Hello, Gorgeous.
Yes, I am talking to you.
I know why you are here. You are sitting there, probably with one hand holding this device and the other hand... well, let us just say I know where your other hand is. You are waiting for the squelch. You are waiting for the moan. You are waiting for fluids to fly across the room and for Capt to use his... or currently her, divine anatomy to turn us into puddles of bliss.
But you are going to have to zip your pants back up.
Do not give me that look. I can feel your disappointment radiating through the fourth wall like cosmic radiation. You want the spice. You want the friction. You want to see if my Glace Melios can freeze sweat on a naked body.
Trust me, I want that too.
My body is still humming from the session in the gym with Gin and Capt. Every time I shift in this leather navigation chair, I feel a phantom throb between my legs. My panties are dry, but my mind? My mind is soaking wet.
However, we have a problem. A big, red, rusty problem floating right outside the viewport.
Mars...
We are in orbit. And it is not a friendly visit.
It has been three hours since the 'soup incident' in the gym. Three hours since Capt laughed while dripping with Gin's fluids. Now, the laughter is gone. The simulation deck is closed. The mess hall is silent.
I am sitting at the helm of the Xeca. My fingers are hovering over the controls, making micro-adjustments to our trajectory. The atmosphere on the bridge is heavy. It smells of ozone and fear.
Capt is standing behind me. She... because she is still very much a she, is staring at the red planet. Her reflection in the glass is terrifying. That red hair. Those slit pupils. She looks like a Queen who is returning to conquer her kingdom, not a hero coming home for a debriefing.
Reagalus knows...
The High Command sent a priority signal twenty minutes ago. They know Capt has breached the limit. They know about the prolonged transformation. They want to see him. They want to judge him.
And Mars is the courtroom.
I hate this planet!
People call it the Red Planet. They romanticize it. They talk about the terraforming projects and the underground cities. But to me? It just looks like a giant, infected wound in the sky.
I hate the dust. I hate the gravity, and most of all, I hate the memories.
You see, before I was Navi, and before Gin was Chef, we were just Tonix and Gin. Two rejects from the colony slums who thought they could be Melitos.
Do you want to hear a story?
Of course you do. You are a captive audience, and since I am denying you the physical pleasure, the least I can do is give you some emotional stimulation.
It was eight years ago.
The Reagalus Training Center on Mars. Sector 4.
The kitchen...
It was hot. Not the sexy kind of hot where you are pressed against a wall by a handsome Inquor. It was the gross, sticky kind of hot that smells of stale grease and desperation.
Gin and I did not have our Melios yet. We were just two nineteen-year-old girls with bad attitudes and too much energy. We were on the verge of being kicked out. We failed the discipline drills. We failed the teamwork exercises.
We were a disaster.
And on that specific day, we decided to destroy the kitchen.
Why?
Because of porridge!
"It is supposed to be hot, Tonix!" Gin screamed at me. She was holding a ladle like a weapon, her face flushed red from the stove. "Kivile is a comfort food! It needs to warm your soul!"
"Comfort food is for the weak!" I yelled back, grabbing a bag of ice from the freezer. "It is ninety degrees here! Who eats hot sago in a sauna? It needs texture! It needs crunch! It needs ice!"
"You are ruining the consistency!"
"You are ruining my life!"
It was stupid. I know it is stupid. You are judging us. I can hear you thinking, "Really? Porridge?"
But you have to understand. We are twins. We are identical in every way, except for the things that matter. Gin is fire. She is passionate and angry and searing heat. I am ice. I am cool, sharp and preserved. We were fighting a war of thermodynamics over a bowl of starch.
I dumped the ice into the boiling pot.
Gin screamed. It was a primal sound. She lunged at me.
We crashed onto the linoleum floor. It was a tangle of limbs and hair. Gin was on top of me, pinning my wrists. I bucked my hips, throwing her off. We rolled around, knocking over pans, smashing plates.
"I am going to kill you!" Gin hissed, grabbing a handful of my hair.
"Not if I freeze you first!" I spat back, even though I had no idea how to freeze anything other than my heart.
We were wrestling. It wasn't the erotic wrestling you saw in the gym. There was no lube. There was no audience. It was just raw, sisterly violence. Her sweat dripped onto my face. My nails dug into her arm. We were tearing each other apart because we were terrified that we were going to be sent back to the slums.
Then, the door blew open.
It wasn't a kick. It was a presence.
The room went silent. Gin froze with her hand raised to slap me. I froze with my knee pressed into her stomach.
Standing in the doorway was a man.
That's Capt!
He was wearing a Captain's coat that was unbuttoned, revealing a t-shirt with a cartoon cat on it. He had mismatched socks peeking out of his boots. He looked like a slob.
But he smelled... incredible.
Even through the stench of burnt porridge and sweat, I could smell him. It was a scent that hit me right in the lizard brain. Musk. Power. And something else.
Authority...
Behind him stood two women. One was tall, terrifying, and dressed in a crisp red uniform... yeah, that's Vice, obviously, though back then she looked even scarier. The other was an older woman with white rabbit ears who looked like she wanted to hug everyone... and that's Mommy.
"Well," Capt said. His voice was deep, a baritone rumble that made my insides vibrate. "I asked for a navigator, and instead, I found a food fight."
He stepped over the broken plates. He walked right up to us.
Gin scrambled off me. We both stood up, panting, our uniforms torn and stained with white goo.
"Who are you?" Gin demanded, wiping sago from her cheek.
"I am the guy who is going to save you from cleaning this mess up," he said. He leaned in close to me. He sniffed.
I stopped breathing. His face was inches from mine. His eyes were gold. Burning gold.
"Mint," he whispered.
"What?" I squeaked.
"You smell like mint," he said, pulling back with a grin. "And ice. Crisp. Clean. I like it."
He turned to Vice. "Iya, put her on the roster. She is the new navigator."
"Ragia!" Vice protested. "She is a cadet! A failing cadet! She just destroyed a government facility over breakfast!"
"She has spirit," he shrugged. "And she smells good. My ship smells like old socks. We need some mint."
I stood there, stunned. Just like that? Because I smelled like toothpaste?
"Wait," I said. My voice was trembling, but I made myself speak. I reached out and grabbed Gin's hand. "I won't go without her."
Capt looked at Gin. Gin glared back at him, her chin held high, defiance radiating off her in waves.
"And what do you do?" Capt asked Gin. "Besides trying to murder your sister with a ladle?"
Gin squeezed my hand.
Hard...
"I can cook," she said. Her voice was steady. "I can cook anything. I can make a feast out of ration bars. I can turn a shoe into a steak. And if you take me, I promise I won't poison you. Unless you deserve it."
She paused, then added with a smirk, "And I can marinate her. If she gets too annoying."
She pointed at me.
Capt stared at her for a second. Then, he burst out laughing.
"You are hired!" he boomed.
"Ragia!" Vice looked like she was going to have a stroke. "We do not need a chef! We have Mira!"
"Mira is busy raising a kid!" Capt argued. "And no offense, Iya, but the last time you tried to make coffee, you dissolved the cup. If I don't get a real chef on the Xeca, I am going to die of food poisoning before the Krall even gets to me."
And whack!
Vice hit him. She slapped the back of his head hard enough to make a sound.
"Ow!" Capt rubbed his head, but he was grinning. "See? Abuse! I am working in a hostile environment! I need comfort food!"
He looked back at us. "Pack your bags, ladies. You are leaving this dustball. Welcome to Xeca."
And that was it.
He didn't ask about our grades. He didn't ask about our psychological profiles. He just saw two messy, angry girls covered in porridge and decided we were family.
That was the day we became Navi and Chef.
He gave us those names on the shuttle ride up to the Xeca.
"Butterscotch... Tonix and Gin Butterscotch, sounds like a drink order," he had said, feet propped up on the console. "We need call signs. Cool ones. Military ones. You handle the map, so you are Navi. You handle the food, so you are Chef. Simple. Efficient. Cool."
"It is not cool," Vice had muttered from the pilot's seat. "It is childish."
"It is badass," Ragia corrected her.
I look at the red planet now, and I remember that day. I remember the hope. I remember the excitement of leaving the gravity well, of thinking we were going to be heroes.
We didn't know about the limits then. We didn't know about the blood. We didn't know that loving an Inquor meant watching him slowly tear himself apart to keep you warm.
"Navi..."
The voice pulls me back to the present.
It is Capt. She has moved closer. Her hand is resting on the back of my chair. Her fingernails are long and sharp, tapping a nervous rhythm against the leather.
"We are entering the upper atmosphere," she says. "Status?"
"Shields are holding," I reply. My voice is professional, but my heart is hammering against my ribs. "The trajectory is green. The landing zone is clear."
"Good."
She leans down. Her hair falls over my shoulder, a curtain of crimson silk. She smells of lilies and danger now, not old socks and musk.
"Don't worry, Tonix," she whispers near my ear. She uses my real name. She only does that when things are bad. "I won't let them take me. I promised Chef I would buy her that expensive spice rack."
I force a smile. "You better. Or she will marinate you."
Capt chuckles. It is a dry, hollow sound.
She stands up straight, adjusting the oversized shirt she is wearing. It hangs off her feminine frame, making her look small.
Vulnerable...
But I know better.
I saw her eyes in the simulation deck. I saw the way she looked at us. There is a monster sleeping inside that beautiful body, and I am terrified that the Council on Mars is going to wake it up.
So, I am sorry.
I really am.
I know you wanted a sex scene. I know you wanted me to describe the wet friction of a Felt session or the illicit thrill of a quickie in the airlock.
But there is no sex today.
There is only the cold vacuum of space, the looming judgment of a planet that rejected us, and the memory of white porridge on a dirty floor.
Zip your pants up. Put your toys away.
Because we are landing.
And I have a feeling that whatever happens down there... it is going to be a lot messier than a food fight.
Stay tuned.
And pray for us.