“So we’re test subjects for an experiment neither of us consented to.” I close my eyes, feeling the weight of it all pressing down. Career destroyed, autonomy compromised, privacy invaded, future uncertain. “This is a disaster.”
“Yes,” he agrees quietly. “But it’s a disaster I’m committed to helping you navigate however you need. If you want to research breaking the bond, I’ll help. If you want to understand it better before deciding, I’ll answer every question. If you just want to... I don’t know... scream at me for an hour, I will accept that too.”
Despite everything, I feel something that might be the ghost of a laugh trying to escape. “Screaming at you won’t solve anything.”
“It might make you feel better.”
“What would make me feel better is data.” I gesture at my scanner. “We need to test the range limitation. Carefully document the progression of symptoms. Understand the parameters we’re working with.”
“Are you certain? The discomfort is quite—”
“I’m certain.” I swing my legs over the side of the medical bay, gently dislodging Jitters, who makes a disappointed sound but oozes off my legs to puddle nearby. “If we’re going to be stuck with this—even temporarily—we need to understand it. And I need to do something productive or I’m going to lose my mind thinking about how Mother Morrison is going to kill me.”
“Mother Morrison,” he says, and something like dread crosses his expression. “I had... almost managed not to think about that conversation.”
“The legendary dispatcher personally recommended me for this assignment. She trusted me to handle the ‘problem courier’ situation with professional competence.” I stand up carefully, testing my balance. “Instead, I got biochemically bonded to you within an hour of arrival. She’s going to invent new violations just so she can file them against both of us.”
“That does sound like her,” he admits, rising from the chair as I stand, staying close enough that I can feel the heat of his skin but far enough that we’re not touching. Even so, I can sense something humming between us—not quite physical contact, but an awareness that feels like standing too close to a high-powered electrical field.
“Start walking toward the cockpit,” I instruct, pulling up a diagnostic program on my scanner. “Slowly. I want to document the progression.”
He nods and begins moving away from me, step by careful step.
At five feet, I feel the first hint of unease—nothing dramatic, just a subtle wrongness, like the beginning of a headache. My scanner registers the shift: minor cortisol elevation, slight temperature fluctuation, early warning signs of biological stress.
At seven feet, the sensation intensifies to actual discomfort. The wrongness spreads from my chest outward, like something essential is being slowly removed from my body. My scanner chirps urgently: moderate stress response, elevated heart rate, blood pressure climbing.
At nine feet, nausea begins to build in my stomach and my temperature regulation stutters between too hot and too cold. The wrongness has become need—sharp, insistent, overwhelming. My scanner’s alerts are becoming frantic: severe biological stress, recommend immediate intervention, subject approaching critical parameters.
“Ten feet,” I call out, watching my scanner document the rapid deterioration in my vital signs even as my vision starts to blur at the edges.
Crash stops immediately, but the damage is already done.
Heat floods my system followed immediately by bone-deep chills. My heart rate spikes to dangerous levels. Waves of nausea make me grab the edge of the medical bay for support as my knees threaten to buckle.
But worse than the physical symptoms is the immediate, overwhelming need to close the distance between us. Not want—need. Like every cell in my body is screaming that something essential is missing, that I’m dying by degrees, that I will cease to exist if I don’t get closer right now.
“Zola,” he says, and his voice carries the same strained quality mine would if I tried to speak right now. I can hear the effort ittakes him to stay still, to not cross the distance himself despite what must be identical symptoms ravaging his system.
“I’m documenting,” I manage through gritted teeth, though the scanner readings are blurring as my vision starts to tunnel. My hands shake so badly I can barely hold the device. “This is... this is valuable data...”
The wrongness intensifies. My body temperature spikes, then plummets. Sweat breaks out across my skin even as I shiver violently. The nausea becomes overwhelming, threatening to empty my stomach.
And underneath it all, the need. The desperate, clawing need to close the distance, to touch him, to make the wrongness stop.
I make it another thirty seconds before my knees give out entirely.
My scanner clatters to the deck as darkness rushes in from the edges of my vision. I have just enough time to think this was extremely stupid research methodology before the world tilts sideways and I’m falling—
And then there’s nothing but the sensation of falling, the wrongness consuming everything, and the distant sound of Crash saying my name with desperate urgency as consciousness slips away entirely.
5
Containment Protocols
Crash
Icatchherbeforeshe hits the deck.
