The air in cargo bay 7-B of the Scarlet Flame was a palpable entity, as dense and charged with intention as the mist that crept through the swampy valleys of that strange world which, unconsciously, was beginning to intertwine with this destiny. It didn't smell of damp iron or burnt resin, but of the ozone filtered by the ancient but efficient circulation systems of the Sangheili ship, mixed with the clean, metallic scent of polished steel and the faint odor of freshly used lubricant. The ambient light, emitted by panels strategically placed in the high ceiling beams, bathed the vast space in a soft amber tone, a color reminiscent of the twilight skies of Sanghelios and creating a surreal contrast with the cold utility of the place. Stacks of supply containers, marked with Sangheili glyphs, rose like strange rock formations, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own.
In the center of an artificial clearing between those masses of metal, two figures faced each other not with weapons, but with a stillness charged with a need as primal as that which guided any predator under a violet sky. The distance between them was minimal, a space that could be covered in a single step, but which was fraught with years of cultural differences, a recent war, and a supernatural attraction that had managed, against all odds, to tear down those barriers.
Marco Andrus (one of the two individuals in the bay) was not, by any stretch, an ordinary human. His body was a living testament to war and forced evolution through scientific experiments. Taller and broader than average, his musculature was not that of a bodybuilder, but of a functional warrior, hardened by countless cycles of combat in variable gravities and hostile atmospheres. His skin, of an olive tan tone, was furrowed by a network of scars that told mute stories of energy blades, shrapnel splinters, and poorly healed plasma burns. He wore only tight cargo pants, and the amber light caressed the contours of his torso, highlighting every abdominal definition, the power of his shoulders, and the contained tension in his arms. His face, with a square jaw and grayish-blue eyes that seemed capable of piercing steel, was serene, but his gaze, steady and intensely dominant, did not stray from the form before him. It was a sight that would have paralyzed anyone less accustomed to the extraordinary with terror or admiration.
Before him, Aina-Rel 'Mav, Captain of the Scarlet Flame, was as "alien" to that human being as the protagonist of our main story was to his new reptiloid body. She was a Sangheili in the prime of her strength, and her physique was a structural monument to the powerful biology of her species. Her skin, of a deep, dark purple like the night sky of her homeworld, was smooth to the touch but incredibly resistant. Her curves were not the delicate ones of a human lady; they were powerful, voluptuous, sculpted by higher gravity and a life of martial training. Her thighs, exceptionally thick and strong, met with large, round, firm buttocks that strained the fabric of her tight officer's uniform. Higher up, her waist narrowed before curving out into large, heavy breasts, rounded and firm, which rose and fell with a breathing that was beginning to quicken, making the tension visible beneath the fabric. The warrior elegance inherent to her race—the proud posture, the strong jaw, and the penetrating black eyes—mixed with a voluptuousness that was overwhelmingly attractive and challenging by any human standard.
Silence stretched for what seemed an eternity, broken only by the nearly imperceptible hum of the ship's systems and the sound of their own breathing. It was Aina-Rel who, finally, broke the spell of stillness. Not with words, but with action. With a fluid and surprisingly fast movement that belied her volume and power, she closed the distance between them. It was not a timid advance, but a claiming of space. She enveloped Marco in an embrace that was anything but gentle. Her arms, strong as steel cables, closed around his torso with a force that forced the air from the human's lungs in a faint, audible sigh. She didn't just hug him; she possessed him. She buried her face—with its square jaw and sharp fangs—into the hollow of Marco's neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply his essence like an animal sniffing its mate: dry sweat, the clean scent of the ship's disinfectant soap, and that indescribably masculine and earthly something he gave off, a scent that for her was as exciting as anything in the entire galaxy could be (human male pheromones). Her hands, with their long, strong fingers—whose nails, though not sharpened like claws, could inflict considerable damage—began to travel over Marco's broad back. It wasn't a timid caress, but a tactile exploration, feeling every muscle group, every scar that told a story of battle. She reveled in the texture of his skin, so different from hers, in the hardness of his physique, in the palpable strength that pulsed beneath her palms. It was like a physical acknowledgment, a warrior's appreciation both physical and mental.
Marco did not resist. A calm smile, an expression that reached his eyes and softened the hardness of his face, appeared on his lips. He wrapped his arms around the Sangheili's torso, and his large, calloused hands could barely encompass the curve of her waist. The size difference was evident, but not uncomfortable in the slightest; it was complementary.
—You seem to have a lot of built-up stress, Captain —he murmured, his voice a deep bass that vibrated in Aina's own chest and transmitted through their contact—. Has the load been heavy lately?
She lifted her head, her black eyes, deep as obsidian wells, gleaming with a mix of genuine exasperation and a desire as visceral as the hunger burning in a pauper's stomach.
—Heavy wouldn't be a good word, Marco —she replied, her voice a guttural hum, rough due to her species' nature but undeniably seductive in its cadence—. The patrol missions on the edge of space… the endless reports for the Council, the decisions that cost lives every sleep cycle. Being a warrior is simple. It's following orders, it's fighting, it's the bloody purity of a battlefield. Being a leader, or rather being a Captain, is a yoke more than anything else. —She paused, and her fingers dug a little deeper into Marco's back—. Sub-Commander Vos-Rel has the bridge right now, yes. But the final weight, the responsibility for every soul aboard this ship, is mine. Only mine. —Her gaze became more intense, hungrier—. But I don't want to talk about that now. Not right now.
Her hands, which had been exploring his back, began a bold descent. They brushed against the man's firm glutes, appreciating their consistency, and then slid shamelessly towards his groin. There, her expert touch found exactly what she was looking for, what her body already craved. Marco's penis, responding to the stimulus of her proximity and scent, was already semi-erect, a thick, hot promise against the fabric of his pants. Upon the direct contact of her fingers through the cloth, the member responded with a visible pulse, hardening and expanding to its full, formidable size.
It was, as Aina knew well from experience, a weapon of pleasure as imposing and effective that even among her own species, finding one like this would be difficult. A phallus of dark brown color, thick as a man's wrist, long and furrowed by prominent veins that pulsed strongly under the skin. For Sangheili women, of larger, denser build and with more intense physiological needs, finding a compatible human partner was a major challenge. He not only had to be an honorable warrior, an equal in spirit and capable of siring powerful offspring—a thought that always lurked in the back of her mind—but he also had to possess the physical "equipment" necessary to satisfy them on a deep, merely primal level. Marco was the embodiment of that almost mythical ideal.
Aina-Rel 'Mav toyed with him through the fabric, measuring his circumference with her fingers, caressing the skin that covered that stone-hard member beneath. A drop of clear fluid, a sample of her body's anticipation, beaded at the tip, dampening the fabric. She felt it, and a low growl, of pure, raw anticipation, emerged from deep in her throat, a sound that would not have been out of place in a forested environment, as it seemed like something only an animal would produce.
Finally, with a sudden decision that spoke of her leadership character, she separated from him. Her eyes held him for one more second, communicating a silent order, before she turned and walked with determination towards a more open space between two stacks of containers. The movement of her hips was hypnotic, powerful. Without a word, as if performing a ritual, she lay on her back on the cold metal floor. Then, with a deliberation that was both a challenge and an invitation, she spread her legs wide and audaciously.
The sight offered to Marco literally took his breath away, leaving him gaping for an instant. Between her purple thighs, thick and powerful as sculpted columns, was revealed a beautiful vagina. It was already moist, obviously prepared for penetration, the major lips, thick and of a deep jet black, separated slightly, gleaming under the amber light like a freshly polished jewel. It was a vision as primitive, as erotic, and as vulnerable as that of a great predator showing its belly in an act of supreme trust before the final act of the hunt. It was the initial surrender that precedes mutual conquest. Seeing it, Marco's penis grew even harder, almost painfully, pulsing with an animal urgency that coursed through his entire body.
Aina noticed the reaction instantly—the change in his breathing, the tension in his muscles—and a smile of sensual triumph appeared on her lips (in this case, what corresponded to them), causing her upper fangs to press gently against her lower lip.
Marco approached then, no longer as the disciplined soldier, but with the same attitude with which a lion throws itself upon a female: with absolute concentration and a bestial sexual hunger. The time without real intimacy—replaced by combat simulations and the cold routine of the ship—had fueled a fire within him that only she could extinguish. He knelt between her open legs, his shadow covering her. He positioned the tip of his penis, now freed from his pants, at her vaginal entrance. The pressure of the glans against her sensitive lips was like an electric shock for both. Marco, instead of penetrating her immediately, began to gently rub his glans up and down, caressing her already swollen clitoris with slow, deliberate movements.
Aina-Rel let out a sharp moan, followed by a guttural growl that echoed in the bay. Her hips rose instinctively, seeking more contact and more pressure.
—Marco! —she roared, her voice laden with a need bordering on desperation—. Enough games! Fuck me! I need that inside me, now! I feel like I'm going crazy!
But Marco didn't give in. The dominant smile he had sketched earlier took over his face completely. He was enjoying this small act of dominance, this pleasurable torture. He knew the power he held at that moment.
—No —he said, his voice calm but firm, immovable as the steel surrounding them—. Not so fast. Tell me, Captain. Ask me. Beg me for it.
The pride of Aina-Rel 'Mav, the same that had led her to command a warship, rebelled internally. Beg? It was an alien concept, almost offensive for a warrior of her lineage. But the burning need in her lower belly, the heat spreading through her entire body, was a force more powerful than any code of honor at that instant. Finally, after an internal struggle reflected in the clenching of her jaw, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the resistance had been replaced by raw, admitted lust.
—Alright… —she whispered, and then, more forcefully—: Please, Marco… I need your penis. Put it in me. I beg you!
—How? —Marco insisted, rubbing against her a little faster, making her moan with frustration and pleasure.
—Like a desperate whore! —she shouted, her hips moving uncontrollably, trying to impose her rhythm—. Please, I beg you! Destroy me! I can't take it anymore!
Marco's smile widened. It was the complete surrender he wanted. Not out of cruelty, but for the unique intimacy created by this mutual vulnerability. He grabbed her hips firmly, his fingers sinking into the firm flesh of her thighs, and in a powerful, precise, and determined movement, he thrust forward, burying his entire length inside her in one go, all the way to the hilt.
The cry that escaped Aina-Rel was not of pain, but of pure and absolute pleasure, a guttural, deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate the very metal walls of the bay. Her body arched violently, lifting her shoulders from the cold floor. Marco remained still for a moment, allowing them both to adapt to the sensation of fullness, feeling the powerful internal contractions of her around his member, rhythmic pulses that squeezed him with incredible force. It was a sensation so overwhelming he wouldn't dare compare it to human women; that would be stupid.
Then, he began to move. At first, they weren't fast or desperate movements, but long, deep, calculated thrusts, withdrawing his member almost completely before sinking it back in to the hilt. The wet, primitive sound of their bodies colliding mixed with the increasingly intense panting, moans, and growls of Aina. She responded instantly, moving her hips in unison with his, finding his rhythm. Her incredibly strong legs coiled around his waist, trapping him, pulling him closer still if possible, ensuring each thrust reached maximum depth. It was a wild, synchronized, sweaty dance, a union of two warriors from different worlds finding in the sexual act a release, a truth, and a connection that battle could never offer. Marco fucked with the focused strength of a genetically enhanced man hardened by combat; Aina received it all, absorbing every impact, asking for more, harder, faster, her growls being broken orders.
After a first intense round that left them both panting and covered in a thin layer of sweat, Marco slowly withdrew. His member exited her with a wet, obscene sound. Aina let out a whimper of protest, a guttural sound of frustration.
—What are you doing? —she asked, her voice hoarse from shouting—. Don't stop, you haven't come yet.
Marco didn't respond with words. Instead, he moved down her body, his hands caressing the sides of her thighs. He positioned himself between her legs, which still held the trembling aftermath of her orgasm. The sight of her sex, now swollen, glistening, and completely exposed to him, was intoxicating.
—Wait a moment, Captain —he said, his voice now soft but full of intention—. Now I want to taste you. I want to know every inch of you.
He leaned in, and before Aina could protest again, he ran the flat, warm tip of his tongue along the entire length of her vagina, from bottom to top, in a slow, deliberate movement. The moan that escaped Aina this time was different, deeper and more surprised. Marco dedicated himself to his task with the methodical concentration of a warrior studying new terrain. His tongue, skillful and strong, was not limited to simple movements. He licked and sucked her labia majora and minora, savoring her unique taste, salty and musky. Then he focused on her clitoris, now erect and throbbing. He didn't attack it directly, but circled it with his lips, sucking firmly, playing with the sensitive "button," alternating soft sucks with quick passes of his tongue.
Aina-Rel lost all control. Her growls turned into a continuous stream of moans and broken Sangheili words, her body writhing under the expert ministrations of his tongue. Marco, wanting to push her further, inserted two fingers inside her, finding her even hotter and wetter than before. He moved them in a "come here" motion, seeking and finding that rough spot on her front wall, while his tongue continued its tireless work on her clitoris.
The combination of stimuli was too much for Aina. Her body tensed like a bow, and a long, guttural, tearing scream escaped her throat as her body was shaken by a violent and cathartic orgasm. Her vaginal muscles clenched around Marco's fingers with a force that would have been painful for a normal man. Marco didn't stop immediately; he softened his movements, licking her gently, tenderly, as she came down from the ecstasy, her body convulsing with residual spasms.
—This is only the first round —he murmured, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he watched her catch her breath, an expression of deep satisfaction on his face.
—Get up —Marco ordered, his voice regaining that dominant, firm tone, though now tinged with palpable affection.
Aina, still panting and with weak legs, obeyed almost automatically, driven by the tone of his voice. She stood up, swaying slightly. Marco positioned himself directly behind her, his body pressing against her back. His hands traveled down the sides of her body until they rested on her hips.
—Bend over. Lean on that container —he instructed, pointing to a stack of metal boxes at waist height.
She bent at the waist, resting her hands and forearms on the cold surface of the container, offering herself to him from behind. Her arched back and powerful, raised buttocks were a sight that made Marco's blood boil again. He ran a hand over the perfect curve of her buttock, appreciating its firmness, before positioning the tip of his member, already erect and throbbing again, at her entrance.
—Ready for the second round, Captain? —he asked, with a hint of loving mockery.
—Don't make me beg again, Marco! —she exclaimed, looking at him over her shoulder, her eyes blazing with renewed fire—. Just give it to me now!
Marco needed no further invitation. With a growl of his own, he thrust, penetrating her deeply from behind in a single powerful stroke. Aina's cry was one of surprise and renewed pleasure, even more intense due to the new position allowing for deeper penetration. And then a fury of movements began.
Each thrust was a clash of hips that echoed in the bay like a heartbeat of war. Marco took her with an animal intensity, his hands gripping her hips firmly to set the pace. Aina, far from passive, pushed her hips back to meet each onslaught, growling with every impact. It was a competition, a struggle for power where both won. Marco leaned over her, wrapping an arm around her torso and massaging and pinching her heavy breasts with the other hand. The rhythm became frenetic, almost violent in its intensity. Aina no longer formed coherent words; she only emitted guttural sounds, gasps, and broken orders.
Marco, panting, sweat running down his torso, felt the familiar tension announcing his orgasm.
—I'm going to come! —he roared, his voice hoarse with effort.
—Inside! —Aina shouted without hesitating for an instant, turning her head as far as she could to look into his eyes—. Come inside me, Marco! I want to feel your hot semen inside me!
With one last powerful thrust that made the metal plates of the container creak under her hands, Marco exploded inside her, a hot, deep discharge that seemed to last an eternity. At the same time, Aina reached her own powerful climax, shuddering and contracting around him with a force that almost knocked him over, her screams muffled by the metallic echo of the bay.
They remained like that for a few minutes, panting, catching their breath, still connected. It was Aina who, recovering first, took the initiative. With a gentle but firm movement, she freed herself from him and pushed him back, towards some lower boxes that could serve as an improvised seat.
—My turn —she said, her voice regaining some of its natural authority, but with a spark of lustful amusement—. You've had your fun, Marco. Now it's my turn to ride.
Marco, surprised but pleased, let himself be guided. He sat on the edge of a box. Aina positioned herself in front of him, standing, looking down at him with a dominant smile. She took his member, which was already showing signs of recovery—a feat that always amazed her about his human stamina—and guided it to her entrance, still sensitive and filled with hot semen. Then, she began to descend slowly, savoring the sensation of being filled again, centimeter by centimeter.
Once she had it all inside, she stopped, adapting. Then, she began to move.
It was clearly not a simple up-and-down motion. It was the dance of an expert. She rode him, using her powerful thigh and hip muscles to create a circular, rotating rhythm that rubbed every internal wall of her vagina against the length of Marco's penis in an exquisitely torturous way. She controlled the depth, the speed, the angle, seeking and finding the spots that gave her the most pleasure and, by extension, him. Marco, entranced, took one of her dark, erect nipples into his mouth, sucking and licking while his hands gripped her buttocks, aiding the movement.
Aina closed her eyes, concentrating on the sensations. Her orgasm this time was not explosive and fast, but built like a slow, powerful, unstoppable wave that grew with each sway of her hips. When it finally arrived, it was with a long, trembling moan. She slammed down onto him forcefully, burying him to the hilt, and screamed his name as a series of spasms ran through her body. Marco, overstimulated and unable to resist, ejaculated inside her for the second time, his body shaken by the intense discharge, a wave of heat that seemed to fuse them into one.
Aina collapsed forward onto his chest, panting. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her. They remained like that, intertwined in the silence of the bay, as their accelerated hearts slowly returned to a normal rhythm. The air still hung heavy with their mingled scent.
Time flowed, measured only by the calm beat of their hearts and the constant hum of the ship, which was the background sound of their lives. The air, once thick with ozone, heat, and sex, slowly cooled, gradually carrying away the scent of sweaty skin and passion. Aina-Rel rested her head on Marco's pectoral, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing under her cheek. The peace she felt in those moments was a rare luxury, a treasure stolen from the eternal vigilance of deep space and the responsibilities of her rank.
It was she who, after a long silence, spoke. Her voice sounded hoarse from shouting, but was quickly regaining its officer's tone, though tinged with an intimacy that only he knew.
—The Council confirmed the assignment this morning, just before our… encounter —she said, tracing circles with a finger on Marco's chest—. The high-risk reconnaissance mission. Code name: 'Night Stalk'.
Marco didn't open his eyes, but his arm, resting on her bare back, tensed slightly. He knew what she was talking about. It was the project they had been receiving fragments of encrypted information about for months, the rumor circulating among senior officers. The mission that, by all accounts, would keep them separated from the rest of the fleet—and possibly from each other for long periods—for cycles of preparation and travel.
—Origin point confirmed? —he asked, his voice a low whisper, showing he was fully awake and alert.
—Yes. Confirmed and verified by three unmanned exploratory ships. A frontier world, beyond the Cygnus Loop. It's not charted in conventional archives, neither ours nor those we obtained from the Prophets back then. —She paused, choosing her words carefully—. High Command provisional designation: S-729. The human tactical analysts, with their peculiar sense of humor, have nicknamed it 'Veridia' in their internal reports, due to the predominant chlorophyll readings. —Aina sat up enough to look into his eyes, and her expression was serious, professional—. The energy readings are… anomalous, Marco. Highly anomalous. They fluctuate chaotically, in patterns that don't match any known technological profile: neither Covenant, nor human, nor established Forerunner, nor anything the Sangheili Empire has encountered in its oldest chronicles. —She lowered her voice a little more—. It's as if the planet itself were alive, breathing, and emitting a residual energy signature that our sensors cannot classify.
Marco frowned. "As if the planet itself were alive." The phrase resonated unsettlingly within him, evoking images of bioluminescent beasts and conscious ecosystems. He didn't like unknowns. In deep space, unknowns were usually paired with quick, silent death.
—Hypotheses? —he inquired, running a hand over Aina's purple thigh, a gesture as instinctive and reassuring as it was tactile, seeking to anchor himself in the known.
—Several, and all speculative —she replied, enjoying the contact but maintaining the thread of conversation—. The conservative faction of the Council believes it could be a dormant Forerunner installation, one of the really ancient ones, emitting low-frequency pulses like a heartbeat. The younger scientists, those studying theoretical exobiology, point to the possibility—remote, but possible—of a biological life form on a planetary scale, a unified ecosystem with its own consciousness, something that until now only existed in the boldest theories. —She paused longer, and her eyes darkened—. And then there's the hypothesis no one wants to vocalize, but everyone fears. That it could be something else. Something the Prophets deliberately hid during the war, erasing any mention from the records. Something they didn't want anyone, not even their highest hierarchs, to find.
—And they're sending us —Marco concluded, not as a question, but as a heavy statement—. On the Scarlet Flame. Your ship. Your best infiltration and risk assessment team.
—Our new best team —Aina corrected him with a slight but perceptible pride in her voice—. The fusion of our tactics, Sangheili and human, has produced results that have surprised the Council itself. We are a unique asset, Marco. A double-edged sword for missions where brute force isn't enough and subtlety, adaptability, and combined strength are key. —Her expression became even more serious—. The journey to the S-729 system will take approximately one standard Earth year. Most of the crew will be in extended cryosleep cycles. But you and I… will be on active watch rotation. We'll have plenty of time to perfect strategies, simulate landing scenarios, prepare for any eventuality.
Marco nodded slowly. One year. Twelve months of confinement in the sterile steel of the ship, interrupted only by brief periods of activity and, hopefully, by stolen moments like this. His mind, trained for immediate combat and tactical problem-solving, was already beginning to calculate variables: tactical equipment preparation, landing drills in unknown and potentially hostile atmospheres, first contact protocols—hostile or non-hostile—, analysis of possible biohazards.
—And the primary objective? Beyond 'observe and report'? —he asked, knowing from experience that there was always an unstated objective, an order between the lines that was the true reason for the mission.
Aina-Rel smiled, an expression that showed her long fangs and didn't quite reach her eyes. It was the smile of a hunter scenting interesting and potentially very dangerous prey.
—Assess the potential threat. If the energy readings represent usable technology, an energy source, or an artifact, the Council wants samples. At any cost that doesn't involve the total compromise of the ship. If it's a life form… they want exhaustive biological data, and if possible, safe and ethically obtainable specimens. —Her smile faded, replaced by absolute coldness—. And if our assessment determines that whatever is on S-729 represents an existential danger, a containment-level threat of the highest order… we have authorization to activate a top-level containment device.
Marco whistled softly, a human expression Aina had come to understand. A gamma-level device (the highest level) was no ordinary weapon. It wasn't a plasma cannon or a nuclear-tipped missile. It was an artifact of planetary devastation, a last resort designed to erase all life and all anomalies from the surface of a world, leaving it sterile. The mission was, without a doubt, much more serious and dangerous than he had imagined.
—So it won't be a picnic through the forests of 'Veridia' —he said, with a hint of dry irony masking deep concern.
—It never is, my dear warrior —Aina replied, drawing closer again and resting her forehead against his, a Sangheili gesture of intimacy and trust—. But it is our mission. Our duty. And we will do it. Together. —Her hand found his, interlacing their fingers, the human's strong and tanned with the Sangheili's long and purple—. We have a year of preparation that also means a year of waiting in the darkness. And then… a step into the mist of a world that doesn't know our rules, our wars, or our 'gods'.
Marco looked at her, seeing beyond the captain, beyond the lover. He saw his comrade-in-arms, the only person in the hostile immensity of the cosmos he trusted blindly to watch his back. Planet S-729, 'Veridia', was a gigantic unknown, a blank slate that could be filled with wonders or unimaginable horrors. But his alliance with Aina-Rel 'Mav, forged in the heat of battle and cemented in intimacy, was not.
—One year —he repeated, squeezing her hand firmly—. Then, we'll see what secrets that world hides. Together.
Silence filled the bay again, but now it was charged with a new kind of anticipation. Not the immediate urgency of physical desire, but the tense, electric calm that precedes the storm, the incursion into the unknown. As they dressed in the symbolic armor of their duty—Aina's officer's uniform, Marco's combat clothes—each knew that the bonds forged in the heat of passion and mutual respect would be their greatest strength in the cold, silent void that awaited them.
And somewhere, on a remote planet with violet skies, forests of metallic leaves, and beasts of black scales, a being with obsidian eyes and a mysterious collar continued his own harsh struggle for survival, completely unaware that the threads of destiny were weaving an inevitable convergence. The Scarlet Flame was heading towards him, and their meeting would mark a before and after in the history of both worlds.
The name surfaced from nothingness, like a bubble rising from the depths of a dark lake and bursting on the surface of my consciousness. Adonai. I stopped in the middle of the clearing, a piece of dried meat half-chewed in my hand. The sound, the word, resonated in my skull with a familiarity as abrupt as it was undeniable. It wasn't a complete memory, not an image of who gave it to me, but the warm feeling and absolute certainty that accompanied it: his mother. A woman with a blurry face and soft hands in a world of different light. I didn't know why that day, why that moment. Perhaps because my mind, increasingly acclimated to the strange peace of my new existence, was beginning to unearth the treasures and rubble of the life I had lost. Adonai. It was a good name. A name with weight. And now, finally, it was mine again.
The week following the reclaiming of my identity passed with a monotony that was, in itself, a luxury. I was no longer just a survivor; I was an inhabitant. A landowner on an alien world. My days had fallen into a productive and satisfying rhythm.
My small plantings were my greatest pride. A patch of land near the lake, carefully cleared and fertilized with the remains of my kills and ashes from the fire, now showed orderly rows of green shoots. The corn, with its first long, sturdy leaves, and the wheat, a soft layer of pale green swaying in the breeze. They weren't much, but they represented future, patience, an investment in a tomorrow that, for the first time, I felt I might live to see.
My meat larder was enviable. The high-tech refrigerator I had moved from the human base was a blessing. A block of metal and polymer humming softly in a corner of my cave, preserving cuts of crystal-crested deer, quarters of crimson lizards, and even some six-winged birds I had managed to hunt with an improvised sling. The touchscreen, now slightly scratched but still functional, showed a full battery icon and a legend reading "Estimated autonomy: 49.8 years." Nearly fifty years of constant cold. The figure was both encouraging and disconcerting. Would I live here that long? The idea no longer produced panic, but a kind of curiously serene resignation. My reptilian body seemed young, strong, resilient. Maybe yes. Maybe this was my home forever, and that refrigerator, a pillar of my personal civilization.
But one thing was meat, and quite another was water. The lake was there, always available, but carrying the heavy clay containers several times a day was becoming a tedious task that consumed time and energy. I needed a more permanent solution, something that brought water closer to me, not me to the water. A well was beyond my reach; I didn't have the knowledge or tools to dig deep enough. An aqueduct, a channel… that was the idea.
The nearest river snaked a few hundred meters from my cave, descending from the gray hills. The distance, easy to cover running, was an abyss for hydraulic engineering. My enhanced perception, that strange ability that allowed me to discern the properties of herbs and roots, proved useless with trees. I could feel the hardness of the wood, its flexibility when bending a branch, but I couldn't "know" which would be best for holding water durably, which would resist rot, which wouldn't crack under the constant sun.
It was a matter of trial and error. I selected a type of tree whose bark was particularly thick and fibrous, and whose wood, when cut, gave off a sweet resin aroma. With patience and the axe from the human loot, I felled several young trunks and laboriously hollowed them out, using my claws and a metal chisel I found. It wasn't perfect, but the result was some crude but functional channels. The project took me almost a month of intermittent work. I dug a shallow trench from the river, lined it with flat stones, and placed my hollowed logs, sealing the joints with a mixture of clay mud and crushed plant fibers. I camouflaged the path with branches and vines, hoping animals wouldn't find it and destroy it out of curiosity or to drink.
The day I opened a small diversion in the river's course and saw the murky but determined water flow through my rudimentary channel, slowly filling the large wooden containers I had carved—fifteen of them, each with a five-liter capacity—I felt a satisfaction rivaling that of any successful hunt. The sound of water constantly dripping into the barrels became the soundtrack of my refuge. I was well prepared in terms of water.
But food produced by me was still the weak point. I had protein in abundance, but the variety of my diet depended on what I could gather: the Angel, Butterfly Tongue, and Red Horn herbs, some starchy roots I had identified as safe, and the occasional fruit from some thorny bushes growing near the lake. My corn and wheat crops were a long-term thing, not sustenance (somewhat sad, for the moment). I needed to expand the garden, find more edible varieties, maybe even try to domesticate some of the lake worms, whose gelatinous and sweet flesh could be a source of fat and different nutrients.
It was during this period of relative calm, while my mind focused on these long-term projects, that I began to feel the gaze.
It wasn't hostile. It didn't have the predatory intensity of the three-eyed lizards or the cautious curiosity of the six-winged birds. It was… persistent. A feeling of being watched from the thicket of bushes or from the twilight between the trees at nightfall. My night vision swept the darkness, but captured nothing more than shadows moving with the wind. My sense of smell, however, began to register a new scent. It wasn't the musky smell of the wolf-bear, nor the metallic scent of the lizards. It was something more subtle, spicy, with a touch of wildflowers and damp earth. And sometimes, just sometimes, I perceived a warm, animal note that my residual human brain vaguely identified with… desire? But I dismissed the idea. It was probably the trail of some creature in heat, something irrelevant to me. (nope, it wasn't going to be)
My next big project was the cabin. The cave was a safe refuge, but cold and damp. I yearned for the feeling of a home, a space that was mine by construction, not occupation. With the tools from the trunks—saws, hammers, nails, even a small hand drill with seemingly infinite charge—I got to work. I chose a protected clearing, not far from the cave, with firm ground and a view of the lake. The trees I had felled for the channel now served as beams and planks. I was no carpenter, but the strength and precision of my body, combined with the high-tech tools, made up for my lack of skill. The structure that emerged was crude, square, with a slanted roof and a single window I covered with a transparent, resistant tarp from one of the medkits. The door was simply a heavy plank I could slide shut from inside. It wasn't a mansion, but it was my cabin. A dry space, lit by sunlight during the day and by a camping LED lamp at night.
The interior was almost empty. I had my trunks, the refrigerator, my water and clay containers, and a pile of skins I used as a bed. I needed furniture. And I knew where to find it.
The trip to the abandoned human base had become routine. It was my supply center. On this occasion, my target was the comforts: the foldable bed from one of the barracks, the chairs and metal table from the common room, I even managed to disassemble and drag a synthetic leather sofa which, though dusty, seemed intact. Each return trip was a slow caravan, hauling my treasures from a possibly dead civilization. The empty trunks I used to organize my tools and dried herbs. The lamps, now hanging from the cabin ceiling, transformed the space at night, casting warm shadows and pushing away the planet's absolute darkness.
I was almost finished. I only needed the high-tech tents. I wanted to use them as auxiliary storage or as temporary shelters if I needed to explore further. It was on the way back to the base, carrying only my axe and a satchel, that I finally saw her.
She emerged from among the reddish bushes with a fluidity that was almost a glide. She stopped about ten meters from me, and I froze. She was… reptiloid. Like me. But the similarities ended there.
She walked on all fours, although her structure suggested she could rear up if she wished. Her skin was covered in scales of a deep, dark purple, like the night just before dawn. Along her back, her sides, and the base of her tail, some slightly bulging veins or ridges of the same color glowed with a faint phosphorescence, as if containing latent energy. Her body was powerful, a mass of defined muscle beneath the scales. Her hips were wide, her waist surprisingly narrow, and her thighs, thick and full, spoke of a life of constant jumps, chases, and climbs. Her buttocks were large and well-formed, and her torso, though bestial, had an undeniable feminine curve, with medium-sized breasts, proportional to her build, that moved with her calm breathing. Her face was more elongated than mine, with a shorter, softer snout, and large, bright yellow eyes, like a feline's, observing me with serene intelligence. Her tail, longer than mine but less thick at the base, moved slowly from side to side, like that of a curious cat.
We stared at each other for what seemed an eternity. The world around us seemed to hold its breath.
—Hello —I finally said, my voice sounding rough and strange in the silence.— I won't hurt you.
She didn't respond. She showed no aggression, no fear. Only that intense, calm curiosity. Then, she moved.
She approached cautiously, sniffing the air. Her scent, that spicy, floral smell I had been perceiving, was now strong and distinctive. Then, she did something that took me completely by surprise. She came closer and, with a deliberate movement, tried to curl the tip of her long, flexible tail around the base of mine, which was thicker and more rigid. At the same time, she reared up on her hind legs, placing her front paws on my back, as if measuring me, testing my balance and solidity.
I went rigid. I didn't understand. (If I had been familiar with her species at that moment, I would have known it was a basic courtship ritual. The female was evaluating the size and strength of the potential male. Tail curling was an intimate greeting, a test of physical compatibility. Climbing onto the back was a way to gauge his mass and power.)
She seemed satisfied with whatever she found. She dropped back down to all fours and, before I could react, brought her snout to my groin, sniffing insistently, her cold nose brushing against sensitive skin through the lizard-skin loincloth.
It was as if a high-voltage cable had connected to my nervous system. A discharge of pure, raw desire, repressed for weeks, shot through my body. My penis, which had remained inactive and almost forgotten (aside from using it to urinate), responded with a violence that left me breathless, hardening and growing to its full size, pressing against the restrictive skin.
No! Not here. Not now. Not with a wild creature, no matter how beautiful and familiar she seemed. My human mind, my memories of a society with rules, rebelled against the bestial instinct roaring inside me. With a sharp movement, I took a step back, moving away from her contact.
—No —I said firmly, raising a hand in a stopping gesture.
She stopped, and for the first time, I saw a clear emotion in her yellow eyes: confusion. She tilted her head to one side, like a dog that doesn't understand a command. She emitted a soft hiss, not of threat, but of perplexity.
She advanced again, trying to repeat the gesture, sniffing towards my groin with persistence.
—I said no —I repeated, my voice tenser, moving another step away.
The confusion in her eyes mixed with frustration. She growled, a low sound in her throat. To her, my rejection made no sense. In her simple world, ruled by instinct, a healthy, receptive male would never refuse the advances of a willing female. It was a contradiction to the basic laws of nature. Was I sick? Was I weak? Her gaze seemed to search in me for an answer she couldn't find.
The struggle continued for several minutes. She insisted, approaching with determination, and I refused, retreating and using my body to block her. My own instincts fought within me. The physical desire was a storm, an searing heat in my veins, but the fear of the unknown, the residue of my humanity, was a stronger wall (for now).
Finally, after what seemed an eternity of this frustrating dance, she gave up. She let out a plaintive whimper, much higher pitched, and shot me a look that could have been disappointment or anger. Then, she turned on her paws and trotted away quickly, disappearing into the vegetation with a whisper of scales against leaves. Her tail, which had been moving with curiosity, now swished the air with irritation.
I was left alone, panting, my body still pulsing with unresolved excitement. The scent of wildflowers and damp earth slowly faded. A part of me, the reptilian and primal part, roared with frustration. The other part, the human one, sighed with relief. But in both, a certainty settled: it wouldn't be the last time I saw her.
With my spirits in turmoil, I continued my way to the human base. The process of dismantling the tents was mechanical. I pressed the "recollection" button on each and watched as the ultra-resistant fabric and metal poles folded and compressed into perfect brick-sized cubes. They were an engineering marvel. I stored them in my satchel and began the return to the cabin, my thoughts still dominated by the image of those confused yellow eyes.
When the clearing housing my cabin appeared among the trees, I stopped dead.
She was there.
Sitting on her haunches right in front of my door, as if waiting for me. And at her feet, on the dirt ground, lay the fresh carcass of a three-eyed crimson lizard. Its neck was broken from a clean bite, and its dark blood stained the earth. It was a gift. A hunting offering. The clearest, most universal courtship gesture in the animal kingdom. She, frustrated by my initial rejection, was trying another tactic. "I provide. I am a good hunter. I am valuable. Now, will you mate with me?"
I looked into her eyes. There was no longer confusion in them, only patient expectation and tenacious determination. I looked at the lizard, then at my own well-stocked larder in the cabin. I didn't need it. But rejecting the gift would have been a monumental insult, a definitive rejection she might not understand. And, to be honest, the storm of desire she had unleashed in me hours earlier had not subsided. It had only been contained. Seeing her there, proud with her trophy, waiting… that wall of resistance in my mind began to crack.
I sighed. It was inevitable. I couldn't fight my own biology, nor that of this world, forever.
—Okay —I murmured, more to myself than to her.
I walked slowly towards the door. She didn't move, but her tail stopped its movement and remained still, attentive. I passed by her side, pushed the heavy wooden door, and entered. Then, I turned and looked at her.
She understood the invitation. She rose, grabbed the dead lizard by the neck with her mouth, and with a graceful movement, entered my cabin. It was the first time another creature, besides me, had set foot in this space. She left the carcass in a corner, near the refrigerator, and then turned to me, her yellow eyes scrutinizing the room in the dim light of the LED lamp before settling back on me.
There were no more preliminaries. We didn't need them. The air in the cabin became charged with an electric tension and smelled intensely of her spicy scent and my own arousal. She approached, this time without haste, and again curled her tail with mine. This time, I didn't pull away. The contact felt strange to me, too intimate, a physical connection transcending language.
Then, she rubbed against my side, her scaly skin surprisingly smooth to the touch. A low purr, a deep vibration, emerged from her chest. It was a sound of pure contentment, of anticipation. I responded with an instinctive growl, my hands, with their claws, finding her wide hips, feeling the muscular power beneath the scales.
She guided the rest. She was an expert in this ancient dance. We mated on the wooden floor of the cabin, under the cold white light of the human lamp. It wasn't an act of love, nor of romantic passion. It was something much more primal and fundamental. It was nature claiming its rights, mere physical need finding its release, the loneliness of two creatures finding momentary comfort in each other's warmth. My humanity dissolved into the whirlwind of sensations, fully embracing the beast that inhabited this form. It was intense, energetic, and lasted for hours, stretching deep into the night and until the first filaments of violet light began to color the sky through the tarp window.
When it finally ended, exhaustion overcame me. I collapsed beside her, panting, my body covered in a layer of thick sweat and other fluids glistening in the faint dawn light. I wasn't just tired; I was… drained (literally). And, to my surprise, also deeply satisfied. A peace I hadn't felt in a long time spread through me. The repressed tension, the frustration, the carnal loneliness, had dissipated. She curled up beside me, her warm, powerful body pressed against mine, and a final, satisfied purr vibrated in her chest before sleep overtook us both.
I slept like a log. When I woke up, the sun was high and she was already awake. She had sat on the floor, licking her scales to clean them of the dry, crystallized liquid that covered them. She watched me with her calm eyes as I sat up, feeling every muscle sore but in a strangely good way.
Hunger roared in my stomach. I dragged myself to the refrigerator, took out a piece of already cooked venison from previous days —I had stewed it with Red Horn Herb and garlic powder— and put it to heat in a pan on my small camping stove. The aroma of spiced meat quickly filled the cabin.
She lifted her head immediately, her nostrils flaring. Her eyes fixed on the pan with absolute intensity. It was the first time she had smelled cooked food.
When the portion was hot, I sat on the floor and began to eat. It was delicious, comforting. Suddenly, a sharp squeak, almost like a bird's, but coming from her throat, made me look at her. She was sitting very upright, watching every bite I brought to my mouth, and then looking at me directly in the eyes. Her tail began to thump against the wooden floor with a quick, happy rhythm.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
It was such a clear plea, so childish and full of longing, that I couldn't help but smile. The arrogance of the huntress had disappeared, replaced by the pure curiosity of a hungry cub.
I cut a generous piece of the hot meat, blew on it to cool it a bit, and offered it to her.
She approached cautiously, sniffed the piece, and then, with a quick and delicate movement, took it from my hand. She chewed it once, twice… and then stopped. Her eyes opened wide, as if she had experienced a divine revelation. A new squeak, even sharper and full of ecstasy, burst from her. She swallowed the bite and lunged towards me, rubbing her head against my arm with a deafening purr, her tail hitting the floor like an ecstatic drum.
Her bright eyes fixed on me again, begging shamelessly.
"More!"
And I gave it to her. And then a little more. And watching her enjoy something I had created, a simple act of sharing cooked food, was… incredibly rewarding. It was a new bond, different from mating. It was the beginning of something. She sat beside me, eating from my hand, and for the first time since I arrived on this planet, I didn't feel alone. I had someone to share my hearth, my cabin, my world with. I didn't know her name, nor if we could ever speak, but at that moment, under the violet sunlight coming through the window, with the sound of her tail happily thumping the floor, it was more than enough. The future, suddenly, seemed a little less desolate.
The soft thumping of her tail against the wooden floor had become the heartbeat of my new world.
Tap, tap, tap.
A rhythmic, joyful sound, filling the cabin's silence in a way the refrigerator's hum or the fire's crackle never had. She was still sitting beside me, her warm body pressed against my side, her yellow eyes fixed on my hands every time I brought a bite to my mouth. It wasn't a look of greed or fear of missing her share, but of pure and absolute fascination. Cooked, seasoned food had been a revelation for her, a door to a sensory pleasure her purely instinctive existence was unaware of.
After we finished eating —she devoured three large pieces with an enthusiasm that made me feel like the best chef in the galaxy— she set about meticulously cleaning the scales on her snout and forelegs with her long, rough tongue. I watched, absorbed. Her movements were graceful, efficient. There was no wasted energy in her. Everything, from the way she licked herself to how she rested her body on the floor, spoke of a life of perfect adaptation to this environment.
—And you? —I murmured, my voice sounding strangely loud in the stillness—. Do you have a name?
She stopped licking and lifted her head, tilting it. Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were concentrating on the sound of my voice, not its meaning. She emitted a soft hiss, a sound that rose and fell in pitch. It wasn't a growl, nor a squeak. It was… a vocalization. Perhaps her version of a name, or simply a sound to respond.
I couldn't call her "she" forever. I needed an identifier, something that marked her individuality in my mind.
—Nala —I said, without really knowing why. The word simply surfaced, evoking a sense of both strength and softness—. I'll call you Nala. (I don't know why, but this name brought back memories of a lion)
I repeated the name, pointing at her with a finger. —Nala.
She blinked, then let out another hiss, this time shorter, and rubbed her head against my arm again. I didn't know if she understood the concept, but she seemed to accept the sound as some kind of attention signal.
The rest of the day we spent in a tranquil and somewhat serene proximity. It was evident neither of us really knew what to do next. The mating ritual was over. The food exchange too. What came now? Was this a temporary partnership or something more permanent?
I decided to continue with my routine, incorporating her as much as possible. I got up to wash the pan and dishes. She watched with intense curiosity as I headed to one of the large wooden barrels against the wall, where I stored water from the channel. I submerged the pan and began scrubbing it with a handful of abrasive fibers I had found. Nala approached, sniffed the water, then the pan, and then looked at me as if I were performing the strangest act in the world. To her, dirtying something and then meticulously cleaning it probably made no sense. One simply ate and moved on.
I let her sniff the clean pan. She touched it with the tip of her snout and backed away, snorting. She seemed puzzled.
—Clean —I said, although I knew the word meant nothing to her. But perhaps, over time, the sound would start to associate with the action.
I took her outside, to my small garden. The corn and wheat sprouts were still green and healthy. I crouched to pull out some weeds that had sprung up overnight. Nala stayed by my side, watching every movement. When I pulled a weed and tossed it onto a waste pile, she approached, sniffed it deeply, and then, to my surprise, grabbed it with her teeth and began to chew it.
—No! —I exclaimed, but it was too late. She chewed it a couple of times and then, with a grimace of evident disgust, spat it out. She coughed a little, shaking her head. It wasn't poisonous, but clearly not tasty.
I couldn't help but laugh. A hoarse, unpracticed laugh that sounded strange even to my own ears. Nala looked at me, her yellow eyes seemingly offended for a second, before the sound of my laughter seemed to intrigue her. She approached and sniffed my mouth, emitting a soft questioning growl.
—Don't eat that —I said, still smiling. I pointed at the weeds and then shook my head. Then I pointed at the corn sprouts and nodded. —This, yes. That, no.
She looked at the sprouts, then the weeds, and then back at me. I don't know how much she understood, but she grasped the difference. At least, I hope so.
The next part of my routine was checking the channel. I walked to the edge of the clearing, towards the camouflaged ditch that brought water from the river. Nala followed me, her paws making a soft sound on the earth. When we reached the point where the channel began, she stopped, sniffing the moisture-laden air. The sound of water flowing through the hollowed-out logs seemed to fascinate her. She approached cautiously and dipped a paw into the current, pulling it back instantly with a quick movement, as if contact with running water was a surprising novelty. Then, she tried again, this time leaving her paw in, feeling the cold current against her scales.
She watched how the water flowed towards the cabin, towards the barrels. She followed the path, sometimes stopping to sniff a joint sealed with mud, other times to watch how a fallen leaf was carried away by the current. She seemed to be processing the concept. She, who had probably drunk directly from puddles or the river all her life, was seeing water being domesticated for the first time. Brought to a specific place, stored. Her gaze, when she turned back to me, held a new spark, a glimmer of… respect? Wonder? It was hard to read, but it wasn't the simple, direct look from before.
Afternoon advanced and with it, hunger. This time, I didn't take food from the refrigerator. Instead, I picked up my improvised spear —a long, straight stick with a sharpened lizard bone tip tied with sinew—. It was time to hunt. And it was time to see if Nala and I could function as a team.
I looked at her and then pointed at the forest. I made the motion of throwing the spear. —Hunt.
She understood instantly. Her body tensed, her posture shifted from curious to alert. Her eyes scanned the forest with an intensity I didn't possess. She sniffed the air deeply, her nostrils flaring. Then, she looked at me and let out a low growl, a sound that was clearly an affirmation.
We left the clearing. I went ahead, spear in hand, my senses on alert. Nala moved beside me, sometimes a bit ahead, sometimes a bit behind, but always attentive. Her way of moving was a lesson in stealth. Her paws landed on the ground with absolute precision, avoiding every dry twig, every crunchy leaf. I, despite my best efforts, sounded like an elephant in comparison.
I let her take the lead. I trusted her superior instinct. She sniffed the air, heard sounds I couldn't perceive, and adjusted our direction with small movements of her head. Soon, she led me to an area of the forest where the vegetation was denser, with bushes of blue berries that I knew attracted small herbivores.
We crouched behind a thick fallen log. Nala remained motionless, almost melting into the shadows. Her breathing was so slow it was barely perceptible. I tried to imitate her, holding my own breath.
We didn't have to wait long. A group of creatures the size of rabbits, with gray skin and long, pointed ears, appeared among the bushes, nibbling the berries carelessly. They were fast and elusive.
I looked at Nala. She already had her eyes fixed on one of them, the largest. Her muscles were tense as springs. She glanced at me briefly, as if waiting for a signal. I nodded.
What happened next was a flash of coordinated and lethal movement. Nala didn't run directly at them. She slid to the side, using cover to approach stealthily, cutting off their escape route into the thicket. Her movement was so fast and silent that the creatures didn't notice until it was too late.
One of them, the one Nala had marked, sensed the danger and leaped backward, right towards the more open area where I was. It was as if she had calculated its trajectory. I adjusted my stance, took a deep breath, and threw my spear. It wasn't a perfect shot, but it was good enough. The bone tip lodged in the animal's side, and it fell to the ground squealing.
Nala was on it in an instant, finishing the job with a quick, clean bite to the neck. Silence returned to the forest, broken only by the prey's final spasms.
I approached. Nala moved away from the body, looking at me. There was no possessiveness in her gaze, only expectation. She seemed to understand we were a team and that the prey belonged to both of us.
I crouched and picked up the animal. It was small, but it was fresh meat. I ran my hand along Nala's back, in a gesture of thanks. —Good job.
She rubbed her head against my hand, purring. The sound was deep, vibrant, and I felt a wave of… camaraderie? It was a strange and new feeling.
On the way back to the cabin, the atmosphere was different. We were no longer two strangers coexisting. We had hunted together. We had trusted each other. She had used her stealth and instinct, I my tool and my aim. You could say it was a partnership.
That night, as I roasted the small piece over the fire —Nala watching the process with an interest bordering on religious—, I felt a threshold had been crossed. I was no longer alone. I had someone who shared this space, this effort to survive. Someone who was learning from me, just as I was learning from her.
After eating, we sat on the floor, near the open door, watching as the moons (two pale disks, one greenish and the other blue) began to rise in the dark violet sky. Nala lay down beside me, her head resting on my thigh. Her body was relaxed, her breathing slow. I gently stroked the scales on her back, feeling the unique texture under my fingers.
We didn't speak. There was no need (it's not like we could have a conversation). The sound of the wind in the trees, the crackle of the fire, and the soft purr emanating from her chest were the only language we needed at that moment. She was here. I was here. And for the first time since I remembered my name, since I became Adonai, the future didn't look like a solitary and desolate line, but like a path that, perhaps, I wouldn't have to walk alone. The learning had only just begun, but the first and most important step —the connection— was already taken.