He nods, and I can see gratitude mixing with residual shame in his expression. “I can do that. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“Good.” I take a breath, trying to center myself. “Because right now I’m processing the fact that my career is destroyed, I’m biochemically bonded to someone I barely know, and apparently my medical scanner thinks we should be having celebratory sex. I need structure. Data. Something I can analyze.”
“You want to treat this like a safety assessment,” he says, and there’s something like understanding in his voice.
The words unlock something I’ve been holding back since I woke up.
“You warned me, didn’t you?” I look at Crash, seeing him clearly for the first time since waking. “You tried to tell me to leave. Multiple times.”
“I did not imagine this would happen,” he says quietly. “But yes. I warned you that being near me was dangerous.”
“Safety inspectors don’t walk away from dangerous situations just because they’re uncomfortable.” I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “We assess them, document them, create protocols so other people know how to stay safe.”
“And now you are the dangerous situation,” he finishes.
“Now I’m the dangerous situation,” I agree.
Jitters makes a distressed sound from his puddle on the deck, his orange glow shifting toward worried purple. He extends a pseudopod to pat my ankle with anxious gentleness, clearly sensing my emotional distress through whatever senses he possess.
“I had a life plan,” I say, and I can hear my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it level. “Fifteen more years of inspections. Build up enough pension to retire early. Maybe find a quiet station somewhere and consult on safety protocols. Die old and boring with a perfect professional record.”
“That sounds... very safe,” Crash says carefully.
“It was supposed to be safe,” I snap, then immediately feel guilty because none of this is his fault either. “I didn’t want adventure or romance or biochemical bonds with alien couriers. I wanted predictability. I wanted control. I wanted to know that following the rules would keep me safe, because following the rules is the only thing that makes sense when the universe is chaos and people die for no reason except someone decided safety margins were negotiable.”
The words pour out before I can stop them, years of carefully controlled grief and rage finally finding an outlet.
“My squad died because someone decided the shielding specifications were ‘good enough.’ Six people who trusted me to keep them safe, gone in the space of seconds because I believed in following orders and respecting command decisions instead of insisting on proper safety protocols.”
Crash is very still, watching me with those golden eyes that see too much.
“I joined OOPS as a safety inspector so I could be the one who doesn’t accept ‘good enough,’” I continue. “The one who makes sure every protocol is followed, every specification is met, every margin is maintained. Because if I can’t prevent people fromdying through proper safety measures, then what’s the point of surviving when they didn’t?”
“You carry significant guilt,” he says quietly.
“I carry appropriate professional responsibility.”
“No,” he corrects gently. “You carry guilt that does not belong to you. Your commanding officer made the decision. You followed orders. The deaths were not your failure.”
“I should have refused the orders. I should have insisted on better shielding. I should have—”
“You should have been allowed to trust that your commanders would not send you into situations with insufficient safety measures,” he interrupts. “The failure was not yours.”
The words hit something deep in my chest, some place I’ve carefully walled off for three years.
“It doesn’t matter whose failure it was,” I say. “They’re still dead. And now my career protecting other people from similar failures is over.”
Crash leans forward, his elbows on his knees, close enough that the bond hums with contentment despite my emotional turmoil.
“I understand what it feels like to lose your identity,” he says quietly. “To have the life you planned torn away by circumstances beyond your control. To wake up one day and realize you are no longer the person you worked so hard to become.”
I look at him, seeing the understanding in his expression.
“The Golden Viper,” I say.
“The Golden Viper was a champion. Feared and respected and very, very certain of his purpose.” His voice carries old pain. “Then the match was interrupted, the title was revoked, and suddenly he was just Crash Maxone, mediocre courier with a death-warrior hunting him and no purpose beyond survival.”
“Is that why you take the dangerous runs?”
