The problem is my immediate, unprofessional reaction to him.
Golden skin with geometric patterns in darker gold that shift and pulse with his heartbeat, vertical-pupiled eyes that catch the light like mirrors, pointed ears, and when he notices me approaching, a flash of what are definitely fangs. He’s Velogian, maybe, or one of the other predator species from the Outer Rim. Beautiful in that dangerous way that screams “apex predator” to every primitive instinct I possess.
I should be thinking about species-specific safety protocols and xenobiology documentation requirements.
Instead, I’m thinking about how the way he moves reminds me of liquid lightning, and wondering what those golden scales would feel like under my fingertips.
This is exactly the kind of unprofessional reaction that gets inspectors transferred to desk duty.
The moment our eyes meet, he goes completely still. Then his pupils dilate dramatically—vertical slits flaring wide before he blinks rapidly, trying to control them. His nostrils flare like he’s scenting the air, and his entire body goes rigid.
“Oh,” he breathes, and the word comes out like he’s been sucker-punched. “Oh, that is... you are...”
That’s when KiKi decides to be helpful.
My ship’s AI—officially designated Kinetic Intelligence & Knowledge Interface, but I’ve been calling her KiKi since the day I installed her personality matrix—has a habit of integrating with my equipment whenever she thinks I need “assistance.” Which means my professional-grade safety scanners are now running through KiKi’s decidedly unprofessional analysis protocols.
It’s like having an overenthusiastic research assistant who moonlights as a matchmaking algorithm.
My scanner doesn’t just beep—it shrieks like it’s announcing a biological emergency. But instead of the warnings my colleagues reported, the readout flickers between UNKNOWN PHEROMONE SPIKE DETECTED and BIOLOGICAL CONTAMINATION: SOURCE PROXIMITY INCREASING. No evacuation recommendations, no toxic compound alerts. Just readings I’ve never seen before, cycling through alerts that seem almost... excited?
This is completely different from their reports. Blackwell described his equipment screaming warnings about “hostilebiological agents.” Ng’s scanner apparently displayed “IMMINENT THREAT: EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY” for six straight hours. Gluxor claimed her readings were “off the charts for toxicity and aggression markers.”
Mine is suggesting enhanced analysis and optimal proximity readings. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my scanner was matchmaking.
Actually, scratch that—it IS matchmaking. KiKi’s integrated personality protocols are interpreting compatibility data through her ‘interpersonal optimization algorithms,’ which is apparently AI-speak for ‘enthusiastic wingman.’ But the underlying sensor variance is real: different scanner models react to Velogian pheromones based on operator biochemistry. Blackwell, Ng, and Gluxor all have hormone profiles that register mate-compounds as hostile threats. Standard evolutionary safety response—if you’re not compatible, concentrated pheromones read as toxins.
My baseline must be flagging as compatible. So while their equipment screamed ‘evacuate,’ mine is reading ‘potential genetic match detected’ and KiKi is gleefully running with that data like she just won the shipboard dating service lottery.
The air around him shimmers with heat—actual, visible heat distortion like he’s running a fever. I catch a whiff of something that starts metallic and sharp, then cycles to warm vanilla, then something that makes me think of lightning and honey. The scents shift rapidly, like his body can’t decide what it’s producing.
“Are you... alright?” I ask, genuinely concerned as those golden markings along his skin start to pulse in what looks suspiciously like a heartbeat rhythm. “You seem to be having some kind of biological reaction.”
His golden eyes go wide with what looks like panic. “What? No! Very normal! All males react this way to... to...” He gestureshelplessly at me, and I notice his hands are trembling slightly. “To professional safety inspections. Very standard biological response. Completely natural enthusiasm for... for workplace compliance.”
My scanner helpfully displays: BIOLOGICAL COMPOUND CONCENTRATION INCREASING. SOURCE: SUBJECT PROXIMITY. RECOMMEND ENHANCED VENTILATION OR HAZMAT PROTOCOLS.
Wait. Enhanced ventilation or hazmat protocols? Usually my equipment is definitive about safety recommendations. This reads almost like it’s giving me options—like it can’t decide whether what’s happening is dangerous or... something else entirely.
The other inspectors reported their equipment screaming warnings to evacuate immediately. Mine is suggesting I might want to stick around for enhanced analysis.
“My safety inspection?” His voice cracks slightly on the words, and I can hear an undertone like a purr mixed with a growl. Each word sounds carefully controlled, like he’s concentrating very hard on pronunciation while having some kind of internal crisis. “I was not expecting... that is, you smell—”
He cuts himself off abruptly, golden skin flushing darker.
“You arrive with most excellent punctuality,” he finishes weakly.
The heat shimmer around him intensifies, and now I can definitely smell something that makes my scanner go ballistic with warnings. It’s not unpleasant—actually, it’s oddly appealing, warm and exotic. Nothing like the “toxic compounds” described in the previous reports.
“Inspector Zola Cross, OOPS Safety Division.” I hold up my credentials, noting how his gaze tracks the movement with predatory intensity before his pupils dilate even further. “You’re having some kind of biological reaction.”
“Indeed. That is... yes. I am Crash Maxone.” He stands straighter, then immediately seems to regret it as more heat haze shimmers around him. A bead of something that definitely isn’t sweat—it’s faintly luminescent and seems to catch the light like liquid starlight—tracks down his temple. “I perform very standard courier activities with great... enthusiasm for the work. Very normal enthusiasm.”
My scanner adds another alert: BIOLOGICAL COMPOUND CLASSIFICATION: UNKNOWN. PSYCHOACTIVE PROPERTIES: POSSIBLE. THREAT LEVEL: INDETERMINATE.
Indeterminate. Not dangerous, not safe. Just... unknown.
“You’re secreting something,” I observe, pulling out my stylus to make notes. “Something that’s making my equipment very confused.”
