The medbay was silent except for the faint hiss of air circulation and the quiet beeping of monitors too outdated to catch what truly mattered.
Niri wasn't human.
Not by anything Lu'Ka's scanners understood.
The ship's nanites had taken hold — but they weren't fixing her.
They were assisting something already working at a level beyond anything engineered.
Her body was repairing itself.
Faster than baseline humanoids. Faster than anything cataloged.
Internal scans showed bone knitting microfractures. Muscle fiber rethreading itself without stimulation. Blood filtering toxins without assistance.
Her metabolism had shifted three times since the last full diagnostic — and still climbing.
Anomaly wasn't a strong enough word.
Lu'Ka stood beside her medical bed, arms crossed tight, eyes locked on the latest scan hovering over the portable console.
Her breathing was shallow but steady.
Skin still marked by deep bruises, shallow lacerations, and blistered burns. But nothing infected. Nothing collapsing.
Alive when by all rights she should have been dead three times over.
He glanced toward the isolated AI panel on the wall.
> "Projection?" he asked.
The AI responded in a clipped tone:
> "Biological restoration rate: 8.7 times humanoid median. Unassisted. Nanite operation 34% efficiency due to unknown tissue compatibility. No rejection detected."
Lu'Ka narrowed his eyes.
"No rejection?"
> "Correct. Host biological signature adapting nanite architecture at low energy cost. Partial assimilation achieved."
He felt a cold knot tighten under his ribs.
Partial assimilation?
Her body wasn't fighting the machines.
It was integrating them — rewriting them to fit itself. Subtly. Efficiently.
He turned back to her.
Niri shifted under the sheet — small, pained motion. A grimace tightened her bruised face.
She was waking again.
Her injuries were still brutal. Broken ribs. A torn thigh muscle. Bruising along the spine. Deep internal scarring from trauma compression.
But if the AI's projections were even close to correct, she'd be walking in two days.
Unassisted.
The kind of recovery military medbays spent trillions trying to mimic.
Lu'Ka exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.
No species in the Reach carried genes like this.
No hybrid he knew survived pure unmodified exposure to the sands of Dakun without losing organs.
Yet here she was.
Not a scavenger.
Not a soldier.
Not a construct.
Something else.
Something forgotten.
Or something never registered at all.
He stepped closer to the bed, careful not to make sudden noise.
She stirred again, lashes flickering weakly against flushed skin.
The orb—her strange artifact—floated softly on the containment cradle nearby, pulsing in faint rhythm with her heartbeat.
Another unanswered question.
Another anomaly he couldn't file away.
Lu'Ka knelt carefully at the bedside.
Close enough to reach her if she fell.
Far enough she could still choose.
Niri's eyes snapped open.
Dark. Sharp. Alive.
Panic flashed across her features first — the old instinct of someone who had never woken anywhere safe.
Her body twitched — but pain locked her down before she could bolt.
A strangled gasp tore from her throat.
Lu'Ka lifted both hands — slow, open.
"No threat," he said softly.
Of course, she didn't understand.
But the tone mattered.
The space mattered.
Niri blinked rapidly, breathing fast, skin glistening with cold sweat.
He gestured carefully toward her side — then mimed pressure against his own ribs, exaggerating the motion.
Pain.
She grimaced but nodded faintly.
He moved next — tapping his datapad.
Bringing up a 3D scan.
Her.
The injuries. The fractures.
The slow, inching recovery.
He showed her the highlighted fractures in glowing yellow.
Then tapped the timeline — showing how much had already healed.
Niri stared at the projection — suspicion flickering first.
Then confusion.
Then calculation.
He pointed to her chest — her heart — then made a slow spiraling motion outward.
Your body.
You are fixing yourself.
Niri narrowed her eyes, struggling to prop herself up on one elbow. Her face twisted in pain, but her stubbornness was sharper.
Lu'Ka made no move to stop her.
She needed to understand.
Needed to own it.
She glanced around the room — scanning exits, searching corners for threats even now.
Her survival instincts were too deep to switch off.
When her gaze finally settled back on him, it was tight, wary.
He mimed small steps with his fingers on the edge of the bed, then gestured to himself.
Offering.
Not commanding.
Move when ready.
If ready.
She hesitated — body trembling from exertion already — then nodded once.
Good.
Small victories mattered.
---
He moved to the med-station and pulled a slim injection pen from the tray — a regenerative booster programmed to complement the nanite flow.
The AI buzzed a faint warning in his earpiece.
> "Unknown interaction risk: 38%."
He ignored it.
They couldn't do nothing.
And she had already survived far worse.
Lu'Ka approached slowly, showing the pen first — open hand, slow motion.
Her eyes locked onto it.
She knew what injections were. Probably hated them.
But after a long moment of tension, she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Permission.
Trust scraped raw — but still offered.
He pressed the injector against her exposed shoulder — a soft hiss — and stepped back immediately.
Niri flinched but didn't lash out.
Her breathing slowed a little after a few seconds, the worst edge of her agony blunted.
She slumped back against the pillows, panting.
Her body shook — not from pain now, but exhaustion riding close behind adrenaline.
Lu'Ka stayed near, crouched but nonthreatening.
Waiting.
Watching.
She dragged a hand up, clutching weakly at the blanket over her lap.
As if trying to armor herself again.
But her body betrayed her — shivering too much to hold the front she wanted.
He glanced at the scan again — internal hemorrhaging minimal now, fractures stabilizing faster under regenerative assist.
Still critical.
Still fragile.
But no longer dying.
---
Minutes passed.
Measured by the soft beep of monitors and the slow rise and fall of her chest.
Finally, Niri turned her head slightly.
Looked at him.
Really looked.
Not scanning.
Not flinching.
Just seeing.
Her mouth opened.
A rasp escaped — broken, dry, almost voiceless.
He caught two syllables in it — mangled, cracked.
> "Niri."
Claiming her name again.
Planting her flag.
Survivor.
Lu'Ka nodded once, tapping his own chest.
"Lu'Ka."
She stared at him a second longer — then closed her eyes and let her head rest back against the bed.
Trust?
Not yet.
Acceptance?
Maybe.
---
He checked the systems one last time before stepping back.
The medbay lights dimmed further — soothing, not dark.
The orb floating near her pulsed slightly brighter, as if sensing her consciousness.
He watched her settle.
Not relaxed. Not truly.
But no longer burning all her energy to escape.
He keyed the medbay security locks manually — no AI triggers, no external feeds — and sat down heavily against the wall.
Just outside her reach.
But not leaving.
He would stay.
Until she was ready to wake fully.
Until she could fight or choose or question him properly.
For now—
She slept.
And for the first time since Dakun tore itself open around her —
She wasn't sleeping alone..