Now it feels grounding.
Later that morning, I sit in the diagnostic chamber, reclining against a contoured platform while a Reaper healer named Sarvek calibrates a bioscan across my abdomen. The device hums softly, projecting layered biometric data into the air above us.
“You are adapting well,” Sarvek says, voice resonant and steady. “Stress markers remain lower than predicted.”
“That’s because the world isn’t exploding this week,” I reply.
Sarvek’s pale eyes flick briefly toward Kael, who stands near the doorway with quiet vigilance even though this is a controlled space.
“You underestimate the impact of environmental stability,” Sarvek says. “Your physiology is responding to it.”
I glance at the projection.
The fetal heartbeat displays in rhythmic pulses—steady, unmistakable.
I swallow.
Kael steps closer without speaking.
“You may listen,” Sarvek offers.
Kael hesitates for half a breath before leaning in, his hand resting lightly against my shoulder while the soft, amplified rhythm fills the chamber.
“That is strong,” he says quietly.
“It is,” Sarvek confirms.
I feel something inside me shift—not fear, not even awe, but a recalibration of scale. Wars are loud. Politics are loud. This is quiet and relentless.
After the scan concludes, Sarvek inclines his head. “Combined human–Reaper nutritional protocol will continue. No anomalies detected.”
“Thank you,” I say.
When we step back into the corridor, Kael’s posture is subtly different—less defensive, more anchored.
“You’re staring,” I tell him.
“Yes,” he replies.
“At what?”
“At the fact that this is not theoretical.”
“It hasn’t been theoretical for weeks,” I say.
“It has not been audible until today,” he counters.
I can’t argue with that.
My transition into Reaper territory is gradual, not ceremonial. I don’t wake up one morning feeling transformed. I wake up noticing that I no longer reach for a League insignia that isn’t there. That my data console now defaults to Reaperscript alongside human alphabets. That when I walk through the central corridors, guards nod in recognition instead of suspicion.
Former League contacts begin reopening communication channels cautiously, their messages routed through independent nodes rather than official League networks. The first arrives as a simple encrypted ping from an old colleague, Mara.
You alive?
I smile faintly before replying.
Very.
