Chapter 4 Side Effects May Include #2
“Even if it costs you...” I gesture vaguely at the space between us, at the bond that’s currently making my medical equipment think we need romantic mood lighting.
“Especially then,” he says firmly. “Your autonomy is worth more than my comfort. Or my life, for that matter. Among my people, forcing a bond is...” He struggles for words. “It’s considered one of the worst violations possible. The fact that it was accidental doesn’t change what happened to you.”
For a long moment, I just look at him. This alien male who accidentally bonded me during a crisis, who’s now offering to tear apart his own biology to give me back my choice.
Who spent forty-seven minutes watching me recover, exhausting himself with protective vigilance, and is now kneeling beside me looking like he’d rather face Thek-Ka again than see me trapped by something he caused.
“Ask me again,” I say quietly, “when I’m not foggy from biochemical shock and we’re not being hunted by a gladiator. When I can actually think clearly about what I want.”
Relief floods his expression, followed immediately by more guilt. “Of course. Whenever you’re ready. And until then, I’ll—”
“Until then,” I interrupt, “you’ll help me understand what this bond actually means. All the facts. No romanticizing, no downplaying the difficulties. I need complete data before I can make an informed decision about whether to keep it or break it.”
He nods, and I can see gratitude mixing with residual shame in his expression. “I can do that. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“Good.” I take a breath, trying to center myself.
“Because right now I’m processing the fact that my career is destroyed, I’m biochemically bonded to someone I barely know, and apparently my medical scanner thinks we should be having celebratory sex.
I need structure. Data. Something I can analyze. ”
“You want to treat this like a safety assessment,” he says, and there’s something like understanding in his voice.
The words unlock something I’ve been holding back since I woke up.
“You warned me, didn’t you?” I look at Crash, seeing him clearly for the first time since waking. “You tried to tell me to leave. Multiple times.”
“I did not imagine this would happen,” he says quietly. “But yes. I warned you that being near me was dangerous.”
“Safety inspectors don’t walk away from dangerous situations just because they’re uncomfortable.” I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “We assess them, document them, create protocols so other people know how to stay safe.”
“And now you are the dangerous situation,” he finishes.
“Now I’m the dangerous situation,” I agree.
Jitters makes a distressed sound from his puddle on the deck, his orange glow shifting toward worried purple. He extends a pseudopod to pat my ankle with anxious gentleness, clearly sensing my emotional distress through whatever senses he possess.
“I had a life plan,” I say, and I can hear my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it level.
“Fifteen more years of inspections. Build up enough pension to retire early. Maybe find a quiet station somewhere and consult on safety protocols. Die old and boring with a perfect professional record.”
“That sounds... very safe,” Crash says carefully.
“It was supposed to be safe,” I snap, then immediately feel guilty because none of this is his fault either.
“I didn’t want adventure or romance or biochemical bonds with alien couriers.
I wanted predictability. I wanted control.
I wanted to know that following the rules would keep me safe, because following the rules is the only thing that makes sense when the universe is chaos and people die for no reason except someone decided safety margins were negotiable. ”
The words pour out before I can stop them, years of carefully controlled grief and rage finally finding an outlet.
“My squad died because someone decided the shielding specifications were ‘good enough.’ Six people who trusted me to keep them safe, gone in the space of seconds because I believed in following orders and respecting command decisions instead of insisting on proper safety protocols.”
Crash is very still, watching me with those golden eyes that see too much.
“I joined OOPS as a safety inspector so I could be the one who doesn’t accept ‘good enough,’” I continue.
“The one who makes sure every protocol is followed, every specification is met, every margin is maintained. Because if I can’t prevent people from dying through proper safety measures, then what’s the point of surviving when they didn’t? ”
“You carry significant guilt,” he says quietly.
“I carry appropriate professional responsibility.”
“No,” he corrects gently. “You carry guilt that does not belong to you. Your commanding officer made the decision. You followed orders. The deaths were not your failure.”
“I should have refused the orders. I should have insisted on better shielding. I should have—”
“You should have been allowed to trust that your commanders would not send you into situations with insufficient safety measures,” he interrupts. “The failure was not yours.”
The words hit something deep in my chest, some place I’ve carefully walled off for three years.
“It doesn’t matter whose failure it was,” I say. “They’re still dead. And now my career protecting other people from similar failures is over.”
Crash leans forward, his elbows on his knees, close enough that the bond hums with contentment despite my emotional turmoil.
“I understand what it feels like to lose your identity,” he says quietly. “To have the life you planned torn away by circumstances beyond your control. To wake up one day and realize you are no longer the person you worked so hard to become.”
I look at him, seeing the understanding in his expression.
“The Golden Viper,” I say.
“The Golden Viper was a champion. Feared and respected and very, very certain of his purpose.” His voice carries old pain.
“Then the match was interrupted, the title was revoked, and suddenly he was just Crash Maxone, mediocre courier with a death-warrior hunting him and no purpose beyond survival.”
“Is that why you take the dangerous runs?”
“I take the dangerous runs because they are the only thing that makes me feel like I am still contributing something of value. That I am not just hiding and waiting to die.” He pauses. “And because if I am going to die anyway, I might as well die doing something useful.”
Jitters makes a distressed sound at that, turning agitated orange and patting both our ankles with urgent gentleness. Apparently blob creatures don’t appreciate talk of death.
“I don’t want to lose my purpose,” I admit quietly. “I don’t want to be just... bonded alien’s partner. No offense.”
“None taken,” he says. “I would not want to be ‘bonded safety inspector’s accessory’ either.”
Despite everything, I laugh. It comes out shaky but genuine.
“We’re quite a pair,” I say. “The disgraced gladiator and the compromised inspector.”
“The Golden Viper was never disgraced,” he corrects with surprising intensity. “He walked away from false honor and corrupt systems that valued spectacle over genuine combat. There is no shame in that.”
“And the inspector?”
“The inspector is not compromised,” he says firmly. “She is adapting to unexpected circumstances while maintaining her core values. There is no shame in that either.”
The words settle into my chest like balm on a wound I didn’t know was still bleeding.
“We need to figure out the parameters,” I say, because focusing on the technical aspects is the only way to avoid dissolving completely. “The bond. How it works, what the limitations are, what we can expect.”
Something in his expression shifts, becomes more hopeful. “You wish to... study it?”
“I’m a safety inspector, Crash. When I encounter something dangerous, I document its properties so people know how to handle it safely.” I gesture at the chaos of readings surrounding us. “Right now, we’re the safety hazard.”
He nods, understanding immediately. “What do you need to know?”
“Start with the basics.” I pull Jitters back onto my lap because his warm, purring presence is oddly grounding. “Range limitations, duration, side effects. And don’t sugarcoat it. I want worst-case scenarios and best-case scenarios. Full risk assessment.”
“The bond creates a connection between our biochemistries,” he begins, settling back slightly as he shifts into explanation mode.
“Physical separation beyond approximately ten feet causes severe discomfort. Prolonged separation can lead to fever, nausea, disorientation, and potentially...” He pauses.
“Potentially fatal complications if maintained for extended periods.”
I make a note, keeping my voice clinical. “Define severe discomfort.”
“Like being slowly poisoned while someone drives heated spikes through your major organs.”
“And the shared sensations?”
His skin flushes darker. “Enhanced awareness of each other’s physical and emotional states. Heightened sensitivity to touch, scent, temperature changes. Some... some bleed-through of sensory experiences.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if you touch something, I will feel an echo of the sensation. If you experience pleasure or pain, I will be... aware of it.”
The implications of that hit me like a freight hauler. “So if I’m injured, you’ll feel it?”
“To some degree, yes. And if you experience... other sensations...” He trails off, the golden flush spreading across his skin like liquid embarrassment.
“Other sensations like what?”
“Like... like anything that might cause elevated heart rate, increased blood flow, heightened nerve sensitivity...”
I stare at him as the full scope of what he’s describing sinks in. “Are you telling me this bond includes shared arousal responses?”
“Among other things,” he admits, and his voice comes out strangled. “I am very sorry. This was not... I would never have chosen to impose such intimate awareness on you.”