The bulkhead hissed—half open.
Rust shrieked as it ground to a halt.
Not enough space.
Lorelai's limbs ached, her fingers biting into dead weight. Marshal's body was heavy—unnaturally heavy, bones dense as diamond. And it was only getting worse.
"What now?" asked Cass.
Lore sighed.
Marshal lay dormant, a subtle itch in her nerves giving her some vague idea he wasn't dead. If you asked her why, she couldn't say; she just felt it—His cold skin and beatless heart calling her a fool. Facts, logic vs her gut, a tingle. She must have been stupid—hopeless.
"You two go first. I'll push him from this side," said Lore.
Cass raised her brow, her face saying it all. It was the last thing she needed right now. She was already calling herself a fool. But understandably, the woman didn't argue. They had better things to worry about.
The Voiduim continued to whisper, the hair on her neck erecting in a constant chill. She absolutely refused to turn around and put her all into pretending. It didn't feel like breath, words, pleas, cries. The halls were empty, clear, cold and with life. That had to be a fact.
"Hurry up," she huffed. "Ignore it,"
Watching the Rokgar slip through like literal wet snakes, Lore followed. Her fingers gripped the tower of a man, an action that felt almost invasive as she pushed and shoved any grip she could grasp. If he were awake during this, they would have been having a very different conversation. She shook her horns.
"Focus. Focus."
Fondling each heavy leg and arm of the Dragon slayer, she avoided showing her blush. Or just hoped the fog was thick enough to hide it. It was enough manhandling to keep her imagination running for months.
She sighed. She was running from literal Daemons, and she couldn't keep her thoughts straight. Could she even blame Ego at times like now?
Meanwhile, once the twins had taken over, she drained her filthy mind and stepped up. Like steel jaws, she examined the sharp and razor-cut metal. For something so old, it held its edge well. Too well. Swallowing her breath, she squeezed through, her lanky, dumb legs, bumping everything on the way in. Was she some monster succubus that stood taller than most men? Her tattered cloth threaded as she stuffed her ass through.
She bit her lip; she had enough cuts and didn't need more. But even after scrapping the metal, the cold only amplified the bruises, her tattered bones, demanding a holiday, a vacation from service. But scratching her cheek, the leak of thick liquid staining the edge, she got through, aside from the last whisper that pulled her attention.
"Lorelai?" it asked.
And despite telling herself not to, she looked into Voiduim, and a hand, breaths away, ready to tear out her eyes, shot out. Nails pierced her skin, and she screamed, falling on her tail as the bulkhead cracked. Like a hydraulic press, the metal slammed shut and severed the arm from the fog.
She panted.
The severed hand writhed—fingers spasming, reaching.
It twitched, knuckles cracking, nails curling like a spider convulsing in its death throes.
One mistake.
One misstep.
And it would have taken her.
"I swear no one mentioned Daemons could do this." Said Cass.
"Daemons are fragments," Said Cassian.
Lore glanced at the shivering woman. It had been the first thing she said after a while now.
Then Cassian looked at Marshal, "They're attracted to archdemons. We've even created a trail for them."
"Shut it," Lore said. "Don't shove the blame away; you're a Neurweaver. Remember, they would sense you too."
She held her tongue on what that voice said and the heat that pooled inside her. If they were right, she would attract the creatures more than the twins combined. But then again, she glanced at Marshal.
She was sure about it: black eyes, canister slots, heavy and dense bones. It all pointed to the inquisitor—soulless pre-war weapons without free will. Beings created to fight, to kill, the production secrets lost to war. But worse, was everything he did an act? Inquisitors had no personality; there were dolls—objects. Was that Broody man just a puppet? And who was the master?
Thinking of puppets, Lore frowned; it's not like she was gonna hunt down the bitch that experimented on her. She had to be involved and related somehow. Lore shivered at the thought. None of that so-called test made much sense. And staring at the shadows, she flinched; it must have been all in her head—Just like Ego. She couldn't imagine an alternative; she had to be mistaken.
"It's a dead end," said Cass.
Lore swivelled and stared at the reinforced hull; it would take an anti-material blast to break it, and worryingly, so would the bulkhead. She sniffed the dust, the metal flakes, condensing around her with each inhale. They were trapped, demons in a tin. Ready to be opened and devoured by Daemons. And feeling all the burns on her body, she stuttered, her mind withdrawing all the borrowed energy, her flailing heart, her makeshift plans—
"This was supposed to be the cargo bay." She said.
The bulkhead banged.
"Well, it's not," Cass said, "we're screwed."
The line felt like a slap. Was this her fault? She did insist on carrying Marshal. But he only slowed them down, and he likely drew the things. She got them killed, she fucked up. She failed.
Lore's heart shivered, her breath chaining out like a shotgun. What had she done? What had she done? WHAT HAD SHE—
A sound thumped in her core, a heartbeat, a breath that was not hers, not the twins. She spun and watched Marshal. Her eyes, like beacons, searched, searched and—
His fingers twitched.
His breath rattled—ticking, unnatural.
Then—a creak.
Bones shifting.
A slow, careful inhale—breath spilling from blue-tinted lips.
Then, finally—
Marshal's eyes opened.
Frostbitten.
Unfeeling.
Lore felt her shoulders lighten, her toes lifting her as she stepped.
"Marshal?" she said, hopeful.
"Finally," said Cass, "I thought we carried a corpse for nothing."
Marshal's chest rose in a slow, mechanical breath, his silent, calm expression, without hesitation, emotion or error. His eyes, like hooks, caught hers, the unreadable gaze pouring into her, her feet stopping in place.
The Voidium stopped breathing.
Silence pressed in, suffocating, unnatural.
Lore and the twins looked at one another.
Something was wrong.
Then—
Marshal moved.
"Urm… is something wrong," she asked.
It was eerie, focused and unwavering, the sort of look that saw miles away, all directed at her. Then, as she shifted, he moved, one boot at a time. Her legs refused to move. She was just wary. He wouldn't hurt her, right?
"Marshal?"
He continued his usual broody demeanour, gone, his fangs, his body advancing faster than she could think. She stepped back, but where could she go?
"Mar—"
She gasped.
Too fast. Too close.
The distance between them—gone.
Cold fingers brushed her shoulder.
A featherlight touch. A stroke—slow, investigative.
His breath ghosted over her neck.
Soft. Cool.
Wet.
"Van?" she stammered, "I-"
For a fleeting second, she thought—maybe he would speak.
Then—
Fangs pierced.
Her breath hitched—her skin shattered.
Electric fire crashed through her veins.
Heat curled, tightened, clawed its way up her spine—
And everything else vanished.
She wanted to stop it; she should have backed away. But, her body stiffened, her breath pulled right out from her, as lips pressed her neck, his cool breath, pressure, suction—a step-by-step motion, a starter to her engine.
She gasped as Marshal sank his fangs into her—the prick of his fangs, the slow spread of heat through her veins. Like flesh to a predator, her essence flowed, her blood fighting back the invader. A battle she lost the instant it started. Warmth cuddled her, her tail curling, as he drank and drank.
She needed to stop it. She had to get out. She stepped back, but then he took her to the floor, and she hit metal in a slick moan.
She wanted to roll, her chest hammering like a piston, her fangs chewing her lip. But accelerating her heart, his smile hit her, his tongue licking up blood—her blood.
"What are you doing?" she asked. "Could you—"
With mechanical efficiency, he dug in, and when he chewed her collar, fangs kissed her bone. It was so good. Hell, it was amazing. Her fingers clawed whatever she grabbed. She wanted more. Every part of her said yes, and deep down, under different conditions, it was tempting. But…
She flared all restraint. Something was odd, wrong. He wasn't in his right mind. This was the broody man who never gave her a chance. She was sure he didn't feel this way. Was she even sure this was the real him? She can't take advantage. This wasn't how she imagined it.
However, as he snatched her waist in a lock, her succubus heart burned. Even she couldn't deny how much she loved it. Her fingers demanded, craved. Her breath caught as she held back with everything. But moving up her jaw, first a kiss, then a nibble, the line, the sensation, sent her swooning, her skin dribbling for more. Her Reason, her Logic, sucked away. It was unfair, a level of experience she could not compete with.
She thrilled in it; she wanted it. And, oh hell, she almost let it happen. Her core sparked, and her body burned.
She mustered her heat, hissing her lips like a dam ready to burst, and reeled back, attempting to catch her breath. Gain some sense of clarity. Logic.
"Marshal?" she tried. "Come to your senses."
Her sight span, her vision light, her strength fading. She had to stop this; she needed to bring him back. She pressed his chest; this was happening way too fast, too sudden. She wasn't about to make out in a hostile airship with her dead father haunting her.
Then, as if punishing her, her blood ignited like lava. Her lips flooded with steam, her veins glowing fiery crimson. She couldn't, she mustn't. A hand stroked her cheek, soft, inviting. Her core flickered, and a purring voice in the back of her mind woke up.
Like a switch turned so unbelievably on, she pulled him in. Pinned and laid to metal, her throat burned as something started to crack. Her back puddled in molten steel, the grates the very walls melting around them both. And reacting with her, he changed from sucking to crawling every inch of her. Each touch, each chiselled breath, stripped her resistance away. Stop, don't give in. Just…
"More." Ego purred.
"Lore!" Cass yelled. "Stop—"
The woman yelped as the smell of burned flesh exploded. Neither of them was able to get close. Meanwhile, Cassian hesitated, her face blushing as she glanced between Lore and Marshal.
"Are they…? Wait, are they doing what I think they are doing?"
But Cass didn't wait to figure it out, as like a pebble to an airship, a chair crashed into Marshal's side.
"Get a room!" Cass shouted, hurling a broom. It burst into flames mid-air, disintegrating before it even reached them. "You're burning this one!"
But effective or not, Marshal stopped. But his unwavering hunger, glued to her and her alone. Why her? Why was he so… She squirmed as he stared, unfazed by the position he had her locked in—both twins flushing at the whole show.
"Have you no shame?" Cass stuttered, "There is a time and place."
But free from Marshal's cool breath, his eyes prowling over her. She wavered, and her core chose that moment to spark.
Ego's fingers curled around her heart.
Soft. Possessive. Commanding.
"Surge."
Lore gasped.
Heat exploded—a roaring tempest ripping through her cells, her bones, her mind.
She was melting. Burning. Breaking.
She grabbed him—clung to him.
And begged.
She couldn't see, she couldn't feel anything but heat, but like a statement to the dark gods themselves, she howled with every fibre, every ounce. The noise muddled in her mind, her thoughts fading. She was losing it. Someone help her. Please snap out of it.