“Just—what if, instead of trying to control every single synapse, you just... didn’t.”
“Is that how you operate your brain?” I ask, dry as Rhavadaz sand. “Just let it run around screaming and breaking things?”
“Exactly,” he grins. “Look how far it’s gotten me.”
“Two warnings, a near demotion, and a personalized ‘Do Not Touch’ sign on the reactor core,” I deadpan.
He shrugs. “Still breathing.”
I shake my head and look back at the interface. I should be focusing. The simulation clock is running. We’ve got under forty-eight hours before the recon run into Kaiju Nine and we still can’t get past the first Meld threshold.
I need to be better.
Smarter.
Colder.
“I’m initializing again,” I say, fingers steady on the haptic controls. “Try not to think about punching anything.”
“No promises.”
The system pulses to life. I close my eyes and brace.
It starts as a whisper—always does. Neural static. The AI reaches out, linking our bio-signatures, calibrating for compatibility.
Then it surges.
Naull slams into my consciousness like a tidal wave made of fire and laughing adrenaline. His emotions don’t filter. There’s no barrier. I feel the burn of his impatience, the kinetic buzz of his boredom, the sharp pang of something like... admiration?
I try to breathe through it. Try toanchor.
Focus.
Structure.
But then somethingshifts.
A memory.
Not mine.His.
A desert ridge. Sky the color of bruises. Blood on his claws. Someone’s voice—female, Vakutan—screaming his name across static. A mech half-buried in sand. A death he couldn't stop.
Ijerkback again.
Pain stabs through my temple like ice.
The sync breaks. Harsh. Violent.
I rip the band off, gasping. “What the hell?—?”
Naull’s staring at me, his chest heaving.
“You saw that?” he asks, low.
I nod, heart hammering.
He doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then: “She was my sister.”
