It started with a faint hum.
Then, a deep, pulsing vibration that moved through the bones more than the air, steady as a heartbeat.
Afterwards came light—dim, blue-white, filtered through fluid. It pressed against his eyelids, too sharp to be natural. When he tried to breathe, the air felt wrong, thick and heavy. It took a full minute before his thoughts arranged themselves enough to realise he was in the pod.
Alive.
Barely.
His body floated weightless in the regenerative solution. When he moved his hand, the liquid dragged it back down, slow as honey. He could hear the soft whisper of the circulation system, the muted hiss of the oxygen filters. His chest ached with each shallow breath, but the pain was distant, muted by the haze of sedation.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been here. The last memory burned behind his eyelids—the feline's roar, the light, the crushing pain, Cody's voice cutting through static. Then nothing.
A voice broke through the quiet, calm and unmistakable.
"Master Jinyue! You are awake! Vital readings stabilised. Synaptic function… eighty-seven per cent and rising. Neural coherence restored. You may attempt speech."
Cody…sounded a bit too eager for his liking.
He blinked. The light above him blurred, bending through the pod's curved glass. He opened his mouth. The first breath came out as a rasp.
"...Cody?"
"Confirmed."
He tried again, throat raw. "How long?"
The answer came instantly. "Fourteen days, sixteen hours, forty-two minutes, and nineteen seconds. You have been unconscious for two standard weeks. I was beginning to prepare your posthumous data log."
He might have laughed if his chest didn't hurt. "You thought I was dead."
"You were not responding to stimulation or low-level electrical prompts," Cody replied matter-of-factly. "Medically speaking, you were near-deceased. Emotionally, I was… uncertain."
"Emotionally?"
"That too…I've been learning," Cody said interestingly.
Jinyue gave a weak grin. "Statistically pleasing outcome then."
The pod hissed, fluid draining. Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean. The transparent lid retracted with a slow click, leaving him dry. Jinyue sucked in a real breath for the first time in weeks, and his lungs protested immediately. His throat burned, and his limbs felt like they belonged to someone else.
When he tried to sit up, pain shot down his spine. His muscles trembled under their own weight.
"Please refrain from sudden movements," Cody warned, stepping forward. The robot's frame was scorched across one side, plating dented where claws had torn through alloy. His single arm extended with mechanical precision, bracing Jinyue by the shoulder. "Motor control will return gradually."
"I can manage," Jinyue muttered. His voice cracked halfway.
"Incorrect," Cody said. "You are physically compromised."
"Thanks for the reminder, but I..."
Jinyue began, pushing himself upright, determined to prove him wrong … turns out his assumptions and false bravado were incorrect.
"Just want to—" The instant he moved, the room tilted violently. Pain stabbed behind his eyes like someone had driven a rod straight through his skull. His stomach twisted. He made it halfway before the strength drained from his limbs, and the world spun.
"—get up," he finished weakly before gravity won.
He collapsed sideways, vision fracturing into light and static. A deep, ringing buzz filled his head, drowning out the hum of the ship. His hands trembled uncontrollably. The floor felt too far, too cold. His tail, traitorous thing, coiled around him protectively, fur bristling as if to shield him from unseen blows.
His head spun so fast he forgot where and who he was.
Cody moved fast for a half-damaged unit. His servos whirred, arm locking under Jinyue's shoulder to keep him from fully hitting the ground.
"Motor control unstable," Cody said sharply. "Head trauma feedback still active. Please remain still."
His word rang in his mind louder than a bell. Good thing he got his bearings in check.
"I'm fine," Jinyue finally managed to rasp after a solid minute, if not more.
"Incorrect," Cody countered. "You are pale, trembling, and exhibiting elevated cranial pressure."
He tried to glare, but the nausea made his vision blur. "Don't… lecture me."
"I am not lecturing," Cody said. "I am diagnosing."
Jinyue groaned, pressing his hand to his forehead. "Feels like my brain's going to tear apart."
"That is within recovery parameters," Cody said. "Your neural network suffered excessive stress."
"How comforting."
"Comfort is a developing skill," Cody replied, entirely serious.
He wanted to laugh, but his body refused. Instead, he exhaled shakily. "I just… want to get up."
"Then I will assist."
Before he could argue, Cody adjusted his posture and called up a hover gurney. With a mechanical hum, the platform slid beside them, lights flickering softly. Cody carefully shifted him onto it, moving with surprising gentleness despite his metallic joints.
The gurney lifted slightly from the ground and began its slow glide down the corridor toward Jinyue's quarters. Jinyue lay back against the padding, eyes half-closed. Every bump of motion sent another spark of pain through his skull.
"Your vitals are stabilising," Cody said. "I will refrain from playing ambient recovery music from now on."
"You… have ambient recovery music?"
"I compiled some during your unconscious period. It is ninety-seven per cent efficient at lowering stress."
"That's—don't," Jinyue muttered with a sigh. Sometimes…correction, a lot of times, Cody did too much.
"Understood," Cody said after a pause. "I am still learning taste."
Despite himself, Jinyue snorted weakly. "Apparently."
When they reached his quarters, the gurney lowered beside his bed. Cody's servos whined faintly as he lifted Jinyue's upper body and adjusted the pillow, ensuring his tail wasn't trapped. The precision was medical, but the care—almost human.
The moment his head hit the pillow, exhaustion rushed in, heavy and overwhelming. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and nausea rolled again before settling. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, waiting for his body to stop feeling like molten glass. He couldn't help but feel annoyed by the backward spiral of his health. He had gotten so far with his stamina and strength, and now he was back to square one because of a stupid, oversized cat(not himself).
His tail unconsciously flickered rhythmically with discontentment. He was sure that if he had cat ears, they'd be arched back. His face saved him from more embarrassment; on the other hand, by remaining as solid and cold as usual,
Cody, on the other hand, noticed the signs. He stood by patiently, optical lens pulsing a faint blue. "Do not be frustrated, master. You are recovering faster than projected. That is fortunate."
Jinyue rubbed his temple. The dull ache behind his eyes hadn't faded. "Define 'fortunate.'"
"If you had remained unconscious for three more days, I would have had to perform full cryostasis preservation."
"That sounds bad."
"It has a ninety-seven per cent mortality rate for males," Cody confirmed flatly.
He blinked at the ceiling. "You really know how to comfort people."
"Apologies, I am currently updating my code."
"You are…doing what exactly?"
"I performed twenty-seven restoration procedures and rewrote seventeen subroutines in my own programming to compensate."
He tried to process that. "You rewrote yourself?"
"I am still learning," Cody said again—softer this time, almost sheepish, if a machine could be.
Jinyue smiled faintly, though his head throbbed at the movement. "Well… that's new."
He leaned against the bed and exhaled, testing his breath. His lungs burned, but they worked. He was alive. Barely, but still here. His mind, though—his mind felt wrong. Too full.
Images flickered behind his eyelids: faces he'd never seen, places he'd never been. His father's laughter in a dusty cave. The smell of melting alloy. The sharp cold of starlight over metal dunes. He knew those things. Knew them intimately. But they weren't his but at the same time were. He couldn't deny or push away what had happened. Couldn't even stop it. Would he have to go through that again?
"Cody," he said quietly. "What happened to me?"
The robot paused, servo whirring faintly. "Before we discuss that, you must hydrate."
"Cody—"
"Protocol dictates immediate rehydration post-recovery."
He groaned, half from pain, half from irritation. "You never change."
"Correction, I am currently ongoing change, but my core function remains."
Jinyue snorted.
Cody handed him a cup of clear liquid. He drank it, grimacing. It tasted faintly metallic, filtered water with trace minerals. The robot watched until he finished.
Only then did Cody's posture adjust slightly, a subtle tilt that Jinyue had learned meant concern. For a while, the only sounds were the soft beeps of Cody's internal systems running diagnostics.
Then, quietly:
"You should not have survived, Master Jinyue."
Jinyue opened his eyes slightly. "You keep saying that."
"It remains true." Cody's tone glitched faintly before steadying. "Your neural readings exceeded maximum tolerance for hybrid biology. I recorded seventeen cascading failures across your cortex."
"Don't list them," Jinyue muttered.
"I will not. I acquired restraint."
"Good."
The quiet stretched again.
He stared at the ceiling, voice low. "So what happened?"
Cody's optics dimmed slightly. "You expelled a physical force without mechanical aid. A wave of kinetic energy—origin unknown. My sensors recorded electromagnetic resonance far exceeding your known capabilities."
Jinyue frowned, trying to piece it together through the haze of half-memory. "I remember… the feline. It jumped. I thought I was going to die and then—something rushed out of me. Then nothing."
"You were unconscious after impact," Cody said. "I carried you to the ship. Your body's temperature was dangerously high. You were bleeding from the facial orifices and vocal cords, and your neural activity was—unprecedented."
Jinyue winced. "That's one way to say it."
He then added, "That's… not possible."
"Correct. It is not."
A long silence followed.
Then Jinyue said softly, "And yet I did."
"Yes," Cody said. "You did."
He sat back slowly, pressing a hand against his temple as the headache pulsed sharper. His thoughts still felt disjointed, like two different streams fighting to align. "I don't even remember doing it."
"Neural overload erased short-term recall. You were bleeding from seven orifices, emitting heat beyond safe threshold, and suffering from systemic collapse."
"Charming recap," he muttered as he turned to face away, only to be met by a wave of nausea and promptly giving up.
Cody's tone didn't shift. "This is serious Master Jinyue."
He didn't reply.
Instead, he looked at his hands. The skin looked the same—pale, faintly luminescent—but there was something new beneath it. A current. A hum. As if the space around his fingers trembled slightly when he moved.
He clenched them into fists softly. The air steadied.
Cody continued, voice quieter now, as though his processors were unsure. "This manifestation… should not exist. Male Zergs lack the necessary instinctive aggression to externalise mental energy. Historically, their minds functioned as regulators—soothing, guiding, never attacking. The most advanced of them," Cody continued, "can induce migraines or psychogenic effects. But you… you created pressure waves. You moved matter."
"Cody," Jinyue interrupted quietly, "what are you trying to say?"
"That my database has no modern explanation for you."
For a moment, that was all there was—silence and the hum of the ship. Then Jinyue gave a hollow laugh. "Guess I'm special."
"An impossibility," Cody corrected. "Or perhaps… an echo."
He looked up. "Echo of what?"
The robot hesitated. "Of an extinct bloodline. There were once male Zergs capable of physical manifestation through thought. They shaped matter, controlled energy, and governed the Dominion itself. But they vanished. Over time, the male genetic line deteriorated. Those who remain now … few are capable of independent adaptation like yourself."
Jinyue's chest tightened as Jin'ar's memories stirred. A bright room. Soft laughter. Voices calling him "precious." A hand touching glass. A golden cage disguised as luxury.
The sense of being cherished—and trapped. He swallowed hard. The silence that followed hummed faintly with the ship's core.
Cody's next words came slower, gentler. "Your linguistic processing has also changed."
He blinked. "What?"
"You are speaking Universal Zerg Standard."
"I am?"
"Affirmative."
He stared. He hadn't even realised it—the words had flowed naturally, without thought. "But I didn't know it."
"Evidently, you did."
Realisation settled heavily in his chest. "Jin'ar."
The memories that weren't his surfaced again—Jin'ar at ten, tracing glowing script onto a console; Jin'ar laughing with his mother; Jin'ar whispering to himself in the dark, words shaped like prayer.
The memories kept pressing—like film reels burning behind his eyes. He swallowed them down. He couldn't afford to spiral again. Not now.
"Cody," he said softly, "if this power makes me like them—those leaders, those... things the Dominion worshipped—what happens if they find me?"
Cody hesitated for the first time since Jinyue had known him. "Then you will not be free."
The words hung there.
Jinyue's chest constricted. Freedom. The one thing he had fought for, died for, and now lived for. Was this world going to take that, too?
He looked toward the viewport. The desert stretched endless, quiet, merciless—but it was his. His wasteland. His silence.
Maybe he didn't need the Dominion. Maybe he didn't need anyone.
"Maybe I'll just stay here," he said aloud. "Make the trash planet mine."
Cody's servos clicked once. "An illogical plan. This planet is inhospitable."
"So am I."
Silence. Then, softly: "Acknowledged."
He smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You don't have to understand that, Cody."
"I lack that capability."
"Exactly."
The silence stretched once more, till the need for questioning all but consumed Jinyue. Much to his surprise and shock.
"Cody," he said, suspiciously like a relenting child, "do you think the Dominion will ever come here?"
"This planet has no recorded coordinates. You are statistically safe."
"But if they did find out?"
Cody hesitated—a rare glitch of uncertainty. "Then you will have to go back to the association and find a partner."
The words hit hard. Freedom. The only thing that had ever mattered to him nowadays—more than safety, more than belonging. He'd fought for it once. Died for it. Now he wasn't even sure who he was fighting.
"I can't let that happen," he said softly.
"Then we must remain undetected," Cody said. "I am preparing additional camouflage protocols for the ship. And… spare parts. For your projects."
He blinked at that last bit. "Spare parts?"
"I thought you might require activity to maintain psychological equilibrium," Cody said. "Restlessness indicates recovery."
"Cody… are you trying to cheer me up?"
The robot tilted his head. "I am still learning."
That made Jinyue laugh—a quiet, breathless sound that eased the heaviness in his chest for a moment. "You're doing fine."
"I will log that as progress."
He sighed softly, the faint smile fading into tired acceptance. Outside, through the narrow viewport, the desert stretched in endless gold. His reflection stared back—silver-haired, hollow-eyed, but alive. Still here.
He wasn't sure what he'd become. He wasn't sure what waited beyond the dunes or the Dominion's reach. But he'd figure it out.
He always did.
And as his eyes drifted closed again, Cody's voice came faintly—gentle, almost human
"Rest, Master Jinyue. I will be here when you wake."