Page 25 of Return to Sender
Dominique attempts a weak smile. “I like your AI, Wi’kar. Much more personality than you usually allow yourself.”
The observation strikes closer to truth than I am comfortable acknowledging. AXIS’s personality matrix was calibrated according to my preferences—efficiency, minimal unnecessary commentary, strict adherence to operational parameters. Yet recently, the AI has demonstrated increasingly... creative interpretations of its directives.
Perhaps it is reflecting my own internal changes.
I do not respond to her provocation. My focus must remain on her medical treatment, not on the uncomfortable accuracy of both her observation and AXIS’s analysis. The shiphums beneath us as the engines engage, preparing for our unauthorized departure.
The medical bay—like every compartment aboard the Protocol Prime—is immaculate, equipment precisely arranged according to usage frequency and emergency priority. I guide Dominique to the examination platform, activating the diagnostic array with a gesture.
“Remove your outer garments,” I instruct, retrieving the advanced neural stabilizer from its designated storage compartment. “The scanner requires direct access to the affected area for optimal treatment effectiveness.”
For once, she complies without argument, wincing as she attempts to shrug off her cloak. The movement clearly exacerbates her pain, and I observe the way she bites her lower lip to suppress a sound of distress. The sight triggers an unexpected protective response that has nothing to do with professional duty.
Before I can process the implications, I find myself stepping forward, hands moving to assist her.
“Allow me,” I say, my voice unexpectedly soft.
She freezes momentarily, then nods, a curious expression crossing her features as I carefully ease the fabric from her shoulders. The ship lurches slightly as AXIS initiates our departure, but my hands remain steady now, focused on this singular task.
The cloak falls away, leaving her in the fitted shipsuit she acquired on my vessel. The fabric, designed for optimal functionality, reveals the elegant lines of her form in ways that professional medical assessment should not acknowledge. Yet I find my gaze lingering on the curve of her shoulder, the graceful line of her neck, the way her breathing makes the fabric shift across her chest.
“The shirt as well,” I manage, my voice rougher than intended. “The neural pathways extend across your shoulder and upper arm. Complete access is necessary for proper treatment.”
Her eyes meet mine, and something passes between us—a moment of awareness that has nothing to do with medical necessity and everything to do with the tension that has been building between us since the moment she stepped out of my cargo bay covered in mud and righteous fury.
“Of course,” she says softly, her fingers moving to the fastenings. But the neural disruption has affected her fine motor control, and she struggles with the clasps, frustration evident in her expression.
“I cannot...” she begins, then stops, jaw tightening with determination. “This is ridiculous. I can’t manage something as simple as buttons.”
Without conscious thought, I step closer. “May I?”
She nods, not trusting her voice, and I move to assist with the fastenings. My fingers brush against hers as I work, and I feel her sharp intake of breath at the contact. The shirt opens slowly, revealing the smooth expanse of her skin beneath.
The neural disruptor has left an angry red pattern across her left shoulder and upper arm, the distinctive branching burn marks following the path of her nervous system. But what arrests my attention more than the injury is the sight of her—the elegant curve of her collarbones, the soft skin that bears the marks of our desperate escape, the way she watches me with eyes that seem to see far more than I am comfortable revealing.
The sight triggers an unexpected response—a surge of anger so intense that I must pause to regulate my respiratory rate, followed immediately by something far more primitive and possessive. She was hurt because of me. Because she chose to protect me.
The realization is both humbling and... arousing, in ways I do not wish to examine.
“That bad, huh?” Dominique asks, misinterpreting my reaction.
“The damage is... significant,” I acknowledge, forcing clinical detachment into my voice while trying not to notice how the medical bay’s lighting plays across her bare skin. “But treatable with prompt intervention.”
“Agent Wi’kar,” AXIS interjects helpfully, “your cardiovascular indicators suggest elevated stress response. Are you experiencing difficulty maintaining professional objectivity? Perhaps Princess Dominique should consider covering herself with the medical blanket to reduce... distractions.”
Heat rises in my chest—embarrassment at AXIS’s entirely too-perceptive commentary. “AXIS’s commentary is irrelevant,” I state, though I find myself entirely unable to meet Dominique’s gaze.
The diagnostic scanner confirms my assessment, projecting a three-dimensional model of the affected neural pathways. The disruptor’s energy signature has disrupted approximately 37% of the nerve function in her left arm, with secondary effects spreading toward her central nervous system.
I prepare the neural regenerator, calibrating it for human physiology. “This will be uncomfortable,” I warn her, trying not to notice how the clinical lighting makes her skin seem to glow, how the simple act of breathing causes interesting movements beneath the fabric that still covers her torso. “Neural regeneration stimulates the damaged pathways to accelerate natural healing processes.”
“Uncomfortable as in ‘slight tingling sensation’ or as in ‘feels like my arm is being dipped in molten metal’?” she asks dryly.
“Closer to the latter, I’m afraid.”
She sighs, the movement causing interesting shifts in the fabric that still covers her torso. “Wonderful. Well, get on with it, then.”
I position the device over the worst of the damage. “I recommend you lie back and attempt to relax your musculature. Tension will amplify the discomfort.”
