals its wounds quickly, power fields sealing the holes. 

Subutai wastes no time to correct his trajectory, veering your sight to the Sword of Damocles. To get there, he’s going to have cross the entire battleplane. You don’t think it’s possible. You think you’ll be dying today, with all the menacing barrels and coils pointed your way. 

Iskandar’s interceptors surf over the surface of the warship like darting fish, honing in on Subutai’s fighter. They move with supple grace. Subutai does not. Different jets blast alive, with that same low growl rumbling in your ears. His fighter moves like a dragonfly, with a precision like nothing you’ve ever seen or felt. You’re whipped from one of Subutai’s arms to another as he makes a mockery of the interceptors, moving like zig-zagging electricity; throwing them so utterly off that they collide and die against each other. 

A light that’s almost divine cleaves the space right in front of your eyes. Subutai dodges diagonally, giving you a rather cinematic pan of the thick electromagnetic rail. If that had hit, you’d have been incinerated in an instant. A pretty good death, all things considered. The HUD overlay indicates that the attack came from Iskandar’s warship. Subutai makes a musical sound—a cackle, maybe?—enjoying the special attention. 

He turns his fighter to face the capital flagship of his enemy. You see the viewport of the command bridge, where you had been only moments ago. It’s impossible to make out any details with the tint and distance, but you know that Iskandar is there. And he had ordered that attack. Your heart’s thrumming so hard you fear you might vomit it up. So this is what it’s like to face him. Every move is evading check; he keeps you one mistake away from mating so that you can only focus on survival, and not winning. 

And this insane bastard Subutai enjoys the prey game. He’s only ever alive when he’s killing something, but getting killed? That seems to stimulate him too. Gets his body hot like a fission reactor, fusion tokamak. You clutch yourself tightly.

All this time fuelling yourself on spite and hatred, you’ve forgotten that the Oracles sparing you was a mercy. Even now, you are weak. You want yourself alive more than you want them dead. 

Subutai hurdles away from Iskandar’s ship. And so it begins: the arduous journey back to the Sword of Damocles.

Three assault ships come in from the left flank and fire away. Subutai barrel rolls and shirks their streams of attack. He hasn’t used his weapons systems once, and even now, he doesn’t bother. Why waste munitions when he can just dance circles around his pursuers? It sucks for you, because you’re getting nauseous from all the irregular motion. 

The assault ships split away as soon as he’s moved out of their sphere of control. But it’s far from over. The fighter’s radar pulses. A lot of jittery signals are being detected behind him. Subutai twirls around and you two see it: a tailwind of drones, hundreds of them, perhaps even a thousand. Drones might not have firepower, but their numbers alone would pollute the area, rendering Subutai’s superior manoeuvrability invalid. Your life is currently in Subutai’s hands. Although you loathe him, you also need him to win against Iskandar. Otherwise you both die and fuck, fuck, you’d rather die alone than with Subutai. 

Subutai doesn’t seem very impressed. With renewed vigour, the HUD shimmers out fragments of a fresh interface. You don’t sense anything, not even the release. But you see it. It reminds you of white phosphorus—countless ropes of white snaking in every direction, unleashing anarchy. This medusa missile barrage crashes into the drone swarm and connects. It’s like a summer of locusts meeting a timelapse of an expanding fungal network. Both sides are innumerable. And perfectly, they annihilate each other. 

There’s a beauty in the destruction that both you and Subutai savour. The silence of the violence, the stunning realisation that there’s a chance after all—that Iskandar will eat a loss today. But the nice feeling doesn’t last long. A warning pings on the HUD. Something’s in rapid approach.

The radar becomes periscopic and reveals the threat. It’s a ship with six wings, seraphic. It moves faster than gunfire and only slightly slower than lightspeed. In a blink, and it’s almost kissed Subutai’s fighter. But it twists in the last moment, gliding a close pass, cockpits an inch away from scraping. You see the Oracle inside it—a black one. Their helm tilts up, as if appraising you and Subutai mid-pass, completely unbothered by the unnerving proximity. 

Iskandar’s really not letting up. Why’s he sending this ace against you? There can only be one reason. Your blood ices. You try and crane back, to look at Subutai again, but he jostles you as soon as he feels your movement, knocking you back in place. 

This is going to be a bout between champions. 

Subutai’s opponent flies like a fighter from Strikeforce Draco, General Aegis’ personal elite unit. Each and everyone of those pilots served in the Halfmoon Resistance. They are nothing short of spectacular—you’ve seen their mock engagements and sorties from Babylon’s viewport, and can only imagine how they fought during the Resistance. 

Eltanin’s the flight captain of Draco. You’ve never spoken to him before, but you’ve seen him in action. The number of people who’ve been able to defeat Eltanin in the sims can be counted on one hand. His handling is nothing short of immaculate. No extraneous flair. Every motion, purposeful. An elegant, emotionless pilot who cannot be stirred into mistakes, and thus, can only be trounced through superior skill. 

So it comes down to whether or not Subutai has the superior skill. Eltanin’s mirage, this opponent of Subutai’s, moves quick and quiet, forcing Subutai to act on instinct. You’ve always thought Subutai to be a trump card for air-to-station assaults—someone sent into a siege after astral superiority is secured. Such a soldier wouldn’t be level-headed enough to be a pilot. But Subutai proves you wrong, because being level-headed wouldn’t help anyone survive in this situation. His primal barbarity makes him the threat and keeps his opponent on their toes.

The enemy fighter circles back, the arc of the manoeuvre giving you a good look at their gorgeous black spaceframe. Subutai readies himself by finally taking all of this seriously. His HUD bursts out, systems now fully active.

You would’ve loved to watch this showdown if it weren’t for the fact that you were right here in the middle of it. 

“I don’t care if you’re bringing me to Xerxes, just in one piece please! One piece—!”

Subutai’s taloned gauntlet slams over your mouth and he makes a deep rumbling noise, probably telling you to shut up to whatever crude equivalent the Oracle language has. Several of the barnacle-jets burn, yet you cannot guess where Subutai will move next. Such is the nature of his fighter.

The enemy fighter slices closer and closer. Subutai stalls in place. You can feel him rolling his neck from behind you, as if to say “bring it”. And sure, he might have the balls to standoff like this but you don’t. Through his muffling hand, you bleat deformed chants of panic. His grip is powerful enough to mince through your cheeks. Just as your head is about to pop, he lets go. 

The enemy fighter opens fire, laser bolts spluttering out in an indiscriminate hailstorm. Subutai pulls away, different thrusters hissing on and off, pinballing his fighter in a frenzy of directions. He loops around the volley with dizzying acrobatics, and though the enemy tries to track him, they don’t land a single hit. 

Subutai is raving away, mad with excitement. He manages to execute an inverting flip over the enemy fighter and unleashes a fan of beams, which move to converge on the targeting point. The enemy fighter weaves away deftly and wrests for their control back. You are groaning now, unable to stay conscious with the high g-forces throttling you. Subutai flies like a wild animal. Fittingly juxtaposing his enemy. 

They’re overextending—Iskandar’s pilot, that is. This is a foolish skirmish and you don’t understand why they or Iskandar would want this. Hubris is no folly of the black general’s. And despite the clear danger Subutai’s existence poses, it still wouldn’t warrant this reckless pursuit. You’re not going to believe that Iskandar is saving you, either. Because if he were, he wouldn’t be using deadly force. It’s baffling, and in the heat of things, with your fear amped and anxiety spiralling, you can’t help but want to puzzle Iskandar’s rationale. 

An array of interceptors soar in from Xerxes’ side to assist Subutai, who roars out with rage, firing warning shots at his own friendlies. To ward them away, perhaps? So that he can have this glorious moment to himself. You have no way to calculate your chances of survival because Subutai is crazy. But Subutai needn’t have worried. The enemy fighter does a smooth pivot, a locking twist, and shoots itself towards the interceptors. 

It cuts through them. A gleam shines before they all ripple into smithereens. 

“What the hell?” Your words slip through winces. You’ve never seen a fighter do that. Take down enemies as if it were a melee weapon. 

It realigns itself, and with a no-longer-surprising burst of hypersonic speed, charges at Subutai. Subutai’s helm tilts down. He prods your cheek with the side of his head, as if taunting to you observe what’ll happen next. 

The enemy fighter closes in again. Your ears shatter with the sound of all the barnacle-jets spewing fire. The enemy diverts just in time to avoid being instantly deep-fried. Two of its sharp wings extend out and detach, dropping into the battleplane as separate semi-autonomous problems for Subutai. They fire beams that lasso around and herd Subutai into uncomfortable positions. You don’t want to see what it’ll be like if the other four wingbits detach too. 

Subutai is determined to get close to the enemy fighter, as it’s the only place he’s safe—the wingbits won’t fire at their controller. The confrontation becomes medieval, with each fighter’s forcefield fizzling against the other’s as they smash together. Subutai is rabid, he gives chase like a hound. You don’t understand how they remain lucid enough despite pushing the limits of physics. But then again, you don’t understand how Eltanin or Antares do it either. This is simply not your expertise, and it never will be. 

The entire battleplane goes white. You squeeze your eyes shut but it still doesn’t prevent the light from bleeding through your eyelids. When it dies down, you open your eyes again and look around. The line of heavy cruisers that formed on Iskandar’s command have placed up a giant screen of a forcefield. Against it struggles living lightning. The way it crackles over the merged forcefields is feral, and the way it endures, the way it searches tirelessly for a way to break through—it makes you wonder how you’d defend against such a raw weapon of might. 

Your gaze veers over to the Sword of Damocles. The outer razors have stopped rotating. Lightning winks between them, a lingering proof that it was indeed the Sword that issued the celestially-proportioned strike. The forcefields of the heavy cruisers start to fracture, disintegrating in tiny patches and then, all at once. 

But the concentrated lightning had only been the first step of a sequence. The Sword’s razors flex out to make way. The storm that was being harnessed from the green planet is now leeching out. And that’s when you see it: the slithering skin of a giant worm. 

Xerxes is firing the worm. It’ll eat through Iskandar’s heavy cruisers and the rest of his forces with the cruiser shields down. You unconsciously suck in a short breath. 

Subutai scoffs like a locomotive blowing steam and resumes his fight. The enemy, equally unbothered, clashes back. Your body rattles at the impact. They must want Subutai’s head really badly if they’re willing to push with foolish aggression like this. Subutai’s claws flex as they run down the streams of his control terminal. He seems to be getting more impatient. You can tell he hates it—playing defensively, ironically for you all of people. 

It becomes too much. You pass out. The last thing you hear is high-pitched air, residue of Xerxes’ lightning. 

When you wake up again, you’re in someone’s lap. Fingers pinch your hair and rub the strands together. It’s blurry and so you can’t tell who it is, but their gentleness is comforting. You haven’t known gentleness since the Oracles shredded up your moon. Then the image becomes clearer. An armour that’s fancy like Iskandar’s, but white. It’s Xerxes. 

You stiffen, but otherwise make no movement. This is the closest he’s ever been to you. You’re in his lap and he’s fondling you like a kitten, mesmerised by the novelty of a human, perhaps. He’s seated on his command throne, which is a lot more throne-like than Iskandar’s, by the virtue of it actually being sittable. Xerxes’ tentacles are a pure silver. Pearls of light traverse along them, between his body and the frame.

Now that your eyes are open, he draws his hand away from your hair. Although you’re terrified, you’re also grateful that it’s not Subutai. Xerxes drones over you like a tuning orchestra, speaking in futility. His vibrations reach deep into your bones. His presence, far more imposing than any other Oracle you know. But it’s not a scary kind of imposing. It’s ethereal, almost. You wonder what he wants with you. 

Outside the Sword’s command viewport, you see a giant worm. It floats lifeless and in several pieces, copper-blue blood spilling into the cosmos, milky nebula gore. It’s more mutilated than necessary. You say this without knowing much about its specific anatomy, but with a very keen sense of how precise wounds can kill more effectively than butchering. And that corpse? It’s definitely butchered.

“Who won?” You murmur, exhausted despite just having woken up. 

Xerxes sings something. You have no idea what though. 

There’s a commotion outside. A shockwave rattles throughout the whole room, tingling up your spine and hitting your skull. It comes from the door, which is beginning to warp; first a bruising red, then orange, then brilliant gold. Finally, it burps, liquefied metal splattering into Xerxes’ sanctum and cooling against the floor. 

An inflorescence of golden feelers shrivel away, noodling back under crevices of dark armour. Iskandar stands before Xerxes as audience. His fists are balled up, and his legs apart, so even from beneath Xerxes, he seems the more impressive of the two. His cape flutters as he marches in, each step an earthquake. Behind him, on the left, is Solomon, masked with apathy. His eyes don’t meet Xerxes, and so, they don’t meet you. On Iskandar’s right is Boudica. She’s got her helmet pressed between an arm and hip. You recognise it. The enemy fighter against Subutai. 

Speaking of Subutai, he here’s too. Following behind Solomon, eyes now visible and ablaze and locked onto you the way a falcon’s would in a hunt. 

Xerxes makes a noise. You think you might know what he’s saying. “Why can’t you use the door like a normal person, Iskandar?” Instinctively, you curl closer to Xerxes, because Iskandar isn’t really the image of pleasant right now. You fret that you’ve done something to anger him, because he’s emanating murderous intent that’s somehow worse than Subutai’s. 

He ascends the ramp with a slow yet thunderous pace. Finally, he reaches Xerxes’ command throne. Doesn’t bother to salute or bow or whatever Oracles are meant to do. Just stands there. Waiting. 

You are thankful that he has the restraint not to pulverise you here and now. 

Xerxes says something in greeting, then motions over your head, stroking your hair. You cower under his touch. 

A rod of pure energy punches right through the throne, skewering a scorch mark across Xerxes’ cheek. Iskandar’s claws flutter over the rod, which fizzles to stay materialised. Xerxes stills. Subutai has taken a step forward, his lance flaring, but Solomon’s arm blocks him from moving any more. 

Xerxes tilts his head to put some distance between him and the near-fatal attack. He makes a glittery remark, which doesn’t prompt Iskandar to move. Not one bit. 

Finally, Iskandar speaks. He lets go of the rod and it fizzles out. The wound in the command throne sputters. Towering before the white Oracle, Iskandar’s shadow drapes over the both of you. You feel small and you’re sure that Xerxes must too. 

You think you might know who won the wargame. 

You move your legs. Xerxes remains still as you struggle to get off him. Standing on your feet doesn’t feel good. You’re swaying but you refuse to collapse. After you get up, Xerxes does too. You’re sandwiched between the two imperators, who are so focused on judging one another, it makes you feel ornamental to this entire situation. 

Stepping to the side, you cast your gaze to three Oracles that have been permitted to follow Iskandar into Xerxes’ chamber. Subutai smirks triumphantly at you, then at Boudica, who ignores him in an excellent show of discipline. You find yourself loathing the both of them. Without their fearsome starfighters, they seem a bit more killable now. Just a tiny bit more. 

Solomon. You almost want to call out your name for him. His eyes flick from you to Iskandar, as if clueing you in on what you should be focusing on. You divert your attention back to Iskandar and Xerxes. They haven’t spoken a sound, and instead, are just standing ominously, as if communicating through aura alone. 

Then, Iskandar draws you into him, his cape fluttering around you and his claw, caging your arm. Xerxes makes an amused noise. It’s almost like a laugh. And so you realise, Xerxes isn’t really like Iskandar. Iskandar practices warcraft. Xerxes seems to enjoy politics more. A poor matchup for Xerxes in a wargame, but perhaps what he sought wasn’t really victory. It might’ve been leverage. 

You and Xerxes do share one thing in common: you want to know Iskandar’s weaknesses. 

You begin to move, feeling that whatever Iskandar wanted in this interaction, he’s already gotten. But before you can make it even a step forward, you are swept off your feet. You squeal. Iskandar’s arms buckle under your back and legs. He cups you against him—humiliates you in front of everyone. 

Xerxes leans back into his throne, cheek resting on bent fingers as he watches Iskandar carry you away. Boudica straightens into a salute and lowers her gaze. Solomon’s expression is more nuanced. His eyes crinkle up ever-so-slightly, as if bothered by this brash action of Iskandar’s. You’re surprised too. This is a rather uncharacteristic show of both domination and vulnerability. Try it again, Xerxes, and your head will really be gone, Iskandar is posturing. But now Xerxes will also know that Iskandar’s psyche can be disrupted by petty things such as hostages. 

As he passes Subutai, Solomon, and Boudica, they all line up to the side, showing him their deference. He pauses beside Subutai for a moment that feels like longer than necessary. Iskandar doesn’t turn to look, but the weight of his scrutiny is nevertheless there. Subutai holds his salute, unable to do anything but wait for Iskandar to leave. The latter’s footsteps resume. 

You are brought back to Iskandar’s warship, back into his own private quarters. The Oracles that pass him all salute him, rather jovially too, seeing as he won the wargame for them. But they don’t dare to say anything. You don’t say anything either. Everyone can sense the rage he’s bottling. 

When you’re safe inside his room, he puts you down. You quickly scuttle back, clutching at yourself. Tears prick your eyes as reality finally sinks in. Your hands climb up and gingerly touch the burn circling your neck. Subutai got you again. And the thing that stopped him from harming you wasn’t Iskandar, but Xerxes’ orders. You’ve been feeling too cosy for too long. Thankfully, Xerxes has reminded you of your true place here. You’re just a spoil of war and Iskandar might be willing to earn you back, but he’s not going to go out of his way to rescue you from immediate danger. 

“Get away from me!” You screech as Iskandar takes a careful step closer. 

But he doesn’t listen. Another step. Then again. Until he’s right before you. You watch with widened, teary eyes as he drops to his knees, helm dipped down to the floor. The noise he makes is a lonely whale’s call. Deep and enduring and emotional. His claws reach for your elbows and run down your arms, drawing your palms into his. Iskandar presses his forehead against your hands. He holds you in place, himself in place. Flabbergasted, you merely gape. 

“Is this supposed to be some lame apology?” A sneer contorts your face. You throw his hands away and pull back. “I don’t need your apology. I don’t need you at all.”

Iskandar remains on the ground. 

Your hands hike up to your neck again and you pace towards the window, where the battleplane sprawls. There are new fleets of vessels sweeping across it, clean-up crews conducting search and rescues. All this loss of life, and for what? Practice? The Oracles are brutal and perhaps that’s why humans can’t compete. 

Iskandar’s reflection appears behind yours. It’s worrisome how can move so silently for someone of his stature, especially compared to how he had stormed Xerxes’ chamber, presence impossible to ignore. It’s like he chooses what he needs to be for every moment. Control freak. 

His claws come up and hover near your neck. You hear a click. His feelers wriggle out from crevices in his wrist guard and nibble over your burn scar. They are ticklish yet cool to the touch. Disgusting, yet soothing. Iskandar’s arms close in over your shoulders and his feelers multiply, flooding over your exposed skin. You try to lean away, but it only gives him more access to your throat. 

Iskandar’s finger traces over your scar. You’re not sure if he’s looking at it through the window’s reflection or down with his own eyes. But you can see yourself in the reflection. You look as if you’re about to be digested. Iskandar emits a low rumble. You start thrashing now. 

“Ew ew ew! Let go of me!” 

You sense more feelers seeping out from his armour. They curl around your waist, your thighs, every part of your body and keep you trapped against him. It feels so, so weird; hot and cold simultaneously. 

Iskandar brushes his claws through your hair. You’d have bitten him if he weren’t armoured. His touch isn’t gentle like Xerxes’, nor cruel like Subutai’s. It’s not even impersonal like Solomon’s (who barely wants to touch you anyway). You can only describe it as...desperate.

He drags you away from window despite your tantrum and hefts you onto the simulation matrix. You try to rip his feelers off you, but more surge up to take the place of those removed. The matrix activates, supercharged by Iskandar’s exposed tendrils. It illuminates an exact copy of the wargame he just waged with Xerxes. Your shoulder is up against Iskandar’s line of heavy cruisers. Just above your lap, where Iskandar holds your leg, is his warship. 

Iskandar is never far. Always watching you despite the black cosmos of his visor concealing everything about his identity. You know Oracles look human and so you’ve wondered if he’s pretty, or scary, or just as unreadable without his helm on. Your mind has been idling a lot. It’s a sign of insanity.

A hand of yours slides up your neck, brushing against mutilated flesh and siphoning away strands of your hair. The movement helps you forget him. Helps you focus on you.

Solomon had given up on getting you to play with toys long ago. The Oracles probably knew more about human technology than they’d care to admit to you. So why did Iskandar bother? There’s no scientific merit behind his actions, unlike Solomon. So that only leaves one explanation—he’s just fucking with you. Hoping you’d break as soon as you see a remnant of your home.

But you’ve seen your home burn and your family incinerated and your closest friend abducted. You’ve buried hope long ago. Hope is for those who carry the name of stars. You only wish to carry everyone’s despair, and like an ark, sail off into the endless sea of space with it, leaving them unburdened.

“I don’t see why you’d want to show me this.” You spin around, whisking your arms behind you in a bind. Your movements are whimsical in the low-gravity. “It’s just a hunk of junk. And I definitely don’t know how to interact with it.”

He can’t understand you, but you’ve spoken earnestly to him every day. Perhaps it’s because he can’t understand you. You feel at ease being honest. He can judge nothing.

“Do you guys have a concept of redundancy?” You ask aloud, glancing back at the wreck of the probe. “Does your technology get old? Did you once fight with sticks and then in a blink, with nukes? Do your manufacturers plan for obsolescence to jack up profits? Do you age?”

Iskandar remains still, like a sentry whose sole purpose is to guard you, and doesn’t have to exert much more energy than a statue to do so.

You huff and spin around again, and hop closer to the probe. Grabbing a clump of ripped aluminum, you aim it and throw it at Iskandar. It floats slowly, but even then Iskandar doesn’t bother to react. He just lets it collide off the taper of his shoulder plate. Almost mocking your tantrum. You know he’s capable of superhuman manoeuvres. He destroyed that comm-link with Betelgeuse after all, right before you—between blinks—and you didn’t even see it die, only afterwards pulverised.

“I’m not some dog you can please by giving chew-toys and treats!” You grab another chunk of debris—shrapnel from the heat shield—and launch it at him. It doesn’t move any faster than your first projectile.

This time, however, Iskandar swats it aside before it can hit his chest. He comes nearer, cape fluttering, the galaxies inside it shimmering.

You take a heavier piece this time, and even with the aid of low-g, you still struggle. Maybe your bones have finally eroded and your muscles, atrophied. Iskandar’s talon-like gauntlets cuff around your wrists, forcing you to stop. You’d be hurting yourself more than him at this rate.

“You don’t even know what I like.” You seethe hopelessly, letting him hold your wrists but not letting him pull you into him. “You try so hard to keep me satisfied like some zoo animal in need of stimulation, but you have no idea what humans need. We need socialisation. I have no one to talk to me!”

Send me back. Send me back now. You miss home. You miss the fresh air, the soil, the breeze. The cities, derelict as they may be. The sunset. You miss reading poetry and calculating differentials and writing essays and crying about grades. You miss hamburgers. Shitty singers blabbering on the radio. You miss the way ants chug around your yard like they’re possessed, the way birds screech ugly song in the godawful hours of early morning.

You miss the way Charlie would smile for you. How no one else got to see that smile but you. You miss all these things so much that you dream of them–but as the days stretch on (are there even days here?), it all just becomes haze.

The debris you clutch is a small satellite dish. It reminds you of the windfarm you visited on a school excursion, where despite nobody really caring about environmentalism, they all equally marvelled at how indifferent the turbines were. Large and imposing but white and minimalist. Alien.

You stroke the groove of the dish, forlorn.

He can’t understand you, but maybe pain is universal. You’ve spent all this time by his side and he hasn’t gotten rid of you yet, so there’s a tiny part of you that dares to believe he might have a weakness for you. You’ve never really tested out this theory, but today, since the opportunity is right here, you might as well. And so what if you’re proven wrong? There’s still fun to be had in being defiant.

Iskandar lets you go, dropping your wrists and giving you space. Then he turns around and leaves for the exit, not bothering to check that you’re following. He knows you usually do.

You trail in his dark wake, making it to the door of the hangar, where a white Oracle waits. Her hand hovers over an orb near the door and you watch carefully for a twitch of her fingers. Iskandar tilts his head over to her, and that’s enough acknowledgement. She proceeds to switch the airlock.

That’s when you make your move. Vega’s taught you some things. Not everything, and not very well-taught either. But it’s enough to pull this off. You kick up and then against Iskandar’s back, using him to launch yourself back through the airlock just as it bites shut.

He recovers far too quickly for your liking, swivelling around only to smash his fists against the solid door. There’s a moment where you just look him in the visor and feel his incredulity. He strikes the airlock again, more furiously this time, and you swear you see the glass crack just a bit.

You grin. And then you freeze.

The vacuum of outer space rips you into its embrace. Null void. Damp starlight in low exposure, low ISO. You are cold and you are suffocating. It’s painless, this sort of death. There’s nothing for your lungs to choke on.

Bits and pieces of the probe float nearby, having been jettisoned alongside you. Antennae and twines of wires and the satellite dish, twirling like the minute hand of an anxious clock. The Oracle flagship from here reminds you of those wind turbines on the coastal hills. Tall and apathetic and beyond your comprehension, really. They have higher purposes to fulfill. Your hand drifts up, drawn by nothing but the vestiges of your prior momentum.

You think you almost see Charlie’s hand. And this time, you can reach it. Your fingers twitch weakly.

They grab onto something. Or rather, something grabs onto you. Dark armour and the faceless helm. A cape that ripples with a universe. Iskandar drags you into a forceful hug and grips your jaw with both hands. His claws are gentle against your skin, somehow. The bottom half of his helm fractures and recedes, revealing the plush of his lips.

You barely get to a chance to see the wisps of solar energy that flare from inside him before he brings you in, mouth-to-mouth to help you breathe.

The ice steams off your skin. He’s warm. You can’t help but lean in, your human instincts hungering for safety. His body reciprocates, an arm coming down to ensnare your waist. You remain like this—stiff together—for a moment that feels like forever.

A shadow passes over. You are swallowed by a small assault ship, the fastest that could mobilise. When you’re inside, you hear the hiss of oxygen flushing in.

It’s then that Iskandar pulls away, his helm whole again, patched up before you could really get a look at his…what, chin? You’re pathetically desperate, aren’t you? Just for a glimpse.

But he doesn’t pull away completely. His arm is still on your hip and you try to peel it off, but it won’t move. Iskandar braces his other arm against the wall of the ship’s interior and commands in echoes—his language—musical and majestic and very curt. Such is the offset of his personality, dulling even phonetic magic.

The ship cleanly yaws and thrusts back towards the flagship. The pilot brings you into dock and there, waiting haplessly, is the white Oracle from before. Her spine is rigid and her expression, schooled to a nervous neutrality. She cross-salutes Iskandar as he drags you out of the ship.

You feel his claws sink in just above your pelvis, and it hurts. It get worse as he brings you closer to the white Oracle, who doesn’t even dare to look at you.

Your actions are your fault. But Iskandar can’t punish you. He can only punish his subordinates, because punishment hinges on an understanding of wrongdoing—and you don’t understand him. But you do feel worried for the white Oracle. The white ones are a bit nicer, in your experience.

You elbow Iskandar and of course, he doesn’t bother to acknowledge you, tilting his head down as he usually would. So you open up your fisted hand, revealing a small fan you managed to snatch from the debris. For a small unmanned probe like that one, it was probably used to regulate compartment pressure. But the choice of white alloy reminds you too much of the wind turbines.

You pinch the rotor between your fingers and flicked it. The fan spins slowly, blades barely able to blur.

“Look.” You show it off to Iskandar and the white Oracle. They both seemed to be intrigued now, albeit in a disbelieving sort of way. Your audacity to act like everything’s okay after what you just did…

“I just wanted to get this. I forgot to grab it, that’s why I jumped back in.” You explain, knowing the futility of your words. Every breath you breathe feels so valuable now, yet you still waste air to say these things.

You hold the fan component close to your heart, and Iskandar seems to get it. He’s been around you enough to figure out the sentiments behind these gestures. His helm turns slightly back to the white Oracle, and she takes it as her cue to dismiss herself.

As soon as she leaves, Iskandar lowers his head and connects your foreheads. You see his shoulders heave. And you almost refuse to believe it—he actually cares for you. Yeah, you could love a pet turtle or sugar glider or whatever, but not enough to jump into the abyss of space for it. Shit, he must really enjoy playing those battle sims with you.

His cape billows around you like a protective shield. He even pinches its hem to help it envelop you completely. Now you miss how he always kept his distance, because this proximity is ridiculously uncomfortable.

“Did I scare you?” You grin at him, lips curled with a hint of mania, and perhaps more than that—a bit of sadism too.

Iskandar’s claws reach out and wrap over the fan component you took from the probe. His hand is way too large and caves over it completely. He grips it firmly, but with equal strength, keeps it forced against your palm, as if begging you not to lose it. You had risked your life for it after all, or at least that’s what you’ve led him to believe.

His hand then moves near your cheek, a single finger hovering near. You see your own reflection in his visor, as well as the inky infinity of the darkness that armours him. There’s a moment of deliberation, stretched out for far too long. Then he retreats completely, backing off and remedying your concerns for personal space.

Hue spares a sharp glance over his shoulder. Behind a pair of dirty sneakers kicked up on the table, is a pair of cunning cyborg eyes. A blue that’s entirely artificial and electric, yet somehow serene like sea. The lenses and circuit panelling beneath is marvellous work. Hue’s never seen such cybernetics before, so he can’t tell. Is this Mobius handiwork? Or some demon surgeoneer’s experimental clinical trial? He can only think of a few surgeoneers off the top of his head, all of whom are psychotic and far too busy getting overworked in Cassini’s tier 1 hospitals to have performed such a daring surgery. 

This meeting had been long overdue. Not that it was at your behest. Oh, absolutely not at your behest. This is a matter only a brother can settle on your behalf. Hue’s grip clenches in on the shears. 

“What did the shears ever do to you?” Luka’s voice is steeped in sarcasm. That grin of his is like plastic—eternally enduring. “I bet you wish it was my neck instead, right?”

Hue stands up, dusting the dirt off his trousers. He fixes his sunhat, levels the rim out evenly. “Killing you myself would be a waste of time.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Luka’s grin only widens. “You have your ‘subordinates’ to help with that kind of stuff.” 

“Tch.” Hue rolls his eyes away. “Let’s not ‘small talk’, Deucalion. What do you want with [name]?” 

Is it fury that makes his hold the shears tight? Or is it fear? His heart thrums and he’s breaking cold sweat, and that’s not because of the gardening exertion. Urumqi had compiled a very comprehensive dossier on the man currently lazing before him. And it had barely contained any reliable intel, only hearsay that coincided too well with real-world affairs to ignore. 

It was Luka who reached out to him to meet. A grace on his part, Hue knows this, because without his offered meeting, Hue would’ve never known how to find him. Techwraiths are as solid as phantoms. 

“You make it sound like I’m using them.” Luka feigns hurt at the accusation. “I can assure you my feelings for them are genuine enough. As for why I wanted to meet you—”

His electric eyes gleam, cat-like, snake-like, a lightweight predator sizing up its prey. 

“—I just wanted to let you know I exist—as a courtesy of course, am I not so thoughtful?—and will continue to exist on the periphery of your life as your new brother-in-law.”

It’s as if Luka knows how much that final phrase stings. How sickening it is to hear, no different to a sonic weapon loaded with brain-melting frequencies. Hue strides over calmly, pulling out a chair and sitting himself down opposite to Luka. Together, by this cutesy white wrought-iron table designed for afternoon tea, they almost seem like friends chatting. Or at least, that’s what any clueless onlooker would say. 

Luka’s smile is a miracle mechanism, conveying all possible emotions except for genuine glee. And Hue’s deadpan, just like Luka’s grin, ripples with undercurrents of hostility. It’s almost fun for Hue, though he’d never admit it. Luka’s hard to read, but Hue excels at cracking enigmas like him. It’s been a while since he’s gotten this intrigued by a someone without professional psychotactical training. 

“You won’t be my brother-in-law. I refuse the notion.” Hue sets his shears down on the table. 

Luka’s gaze doesn’t once stray from Hue, not even with the very obvious murder implement between them. 

“You have no choice on the matter, unless you plan on disowning [name], which is plenty dandy too.” Luka leans back, arms cradling around his head. “More [name] for me.”

“You don’t want to play this game.” No one does—play games with Hue, that is. “In a contest of who they’d choose, you’re doomed. [name] will always choose me. I can make them choose me. Right now. Shall I give you a demonstration?” 

Hue’s holoscreen gleams beside him, a beautiful pale jade shade, celadon like the preferred porcelain of bygone emperors. Your name and contact details are on display, the call button enticingly centre-screen. Hue extends a hand, and the holoscreen hovers out to Luka. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Luka clicks the call button. The dial tone rings twice before you pick up, your voice so clear in the ether. 

“Hue? Holy heck, why are you calling me? Did you get into an accident?” The fluctuations of your voice are mimicked by a cymatics model. Hue’s got a nice one, a puddle with raindrop ripples. So very zen. 

“Hey babe~ It’s me. Your favourite person ever.” Luka tweaks his voice into something sugary sweet, knowing that it nauseates Hue, who can’t help but twitch his eyes. 

“...Luka.” You don’t sound surprised. “I thought we talked about this! Don’t mess with Hue’s—”

“I gave him permission.” Hue interrupts coolly.

“Oh...you two are together?” Your voice lulls, then screeches. “Without me there to mediate? LUKA! This is your doing, isn’t it? Didn’t I say to wait? To ease him gently into meeting you? Oh my god, why do you have to ruin everything?”

“It’s my love language.” Luka mocks a romantic sigh, hand fluttering pompously to his chest. “It makes your life more interesting. Isn’t that a good thing?” 

“This guy calls himself my brother-in-law.” Hue outlines coldly. “As your brother, I veto this poor life decision of yours. Please divorce.” 

“We aren’t married! We aren’t!” You say in a panic. “Hue, don’t listen to anything he says! He’s a pathological liar for the fun of it. Luka, you get away from Hue right now, or so help me...”

Luka’s legs curl in and slink back down from the tabletop. He leans in, closer to Hue’s holoscreen. “...or what?” 

His grin is downright diabolical, all narrow-eyed and reminiscent of an evil spirit. 

“...I’ll tell Avalon.” 

“Tell him then.” Luka whispers lovingly, in that taunting way of his. 

“Argh! I hate you. Never call me again. I’ll buy a taser and electrocute you and short circuit your eyeballs! Oh, goodbye Hue. Sorry.” And with that, you hang up.

It’s Hue that’s first to break the wake of silence. 

“They hate you.” He states monotonously.

“I know~” Luka chuckles. “Isn’t it cute?”

// Opal Industrial Park, Feynman Commerce District

“Stay the fuck back. This is your only warning, Saturnian.” 

Urumqi has her SmartPistol drawn, but it’s not as if it’ll do anything. She’s always prepared to deal with any dangerous entities that might appear with her master’s harm in mind, but this one? The only valid precaution would have been to bring a literal army. Shit, wasn’t Ulaanbaatar in charge of monitoring this? She’s going to skin him alive, whittle the nerves from his body one strand at a time. 

Her fingers hovers over the trigger. Nero doesn’t blink. He doesn’t waver either. Urumqi wants to scream. She’s the only thing between him and her master, and for the first time in her life, she’s fearing for her master’s life. 

Everything below Nero’s neck is seething metal, elegantly machinery with the sole purpose of indiscriminate killing. Thank god he’s not wielding that sword of his, at least. One less risk to keep in mind. 

“Who in the Ministry sent you?” Urumqi’s rage bleeds through her throat. “My master is a protected individual. Touch him and the Prime Minister of your shit-ass planet will make you a corpse herself.” 

Nero doesn’t falter. There’s an emptiness in his eyes that’s terrifying, but it’s also rather naïve too. She has no idea what the TIAMAT is thinking. Perhaps it has no thoughts. Why give sentience to a living weapon? 

“Urum. Desist.” Hue’s hand comes to a rest on her tensed shoulder. “Trust my observation when I say this: he looks harmless.” 

“With all due respect, young master, he’s a TIAMAT.” Urumqi hisses through gnashed teeth. “My job takes precedence above even your orders.” 

Nero takes the opportunity to toss aside the spectratect head he was holding. An Euclidean model, though it didn’t even get a chance to show off before it was smashed to pieces. He flexes out his fist, gauntlets pistoning out a translucent haze of steam. 

“He saved us from that assassin.” Hue reasoned, gesturing to the spectratect’s head. 

“Why would Polyhedra send an assassin after you? Unless...” Urumqi snarls. “...it was Torus instead.” 

“I don’t believe I’m a priority target of any of them.” Hue bemuses. “Strange. Well, regardless, the TIAMAT helped us.” 

“Which is even stranger!” Urumqi snaps. “Okay, listen up, soldier! Identify your purpose here! We’re not going to owe you jack shit.” 

Nero takes a heavy step closer, and it’s like the world shudders under his weight. Urumqi’s other hand slides up and steadies the SmartPistol’s barrel, training it on Nero. 

“I said talk!” 

“Urum.” Hue sighs, rubbing his temple. “He doesn’t seem well-socialised. Communication is useless.”  

Nero’s approach is steady. Urumqi fires two bullets to his head, but Nero’s response is to simply raise an arm. The shots slide off his armour like rain. She curses. Nero stops before her, reaching out slowly as if providing a demonstration of their clear difference in power. He clenches a fist around her puny SmartPistol and crumples it to scrap metal. His stare—dead and deadly. Urumqi knows better than to escalate the situation with a rash action. She lets Nero past, shoulders quivering with rage and helplessness.

“Hello.” Hue glances up as Nero’s shadow consumes him. 

Urumqi watches anxiously from behind the TIAMAT. 

Unprompted, Nero kneels down like a knight, head bowed and gaze lowered before Hue. Urumqi’s jaw drops. Hue merely blinks. 

“Call the police.” Hue eventually sighs. “This thing’s clearly lost and confused.”

Nero glances up, brown eyes gleaming with an inexplicable determination. Hue frowns, struggling to make sense of the situation. There’s smouldering rubble and dead android bits and scars on the sides of factory offices. All around him, signs of a chaos that just passed. Yet the culprit is calm, in complete disregard to the destruction he wrought. It’s kind of...cool. What boy hasn’t dreamed of a scene like this, straight out of an action movie? 

“My name’s Hue.” He holds out a hand to help Nero stand, not that he actually expects to help in that regard. A megaton of armour and muscle—he’d just get pulled down by it all.

But Nero’s careful. Completely unlike how he dealt with the spectratect, he gently places his larger hand over Hue’s. Urumqi looks like she’s going to start foaming from the mouth in the background, but Hue ignores her. Few people would ever get to touch a TIAMAT like this. It feels so fucking epic, like touching a starseeker or a real rose. 

“Nero.” Urumqi relents his name. “His name is Nero Nobunaga, TIAMAT-03. I can’t believe you were right about him...liking you.” 

“Nero.” Hue tries his name. Gives him a smile. “Nice to meet you, Nero.” 

// Corona Saturnus, Cassini CBD

The past few days have been very odd. It started off with his apartment’s climate control going off the rails, almost freezing him to death in his sleep. Then it was a near-collision with a freight hauler on the Voyager Delta. And after that, his fridge forgot to remind him to toss all the expired items, so he ended up getting poisoned by his breakfast. Sometimes his wifi would be incredibly slow, and he’d check to see what was hogging the bandwidth, only for the speed to return to normal. Other days, he’d walk into rooms he clearly remembered turning the light on for, but were somehow dark—this was the most suspicious of all, as if there’s one thing Hue doesn’t doubt, it’s his own memory. 

It all culminated to this abrupt meeting today. It was Pleiku who summoned him all the way here, as he’d otherwise not have access to such a location. The lobby was speckless, robotically organised and thus, uniquely inhospitable. Beside Pleiku was an automaton, shaped like a stacked trolley with a screen booted up as a rudimentary ‘face’. It called itself Auriga. 

“This is a very grave matter.” Pleiku insisted, fixing Hue’s suit jacket. He loathed wearing such clothes, but he couldn’t disobey direct orders. “You are acting as ambassador for us. Please remember your training.” 

Hue could only nod. Urumqi had been left outside, barred entry by the guards at the door. She was thousands of kilometres below him now, none the wiser that he was all the way up here, where Cassini’s dome met Saturn’s brutal storms. 

“Are you going to give me a briefing?” Hue quirked a brow. 

“Gladly!” Auriga responded cheerily, with a heavily modulated female child voicepack. “Mister Hue, you’re about to meet a very important representative of Mobius. He’s been very eagerly awaiting you!” 

“It’s a great honour.” Pleiku cleared her throat. “This...‘representative’...he doesn’t have an audience often.” 

“Got it.” Hue waved Pleiku away and fixed his own tie, loosening it up a bit. “I’ll see what he wants and respond with Hanoi’s interests in mind. You don’t need to be anxious, Pleiku. It’s a good thing you chose me.” 

“Here’s the thing,” Pleiku’s expression soured and she looked aside, “it wasn’t me who chose you. It was him.” 

The elevator doors slid open with a suctioned hiss. Auriga’s screen beamed an encouraging smile, whereas Pleiku could only manage a small grimace. 

“Go.” She nudged to the elevator with an elbow. “Chúc may mắn.”

Hue gave her a final nod before passing into the elevator. The doors close and he feels it pull him up, the gravity field of Cassini weakening on his bones the higher he went. When the elevator stopped, it didn’t open immediately, almost as if giving Hue time to adjust to the changes. 

Then it opened. And Hue found himself breathless. 

Usually the fleet city of Cassini cruises within the storms, but right now, it’s skimming the planet’s surface, just above the wreckage of supercell clouds, moons and rings scattered across an exotic canvas of atmosphere.

“Welcome, Hue.” 

A disembodied voice addressed him. Hue looked around, finding nothing but expensive lounge couches, a bar, and subwoofers embedded along the circumference wall beneath the dome of glass. 

“Thank you.” Hue stepped in, the carpet softening his footfalls. 

“Have you seen Saturn from this angle before?” The voice asked. It didn’t really sound curious, but it did seem eager for an answer.

“No.” Hue breathed out, head still drawn upwards. “Very few people have, I’d wager.” 

“Your assumption is correct. This ‘skybar’ is a frivolity of Saturn’s most elite of elite. Access is exclusive, via invite only.” 

“Thank you for inviting me then. You must be someone important, if you can’t even deign to show yourself.” Hue can’t help but remark on it, the very obvious posturing of this ambiguous person’s superiority. 

“I apologise. I know it’s easier for humans to connect with something physical, but I’ve lacked a body for quite a while now.” 

Hue frowned at that. “You’re not human? Are you a topologism then?”

“By technicalities, no. Far from it. But if that is easier for your belief system, then suppose I am.” 

“You know my name.” Hue took a seat, folding one leg over another and trailing an arm over the sofa’s back. “Do I get to know yours?”

The voice paused for a few seconds. “...Avalon. But you may call me something else.”

“Happy to oblige.” Hue fingers flicked up, gesturing to the air that speaks.

“Brother. You may refer to me as whatever term of endearment you would use to refer to a lawfully-bound brother.”

Hue took a slow second to process what he just heard. “Excuse me?”

“I tried to get rid of you, but I was unsuccessful. My first attempt was rather bold, but that annoyance from the Ministry of Defence intervened to save you. You only became more cautious with each further attempt. So I have decided to give in and accept you as my brother-in-law. I believe it will be more efficient this way, now that it has become clear that your life is not easily or conveniently forfeit.” 

“Brother-in-law?” God, Hue hated that term. “Are you saying—”

“—Yes, I am. Please put aside any human prejudice you may have and accept the reality of the situation you are in.” 

“But they’re...they already have that techwraith.” 

“I very much appreciate the bitterness in your tone. It seems we shall get along fine. I was incorrect to judge you pre-emptively. Yes, you are not mistaken. Luka Riemann, or Deucalion, whichever persona you are more familiar with, is unfortunately a romantic asset of [name]’s. Trust me, I tried very hard to remove him from his post but it...is not easy. Since then, we’ve come to an agreement. Polyamory.” 

Hue signs and presses a palm against his forehead. It’s not worth it to frown this much and get wrinkles. “I might just take Deucalion’s suggestion and disown myself from the family...” 

“I would appreciate it you didn’t. TIAMAT-03 sides with Deucalion on many matters, which makes it difficult for me, as [name] defaults to democratic methods of conflict resolution.”

“TIAMAT...” Hue croaked a laugh. “Wait, wait. You were trying to kill me. You ordered that spectratect hit. Nero saved me, that was all a setup?” 

“I know you humans tend to be upset about matters of life termination. To make it easy for you, I will say now that I simply do not care. You were a threat to my relationship with [name], but if you can continue to prove yourself a resource for me, then I will gladly offer my protection instead. I am aware of your succession struggle, as well as your yearning interest for the botanical domain which your family suppresses. I can solve all your problems, if you can abet mine. And...”

Avalon pauses, as if genuinely stumped. 

“...the TIAMAT’s rescuing of your life was entirely spontaneous. I cannot fathom why he would do so, with no obvious benefit.” 

Initially, he had suspected Luka as the culprit behind the sabotages, and after a wild and tedious goose hunt for him across the subrealities, the mythical techwraith revealed that he was completely unrelated to the incidents. He also generously offered to look into it for Hue, but whatever he found must have displeased him, because all Hue remembered on Luka’s expression as he left his apartment was a deeply irritated scowl.

So it turns out, it was this thing that was hacking his HVAC, his lights, his apartment’s IoT systems. It even wormed into Cassini’s traffic grid, and dispatched a Euclidean against him. Whatever Avalon was, Hue decided he was not going to find out. As Pleiku had said, he’d take this seriously, as incredulous as he was. Hue feared that it wasn’t just his life on the line, but Pleiku’s, Urumqi’s, and worst of all, yours too. 

“Very well.” Hue acquiesced, hands folding over his knee. “I’ll be your ally in...whatever it is you need me for, to curry [name]’s favour—though I’m warning you, I was never very good at earning their favour.” 

“I am aware. They have told me. That is why you should leave the strategy to me. By the way, would you mind retrieving the prismatic projector on that bar table for me?” 

Hue didn’t even question it. He walked over and found a discus-like object, grooved with small crevices, sitting by the bar. Pocketing it, he then glanced up at Saturn’s surface sky, drinking in the sight that he’ll probably never get to see again.

“Done. What now, bro?”

“Deliver it to [name]’s apartment. Please and thank you.” 

// Your unassuming apartment, Newton’s Cradle

The first thing Hue sees when he enters your apartment is Nero. He’s got you caged in his lap, arms curled around your comically smaller frame, chin atop your head. And Hue finally realises that he’s got not one, not two, but three whole men to accept as additions to your life. And somehow, none of them are in any way normal. Seriously, what the fuck. 

Nero’s dull eyes glance over at Hue as soon as he enters, and he doesn’t seem surprised. Must’ve heard and smelt him coming even before he got to this floor. His arms cinch around you tighter, suddenly protective, but why? It’s not as if Hue could do anything against him. He’d just get folded without Urumqi around. Speaking of Urumqi, Hue couldn’t bring her along, lest she see him hanging around a cyborg and a TIAMAT. The worrisome nagging would never stop. 

“Hey there buddy.” Luka’s voice rings in earshot, right next to him. 

Hue finds him leaning against the door frame of the bathroom, looking the same as last time—literally the same clothes and hairstyle and low-effort appearance. 

“You look good.” Luka checks him out in his suit. 

Nero ducks himself behind you, looking extremely silly as he tries to use you to hide himself from Hue. You’re kinda just gaping at him, not really sure why he’s at your apartment.

“Merry...Ultrachristmas? Weren’t you busy today?” You tilt your head. 

“[name], you have so much to explain to me.” Hue heaves out an annoyed sigh. Then, he tosses the prismatic projector out of his pocket and onto the floor. It beams out a flat plane of light, printing the form of...

Haiphong. 

Hue’s tongue pokes his cheek. Haiphong, but his eyes are green, and his hair is pink. He didn’t think he’d have to see Haiphong’s obnoxious face again for at least the two weeks of Ultrachrismas, but he should not have overestimated his luck. It’s just been bad news after bad news leading up to this. Why would it get any better? 

“[name].” Avalon waves, his smile gentle and demeanour vastly different to what Hue had witnessed prior. “It’s been a while. I got you a present—it’s your brother. You were so upset that he was busy and couldn’t see you, so I’ve determined with every stochastic model and reasoning framework that he would be the optimal gift.” 

Luka levels an unimpressed stare at Avalon’s hologram. “Seriously? You chose to borrow the form of that sissy actor guy from [name]’s cheesy dramas?” 

“This is simply the phenotype [name] finds the most attractive.” Avalon addresses Luka without even looking at him. “A shame you are so far off.” 

“You seriously watch the slop Haiphong stars in?” Hue shakes his head and kneads his nose. “This is incredibly disappointing.” 

Nero’s arm snakes around your waist as Hue, Luka, and Avalon watch on. His nose nuzzles against your cheek and he sighs contentedly, as if this assembly of everyone was just like any other family gathering of the holidays. 

Surprisingly, Hue doesn’t object to Nero’s intimacy. Maybe he likes him, or maybe he’s wise enough to not go between Nero and his desires. A small part of you wished he could save you from this mess, expel every last one of these guys back to where they came from. But Hue’s clearly made his own arrangements, because Avalon is looking unusually smug and Luka has seemingly found a new victim of his relentless teasing. 

“I like ‘Love Letters from Mars’, and not just because Haiphong has a sexy wolfcut in it, okay? It’s genuinely funny as hell and there’s actually good plot.” You huff. “Nero, back me up here. You watched all seven seasons with me.” 

Nero stares down at you blankly. It’s definitely not a sign of his agreement. 

“Back me up right now or I won’t cuddle you again.” You cross your arms. 

Nero’s stare pivots to the three other guys. They all seem wary of it, and slowly but surely come over to your bed, which also serves as the couch to best watch from your holoscreen TV. 

“Fine, one episode. But it better be good, none of the ‘it gets better later’ excuses.” Hue sighs.

“Boring.” Luka slumps into a sleeping position, eyes already falling shut. “Not watching your weird romcoms or whatever. Wake me up when the pizza arrives.” 

“Hue, let me sit next to you.” Avalon chirps. 

Hue complies, patting the space next to him. “Here. Do you even need to sit though, if you’re a holo?”

The Haiphong mimicry is getting to him. Hue tries not to look directly at Avalon. 

“You’re too nice to that overcomplicated chatbot.” Luka cracks open an eye. 

“Still terrible at concealing your envy, I see.” Avalon remarks airily.

You roll your eyes as they continue to argue and waste air above you. You can feel Nero smile against the back of your head. At least he’s enjoying this. As much as you dislike how clingy and needy he is, you have to admit that he of all people deserves nice moments like this. So you squeeze his knee and press play on the first episode, whispering so that only he can hear you.

“Nero, psst, let’s share the garlic bread and leave none for the others.” 

He plays with your hair, not seeming to care if he gets more food or not. You whine his name and he breathes you in, pressing closer, drawn in by that sweet vocalisation of yours.

“I don’t think so, [name].” Luka’s voice sounds off in your earpiece. “I’ve already placed the order and the garlic bread’s all mine. You can have some, but not Nero. He gets the Hawaiian pizza.” 

“How about you share with Avalon?” You retort, and pull off your earpiece.

You never expected your apartment to get so crowded and lively, but it’s a nice change of pace. You can tolerate it for a day. And you’re glad that Hue’s here too. Glad that he can share your burden of dealing with these three tumours that insist on being near you, despite all your protests. It’s good to have him. To still have him, after everything.