Jinyue found the bathroom entirely by accident. One wrong tap on the wall panel and the sleek metal slid open to reveal a compact room filled with steam and suspiciously glowing tiles.
For a moment, he simply stared at it. Then at himself. Then back at it again.
A bathroom was universal enough, right? Sink, shower, toilet—basic hygiene architecture. But this thing looked like a cross between a cryo-chamber and a car wash for aliens.
When the shower activated, he yelped. Not in fear—well, maybe a little—but because the water came from everywhere. Jets hissed from the ceiling, floor, walls, and one particularly traitorous nozzle near the base that sprayed directly upward with far too much enthusiasm.
He froze as the water hit his lower back—no, not his lower back. His tail.
The tail twitched, coiled, then shuddered.
Jinyue bit back a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a strangled curse.
Sensitive… just what I needed, he thought through clenched teeth, trying to keep it still. It was like having a second limb that refused to behave—an overexcited cat's tail attached to his body, flailing at the indignity of being wet.
Every time he reached back to clean it, it jerked away like it had its own opinions.
"Hold still, you damned… appendage!" he hissed, slipping slightly on the wet tiles. He tried to balance, but the tail flicked again, sending droplets everywhere like a deranged mop.
The shower ended abruptly when he accidentally slapped the control panel. Steam drifted lazily through the air. He stood there, panting, dripping, dignity in ruins.
Well, that went beautifully.
He found a towel, thin, silver fabric that absorbed water instantly. When he started drying his tail, though, he nearly threw it across the room. The sensation was too much. Every brush of cloth sent tingling sensations shooting up his spine until his ears and face burned red.
"Fantastic," he grumbled, glaring at his reflection in the fogged glass. Alien biology comes with alien nerves, who knew.
Then the mirror cleared.
He blinked.
The face staring back wasn't entirely foreign. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, a delicate jaw. The lips were red enough to look painted, the kind of shade that used to cost a small fortune in his old world. His hair—long, silver-touched black—hung damp over his shoulders, curling faintly at the ends. And those eyes—storm-grey, calm and strange—were not his old ones, but the bone structure, the subtle arrogance of the mouth… they were close.
Too close.
...Huh.
He tilted his head. The stranger in the mirror did the same. A prettier version of himself. Softer, perhaps. Alien, yes—but him nonetheless.
Guess the universe does have a sense of humour, he thought, running a hand through his wet hair.
He found a heat vent that doubled as a dryer and stood in front of it, hair fluttering dramatically like some lost space idol. His tail dried last—he eyed it suspiciously the whole time, as though daring it to twitch again.
When he finally stepped out, the air in the hall felt colder. Waiting neatly folded on a chair were clothes—clean, if a little musty. Pale fabric, simple design. The robot's doing, no doubt.
He touched the fabric, thoughtful.
The idea of leaving crossed his mind. He could—technically—walk out, find an exit, and see what the wasteland held. Maybe food, shelter, and civilisation. Maybe death.
He looked toward the corridor where the robot had gone, recalling its polite voice and unblinking eyes.
Stay with the creepy robot and maybe repair some crazy technology and ship or wander into a radioactive trash-raining desert, he considered it seriously.
Tough choice.
He pulled on the clothes, wrinkling his nose at the faint scent of storage. The sleeves were a bit long, but they fit well enough.
"Fine," he decided at last. "I'll stay. For now."
He paused, glancing back toward the silent hallways of the ship.
"Besides," he added internally, "the toaster probably makes better company than sand."
And with that, he stepped forward, the faint swish of his tail following behind like an unwanted reminder that life, somehow, had gotten far too strange to ever be normal again.
******
Jinyue wandered through the ship like a child let loose in a museum designed by gods and engineers with no restraint.
Every hallway gleamed with that subtle, seamless precision of a civilisation that no longer needed screws or seams or logic. The walls breathed faintly with hidden energy. Doors opened soundlessly at his approach, recognising him—or at least the body he now occupied.
It was mesmerising.
He touched everything. Buttons that weren't buttons. Screens that pulsed when his fingers neared them. Vents that exhaled a whisper of sterilised air.
In his past life, he'd built things that changed the world—or so the investors said. Military drones, home AIs, phones that listened better than friends. He'd been a man of function and efficiency. But this… this was art disguised as machinery.
It made something flutter in his chest, small and traitorous.
Excitement.
He caught himself smiling—an unfamiliar, crooked thing that almost felt foreign on his new face. "So the galaxy did move on without me," he murmured.
He couldn't help it. Despite the lingering ache in his chest, a small, giddy spark of curiosity started fluttering in his ribs.
"I could retire here," he murmured, running a hand along the wall. "No shareholders. No board meetings. Just mild existential despair."
He almost laughed at his own joke—and promptly almost died walking into the robot.
His tail puffed out like an offended cat's. He hissed before he could stop himself—actually hissed—and then stared at the sound that had just left his mouth, horrified.
The robot froze too, its head tilting in mechanical confusion.
He blinked then scoffed.
Did I just hiss?
The robot tilted its head, tone perfectly bland. "Hostile reaction detected. Should I activate defense protocol?"
"No!" Jinyue answered curtly, though he was now drowning in embarrassment. "That was a reflex. Don't you dare."
His pulse was racing, his tail wouldn't stop twitching, and he could feel his ears burning. He exhaled sharply through his nose. There went his cool cold exterior down the drain. He felt cheated.
"Unbelievable. I'm turning into an animal."
"Correction," the robot answered helpfully. "You produced a defensive vocalisation typical of juvenile feliform Zerg subspecies."
"Fantastic," Jinyue thought flatly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I've turned into a house pet."
The robot, either ignoring or incapable of humour, continued in its serene monotone: "Healing pod reports ninety per cent completion. Most symptoms should have faded."
"Most?" Jinyue repeated monotonously. "I still feel feverish, dizzy, and ready to faint."
The robot paused for a beat that somehow managed to sound judgmental.
"That would be malnutrition and psychological stress. Indicators suggest long-term deprivation during youth. Scanning is recommended."
He narrowed his eyes. "I said I'm fine."
"Noted. Initiating scan."
"What? no—!"
A blue flash swept down from head to toe, humming faintly like a cold wave of air. His hair lifted with static, his tail twitching in outrage.
When it faded, the robot emitted a cheerful tone. "Congratulations. You have successfully transitioned through your susceptible period and are now classified as a juvenile male Zerg."
Jinyue stared. "Male?"
"Yes, were you unaware? Though you are indeed taller than the average male zerg, you are certainly not female. Your features are an undeniable indicator"
He almost laughed. The relief that had coursed through him felt so wonderful. He couldn't even be mad about it.
"Let's say I was operating under… flexible assumptions." Relief unfurled low in his stomach, an irrational, undignified sort of gratitude. Then muttered silently to himself, "So no eggs. No... whatever unspeakable biological rituals your species does."
Of course, the robot seemed not to get the hint and shut up and let him process it alone and continued to yap, supplying more shocking and headache-inducing information.
"Affirmative. Males do not lay eggs," the robot said solemnly, then suddenly twitched. "However—HOWEVER—statistical survival rate without a companion or partner during susceptibility is 0.02%! This is catastrophic! How did you survive!?"
It leaned forward, mechanical hand mangling together in something disturbingly close to panic. "Your mental strength must have plummeted! Reduced neural resilience—severe psychological instability—no stabilising pheromonal field—your brain should be liquefied! Did you experience hallucinations? Cognitive fragmentation? Spiritual implosion?!"
Jinyue took a few careful steps back. "…I'm starting to think maybe you're the one fragmenting with those lose screws of yours."
He shouldn't have gone near the robot in the first place, now look…it would probably crash and self-destruct.
The robot, what was it even called, did it even have a name, ignored him, muttering in a rising pitch. "Decreased mental strength… memory loss… no partner presence detected… catastrophic isolation!" Its body parts clanked together dramatically. "Oh no. Oh no. Oh no."
Jinyue just stared dully.
Of all the things to process—the alien biology, the cat reactions, the robot's sudden nervous breakdown—what stuck with him most was that one word.
Male.
He wasn't an imposter stealing someone's life. The body had died in pain during that so-called susceptible period, and he'd simply… taken the vacancy. He hadn't overwritten a person—he'd replaced a corpse. That counted as something, didn't it?
And this "mental strength"? He frowned. The term sounded metaphysical, but the robot treated it like a quantifiable resource. Was it psychic energy? Neurological stability? Emotional resilience?
He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing.
Meanwhile, the robot was still muttering—something about "pheromonal deficits" and "unregistered partners."
Jinyue sighed and rubbed his temples. "You're a walking heart attack."
The robot froze mid-fidget. "Correction: I lack a heart."
"Yeah," he muttered, "that tracks."
Despite himself, he found a spec of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. For the first time since waking up in this body, he felt something other than dread and pain—a faint, absurd curiosity.
Whatever this new life was, it was chaotic. Alien. Irritating. And… strangely alive. Beside him, the robot continued to panic and mutter on his behalf; it was as if it were the male zerg, not himself. Funny how the roles seemed to be reversed, considering his cold gaze and amusement dancing in his eyes.
Jinyue dragged a hand through his still-damp hair, shaking off the last lingering swirl of alien thoughts. Male. Mental strength. Susceptible period. Whatever this world's biology textbook looked like, he wasn't ready to read it.
The robot was still pacing, muttering diagnostic fragments like an anxious nurse. Jinyue sighed, stepped forward, and tapped its metal arm. "Hey. Robot."
The robot froze mid-motion. "Unit designation is CADR-1914," it corrected automatically.
"...Yeah, that's hideous," Jinyue said. "You're Cody now."
"Cody." The robot repeated the word, as if testing a strange new subroutine. "Designation accepted?"
He nodded once. "And I'm Jinyue. Probably." His voice was quiet. "It'll do."
Cody hummed approvingly. "Acknowledged. Greetings, Jinyue."
"Better."
He took a breath, grounding himself. The last few hours had been a fever dream of claws, tails, and existential dread, but now something practical was finally asserting itself—his old instincts as a planner, a man who'd once built systems from chaos, hopes and dreams.
Alright, he thought, bringing his hands together.
Survival mode. I don't know how long this ship's supplies will last, and I'm not planning to find out the hard way. So, first: food and water. Assuming I even need water.
He paused and glanced blankly at the robot…no Cody. "Do Zergs drink water?"
Cody blinked—well, the equivalent of blinking, which was a quick flicker of its ocular lights. "Yes. Hydration is required. However, metabolic efficiency varies between castes. You may require less than a standard humanoid, but none can survive indefinitely without liquid intake."
He nodded as his head hung low, deep in thought.
One less evolutionary nightmare to deal with.
He began pacing absentmindedly, scanning the ship's smooth corridors.
If I'm going to last here, I'll need to understand this planet. Trash world, right? I should have been more observant.
"What's the atmosphere like? Toxic? Radioactive? Sentient garbage?"
Cody followed dutifully. "Classified as a Type-7 refuse planet. Atmospheric density is high but breathable for your biology. Precipitation cycle consists of industrial debris and metallic particulates that occur once or twice a week. The phenomenon you refer to as 'rain' ceased recently."
Jinyue perked up. "So it has stopped?"
"Yes. Typically, one planetary day between cycles. It stopped approximately five hours ago."
He nodded slowly. Perfect. He needed to explore; who knows, he might even find some treasure.
"I'm going outside."
Cody's head twitched. "That is inadvisable. The surface is unstable and may contain unprocessed waste materials."
Jinyue's lips barely curved as he looked out the window, the endless grey expanse of the trash planet stretching beneath them. "Unprocessed waste materials mean salvageable tech. Salvageable tech means tools, power, maybe food and supplies."
His voice was flat, almost emotionless. He didn't finish the thought out loud—you see a death trap; I see a hardware store—but it echoed quietly in his mind.
He wasn't sure what to make of this body or its instincts yet, but something deep inside was adapting fast. The same survival logic that had kept him alive outside for—what? Ten years, according to the robot?—was reawakening. He couldn't remember the details, but the original owner must have found food, water, something to keep going. A decade alone in a wasteland didn't happen by luck.
He couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for the boy, an orphan left to rot on some forgotten wasteland, sixteen, maybe eighteen at most if his frail body was any indication. Dead far too young, still barely more than a child. Jinyue exhaled softly, a strange heaviness tightening his chest. He'd live well, he decided. He'd survive longer… if not for himself, then for the boy whose body he now wore.
He turned to Cody, the newly christened CADR-1914, his tone mild but eyes sharp. "The trash rain. Has it stopped?"
"It ceased approximately five hours ago," Cody replied.
"Good. Then we start soon."
His thoughts were already running ahead—calculating how long the ship's supplies and power might last, what resources could be salvaged outside, what kind of atmosphere he'd be dealing with. He didn't know what Zerg physiology required, if they even needed water, but that was a question for later. Survival was a matter of information, and he intended to gather it all.
Whatever this new world demanded of him, he would adapt. He always had.