The words tasted like grit, manufactured pleasantries Kai usually spat out with disdain. But for *her* type, this calculated softness was the key. He needed this Aelarian, if only for the cycle. The sentiment felt alien, weak. Yet, it wasn't a bad deal for her. Her wounds bled through tattered garments, exhaustion etched into the delicate lines of her face, her ethereal beauty a dangerous beacon in this dark sector. Her desperation was palpable. His own fear was a cold, constant companion, but hers was closer to the surface, raw. Her desperate gambit earlier, the feigned attack – a calculated risk born of pure survival instinct. He respected the tenacity. Her fierce grip on life, even now, surprised him. A trait he understood all too well. "As I said, treat yourself first. We can talk later." "But—" "I'll take the watch. Your turn is to heal." He turned his back dismissively, a practiced movement. He heard the soft tearing sound of synth-gauze, the faint chemical tang of antiseptic salve as she applied it over her wounds. The sound was meticulous, precise. "It's... all done." Already? Efficient. A useful trait. He pivoted. A crude but effective bio-weave patch now covered the worst lacerations, peeking from her torn environmental suit. The sharp edge of her fear hadn't vanished, but it had dulled, replaced by a wary curiosity. Time to bridge the gap. Standard protocol: identity, then intent. "I am Kai." "Lyra." "Whatever apprehension you harbor," he stated, keeping his tone flat, "it is misplaced. You have my word." "Yes? Ah, yes…" Her expression was a fragile facade, fear still flickering in her deep-set eyes. The barrier remained. This calculated move wasn't working. He cut to the core, his voice a low growl. "Why do you fear me?" "Scourge-kin and Aelarians are enemies, aren't they?" "Enemies?" "Sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that. I don't want to fight you." The raw apology was unnecessary. His confusion was genuine. The archival data – the simulated world he'd studied – never showed outright enmity between Scourge-kin and Aelarians. Not like this. His gaze, unblinking, was enough. Her words tumbled out, forced by the silence. "Th-the Xeno-Wars? Ten cycles past? I, I personally don't have any lingering hatred! I really don't." The Xeno-Wars. He hadn't accounted for that. History, in this reality, diverged sharply from his projected data. Not outright hostility, perhaps, but a deep-seated antagonism. A childhood steeped in propaganda, then. Of course she would see him as a threat, a monster from old tales. A complication. An unwanted variable. The synth-salve, the bio-weave — not cheap. To abandon her now meant a waste of resources. He decided to press on. A calculated risk. "The past holds no sway over my present intent either." "That's right!" "Then, Lyra," he continued, softening his voice just enough to be plausible. "Will you accept a temporary alliance for this cycle?" "Temporary alliance?" "We are both depleted. Survival demands cooperation, and shared history need not dictate immediate action. We cooperate for this cycle, since there are no lingering feelings between us." "Ummm…" A flicker of understanding, or perhaps desperation, sparked in her eyes. He maintained his neutral mask, but a small part of him wondered if her agreement was genuine. She didn't rush. Her brow furrowed in thought, then she offered her terms. "Scourge-kin uphold the warrior's code, they say. Can you swear on it? That you will not initiate harm?" "I swear." "Then I, Lyra of the Tersian Enclave, pledge by the honor of my lineage. I will not initiate harm against you." An 'Oath-sign,' in the parlance of the Hegemony. A meaningless gesture for many, but binding for some. He could maintain this charade. One detail remained. "There is one issue that needs to be addressed first. I am Kai. Not 'elder'." He was twenty cycles old. The bargain was struck. A fragile truce in the desolate expanse of the under-level. Lyra Fornacci di Tersia. Twenty cycles, just like him. He filed the information away. A fleeting thought: *Good thing I'm merely occupying this vessel. The original 'Bjorn' might have had... sentimental complications.* He suppressed it. "How do we divide the watch?" "I'll take the first sleep rotation. It should alleviate your apprehension." "It's not that I mistrust you, but if you insist..." "Agreed?" "Yes." A small, cynical relief. No pointless rituals of chance this time. His body, pushed to its limit, craved oblivion. The fight to stay conscious was losing. "But... how will I know when to wake you?" Rookies. Always another variable. He unclasped his wrist-chronometer, the display glowing faintly, and offered it to Lyra. "It's Hegemony tech. Don't damage it." "Yes." She took it with the reverence of one handling an ancient artifact, her fingers tracing the intricate circuitry. "I will guard it. Rest now." He settled onto his survival pack, pulling the thermal wrap around him, mirroring Zenith's practiced movements. And then, a conscious release into artificial slumber. *Hoooaargh!* "Kai. Wake up. Your watch is ended." He forced his eyes open, the internal timer within his biometrics already confirming her words. Two full cycles of rest already? "Hand over the chronometer." The luminous digits confirmed: two hours precisely. He'd even managed a conscious mimicry of deep sleep, ten minutes of engineered stillness, just in case. The combined effect of the survival pack and the thermal wrap was disorienting. A comfort he hadn't known since... before. It was almost dangerous. Had Zenith offered such luxuries earlier, he might have forgotten everything else. He'd almost surrendered entirely, a deep, mind-numbing oblivion he couldn't afford. Karma. A useless concept. But the tactical advantage of a rested ally outweighed the inconvenience. He would extend the same courtesy. "Use these. The thermal wrap, the pack for your head." "Yes? But—" She hesitated, a faint blush on her high cheekbones, but a subtle curve played at her lips. He ignored it. Sentiment was a weakness. "I will. Thank you." Without further prompting, Lyra burrowed into the thermal wrap, curling into a tight ball like a frightened prey animal. Moments later, the steady rhythm of deep sleep filled the confined space. She trusted him enough to sleep. Or perhaps, she was simply too exhausted to care. He understood that exhaustion, the kind that frayed the edges of even the most hardened mind. He leaned back against the rough rock face, the cool dampness a stark contrast to the lingering warmth from the thermal wrap. His chronometer glowed in the darkness. [22:50 Hegemony Standard]. It felt like cycles had passed, not just two hours. Still another hour, at least, before dawn broke on this level of the Crucible. His mind drifted. To the Nexus, to the sterile medical bays where deep-sleep restoratives were administered. He could lose himself for days there, in the quiet dark. This vessel, for all its current misery, was proving resilient. *Worth the cost, perhaps.* He closed the chronometer, its soft light extinguished. Peace. A rare, unsettling commodity. His thoughts, unbidden, spiraled back to his own reality. The one before this one. Had they even noticed his absence? The corporation, his life support system – they wouldn't miss a single cog in the machine for days, maybe weeks. *Kkh.* The recurring thought. Each time, it gnawed a little deeper, eroding the carefully constructed walls around his mind. To dwell on a past that might not exist, or a future that offered only despair, was to invite mental collapse. He couldn't afford that luxury. Self-deception, he found, was a potent weapon. He ruthlessly re-routed his internal processing. Focus. The past two days. Post-initiation, the Gauntlet's maw, the Skitter-creatures, Zenith. A grim tally. He had survived. He should acknowledge that. No one else would. He stifled the fleeting urge for self-congratulation. That could wait for the relative safety of the Nexus. He flicked open the chronometer. The time had elapsed. "Lyra. Wake." "Five more minutes." Five minutes. A meaningless span in the face of death. He extended a hand, firm. "Ugh." Lyra rubbed sleep from her eyes, pushing his hand away with a reflex of revulsion as she rose. The deep-seated fear was back, sharp and visceral. This was the true enemy, perhaps. Not the Xeno-Wars, but primal, ingrained hatred. "Do not mistake current calm for lasting safety." "Yes." He returned to his makeshift bed, a faint prickle of unease. He was pushing her, yes. But survival demanded vigilance. The thermal wrap, the survival pack – they retained a residual warmth from her body. An anomaly. A lingering ghost of shared proximity. Ironic. The touch of another's warmth, even indirect. It felt alien, more foreign than the grotesque horrors of the Crucible. It was a sensation he had long discarded, along with the softer edges of his own humanity. More so than any laceration, any near-death experience, any strategic calculation of the past two days. *Hoooaargh!* He consciously activated his snore cycle, a deep, resonant rumble. His bio-rhythms were still boosted from the earlier rest, allowing him to feign a deeper sleep. A deterrent. A constant, low-level irritation to ensure she remained awake, alert. Sleep was a luxury he couldn't fully indulge. Not yet. He allowed his eyelids to droop, a quick, almost imperceptible scan of Lyra's alert form, then settled into a state of heightened awareness, pretending slumber. He drifted, not sleeping, but observing, processing. Then, a faint sound. A subtle shift in the air, a whisper of disturbed rock dust. *Creak.* He was instantly alert, a surge of adrenaline sharpening his senses, forcing him upright. "Hey!" His hand, without conscious command, had clamped around Lyra's delicate wrist, white against his grimy skin. She had been reaching for him. "What are you doing?" "You were caught in a thrash-dream. You were sweating." In her other hand, a crumpled piece of synth-fabric. A handkerchief. It wasn't a feint. Not a weapon. A weapon, he might have broken her arm. Or worse. His reaction was pure reflex. Unwanted, uncalculated, dangerous.

A Cold Bargain