Page 18 of Salvaged By the Alien Pirate

Someone who knew exactly how I think, someone who’s been dead for three years.

My hands freeze over the half-finished jammer as impossible implications begin to crystallize.

[ACCESSING NEURAL ARCHIVE: DATE STAMP 2.47.3089]

Kai’s voice, bright with triumph, crackles through our shared neural space.“This is it, Neon! We’ve got them.”His digital presence, once so vibrant, now echoes like a phantom limb. Through our linked neural network, I feel his surge of adrenaline, the thrill of the chase, the intoxicating scent ofvictory just within reach. Corporate firewalls crumble before his digital assault, collapsing like sandcastles against a rising tide. The evidence we need to shatter the Black Eclipse’s web, to expose the rot . . . it’s right there.

I watch, my enhanced vision painting the data streams in vibrant, terrifying clarity. But something’s off—a dissonance in the code, a flicker in the flow, subtle anomalies, milliseconds out of sync, packets with signatures that whisper of deception.

“Kai,”I cut in, urgency sharpening my voice, even within our silent neural link.“Abort. Now. Something’s wrong with the data return—”

“Almost there, Neon, just a little longer.”His focus is laser-sharp, tunnel vision gripping him. He’s so close, can almost taste the win. Warning klaxons blare in my enhanced vision, digital red alerts screaming across my consciousness.Too late.

Then the scream—raw, visceral, tearing through our neural link like a physical blow. Sophisticated ice, unlike anything I’d ever encountered, ripping through his defenses, shredding his code, his mind. My implants, reacting instinctively, try to sever the connection, to quarantine the digital contamination, but I fight them, desperate to hold on, to understand, to help. His consciousness, that bright, vital spark, flickers, sputters, drowned in a rising tide of digital static.

“Neon . . . run . . .”His final transmission, choked, fragmented, a ghost of sound swallowed by the void.“Don’t let them . . .”

[END ARCHIVE]

I slam back into the present, lungs burning, hands clenched into fists that tremble against the cold metal of the console. The maintenance tunnel swims back into focus, the hiss of coolant lines grounding me in a reality I desperately want to escape. My upgrades, ever the pragmatists, flash their clinical analysis:adrenaline spiking, neural pathways misfiring, severe flashback episode confirmed.No shit, Sherlock.

A soft rap on the alcove door. “Neon?” Cirdox’s voice, rough with sleep, laced with a concern that sends a jolt of something unwelcome through me—warmth, tenderness, danger. “Are you alright?”

Of course, he noticed. The mate-bond thing, or whatever Kyvernian voodoo he wields, probably broadcasts my distress like a beacon. My implants dutifully analyze his vocal patterns, cataloging the subtle tremor in his tone, the heightened tension, always measuring, always quantifying, never letting me forget that even intimacy is just data points to be processed and analyzed.

Before I can form a coherent lie, the memory surges again, relentless, dragging me back into the undertow of the past. The alcove recedes, replaced by the sterile, echoing silence of the aftermath.

[ACCESSING NEURAL ARCHIVE: DATE STAMP 2.47.3089]

The final, chilling message, delivered through the dying embers of our neural link, echoes in the void:“You could have saved him, Neon. Remember that.”

Then, only static. The cold, emotionless pronouncement of my enhanced architecture:Neural link severed. Remote consciousness lost. Recommended action: Initiate emergency shutdown to prevent cascading system failure, as if a system failure could ever compare to the gaping hole Kai’s death tore through me.

[END ARCHIVE]

Silence crashes down, heavy, suffocating. My breath hitches, shallow, ragged. My implants register the rapid pulse, the clammy skin, the fine tremor that runs through me, alwayswatching, always recording, never understanding the difference between data and despair.

“Neon?” Cirdox’s voice, closer now, laced with a deeper urgency. “I’m not waiting for an invitation.”

The door hisses open, and he’s there, wings half-unfurled, filling the narrow space, a stark contrast to the sterile metal. The tribal markings on his bronze skin pulse with a faint, feverish light. He’s still fighting the bond-sickness, still burning from within. My body instantly reacts to his presence, remembering the heat of his touch just hours ago, the way his wings created a shelter around us as we explored this fragile thing growing between us, but old habits die hard, and distrust, honed over years of hard lessons, coils tight in my gut.

I hate this war inside me: between the part that wants to fall into his arms again, to let him chase away the shadows like he did before, and the part that screams this is all temporary comfort that will end in blood and pain. He offered me understanding tonight, showed me his own vulnerabilities, but is that enough to risk everything, to risk him? The memory of his fevered skin under my fingers, the way he trembled at my touch but still let me set the pace, makes this even harder because now I know exactly what I stand to lose.

“I’m fine,” I say, the automatic lie tasting like ash. “Neural feedback. Routine maintenance. Nothing to be concerned about.” Even to my own ears, the words are thin, brittle, easily shattered.

He moves closer, slowly, deliberately, like approaching a cornered animal. Maybe he’s right; maybe that’s exactly what I am. “You’re trembling, little hacker.”

The endearment, usually laced with playful arrogance, is soft now, edged with something akin to tenderness—a flicker of warmth, unwelcome, dangerous, sparks in my chest. I look down at my hands, watching the tremor in the blue glow of myenhancements. Kai’s hands, shaking just like this in those final moments . . . No. Push it down; control, always control. “Just . . . a data glitch. Memory loop. My neural cache sometimes replays archived events without authorization.” Clinical, detached, easier to dissect the breakdown than acknowledge the raw, gaping wound beneath the surface.

“Tell me.” He settles beside me, not touching, but close enough that his heat radiates against my skin. His wings, folded now, still create a subtle shield, a pocket of privacy in the sterile tunnels. “Tell me more about Kai.”

I flinch. “Why?”

“You called out to him in your sleep.” His voice is low, almost hesitant, but the crimson gaze is unwavering. “When the bond-sickness keeps me awake, I hear you, whispering his name, begging him to run.”

The admission disarms me—not just that he’s been listening to my nightmares, but that he’s been carrying his own pain while sensing mine. My enhanced vision flicks to his wings, noting the almost imperceptible tremor, the heightened pulse of his tribal markings that betray his worsening condition.

“I keep seeing him,” I confess, the words barely a whisper, “not just in nightmares anymore, in the data streams, like his consciousness fragmented instead of dying completely, scattered pieces of code that haunt the networks.” I laugh, the sound bordering on hysteria. “My upgrades say it’s impossible, just trauma manifesting in my neural interface, but sometimes . . . sometimes I swear I feel him watching.”

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