Page 32 of Return to Sender
Biological Maintenance
Wi'kar
Thecorridorbetweenthemedical bay and my personal quarters has never seemed so long.
Each step resonates through the ship’s hull with metronomic precision, yet my stride lacks its usual measured cadence. My hands, typically maintained in regulation position at my sides, exhibit minute tremors that I cannot suppress. The physiological response is unprecedented and deeply troubling.
More troubling still is the cause: Dominique. The memory of her kiss. The way her body felt pressed against mine. The sound she made when I—
I force myself to stop that line of reasoning. Such thoughts serve no productive purpose and only exacerbate my current... predicament.
My personal quarters represent the one space aboard the Protocol Prime designed for complete privacy. No sensors monitor this compartment except for basic life support functions. No recording devices document activities within these walls. It is here that I conduct my daily meditation sequences, maintain my physical conditioning, and address personal biological requirements without external observation.
The door seals behind me with a soft hiss, and I find myself standing in the center of my living space, uncertain how to proceed.
The quarters are, like every other section of my vessel, precisely organized. Regulation furnishings arranged according to optimal space utilization principles. Personal effects limited to essential items and a few carefully selected volumes from my poetry collection. Everything in its designated place, everything serving a specific function.
Except now, for the first time in my adult life, this orderly environment feels insufficient. Constrictive. As artificial as the emotional barriers I struggle to maintain.
“Agent Wi’kar,” AXIS’s voice filters through the room’s communication system, though I had not activated any request for assistance. “Your biometric readings indicate sustained physiological stress. Perhaps this would be an appropriate time to engage in stress-reduction activities?”
“I did not request a status report,” I inform the AI stiffly.
“Of course not, Agent. However, as your shipboard support system, I am programmed to ensure optimal crew performance. Your current state of... tension... may impact critical decision-making capabilities.”
The AI’s observation is maddeningly accurate. Since Dominique’s arrival, my usual mechanisms for maintaining mental and physical equilibrium have proven woefully inadequate. Standard meditation practices fail to quiet the constant awareness of her presence. Regulated sleep cycles are disrupted by unbidden sensory memories. Even basic hygiene routines have become complicated by my body’s unprecedented responses.
“Privacy mode activated,” I command. “Discontinue all monitoring functions except life support.”
“Privacy mode engaged, Agent. All recording and observation functions suspended. Shall I also activate sound dampening?”
The suggestion carries implications I choose not to examine. “Affirmative.”
“Sound dampening active. Agent, if I may offer one final observation before privacy protocols engage fully?”
I pause in the act of loosening my collar fastenings. “What observation?”
“Gluxian physiological texts recommend addressing sustained arousal states through appropriate release mechanisms. Failure to do so can result in decreased cognitive function, impaired judgment, and potential physical discomfort.”
Heat rises in my facial regions—embarrassment that AXIS would comment so directly on such matters. “Your input is noted.”
“Excellent, Agent. Privacy mode now fully active. I shall remain unavailable unless emergency protocols are triggered.”
The communication system falls silent, leaving me alone with the sound of my own elevated breathing and the persistent awareness of Dominique’s proximity just a deck away.
I move to the small ablution chamber adjoining my quarters, ostensibly to review my appearance after our medical session. The reflection that greets me in the polished metal surface is... disturbing.
My usually immaculate hair bears obvious signs of disruption from Dominique’s fingers. The patterns that trace along my temples continue to pulse with faint blue light—a visible manifestation of my aroused state that any Gluxian would immediately recognize. Most concerning of all, my pupils remain dilated beyond normal parameters, a response to her pheromonal signature that refuses to abate despite her absence.
I attempt to restore my appearance to regulation standards, smoothing my hair back into its precise arrangement. The action only serves to remind me of how she had tangled her fingers in it, how she had pulled me down to meet her kiss with desperate hunger.
The memory sends another surge of heat through my system, and I observe with clinical detachment as my temples flare brighter in response.
This cannot continue. I am a diplomatic courier, trained to maintain perfect composure under all circumstances. I do not lose control over basic biological functions because of a single human female, regardless of the extraordinary circumstances surrounding our meeting.
Yet as I remove my outer uniform jacket, I find myself recalling the way Dominique had looked at me during the medical procedure. The trust in her eyes when she allowed me to assist with her clothing. The catch in her breathing when my hands touched her skin.
The uniform jacket falls to the floor—a lapse in tidiness that would normally distress me, yet I cannot summon the energy to retrieve it. My focus has narrowed to more pressing concerns.
