The world snapped back with a wet, tearing sound.

  Something sharp cut through the cocoon above him. The membrane split open, and a rush of thick

  liquid poured out, spilling Bash onto the floor. He hit hard, the impact jolting through his chest,

  knocking what little air he had from his lungs. He rolled onto his side, coughing, spitting, blinking

  through the slime that clung to his face.

  Each breath was agony and wonder all at once, real air, cold and heavy, flooding into his chest. It tasted

  metallic, mixed with a strange chemical sweetness that burned his throat.

  He pressed his palms to the floor, trying to steady himself. The surface was smooth stone, faintly warm,

  etched with channels that glowed in soft orange patterns like veins under skin. The warmth pulsed,

  steady and slow, as though the entire room was breathing.

  He wiped his eyes with trembling hands. The fluid smeared across his skin in streaks that shimmered

  faintly green under the dim light. When he finally blinked enough to focus, his breath caught.

  His hands weren’t human.

  The fingers were longer, the nails darker, and the skin… it was green, so dark it was almost black, but

  when the light shifted, a deep forest sheen rippled across it. The color moved with him, faintly

  iridescent. The veins beneath the surface glowed faint gold for an instant, fading as he flexed his hands.

  “What…” His voice rasped out dry and foreign, more vibration than tone. “What happened to me?”

  He looked down. His legs were stretched, unfamiliar in shape and proportion, the muscles defined yet

  alien. The floor beneath him was patterned with faint spiral etchings that funneled toward a shallow

  drain. The air smelled faintly of oil and dust and something organic, something alive.

  He followed the shape of his arms upward, half afraid of what he’d find, half needing to know.

  That was when he saw them.

  Boots.

  A pair of them, only a foot away. Massive things, hand-stitched from dark leather that gleamed with oil

  and wear. The soles were layered and uneven, molded to the ground with years of use. The smell of

  treated hide mixed with the metallic tang of the air. They looked like they’d been made to last

  generations.

  Bash’s gaze climbed upward. The boots connected to thick legs wrapped in the same dark, supple

  leather. The stitching was tight, hand-done, the seams lined with faint thread that caught the light like

  copper. Every fold spoke of care and skill, work done not by machine but by a craftsman who

  understood survival through precision.

  He kept looking. Near the waist, a hand rested casually against a broad belt. The fingers were

  enormous, each as thick as one of Bash’s wrists, the skin a muted brown with a faint metallic undertone

  that caught the glow from the floor. The nails were dull but worn, like stone smoothed by years of

  labor. In that hand was a blade, long, curved, and impossibly sharp. The craftsmanship was so perfect it

  made Bash’s chest ache. Grandpa Masaharu’s swords had never looked that pure, that alive. The steel

  almost seemed to hum with restrained energy.

  Before he could process the thought, the hand shifted.

  Bash’s eyes shot upward.

  The figure standing over him wasn’t human.

  It was an alien.

  Brown-skinned, tall enough that Bash had to crane his neck to see its face. The light cast deep shadows

  across its features, eyes faintly glowing amber, ridged jawline, skin patterned with thin streaks of

  bronze that ran from its temples down to its neck. Its breathing was slow, deliberate, steady. Unlike the

  armored invaders he’d seen, this one wore only the leather clothing of a laborer, an apron at the waist,

  loops of metal tools at its belt.

  The blade glinted as the creature tilted its head.

  Bash’s instincts screamed danger. His pulse spiked. He scrambled backward, slipping on the slick floor,

  leaving streaks of green fluid behind him. “No, no, stay away!”

  The alien spoke, a string of guttural syllables, harsh and deep. It wasn’t shouting, but the tone carried

  authority, something commanding.

  Bash froze, heart hammering. “I don’t understand you!”

  The alien said something else, the sound rolling like gravel, followed by a short, clipped bark that

  might have been an order.

  He didn’t care. He crawled backward faster. His shoulder collided with something solid and slick. He

  turned, and his stomach dropped.

  Rows of vessels.

  The room was full of them. Dozens, maybe hundreds, stretching in a gentle arc along the walls. Each

  was translucent, filled with the same orange-red fluid he’d just been inside. Shapes floated within,

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  some curled, some still, some twitching faintly like creatures trapped in dreams. Every few seconds, the

  floor channels pulsed brighter, sending a surge of light through the glass that illuminated the whole

  chamber in a slow, rhythmic heartbeat.

  He realized he was in some form of hatchery.

  The Spartor barked another phrase, louder. The sheer volume made him flinch.

  “Stay back!” Bash shouted, voice cracking.

  The creature took one step forward.

  That was enough. Bash turned and ran, or tried to. His legs didn’t feel right yet, too heavy, too long.

  His feet slipped in the residue, sending him sprawling. He slammed into another vessel, his elbow

  striking hard enough to send ripples through the liquid.

  The alien moved fast, shockingly fast for its size. It lunged, hand outstretched, shouting something

  sharp.

  Bash’s mind filled in the blanks: it was coming to kill him.

  He scrambled away, sliding between two pods, knocking into the base of a third. The impact made the

  glass hum, a low vibration that filled the air.

  The Spartor swore, he didn’t need a translation to recognize frustration, and came after him again,

  dodging between the vessels with practiced ease.

  “Leave me alone!” Bash yelled, grabbing the nearest object he could reach: a length of disconnected

  tubing. He swung it wildly, smacking it against the alien’s arm. It bounced harmlessly, splattering more

  liquid across the floor.

  The Spartor snapped something in a harsh tone and reached for him again.

  Bash twisted, ducked, shoved himself backward. His palm hit the warm surface of another pod; he

  pushed off, leaving streaks of fluid on the membrane. Inside, a shadow moved. Something alive.

  The Spartor froze, eyes darting to the pod. It said something fast, nervous, and closed the distance in

  two strides.

  Bash saw only the knife in its other hand and panicked. He lashed out with a kick, catching its leg. The

  creature grunted, lost balance for half a second, then grabbed his arm. The grip was iron.

  “Let go!” he screamed, yanking uselessly.

  The alien barked another word. The translation in his head came a second later, distorted and

  incomplete:

  Stop… breaking… pods.

  Bash blinked through tears of fear and confusion. “What?”

  The Spartor repeated the phrase, louder, the translation sharpening slightly. “Stop, break, pod, stop!”

  He couldn’t tell if it was a command or a plea.

  The alien’s face twisted, not in rage but desperation. It was looking past him at the nearest pod, where

  the liquid still trembled from impact. Its free hand moved in small, calming gestures, palm out, fingers

  spread.

  “Stop!” it barked again.

  But Bash only saw the knife, the size, the alien shape closing over him.

  He pulled, twisted, kicked, but it was like struggling against a machine. The creature easily restrained

  him, voice rising as it shouted over his panic.

  He caught flashes of meaning through the scattered translation fragments still trickling from S-C:

  New… born? Reborn? Mind… memory…?

  Bash had no idea what any of it meant.

  “I don’t know what you want!” he cried. “Please, just let me go!”

  The Spartor answered with a string of sounds, the tone pleading now. It pointed to him, then to its own

  head, then to the rows of glowing pods.

  He didn’t understand.

  He shoved back one last time, adrenaline drowning reason, and broke free for an instant. He slipped

  again, his heel sliding out from under him. The Spartor lunged, instinct, not violence, and caught him

  around the waist before he hit another vessel.

  They went down together, crashing into the wet floor. The noise echoed like thunder.

  For a heartbeat, Bash lay there, gasping. The alien shifted its weight, pressing him down with one hand

  while the other braced against the ground. The blade was gone, lost somewhere in the chaos.

  The creature’s breathing was heavy, ragged. It said something softly, the tone almost gentle.

  “Calm… calm, new one…”

  The words came through the translator in S-C’s faint mechanical whisper, but Bash could hear the truth

  in the original sound. It wasn’t angry. It was trying to calm him.

  His chest heaved. The alien’s hand was still pressed against his shoulder, firm but not cruel. Its eyes,

  amber, faintly glowing, studied him closely, searching for understanding.

  Bash swallowed hard. He didn’t move. Neither did the alien. Around them, the hatchery hummed

  quietly, the living pods pulsing with that same slow rhythm, each beat glowing through the room like

  the breath of a giant heart.

  For the first time since waking, no one spoke.