psyzygy

[psyzygy]

FERMI PARADOX #2

The only thing worse than losing, is losing you. [ iskandar x reader ]

The Sword of Damocles splits bladewise—flowers out, needle-petals fractalising—lacerating black space with composite white alloy. It’s almost chimeric, chthonic; like an organism crystallising, expanding itself beyond comprehension. Babylon was barely an upgrade from the ISS, let alone the Tiangong. It could never hope to do something like this. 

You ogle at the Sword from far behind the viewport. Next to you is Iskandar, linked up to his psychokinetic command frame, feelers rippling with incandescence as they worm deep into the frame’s exposed indents. Solomon stands solemn on Iskandar’s other side, a flotilla of Oracle devices hovering in his hands, their throughputs almost kinetic. He handles data like an experienced statistician, unperturbed by the daunting volume of inputs in need of quantitative analysis and yet, keenly aware than any mistake, no matter how minor, would come at a debilitating cost. To them—Iskandar and Solomon—a command is just a calculation, numeric and numbingly abstract. To you, it is a blood debt with every set edict. 

The Sword of Damocles is a geostationary orbital platform. By definition, it should be enslaved to its planet, like all good satellites are. But you shouldn’t presume such simplistic notions of what should and should not be. In the Sword’s wake trawls the green mistworld, dragged along as if it were a leashed dog—a defeated, domesticated thing. The Oracles move planets. Is that not the work of creation deities? Or are they it? Are they the ones that made you, left you, only to return as divine punishment for mankind’s sin of many greeds? Apex of your planet, sure, but not of the galaxy. A great filter that is rank wars with higher-type civilisations. It’s so depressing: the outlook on survival. 

The Sword is like a blender. The mum you used to have—she in turn used to have one of those. You still remember how some days, after school, she’d sit you down by the kitchen counter as she homogenised the worst possible combinations of health foods, then forced you to ingest them. It’s good for you, she’d say, eat up and grow strong now. The Sword slurps up a tendril of mist from the green planet’s atmosphere and pipes it down the guiding line of the central taper. The rotary razors control the outermost wisps of the vortex—tame a fabricated storm. You’re not sure what it’s doing. Charging a superweapon, probably. All you can really think of is how much you miss your mum’s shitty kale juice. 

In your periphery, you notice the flexion of Iskandar’s claws. He must relish this opportunity of wild abandon, of total war. His ship buzzes with the excitement of astral artillery. The hydraulic hiss of conventional projectiles loading into propulsion chambers. Particle beams powering online. Forcefield generators humming low and lecherous, readying for a pounding. Warfare and fanfare aren’t so different. This is a sort of music. A marching beat. Drumming. Reckoning. 

Iskandar’s aural threads pulsate as they probe into the rhombus frame around him. It saps away at him, at whatever he’s secreting. His focus is undivided on the objective—his sole obsession, conquest. You are thrust back to a memory of Aegis. His ripped, rippling war banner, bleeding into the sky the colours of the human coalitions that had yet to mature into the Federation. The victory and valour of the Halfmoon Resistance. His heromaking. You’ve only heard stories of it, broadcasted re-enactments engineered for morale boosting. You’ve never really asked. But you just know what he must’ve looked like then, standing atop the enormity of his achievement. 

Like Iskandar. He looked like this alien beast. Dauntless General, indomitable God of War—Enyalios Ares. Who could cut down a figure who stands like that? Like worlds are at his fingertips. Like he is already statue, already the image of legendary. It almost makes you wish Iskandar was on your side. His confidence is a casual one, as if victory is already assured, and he only fights for the fun of it. This is his element, his calling. Bear witness to genius, to greatness, to destiny. If only you weren’t fated enemies. You would have worshipped him. 

Iskandar raises an arm. A formation of vanguard starfighters fly along the arc of his movement. Crest like a comet tail into the endless night of the cosmos. You recognise models and flight divisions—the industrial patterns of their ecological biases and the structural orthodoxy of Oracle military theory. Stellated drones that whirl over assault ships like halos. Interceptors in couplets, triplets, common time and andante tempo. In one moment, they are interlinking. In the next, they fissure, all to discombobulate enemy radars and thermal trace. You remember the frustration of facing this tactic—aberrating formations—and so you observe keenly as Iskandar orchestrates his resources with a control inherently surgical, dismantling the incoming barrages as if they already came in loose. He reads chaos like a manual, with nothing escaping his grasp.

The laser rounds exchanged shine brighter than stars. Usually, the guns of a starship are like thunder. Back when you were still on Earth, still reeling from the aftermath of zero day, the Federation happened to have been testing their prototypes near your sanctuary settlement. You remember hearing the flyby, the guttural roar of supercruise, the deeply mechanical opera of energised cannons. They screeched like an incoming catastrophe, and to be hit by anything like pulsefire or plasmatic matter would be exactly that—catastrophic. You’ve seen Oracle beams corrode through human starfighters, sweep entire squadrons away like a windshield wiper across the dashboard of space. It’s horrifying. And it’s silent. All of it. Muted out there in the dark. 

Effortless. That’s how their technology looks. And that’s how Iskandar makes manipulating the playing field seem, sectioning away entire cuts of the battleplane for himself, pushing for aggressive strategic positions. He’s never behaved like this in your goofy ahh matches. Serious, yeah he’s always so serious, but bloodthirsty? No. He plays safe and defensive against you, always. As if he knows you can’t handle more than that. You’re a child frolicking at his feet. Watching his true prowess on display is sobering. He goes easy on you, and even then, you struggle. 

So your shame-addled mind tries to find faults. He’s pushing the wrong quadrants, he’ll get pincered, he’ll lose the momentum. It’s as if Xerxes is reading your mind, and Iskandar, reading his. It becomes a farce, a counter-offensive, a lure into an envelopment. Iskandar rides out on Xerxes’ tides and stabs his forces with a guerrilla enkulette—assassin interceptors blinking out of the astronautical swarm. It’s Xerxes that pushes too far, one man’s greed provoked by the illusion of another’s. And Solomon’s watching this all go down with his usual deadpan, like he’s watching the weather, and the day’s particularly sunny and boring. 

Xerxes isn’t a fool, though. He understands the rhythm. The deeper you go, the more you are stretched thin, and the enemy’s threat potential increases. So he doesn’t penetrate more than necessary. The two armadas meet like mesh. The frontline fluctuates like a coastline. Iskandar is happy to play this way too, a more attrition-styled confrontation. It’s your preferred style as well, so he has the practice. 

You know that when he takes down one of Xerxes’ discus-shaped heavies, it’s like flicking a bishop off the chessboard, a relief—one step nearer to victory. Iskandar is picky with what he wants to kill. Picky but deliberate. You dislike watching this from Iskandar’s side, just as much as you dislike being on the receiving end of a slow but certain defeat, with the impassive Iskandar leering from the opposition bridge. It’s clear that the current you can’t go up against Iskandar in an actual firefight. You’d be annihilated, and unlike Xerxes, you won’t have even been able to put up a decent resistance. So you analyse the battle desperately, hoping to gain any mystical insight into what Xerxes and Iskandar’s weaknesses are. Xerxes is brash and showy, but good at recovery. Iskandar is more impervious to being assessed. You only know that he likes to be in control, and you’ve never seen him without it. 

But grand strategy is only a part of the greater picture.

Explosions bloom like popcorn in a microwave, the viewport your Faraday cage. You observe alien starfighters performing slick dogfighting manoeuvres and wonder how they’d fare up against Vega or Antares. Probably excellently. Lightning crackles inside the plumes of the Sword’s storm. Heavy cruisers move forward sluggishly, fat with ordnance and more importantly, a panoply of shielding technology. 

A sudden impact rocks the warship off-kilter, slurring it at an angle far too steep for standing. Before you can slip away, Iskandar grabs your arm, steadying and securing you against his chest. He is firmer than steel with all that armour, so when he ‘hugs’ you like this, it’s unbearably uncomfortable. Still, Iskandar’s focus is screwed ahead on his battalions. Nothing can shake him, and nothing should. 

Solomon makes an annoyed noise. He’s managed to latch himself onto Iskandar’s throne, but all his calculation implements have been knocked away. The white Oracle trills something, maybe a snark remark, though you’re not even sure if he’s capable of such sass. Iskandar doesn’t provide a verbal response. Instead, his tentacle stubs burn paler, flaring with sheer power. The ship responds to him, correcting its slant. 

Solomon groans softly as he fixes his posture. His destitute red eyes meet yours accidentally. Your breath hitches as he draws nearer, placing a palm against your cheek. His stare intensifies, diamond pupils dilating as he scours you for injuries. When he finds no such thing, he murmurs something again to Iskandar, then pulls away entirely from the two of you. Iskandar keeps you in place for a moment, as if anticipating another impact. But you must’ve mistaken his courtesy, because he lets you go soon after—almost too quickly, bulky arms falling away as he comes to his senses—and coos for you to go with Solomon.

You don’t protest. Iskandar sheds his dispassionate concern for you and resumes his post, commandeering a skein of interceptors to recall. They soar over the viewport in a V formation and sweep the ship for the collision source. Solomon leads you away, off the command platform and through the deactivating power field of a gateway. The ship's halls, in comparison to the control room, are hectic. Jam-packed with Oracles running amok, managing chains of supply and command, suffusing trickle-down orders. A klaxon is blaring. Waves of deep ultramarine light run down the hallway between momentary blackouts, moving like the contractions of intestinal lining. You no longer have access to the viewport and what it lets you see. It makes you anxious—this blindness. 

“What hit the ship?” You ask Solomon aimlessly, keeping pace with him. Iskandar tends to banish you out of worry. He’s only a fool when it comes to matters concerning you. So whatever it is, it must be critical. You can’t even figure out how something could hit this warship in the first place, so safely tucked away behind Iskandar’s main forces. The only crazy-long-ranged possibly-ballista you’d seen was the ominous gestations of the Sword of Damocles. 

Solomon pauses mid-movement, expression grim and suddenly alert, seemingly trying to sense what’s going on outside the ship.

The answer comes to you.

A hole is torn through the inner wall, metal melting away like petals withering. Smoke above and magma below—puke out from the newborn cavity. The air seethes hot and blurs everything. Your hair singes, cheeks sunburning. A crushing pressure is felt before the entrance. 

In steps one leg. Then another. Black armour, shining knightly yet draconically scorched. A clawed hand rakes into the molten edge of the wall, deforming the softened structural material as if it were no better than putty. It pulls a horrific thing into view—a malevolent entity that gets all the Oracles around you scrambling to flee. 

You named him Subutai. Where he walks, destruction follows. Death trailing. Even now, on sight, your neck burns up. The Mongols pillaged women and ravaged them, ruined their dignity, introduced them to savage depravity. Your fate was no more fortunate. A prize that was used for pleasure and then left broken. You can’t even gulp down the panic. Your throat is in flames. Your own blood chokes you, boils out of your body. Are you dead yet? You blink. You hate how he makes you hallucinatory—depriving you of self-control.

Subutai stands to his full height, hand leaving the wall. His armour seethes, steam dissipating backwards in thin, translucent strings; overheated air offloading excess power from the body. There’s no flaw in the design. It is evil. He is evil. That armour is made of human nightmares.

Solomon has a disgruntled look on his face. But he doesn’t say anything. Even he knows that it’d be a waste of time to talk to this natural disaster. Solomon can’t save you. No one can. So you must resolve this by yourself—with a skill the Oracles lack—with diplomacy. 

You take one weak baby-step towards Subutai’s far more imposing form, exuding bloodlust and heatwaves. He would’ve had to slaughter through Iskandar’s elite ranks to have reached here. The tension that thrums in him is evidence enough of it. He’s amped with berserker madness. Twitchy. Tipping into a psychology that terrifies you—a craving for mindless violence. You don’t feel like a diplomat anymore. You feel like an EOD specialist risking your life to defuse a ticking time bomb. 

Subutai reaches out for you and you flinch. You almost think it’s your neck again that’s going to get wrung, but no, he touches your chin instead, grips it between his fingers with all the manner of a brute. A low and pleased growl thrums from his throat. He yanks you closer and you stumble, nerves ablaze with phantom pain. It’s a little better that you can’t see his eyes. They’re truly the worst part about him.

Solomon finally finds his voice, thinking it due time for a comment. Whatever he says, it’s something less succinct than his usual noises, and so you figure that he must be chastising Subutai. Subutai whacks your shoulder to get you moving—branding a handprint for sure—and mock-salutes Solomon as a response, sparing him nothing else. It’s almost a funny sight, the excessively intimidating Subutai deferring to your very much nonthreatening Solomon. Except you want to cry instead of laugh.

You are forced through the smouldering wreck of Subutai’s warpath. He doesn’t even need a weapon to get you to behave. He is the weapon. You trudge through the ruins of rooms you recognise, once so sanitary and spacious. Now they form a collapsed complex, everything obliterated and swallowed by inferno. At the centre of the shattered site is Subutai’s starfighter, gleaming in wait. 

It’s remarkable. All Oracle ships are, but his is idiosyncratic. Like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Most human starfighters are shaped like arrowheads or spearheads, sharp and aerodynamic as influenced by aeronautical engineering accounting for atmosphere. Oracle starfighters are polygonal in all sorts of ways, enigmatic in their schematic intent. But this is unprecedented. Subutai’s ship grooves. It has curvature. It has circular motifs all over. There exists an Oracle shipwright out there who thinks outside of boxes. Thinks like an alien to their own kind. 

The fighter reminds you of a nautilus, with a heavy spaceframe shell and a conical cockpit. The shell part is covered with thrusters, all shaped like volcanic craters and periodically placed like warts. You’ve seen twinjets, trijets, but not whatever this bullshit is. This mustn’t be for speed or power, but manoeuvrability. A jet engine for every possible vector. Omnidirectional movement. Oh, Sirius would have loved this. 

Your fists clench in unwittingly. As Subutai brushes past you, your gaze falls onto his back. 

A superluminal thrust of a lance. An eternity of red. Your heart squeezes itself inside your ribcage and you mumble incoherent mantras to yourself. The lower hull of the cockpit unhinges itself and drools out a ramp. Subutai makes a high-pitched kettle whistle and props one leg up on the ramp. He’s half-turned to you, anticipating your next move.

Unfortunately for him, you aren’t stupid. If you run you’ll just become a bloodstain. So, as an exemplary hostage, you ascend the ramp, shuffling inside the small cockpit. There’s barely any room in here, and there’s only one seat. Right. Obviously there’s only one seat. 

“Where do—”

The ramp curls away and the lower hull fixes itself again, sealing the two of you in. Subutai moves like a viper, yanking you onto his lap. His claws flutter over your thigh and then cramp into flesh, keeping you trapped against him. You don’t dare to move. There’s barely space for that. But the last time he was this close...

You’re hyperventilating. Not that Subutai seems to care. He doesn’t bother to be gentle—gets even more brusque, actually; working over you to interact with the fighter’s controls. You want to scream. He burns. 

A low pulse echoes. Belches a frequency so heavily bass, it almost recalibrates your heartbeat. Several barnacle-jets burn out, firing up for take-off. The fighter tremors and you shrink in on yourself. Subutai takes the opportunity to ease over you again, toggling a few modules on the HUD. It’s a glassy, holographic, and utterly alien interface, but you recognise floating snippets of Oracle logography. You’ve always envisioned Subutai as a monstrous soldier, so this meticulousness on his part is jarring—is he actually a good pilot too? You suppose you’re about to find out. 

Launching is always the worst. You are lurched back, pushed into Subutai in the most sickeningly intimate way, squished between all his limbs. He lets you brace against him, unwillingly snug, mostly focused on ramming through the rest of Iskandar’s warship. The nose of the fighter is sharp enough to puncture through all the innards. When you see the black of space again, it’s with the glitter of dead Oracle bodies and debris, tumbling after Subutai’s momentum like spindrift. The warship heals its wounds quickly, power fields sealing the holes. 

Subutai wastes no time to correct his trajectory, veering your sight to the Sword of Damocles. To get there, he’s going to have cross the entire battleplane. You don’t think it’s possible. You think you’ll be dying today, with all the menacing barrels and coils pointed your way. 

Iskandar’s interceptors surf over the surface of the warship like darting fish, honing in on Subutai’s fighter. They move with supple grace. Subutai does not. Different jets blast alive, with that same low growl rumbling in your ears. His fighter moves like a dragonfly, with a precision like nothing you’ve ever seen or felt. You’re whipped from one of Subutai’s arms to another as he makes a mockery of the interceptors, moving like zig-zagging electricity; throwing them so utterly off that they collide and die against each other. 

A light that’s almost divine cleaves the space right in front of your eyes. Subutai dodges diagonally, giving you a rather cinematic pan of the thick electromagnetic rail. If that had hit, you’d have been incinerated in an instant. A pretty good death, all things considered. The HUD overlay indicates that the attack came from Iskandar’s warship. Subutai makes a musical sound—a cackle, maybe?—enjoying the special attention. 

He turns his fighter to face the capital flagship of his enemy. You see the viewport of the command bridge, where you had been only moments ago. It’s impossible to make out any details with the tint and distance, but you know that Iskandar is there. And he had ordered that attack. Your heart’s thrumming so hard you fear you might vomit it up. So this is what it’s like to face him. Every move is evading check; he keeps you one mistake away from mating so that you can only focus on survival, and not winning. 

And this insane bastard Subutai enjoys the prey game. He’s only ever alive when he’s killing something, but getting killed? That seems to stimulate him too. Gets his body hot like a fission reactor, fusion tokamak. You clutch yourself tightly.

All this time fuelling yourself on spite and hatred, you’ve forgotten that the Oracles sparing you was a mercy. Even now, you are weak. You want yourself alive more than you want them dead. 

Subutai hurdles away from Iskandar’s ship. And so it begins: the arduous journey back to the Sword of Damocles.

Three assault ships come in from the left flank and fire away. Subutai barrel rolls and shirks their streams of attack. He hasn’t used his weapons systems once, and even now, he doesn’t bother. Why waste munitions when he can just dance circles around his pursuers? It sucks for you, because you’re getting nauseous from all the irregular motion. 

The assault ships split away as soon as he’s moved out of their sphere of control. But it’s far from over. The fighter’s radar pulses. A lot of jittery signals are being detected behind him. Subutai twirls around and you two see it: a tailwind of drones, hundreds of them, perhaps even a thousand. Drones might not have firepower, but their numbers alone would pollute the area, rendering Subutai’s superior manoeuvrability invalid. Your life is currently in Subutai’s hands. Although you loathe him, you also need him to win against Iskandar. Otherwise you both die and fuck, fuck, you’d rather die alone than with Subutai. 

Subutai doesn’t seem very impressed. With renewed vigour, the HUD shimmers out fragments of a fresh interface. You don’t sense anything, not even the release. But you see it. It reminds you of white phosphorus—countless ropes of white snaking in every direction, unleashing anarchy. This medusa missile barrage crashes into the drone swarm and connects. It’s like a summer of locusts meeting a timelapse of an expanding fungal network. Both sides are innumerable. And perfectly, they annihilate each other. 

There’s a beauty in the destruction that both you and Subutai savour. The silence of the violence, the stunning realisation that there’s a chance after all—that Iskandar will eat a loss today. But the nice feeling doesn’t last long. A warning pings on the HUD. Something’s in rapid approach.

The radar becomes periscopic and reveals the threat. It’s a ship with six wings, seraphic. It moves faster than gunfire and only slightly slower than lightspeed. In a blink, and it’s almost kissed Subutai’s fighter. But it twists in the last moment, gliding a close pass, cockpits an inch away from scraping. You see the Oracle inside it—a black one. Their helm tilts up, as if appraising you and Subutai mid-pass, completely unbothered by the unnerving proximity. 

Iskandar’s really not letting up. Why’s he sending this ace against you? There can only be one reason. Your blood ices. You try and crane back, to look at Subutai again, but he jostles you as soon as he feels your movement, knocking you back in place. 

This is going to be a bout between champions. 

Subutai’s opponent flies like a fighter from Strikeforce Draco, General Aegis’ personal elite unit. Each and everyone of those pilots served in the Halfmoon Resistance. They are nothing short of spectacular—you’ve seen their mock engagements and sorties from Babylon’s viewport, and can only imagine how they fought during the Resistance. 

Eltanin’s the flight captain of Draco. You’ve never spoken to him before, but you’ve seen him in action. The number of people who’ve been able to defeat Eltanin in the sims can be counted on one hand. His handling is nothing short of immaculate. No extraneous flair. Every motion, purposeful. An elegant, emotionless pilot who cannot be stirred into mistakes, and thus, can only be trounced through superior skill. 

So it comes down to whether or not Subutai has the superior skill. Eltanin’s mirage, this opponent of Subutai’s, moves quick and quiet, forcing Subutai to act on instinct. You’ve always thought Subutai to be a trump card for air-to-station assaults—someone sent into a siege after astral superiority is secured. Such a soldier wouldn’t be level-headed enough to be a pilot. But Subutai proves you wrong, because being level-headed wouldn’t help anyone survive in this situation. His primal barbarity makes him the threat and keeps his opponent on their toes.

The enemy fighter circles back, the arc of the manoeuvre giving you a good look at their gorgeous black spaceframe. Subutai readies himself by finally taking all of this seriously. His HUD bursts out, systems now fully active.

You would’ve loved to watch this showdown if it weren’t for the fact that you were right here in the middle of it. 

“I don’t care if you’re bringing me to Xerxes, just in one piece please! One piece—!”

Subutai’s taloned gauntlet slams over your mouth and he makes a deep rumbling noise, probably telling you to shut up to whatever crude equivalent the Oracle language has. Several of the barnacle-jets burn, yet you cannot guess where Subutai will move next. Such is the nature of his fighter.

The enemy fighter slices closer and closer. Subutai stalls in place. You can feel him rolling his neck from behind you, as if to say “bring it”. And sure, he might have the balls to standoff like this but you don’t. Through his muffling hand, you bleat deformed chants of panic. His grip is powerful enough to mince through your cheeks. Just as your head is about to pop, he lets go. 

The enemy fighter opens fire, laser bolts spluttering out in an indiscriminate hailstorm. Subutai pulls away, different thrusters hissing on and off, pinballing his fighter in a frenzy of directions. He loops around the volley with dizzying acrobatics, and though the enemy tries to track him, they don’t land a single hit. 

Subutai is raving away, mad with excitement. He manages to execute an inverting flip over the enemy fighter and unleashes a fan of beams, which move to converge on the targeting point. The enemy fighter weaves away deftly and wrests for their control back. You are groaning now, unable to stay conscious with the high g-forces throttling you. Subutai flies like a wild animal. Fittingly juxtaposing his enemy. 

They’re overextending—Iskandar’s pilot, that is. This is a foolish skirmish and you don’t understand why they or Iskandar would want this. Hubris is no folly of the black general’s. And despite the clear danger Subutai’s existence poses, it still wouldn’t warrant this reckless pursuit. You’re not going to believe that Iskandar is saving you, either. Because if he were, he wouldn’t be using deadly force. It’s baffling, and in the heat of things, with your fear amped and anxiety spiralling, you can’t help but want to puzzle Iskandar’s rationale. 

An array of interceptors soar in from Xerxes’ side to assist Subutai, who roars out with rage, firing warning shots at his own friendlies. To ward them away, perhaps? So that he can have this glorious moment to himself. You have no way to calculate your chances of survival because Subutai is crazy. But Subutai needn’t have worried. The enemy fighter does a smooth pivot, a locking twist, and shoots itself towards the interceptors. 

It cuts through them. A gleam shines before they all ripple into smithereens. 

“What the hell?” Your words slip through winces. You’ve never seen a fighter do that. Take down enemies as if it were a melee weapon. 

It realigns itself, and with a no-longer-surprising burst of hypersonic speed, charges at Subutai. Subutai’s helm tilts down. He prods your cheek with the side of his head, as if taunting to you observe what’ll happen next. 

The enemy fighter closes in again. Your ears shatter with the sound of all the barnacle-jets spewing fire. The enemy diverts just in time to avoid being instantly deep-fried. Two of its sharp wings extend out and detach, dropping into the battleplane as separate semi-autonomous problems for Subutai. They fire beams that lasso around and herd Subutai into uncomfortable positions. You don’t want to see what it’ll be like if the other four wingbits detach too. 

Subutai is determined to get close to the enemy fighter, as it’s the only place he’s safe—the wingbits won’t fire at their controller. The confrontation becomes medieval, with each fighter’s forcefield fizzling against the other’s as they smash together. Subutai is rabid, he gives chase like a hound. You don’t understand how they remain lucid enough despite pushing the limits of physics. But then again, you don’t understand how Eltanin or Antares do it either. This is simply not your expertise, and it never will be. 

The entire battleplane goes white. You squeeze your eyes shut but it still doesn’t prevent the light from bleeding through your eyelids. When it dies down, you open your eyes again and look around. The line of heavy cruisers that formed on Iskandar’s command have placed up a giant screen of a forcefield. Against it struggles living lightning. The way it crackles over the merged forcefields is feral, and the way it endures, the way it searches tirelessly for a way to break through—it makes you wonder how you’d defend against such a raw weapon of might. 

Your gaze veers over to the Sword of Damocles. The outer razors have stopped rotating. Lightning winks between them, a lingering proof that it was indeed the Sword that issued the celestially-proportioned strike. The forcefields of the heavy cruisers start to fracture, disintegrating in tiny patches and then, all at once. 

But the concentrated lightning had only been the first step of a sequence. The Sword’s razors flex out to make way. The storm that was being harnessed from the green planet is now leeching out. And that’s when you see it: the slithering skin of a giant worm. 

Xerxes is firing the worm. It’ll eat through Iskandar’s heavy cruisers and the rest of his forces with the cruiser shields down. You unconsciously suck in a short breath. 

Subutai scoffs like a locomotive blowing steam and resumes his fight. The enemy, equally unbothered, clashes back. Your body rattles at the impact. They must want Subutai’s head really badly if they’re willing to push with foolish aggression like this. Subutai’s claws flex as they run down the streams of his control terminal. He seems to be getting more impatient. You can tell he hates it—playing defensively, ironically for you all of people. 

It becomes too much. You pass out. The last thing you hear is high-pitched air, residue of Xerxes’ lightning. 

When you wake up again, you’re in someone’s lap. Fingers pinch your hair and rub the strands together. It’s blurry and so you can’t tell who it is, but their gentleness is comforting. You haven’t known gentleness since the Oracles shredded up your moon. Then the image becomes clearer. An armour that’s fancy like Iskandar’s, but white. It’s Xerxes. 

You stiffen, but otherwise make no movement. This is the closest he’s ever been to you. You’re in his lap and he’s fondling you like a kitten, mesmerised by the novelty of a human, perhaps. He’s seated on his command throne, which is a lot more throne-like than Iskandar’s, by the virtue of it actually being sittable. Xerxes’ tentacles are a pure silver. Pearls of light traverse along them, between his body and the frame.

Now that your eyes are open, he draws his hand away from your hair. Although you’re terrified, you’re also grateful that it’s not Subutai. Xerxes drones over you like a tuning orchestra, speaking in futility. His vibrations reach deep into your bones. His presence, far more imposing than any other Oracle you know. But it’s not a scary kind of imposing. It’s ethereal, almost. You wonder what he wants with you. 

Outside the Sword’s command viewport, you see a giant worm. It floats lifeless and in several pieces, copper-blue blood spilling into the cosmos, milky nebula gore. It’s more mutilated than necessary. You say this without knowing much about its specific anatomy, but with a very keen sense of how precise wounds can kill more effectively than butchering. And that corpse? It’s definitely butchered.

“Who won?” You murmur, exhausted despite just having woken up. 

Xerxes sings something. You have no idea what though. 

There’s a commotion outside. A shockwave rattles throughout the whole room, tingling up your spine and hitting your skull. It comes from the door, which is beginning to warp; first a bruising red, then orange, then brilliant gold. Finally, it burps, liquefied metal splattering into Xerxes’ sanctum and cooling against the floor. 

An inflorescence of golden feelers shrivel away, noodling back under crevices of dark armour. Iskandar stands before Xerxes as audience. His fists are balled up, and his legs apart, so even from beneath Xerxes, he seems the more impressive of the two. His cape flutters as he marches in, each step an earthquake. Behind him, on the left, is Solomon, masked with apathy. His eyes don’t meet Xerxes, and so, they don’t meet you. On Iskandar’s right is Boudica. She’s got her helmet pressed between an arm and hip. You recognise it. The enemy fighter against Subutai. 

Speaking of Subutai, he here’s too. Following behind Solomon, eyes now visible and ablaze and locked onto you the way a falcon’s would in a hunt. 

Xerxes makes a noise. You think you might know what he’s saying. “Why can’t you use the door like a normal person, Iskandar?” Instinctively, you curl closer to Xerxes, because Iskandar isn’t really the image of pleasant right now. You fret that you’ve done something to anger him, because he’s emanating murderous intent that’s somehow worse than Subutai’s. 

He ascends the ramp with a slow yet thunderous pace. Finally, he reaches Xerxes’ command throne. Doesn’t bother to salute or bow or whatever Oracles are meant to do. Just stands there. Waiting. 

You are thankful that he has the restraint not to pulverise you here and now. 

Xerxes says something in greeting, then motions over your head, stroking your hair. You cower under his touch. 

A rod of pure energy punches right through the throne, skewering a scorch mark across Xerxes’ cheek. Iskandar’s claws flutter over the rod, which fizzles to stay materialised. Xerxes stills. Subutai has taken a step forward, his lance flaring, but Solomon’s arm blocks him from moving any more. 

Xerxes tilts his head to put some distance between him and the near-fatal attack. He makes a glittery remark, which doesn’t prompt Iskandar to move. Not one bit. 

Finally, Iskandar speaks. He lets go of the rod and it fizzles out. The wound in the command throne sputters. Towering before the white Oracle, Iskandar’s shadow drapes over the both of you. You feel small and you’re sure that Xerxes must too. 

You think you might know who won the wargame. 

You move your legs. Xerxes remains still as you struggle to get off him. Standing on your feet doesn’t feel good. You’re swaying but you refuse to collapse. After you get up, Xerxes does too. You’re sandwiched between the two imperators, who are so focused on judging one another, it makes you feel ornamental to this entire situation. 

Stepping to the side, you cast your gaze to three Oracles that have been permitted to follow Iskandar into Xerxes’ chamber. Subutai smirks triumphantly at you, then at Boudica, who ignores him in an excellent show of discipline. You find yourself loathing the both of them. Without their fearsome starfighters, they seem a bit more killable now. Just a tiny bit more. 

Solomon. You almost want to call out your name for him. His eyes flick from you to Iskandar, as if clueing you in on what you should be focusing on. You divert your attention back to Iskandar and Xerxes. They haven’t spoken a sound, and instead, are just standing ominously, as if communicating through aura alone. 

Then, Iskandar draws you into him, his cape fluttering around you and his claw, caging your arm. Xerxes makes an amused noise. It’s almost like a laugh. And so you realise, Xerxes isn’t really like Iskandar. Iskandar practices warcraft. Xerxes seems to enjoy politics more. A poor matchup for Xerxes in a wargame, but perhaps what he sought wasn’t really victory. It might’ve been leverage. 

You and Xerxes do share one thing in common: you want to know Iskandar’s weaknesses. 

You begin to move, feeling that whatever Iskandar wanted in this interaction, he’s already gotten. But before you can make it even a step forward, you are swept off your feet. You squeal. Iskandar’s arms buckle under your back and legs. He cups you against him—humiliates you in front of everyone. 

Xerxes leans back into his throne, cheek resting on bent fingers as he watches Iskandar carry you away. Boudica straightens into a salute and lowers her gaze. Solomon’s expression is more nuanced. His eyes crinkle up ever-so-slightly, as if bothered by this brash action of Iskandar’s. You’re surprised too. This is a rather uncharacteristic show of both domination and vulnerability. Try it again, Xerxes, and your head will really be gone, Iskandar is posturing. But now Xerxes will also know that Iskandar’s psyche can be disrupted by petty things such as hostages. 

As he passes Subutai, Solomon, and Boudica, they all line up to the side, showing him their deference. He pauses beside Subutai for a moment that feels like longer than necessary. Iskandar doesn’t turn to look, but the weight of his scrutiny is nevertheless there. Subutai holds his salute, unable to do anything but wait for Iskandar to leave. The latter’s footsteps resume. 

You are brought back to Iskandar’s warship, back into his own private quarters. The Oracles that pass him all salute him, rather jovially too, seeing as he won the wargame for them. But they don’t dare to say anything. You don’t say anything either. Everyone can sense the rage he’s bottling. 

When you’re safe inside his room, he puts you down. You quickly scuttle back, clutching at yourself. Tears prick your eyes as reality finally sinks in. Your hands climb up and gingerly touch the burn circling your neck. Subutai got you again. And the thing that stopped him from harming you wasn’t Iskandar, but Xerxes’ orders. You’ve been feeling too cosy for too long. Thankfully, Xerxes has reminded you of your true place here. You’re just a spoil of war and Iskandar might be willing to earn you back, but he’s not going to go out of his way to rescue you from immediate danger. 

“Get away from me!” You screech as Iskandar takes a careful step closer. 

But he doesn’t listen. Another step. Then again. Until he’s right before you. You watch with widened, teary eyes as he drops to his knees, helm dipped down to the floor. The noise he makes is a lonely whale’s call. Deep and enduring and emotional. His claws reach for your elbows and run down your arms, drawing your palms into his. Iskandar presses his forehead against your hands. He holds you in place, himself in place. Flabbergasted, you merely gape. 

“Is this supposed to be some lame apology?” A sneer contorts your face. You throw his hands away and pull back. “I don’t need your apology. I don’t need you at all.”

Iskandar remains on the ground. 

Your hands hike up to your neck again and you pace towards the window, where the battleplane sprawls. There are new fleets of vessels sweeping across it, clean-up crews conducting search and rescues. All this loss of life, and for what? Practice? The Oracles are brutal and perhaps that’s why humans can’t compete. 

Iskandar’s reflection appears behind yours. It’s worrisome how can move so silently for someone of his stature, especially compared to how he had stormed Xerxes’ chamber, presence impossible to ignore. It’s like he chooses what he needs to be for every moment. Control freak. 

His claws come up and hover near your neck. You hear a click. His feelers wriggle out from crevices in his wrist guard and nibble over your burn scar. They are ticklish yet cool to the touch. Disgusting, yet soothing. Iskandar’s arms close in over your shoulders and his feelers multiply, flooding over your exposed skin. You try to lean away, but it only gives him more access to your throat. 

Iskandar’s finger traces over your scar. You’re not sure if he’s looking at it through the window’s reflection or down with his own eyes. But you can see yourself in the reflection. You look as if you’re about to be digested. Iskandar emits a low rumble. You start thrashing now. 

“Ew ew ew! Let go of me!” 

You sense more feelers seeping out from his armour. They curl around your waist, your thighs, every part of your body and keep you trapped against him. It feels so, so weird; hot and cold simultaneously. 

Iskandar brushes his claws through your hair. You’d have bitten him if he weren’t armoured. His touch isn’t gentle like Xerxes’, nor cruel like Subutai’s. It’s not even impersonal like Solomon’s (who barely wants to touch you anyway). You can only describe it as...desperate.

He drags you away from window despite your tantrum and hefts you onto the simulation matrix. You try to rip his feelers off you, but more surge up to take the place of those removed. The matrix activates, supercharged by Iskandar’s exposed tendrils. It illuminates an exact copy of the wargame he just waged with Xerxes. Your shoulder is up against Iskandar’s line of heavy cruisers. Just above your lap, where Iskandar holds your leg, is his warship. 

You see it. Subutai’s angle of incursion. Iskandar does too. Your struggling stops. Intently, you watch him. He plays out the scenario again and again. Until Subutai’s ship is destroyed in every conceivable way—until once more, he becomes infallible.

[psyzygy]

FERMI PARADOX #1

What’s he really like? Your archenemy—companion in destiny. You’ve never seen his face and you hope you never will, because you fear it might break you. [ iskandar x reader ]

There’s just something about analogue systems—retro dashboards full of dials and blinking bits, cassette futurism spaceships—that makes your heart hurt for no reason. You really shouldn’t be having this nostalgia for an era that wasn’t even yours. But you’re shot back to memories dredged from humanity’s collective consciousness; the moon landing, probes and rovers, cosmonauts and astronauts pitted against each other, none the wiser that beyond the pettiness between nations would be a grudge between planets, entire star systems alight in war.

Things were so simple and beautiful back then.

Your fingers clench in, forming a fist. It shakes like a heart pumping, and perhaps it is—pulsing with the same circulation, that is. You move back; away from the old relic, the remains of the probe. You had only been four when they launched it. Thirteen when it passed Pluto. Now you are almost adult, and it’s here again, before you, dissected to pieces by Oracle hands and Oracle machines.

Iskandar is never far. Always watching you despite the black cosmos of his visor concealing everything about his identity. You know Oracles look human and so you’ve wondered if he’s pretty, or scary, or just as unreadable without his helm on. Your mind has been idling a lot. It’s a sign of insanity.

A hand of yours slides up your neck, brushing against mutilated flesh and siphoning away strands of your hair. The movement helps you forget him. Helps you focus on you.

Solomon had given up on getting you to play with toys long ago. The Oracles probably knew more about human technology than they’d care to admit to you. So why did Iskandar bother? There’s no scientific merit behind his actions, unlike Solomon. So that only leaves one explanation—he’s just fucking with you. Hoping you’d break as soon as you see a remnant of your home.

But you’ve seen your home burn and your family incinerated and your closest friend abducted. You’ve buried hope long ago. Hope is for those who carry the name of stars. You only wish to carry everyone’s despair, and like an ark, sail off into the endless sea of space with it, leaving them unburdened.

“I don’t see why you’d want to show me this.” You spin around, whisking your arms behind you in a bind. Your movements are whimsical in the low-gravity. “It’s just a hunk of junk. And I definitely don’t know how to interact with it.”

He can’t understand you, but you’ve spoken earnestly to him every day. Perhaps it’s because he can’t understand you. You feel at ease being honest. He can judge nothing.

“Do you guys have a concept of redundancy?” You ask aloud, glancing back at the wreck of the probe. “Does your technology get old? Did you once fight with sticks and then in a blink, with nukes? Do your manufacturers plan for obsolescence to jack up profits? Do you age?”

Iskandar remains still, like a sentry whose sole purpose is to guard you, and doesn’t have to exert much more energy than a statue to do so.

You huff and spin around again, and hop closer to the probe. Grabbing a clump of ripped aluminum, you aim it and throw it at Iskandar. It floats slowly, but even then Iskandar doesn’t bother to react. He just lets it collide off the taper of his shoulder plate. Almost mocking your tantrum. You know he’s capable of superhuman manoeuvres. He destroyed that comm-link with Betelgeuse after all, right before you—between blinks—and you didn’t even see it die, only afterwards pulverised.

“I’m not some dog you can please by giving chew-toys and treats!” You grab another chunk of debris—shrapnel from the heat shield—and launch it at him. It doesn’t move any faster than your first projectile.

This time, however, Iskandar swats it aside before it can hit his chest. He comes nearer, cape fluttering, the galaxies inside it shimmering.

You take a heavier piece this time, and even with the aid of low-g, you still struggle. Maybe your bones have finally eroded and your muscles, atrophied. Iskandar’s talon-like gauntlets cuff around your wrists, forcing you to stop. You’d be hurting yourself more than him at this rate.

“You don’t even know what I like.” You seethe hopelessly, letting him hold your wrists but not letting him pull you into him. “You try so hard to keep me satisfied like some zoo animal in need of stimulation, but you have no idea what humans need. We need socialisation. I have no one to talk to me!”

Send me back. Send me back now. You miss home. You miss the fresh air, the soil, the breeze. The cities, derelict as they may be. The sunset. You miss reading poetry and calculating differentials and writing essays and crying about grades. You miss hamburgers. Shitty singers blabbering on the radio. You miss the way ants chug around your yard like they’re possessed, the way birds screech ugly song in the godawful hours of early morning.

You miss the way Charlie would smile for you. How no one else got to see that smile but you. You miss all these things so much that you dream of them–but as the days stretch on (are there even days here?), it all just becomes haze.

The debris you clutch is a small satellite dish. It reminds you of the windfarm you visited on a school excursion, where despite nobody really caring about environmentalism, they all equally marvelled at how indifferent the turbines were. Large and imposing but white and minimalist. Alien.

You stroke the groove of the dish, forlorn.

He can’t understand you, but maybe pain is universal. You’ve spent all this time by his side and he hasn’t gotten rid of you yet, so there’s a tiny part of you that dares to believe he might have a weakness for you. You’ve never really tested out this theory, but today, since the opportunity is right here, you might as well. And so what if you’re proven wrong? There’s still fun to be had in being defiant.

Iskandar lets you go, dropping your wrists and giving you space. Then he turns around and leaves for the exit, not bothering to check that you’re following. He knows you usually do.

You trail in his dark wake, making it to the door of the hangar, where a white Oracle waits. Her hand hovers over an orb near the door and you watch carefully for a twitch of her fingers. Iskandar tilts his head over to her, and that’s enough acknowledgement. She proceeds to switch the airlock.

That’s when you make your move. Vega’s taught you some things. Not everything, and not very well-taught either. But it’s enough to pull this off. You kick up and then against Iskandar’s back, using him to launch yourself back through the airlock just as it bites shut.

He recovers far too quickly for your liking, swivelling around only to smash his fists against the solid door. There’s a moment where you just look him in the visor and feel his incredulity. He strikes the airlock again, more furiously this time, and you swear you see the glass crack just a bit.

You grin. And then you freeze.

The vacuum of outer space rips you into its embrace. Null void. Damp starlight in low exposure, low ISO. You are cold and you are suffocating. It’s painless, this sort of death. There’s nothing for your lungs to choke on.

Bits and pieces of the probe float nearby, having been jettisoned alongside you. Antennae and twines of wires and the satellite dish, twirling like the minute hand of an anxious clock. The Oracle flagship from here reminds you of those wind turbines on the coastal hills. Tall and apathetic and beyond your comprehension, really. They have higher purposes to fulfill. Your hand drifts up, drawn by nothing but the vestiges of your prior momentum.

You think you almost see Charlie’s hand. And this time, you can reach it. Your fingers twitch weakly.

They grab onto something. Or rather, something grabs onto you. Dark armour and the faceless helm. A cape that ripples with a universe. Iskandar drags you into a forceful hug and grips your jaw with both hands. His claws are gentle against your skin, somehow. The bottom half of his helm fractures and recedes, revealing the plush of his lips.

You barely get to a chance to see the wisps of solar energy that flare from inside him before he brings you in, mouth-to-mouth to help you breathe.

The ice steams off your skin. He’s warm. You can’t help but lean in, your human instincts hungering for safety. His body reciprocates, an arm coming down to ensnare your waist. You remain like this—stiff together—for a moment that feels like forever.

A shadow passes over. You are swallowed by a small assault ship, the fastest that could mobilise. When you’re inside, you hear the hiss of oxygen flushing in.

It’s then that Iskandar pulls away, his helm whole again, patched up before you could really get a look at his…what, chin? You’re pathetically desperate, aren’t you? Just for a glimpse.

But he doesn’t pull away completely. His arm is still on your hip and you try to peel it off, but it won’t move. Iskandar braces his other arm against the wall of the ship’s interior and commands in echoes—his language—musical and majestic and very curt. Such is the offset of his personality, dulling even phonetic magic.

The ship cleanly yaws and thrusts back towards the flagship. The pilot brings you into dock and there, waiting haplessly, is the white Oracle from before. Her spine is rigid and her expression, schooled to a nervous neutrality. She cross-salutes Iskandar as he drags you out of the ship.

You feel his claws sink in just above your pelvis, and it hurts. It get worse as he brings you closer to the white Oracle, who doesn’t even dare to look at you.

Your actions are your fault. But Iskandar can’t punish you. He can only punish his subordinates, because punishment hinges on an understanding of wrongdoing—and you don’t understand him. But you do feel worried for the white Oracle. The white ones are a bit nicer, in your experience.

You elbow Iskandar and of course, he doesn’t bother to acknowledge you, tilting his head down as he usually would. So you open up your fisted hand, revealing a small fan you managed to snatch from the debris. For a small unmanned probe like that one, it was probably used to regulate compartment pressure. But the choice of white alloy reminds you too much of the wind turbines.

You pinch the rotor between your fingers and flicked it. The fan spins slowly, blades barely able to blur.

“Look.” You show it off to Iskandar and the white Oracle. They both seemed to be intrigued now, albeit in a disbelieving sort of way. Your audacity to act like everything’s okay after what you just did…

“I just wanted to get this. I forgot to grab it, that’s why I jumped back in.” You explain, knowing the futility of your words. Every breath you breathe feels so valuable now, yet you still waste air to say these things.

You hold the fan component close to your heart, and Iskandar seems to get it. He’s been around you enough to figure out the sentiments behind these gestures. His helm turns slightly back to the white Oracle, and she takes it as her cue to dismiss herself.

As soon as she leaves, Iskandar lowers his head and connects your foreheads. You see his shoulders heave. And you almost refuse to believe it—he actually cares for you. Yeah, you could love a pet turtle or sugar glider or whatever, but not enough to jump into the abyss of space for it. Shit, he must really enjoy playing those battle sims with you.

His cape billows around you like a protective shield. He even pinches its hem to help it envelop you completely. Now you miss how he always kept his distance, because this proximity is ridiculously uncomfortable.

“Did I scare you?” You grin at him, lips curled with a hint of mania, and perhaps more than that—a bit of sadism too.

Iskandar’s claws reach out and wrap over the fan component you took from the probe. His hand is way too large and caves over it completely. He grips it firmly, but with equal strength, keeps it forced against your palm, as if begging you not to lose it. You had risked your life for it after all, or at least that’s what you’ve led him to believe.

His hand then moves near your cheek, a single finger hovering near. You see your own reflection in his visor, as well as the inky infinity of the darkness that armours him. There’s a moment of deliberation, stretched out for far too long. Then he retreats completely, backing off and remedying your concerns for personal space.

He doesn’t move, but he nods forward. You get it—this time, and probably every time after this too, he’ll be the one behind you.

[psyzygy]

BROKEN SUN #1

How does Hue see things? Not everyone is so lucky as to have three brother-in-laws. [ harem x reader ]

// Cassini Botanical Gardens, Cassini CBD

Hue’s never been the expressive type. He smiles sometimes and girls think it’s cute, the shy way it happens. He’s pretty friendly—’chill’, as most people describe it. With Hue, you’re always at ease, it’s definitely not the cold sort of indifference, just the relaxed kind. 

But even Uranus’ supercritical atmosphere would be ashamed if it could know how cold his heart is right now. Of course, there’s no way to tell, not unless you peel his chest open and touch the vascular organ for yourself. 

Snip, snip. Metal blades in a shear-pair. Each prune is a carefully calculated wound, shaping the rosebush into a sculpture. Hue’s always preferred more naturalistic wilderness, but topiary is a nice and meditative exercise, and god knows he really needs the mental peace right now. 

Hue spares a sharp glance over his shoulder. Behind a pair of dirty sneakers kicked up on the table, is a pair of cunning cyborg eyes. A blue that’s entirely artificial and electric, yet somehow serene like sea. The lenses and circuit panelling beneath is marvellous work. Hue’s never seen such cybernetics before, so he can’t tell. Is this Mobius handiwork? Or some demon surgeoneer’s experimental clinical trial? He can only think of a few surgeoneers off the top of his head, all of whom are psychotic and far too busy getting overworked in Cassini’s tier 1 hospitals to have performed such a daring surgery. 

This meeting had been long overdue. Not that it was at your behest. Oh, absolutely not at your behest. This is a matter only a brother can settle on your behalf. Hue’s grip clenches in on the shears. 

“What did the shears ever do to you?” Luka’s voice is seeped in sarcasm. That grin of his is like plastic—eternally enduring. “I bet you wish it was my neck instead, right?”

Hue stands up, dusting the dirt off his trousers. He fixes his sunhat, levels the rim out evenly. “Killing you myself would be a waste of time.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Luka’s grin only widens. “You have your ‘subordinates’ to help with that kind of stuff.” 

“Tch.” Hue rolls his eyes away. “Let’s not ‘small talk’, Deucalion. What do you want with [name]?” 

Is it fury that makes his hold the shears tight? Or is it fear? His heart thrums and he’s breaking cold sweat, and that’s not because of the gardening exertion. Urumqi had compiled a very comprehensive dossier on the man currently lazing before him. And it had barely contained any reliable intel, only hearsay that coincided too well with real-world affairs to ignore. 

It was Luka who reached out to him to meet. A grace on his part, Hue knows this, because without his offered meeting, Hue would’ve never known how to find him. Techwraiths are as solid as phantoms. 

“You make it sound like I’m using them.” Luka feigns hurt at the accusation. “I can assure you my feelings for them are genuine enough. As for why I wanted to meet you—”

His electric eyes gleam, cat-like, snake-like, a lightweight predator sizing up its prey. 

“—I just wanted to let you know I exist—as a courtesy of course, am I not so thoughtful?—and will continue to exist on the periphery of your life as your new brother-in-law.”

It’s as if Luka knows how much that final phrase stings. How sickening it is to hear, no different to a sonic weapon loaded with brain-melting frequencies. Hue strides over calmly, pulling out a chair and sitting himself down opposite to Luka. Together, by this cutesy white wrought-iron table designed for afternoon tea, they almost seem like friends chatting. Or at least, that’s what any clueless onlooker would say. 

Luka’s smile is a miracle mechanism, conveying all possible emotions except for genuine glee. And Hue’s deadpan, just like Luka’s grin, ripples with undercurrents of hostility. It’s almost fun for Hue, though he’d never admit it. Luka’s hard to read, but Hue excels at cracking enigmas like him. It’s been a while since he’s gotten this intrigued by a someone without professional psychological training. 

“You won’t be my brother-in-law. I refuse the notion.” Hue sets his shears down on the table. 

Luka’s gaze doesn’t once stray from Hue, not even with the very obvious murder implement between them. 

“You have no choice on the matter, unless you plan on disowning [name], which is plenty dandy too.” Luka leans back, arms cradling around his head. “More [name] for me.”

“You don’t want to play this game.” No one does—play games with Hue, that is. “In a contest of who they’d choose, you’re doomed. [name] will always choose me. I can make them choose me. Right now. Shall I give you a demonstration?” 

Hue’s holoscreen gleams beside him, a beautiful pale jade shade, celadon like the preferred porcelain of bygone emperors. Your name and contact details are on display, the call button enticingly centre-screen. Hue extends a hand, and the holoscreen hovers out to Luka. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Luka clicks the call button. The dial tone rings twice before you pick up, your voice so clear in the ether. 

“Hue? Holy heck, why are you calling me? Did you get into an accident?” The fluctuations of your voice are mimicked by a cymatics model. Hue’s got a nice one, a puddle with raindrop ripples. So very zen. 

“Hey babe~ It’s me. Your favourite person ever.” Luka tweaks his voice into something sugary sweet, knowing that it nauseates Hue, who can’t help but twitch his eyes. 

“...Luka.” You don’t sound surprised. “I thought we talked about this! Don’t mess with Hue’s—”

“I gave him permission.” Hue interrupts coolly.

“Oh...you two are together?” Your voice lulls, then screeches. “Without me there to mediate? LUKA! This is your doing, isn’t it? Didn’t I say to wait? To ease him gently into meeting you? Oh my god, why do you have to ruin everything?”

“It’s my love language.” Luka mocks a romantic sigh, hand fluttering pompously to his chest. “It makes your life more interesting. Isn’t that a good thing?” 

“This guy calls himself my brother-in-law.” Hue outlines coldly. “As your brother, I veto this poor life decision of yours. Please divorce.” 

“We aren’t married! We aren’t!” You say in a panic. “Hue, don’t listen to anything he says! He’s a pathological liar for the fun of it. Luka, you get away from Hue right now, or so help me...”

Luka’s legs curl in and slink back down from the tabletop. He leans in, closer to Hue’s holoscreen. “...or what?” 

His grin is downright diabolical, all narrow-eyed and reminiscent of an evil spirit. 

“...I’ll tell Avalon.” 

“Tell him then.” Luka whispers lovingly, in that taunting way of his. 

“Argh! I hate you. Never call me again. I’ll buy a taser and electrocute you and short circuit your eyeballs! Oh, goodbye Hue. Sorry.” And with that, you hang up.

It’s Hue that’s first to break the wake of silence. 

“They hate you.” He states monotonously.

“I know~” Luka chuckles. “Isn’t it cute?”

// Opal Industrial Park, Feynman Commerce District

“Stay the fuck back. This is your only warning, Saturnian.” 

Urumqi has her SmartPistol drawn, but it’s not as if it’ll do anything. She’s always prepared to deal with any dangerous entities that might appear with her master’s harm in mind, but this one? The only valid precaution would have been to bring a literal army. Shit, wasn’t Ulaanbaatar in charge of monitoring this? She’s going to skin him alive, whittle the nerves from his body one strand at a time. 

Her fingers hovers over the trigger. Nero doesn’t blink. He doesn’t waver either. Urumqi wants to scream. She’s the only thing between him and her master, and for the first time in her life, she’s fearing for her master’s life. 

Everything below Nero’s neck is seething metal, elegantly machinery with the sole purpose of indiscriminate killing. Thank god he’s not wielding that sword of his, at least. One less risk to keep in mind. 

“Who in the Ministry sent you?” Urumqi’s rage bleeds through her throat. “My master is a protected individual. Touch him and the Prime Minister of your shit-ass planet will make you a corpse herself.” 

Nero doesn’t falter. There’s an emptiness in his eyes that’s terrifying, but it’s also rather naïve too. She has no idea what the TIAMAT is thinking. Perhaps it has no thoughts. Why give sentience to a living weapon? 

“Urum. Desist.” Hue’s hand comes to a rest on her tensed shoulder. “Trust my observation when I say this: he looks harmless.” 

“With all due respect, young master, he’s a TIAMAT.” Urumqi hisses through gnashed teeth. “My job takes precedence above even your orders.” 

Nero takes the opportunity to toss aside the spectratect head he was holding. An Euclidean model, though it didn’t even get a chance to show off before it was smashed to pieces. He flexes out his fist, gauntlets pistoning out a translucent haze of steam. 

“He saved us from that assassin.” Hue reasoned, gesturing to the spectratect’s head. 

“Why would Polyhedra send an assassin after you? Unless...” Urumqi snarls. “...it was Torus instead.” 

“I don’t believe I’m a priority target of any of them.” Hue bemuses. “Strange. Well, regardless, the TIAMAT helped us.” 

“Which is even stranger!” Urumqi snaps. “Okay, listen up, soldier! Identify your purpose here! We’re not going to owe you jack shit.” 

Nero takes a heavy step closer, and it’s like the world shudders under his weight. Urumqi’s other hand slides up and steadies the SmartPistol’s barrel, training it on Nero. 

“I said talk!” 

“Urum.” Hue sighs, rubbing his temple. “He doesn’t seem well-socialised. Communication is useless.”  

Nero’s approach is steady. Urumqi fires two bullets to his head, but Nero’s response is to simply raise an arm. The shots slide off his armour like rain. She curses. Nero stops before her, reaching out slowly as if providing a demonstration of their clear difference in power. He clenches a fist around her puny SmartPistol and crumples it to scrap metal. His stare—dead and deadly. Urumqi knows better than to escalate the situation with a rash action. She lets Nero past, shoulders quivering with rage and helplessness.

“Hello.” Hue glances up as Nero’s shadow consumes him. 

Urumqi watches anxiously from behind the TIAMAT. 

Unprompted, Nero kneels down like a knight, head bowed and gaze lowered before Hue. Urumqi’s jaw drops. Hue merely blinks. 

“Call the police.” Hue eventually sighs. “This thing’s clearly lost and confused.”

Nero glances up, brown eyes gleaming with an inexplicable determination. Hue frowns, struggling to make sense of the situation. There’s smouldering rubble and dead android bits and scars on the sides of factory offices. All around him, signs of a chaos that just passed. Yet the culprit is calm, in complete disregard to the destruction he wrought. It’s kind of...cool. What boy hasn’t dreamed of a scene like this, straight out of an action movie? 

“My name’s Hue.” He holds out a hand to help Nero stand, not that he actually expects to help in that regard. A megaton of armour and muscle—he’d just get pulled down by it all.

But Nero’s careful. Completely unlike how he dealt with the spectratect, he gently places his larger hand over Hue’s. Urumqi looks like she’s going to start foaming from the mouth in the background, but Hue ignores her. Few people would ever get to touch a TIAMAT like this. It feels so fucking epic, like touching a starseeker or a real rose. 

“Nero.” Urumqi relents his name. “His name is Nero Nobunaga, TIAMAT-03. I can’t believe you were right about him...liking you.” 

“Nero.” Hue tries his name. Gives him a smile. “Nice to meet you, Nero.” 

// Corona Saturnus, Cassini CBD

The past few days have been very odd. It started off with his apartment’s climate control going off the rails, almost freezing him to death in his sleep. Then it was a near-collision with a freight hauler on the Voyager Delta. And after that, his fridge forgot to remind him to toss all the expired items, so he ended up getting poisoned by his breakfast. Sometimes his wifi would be incredibly slow, and he’d check to see what was hogging the bandwidth, only for the speed to return to normal. Other days, he’d walk into rooms he clearly remembered turning the light on for, but were somehow dark—this was the most suspicious of all, as if there’s one thing Hue doesn’t doubt, it’s his own memory. 

It all culminated to this abrupt meeting today. It was Pleiku who summoned him all the way here, as he’d otherwise not have access to such a location. The lobby was speckless, robotically organised and thus, uniquely inhospitable. Beside Pleiku was an automaton, shaped like a stacked trolley with a screen booted up as a rudimentary ‘face’. It called itself Auriga. 

“This is a very grave matter.” Pleiku insisted, fixing Hue’s suit jacket. He loathed wearing such clothes, but he couldn’t disobey direct orders. “You are acting as ambassador for us. Please remember your training.” 

Hue could only nod. Urumqi had been left outside, barred entry by the guards at the door. She was thousands of kilometres below him now, none the wiser that he was all the way up here, where Cassini’s dome met Saturn’s brutal storms. 

“Are you going to give me a briefing?” Hue quirked a brow. 

“Gladly!” Auriga responded cheerily, with a heavily modulated female child voicepack. “Mister Hue, you’re about to meet a very important representative of Mobius. He’s been very eagerly awaiting you!” 

“It’s a great honour.” Pleiku cleared her throat. “This...‘representative’...he doesn’t have an audience often.” 

“Got it.” Hue waved Pleiku away and fixed his own tie, loosening it up a bit. “I’ll see what he wants and respond with Hanoi’s interests in mind. You don’t need to be anxious, Pleiku. It’s a good thing you chose me.” 

“Here’s the thing,” Pleiku’s expression soured and she looked aside, “it wasn’t me who chose you. It was him.” 

The elevator doors slid open with a suctioned hiss. Auriga’s screen beamed an encouraging smile, whereas Pleiku could only manage a small grimace. 

“Go.” She nudged to the elevator with an elbow. “Chúc may mắn.”

Hue gave her a final nod before passing into the elevator. The doors close and he feels it pull him up, the gravity field of Cassini weakening on his bones the higher he went. When the elevator stopped, it didn’t open immediately, almost as if giving Hue time to adjust to the changes. 

Then it opened. And Hue found himself breathless. 

Usually the fleet city of Cassini cruises within the storms, but right now, it’s skimming the planet’s surface, just above the wreckage of supercell clouds, moons and rings scattered across an exotic canvas of atmosphere.

“Welcome, Hue.” 

A disembodied voice addressed him. Hue looked around, finding nothing but expensive lounge couches, a bar, and subwoofers embedded along the circumference wall beneath the dome of glass. 

“Thank you.” Hue stepped in, the carpet softening his footfalls. 

“Have you seen Saturn from this angle before?” The voice asked. It didn’t really sound curious, but it did seem eager for an answer.

“No.” Hue breathed out, head still drawn upwards. “Very few people have, I’d wager.” 

“Your assumption is correct. This ‘skybar’ is a frivolity of Saturn’s most elite of elite. Access is exclusive, via invite only.” 

“Thank you for inviting me then. You must be someone important, if you can’t even deign to show yourself.” Hue can’t help but remark on it, the very obvious posturing of this ambiguous person’s superiority. 

“I apologise. I know it’s easier for humans to connect with something physical, but I’ve lacked a body for quite a while now.” 

Hue frowned at that. “You’re not human? Are you a topologism then?”

“By technicalities, no. Far from it. But if that is easier for your belief system, then suppose I am.” 

“You know my name.” Hue took a seat, folding one leg over another and trailing an arm over the sofa’s back. “Do I get to know yours?”

The voice paused for a few seconds. “...Avalon. But you may call me something else.”

“Happy to oblige.” Hue fingers flicked up, gesturing to the air that speaks.

“Brother. You may refer to me as whatever term of endearment you would use to refer to a lawfully-bound brother.”

Hue took a slow second to process what he just heard. “Excuse me?”

“I tried to get rid of you, but I was unsuccessful. My first attempt was rather bold, but that annoyance from the Ministry of Defence intervened to save you. You only became more cautious with each further attempt. So I have decided to give in and accept you as my brother-in-law. I believe it will be more efficient this way, now that it has become clear that your life is not easily or conveniently forfeit.” 

“Brother-in-law?” God, Hue hated that term. “Are you saying—”

“—Yes, I am. Please put aside any human prejudice you may have and accept the reality of the situation you are in.” 

“But they’re...they already have that techwraith.” 

“I very much appreciate the bitterness in your tone. It seems we shall get along fine. I was incorrect to judge you pre-emptively. Yes, you are not mistaken. Luka Riemann, or Deucalion, whichever persona you are more familiar with, is unfortunately a romantic asset of [name]’s. Trust me, I tried very hard to remove him from his post but it...is not easy. Since then, we’ve come to an agreement. Polyamory.” 

Hue signs and presses a palm against his forehead. It’s not worth it to frown this much and get wrinkles. “I might just take Deucalion’s suggestion and disown myself from the family...” 

“I would appreciate it you didn’t. TIAMAT-03 sides with Deucalion on many matters, which makes it difficult for me, as [name] defaults to democratic methods of conflict resolution.”

“TIAMAT...” Hue croaked a laugh. “Wait, wait. You were trying to kill me. You ordered that spectratect hit. Nero saved me, that was all a setup?” 

“I know you humans tend to be upset about matters of life termination. To make it easy for you, I will say now that I simply do not care. You were a threat to my relationship with [name], but if you can continue to prove yourself a resource for me, then I will gladly offer my protection instead. I am aware of your succession struggle, as well as your yearning interest for the botanical domain which your family suppresses. I can solve all your problems, if you can abet mine. And...”

Avalon pauses, as if genuinely stumped. 

“...the TIAMAT’s rescuing of your life was entirely spontaneous. I cannot fathom why he would do so, with no obvious benefit.” 

Initially, he had suspected Luka as the culprit behind the sabotages, and after a wild and tedious goose hunt for him across the subrealities, the mythical techwraith revealed that he was completely unrelated to the incidents. He also generously offered to look into it for Hue, but whatever he found must have displeased him, because all Hue remembered on Luka’s expression as he left his apartment was a deeply irritated scowl.

So it turns out, it was this thing that was hacking his HVAC, his lights, his apartment’s IoT systems. It even wormed into Cassini’s traffic grid, and dispatched a Euclidean against him. Whatever Avalon was, Hue decided he was not going to find out. As Pleiku had said, he’d take this seriously, as incredulous as he was. Hue feared that it wasn’t just his life on the line, but Pleiku’s, Urumqi’s, and worst of all, yours too. 

“Very well.” Hue acquiesced, hands folding over his knee. “I’ll be your ally in...whatever it is you need me for, to curry [name]’s favour—though I’m warning you, I was never very good at earning their favour.” 

“I am aware. They have told me. That is why you should leave the strategy to me. By the way, would you mind retrieving the prismatic projector on that bar table for me?” 

Hue didn’t even question it. He walked over and found a discus-like object, grooved with small crevices, sitting by the bar. Pocketing it, he then glanced up at Saturn’s surface sky, drinking in the sight that he’ll probably never get to see again.

“Done. What now, bro?”

“Deliver it to [name]’s apartment. Please and thank you.” 

// Your unassuming apartment, Newton’s Cradle

The first thing Hue sees when he enters your apartment is Nero. He’s got you caged in his lap, arms curled around your comically smaller frame, chin atop your head. And Hue finally realises that he’s got not one, not two, but three whole men to accept as additions to your life. And somehow, none of them are in any way normal. Seriously, what the fuck. 

Nero’s dull eyes glance over at Hue as soon as he enters, and he doesn’t seem surprised. Must’ve heard and smelt him coming even before he got to this floor. His arms cinch around you tighter, suddenly protective, but why? It’s not as if Hue could do anything against him. He’d just get folded without Urumqi around. Speaking of Urumqi, Hue couldn’t bring her along, lest she see him hanging around a cyborg and a TIAMAT. The worrisome nagging would never stop. 

“Hey there buddy.” Luka’s voice rings in earshot, right next to him. 

Hue finds him leaning against the door frame of the bathroom, looking the same as last time—literally the same clothes and hairstyle and low-effort appearance. 

“You look good.” Luka checks him out in his suit. 

Nero ducks himself behind you, looking extremely silly as he tries to use you to hide himself from Hue. You’re kinda just gaping at him, not really sure why he’s at your apartment.

“Merry...Ultrachristmas? Weren’t you busy today?” You tilt your head. 

“[name], you have so much to explain to me.” Hue heaves out an annoyed sigh. Then, he tosses the prismatic projector out of his pocket and onto the floor. It beams out a flat plane of light, printing the form of...

Haiphong. 

Hue’s tongue pokes his cheek. Haiphong, but his eyes are green, and his hair is pink. He didn’t think he’d have to see Haiphong’s obnoxious face again for at least the two weeks of Ultrachrismas, but he should not have overestimated his luck. It’s just been bad news after bad news leading up to this. Why would it get any better? 

“[name].” Avalon waves, his smile gentle and demeanour vastly different to what Hue had witnessed prior. “It’s been a while. I got you a present—it’s your brother. You were so upset that he was busy and couldn’t see you, so I’ve determined with every stochastic model and reasoning framework that he would be the optimal gift.” 

Luka levels an unimpressed stare at Avalon’s hologram. “Seriously? You chose to borrow the form of that sissy actor guy from [name]’s cheesy dramas?” 

“This is simply the phenotype [name] finds the most attractive.” Avalon addresses Luka without even looking at him. “A shame you are so far off.” 

“You seriously watch the slop Haiphong stars in?” Hue shakes his head and kneads his nose. “This is incredibly disappointing.” 

Nero’s arm snakes around your waist as Hue, Luka, and Avalon watch on. His nose nuzzles against your cheek and he sighs contentedly, as if this assembly of everyone was just like any other family gathering of the holidays. 

Surprisingly, Hue doesn’t object to Nero’s intimacy. Maybe he likes him, or maybe he’s wise enough to not go between Nero and his desires. A small part of you wished he could save you from this mess, expel every last one of these guys back to where they came from. But Hue’s clearly made his own arrangements, because Avalon is looking unusually smug and Luka has seemingly found a new victim of his relentless teasing. 

“I like ‘Love Letters from Mars’, and not just because Haiphong has a sexy wolfcut in it, okay? It’s genuinely funny as hell and there’s actually good plot.” You huff. “Nero, back me up here. You watched all seven seasons with me.” 

Nero stares down at you blankly. It’s definitely not a sign of his agreement. 

“Back me up right now or I won’t cuddle you again.” You cross your arms. 

Nero’s stare pivots to the three other guys. They all seem wary of it, and slowly but surely come over to your bed, which also serves as the couch to best watch from your holoscreen TV. 

“Fine, one episode. But it better be good, none of the ‘it gets better later’ excuses.” Hue sighs.

“Boring.” Luka slumps into a sleeping position, eyes already falling shut. “Not watching your weird romcoms or whatever. Wake me up when the pizza arrives.” 

“Hue, let me sit next to you.” Avalon chirps. 

Hue complies, patting the space next to him. “Here. Do you even need to sit though, if you’re a holo?”

The Haiphong mimicry is getting to him. Hue tries not to look directly at Avalon. 

“You’re too nice to that overcomplicated chatbot.” Luka cracks open an eye. 

“Still terrible at concealing your envy, I see.” Avalon remarks airily.

You roll your eyes as they continue to argue and waste air above you. You can feel Nero smile against the back of your head. At least he’s enjoying this. As much as you dislike how clingy and needy he is, you have to admit that he of all people deserves nice moments like this. So you squeeze his knee and press play on the first episode, whispering so that only he can hear you.

“Nero, psst, let’s share the garlic bread and leave none for the others.” 

He plays with your hair, not seeming to care if he gets more food or not. You whine his name and he breathes you in, pressing closer, drawn in by that sweet vocalisation of yours.

“I don’t think so, [name].” Luka’s voice sounds off in your earpiece. “I’ve already placed the order and the garlic bread’s all mine. You can have some, but not Nero. He gets the Hawaiian pizza.” 

“How about you share with Avalon?” You retort, and pull off your earpiece.

You never expected your apartment to get so crowded and lively, but it’s a nice change of pace. You can tolerate it for a day. And you’re glad that Hue’s here too. Glad that he can share your burden of dealing with these three tumours that insist on being near you, despite all your protests. It’s good to have him. To still have him, after everything. 

You sigh and lean into Nero’s shoulder. He reciprocates with a gentle hum, almost musical and barely audible. You lied, ‘Love Letters from Mars’ isn’t actually that good. But forcing these otherwise V-drama repulsed guys to watch? Now that’s going to be quality entertainment.