The air in the command center of the Xeca always smells of ozone and light citrus.
I believe...
It's the cleaning fluid used by drones, or... perhaps it's just the aroma of high-grade military anguish.
I was seated at the navigation console, my fingers moving over the haptic feedback interface as I calculated a course adjustment to avoid a particularly dense asteroid field near the Kuiper. Belt.
But...
Let's be truthful with each other, you and I. I wasn't actually studying star maps. My focus was locked on the center of the room.
"Please explain this to me again, Ragia," Vice said. "Because my brain refuses to process this level of incompetence. "
Her voice was ice-cold, the kind that could freeze nitrogen. She stood with her arms folded, her red uniform clinging to her body in a way that made me want to abandon my post and simply look.
Capt was slumped in the captain's chair, spinning back and forth like a bored youngster. "Iya, relax. You are going to wrinkle yourself. "
"And wrinkles are simply plot holes in the narrative of your face."
"That doesn't make sense!" Vice snapped, slamming her hand down on the armrest of his chair. "Check the diagnostics! Private's Melios production has decreased to fourteen percent. Fourteen! If a Krall patrol ambushed us right now, her Mech Titan would be as useful as a tin can in front of a supernova!"
I bit my lip as I watched them.
Their tension was greater than the hull armor, but it wasn't just rage. It was never with them. It was that strange, hot tension that occurs when two people desperately want to tear each other's clothes off but are too stubborn to admit it.
Whoops...!
I nearly forgot to tell you something crucial. Before we proceed any further, allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Butterscotch... Tonix Butterscotch.
Xeca's navigator. You may call me... Navi. I'll tell you what occurred in this chapter.
This story... ah, never mind. Let's return to the story.
She's Arala, and we nicknamed her Private. She was seated on the ground, clutching her knees. Her large eyes were wide, switching between Ragia and Vice.
She muttered, "It's not my fault," burying her face in her knees. My gusi-gusi feels gangga. It requires the wuz-wuz."
I had to stifle a snicker. Only Private could transform a biological need into a kid's rhyme. But I knew what she meant.
We all did, didn't we?
"See?" Vice gestured forcefully towards Private. "She is biologically weakened, Ragia. She requires a Felt right now!"
Ragia stopped spinning.
He glanced at Private, then back at Vice, his demeanor changed from jovial to uneasy. "Yes, we discussed this. She is, you know, my sister. She is Quarso. The DNA test returned positive. It feels... wrong."
"Oh, weep me a river," Vice remarked. "We're stranded in a metal cylinder in the middle of nowhere, fighting monsters that want to eat our brains and use our sperm as energy drinks, and you're concerned about social standards from the twenty-first century? We are saving human civilization, Ragia! Incest is a statistic, not a sin, in today's society!"
"But... she's my little sister, Iya!" Ragia protested, although I could see his resolve diminishing.
I could see how his gaze lingered on Private's legs, which were exposed by her tiny skirt. He wanted it. He has always desired it.
That... was the curse and blessing of being an Inquor.
"I tried with Xecta," Private said, mentioning Shorty's name. She chimed up and looked at me. I promptly glanced away, pretending to check the gasoline mixture. "We did the wuza-wuza together. It was... gigugira. I mean, I purupin a few times, but it wasn't the same. It does not fill the hama-hama."
"Exactly!" Vice said as he approached Ragia. She was invading his personal space now, with her hips at eye level. "Fingering Shorty, or playing with toys, does not replenish Melios or Ragia. You know it. It must be you. It has to be Felt."
"Can't we just... wait, Iya? Perhaps her levels will rise if she consumes more protein?" Ragia groaned as Vice rubbed his croch.
Vice sighed heavily in frustration.
It sounded like a woman who had reached the end of her patience. Without losing eye contact with him, she reached underneath her skirt. I watched, captivated, as she swayed her hips. A second later, she taking off her red lace panties.
My breathing stopped. It was a raw, crazy moment.
Vice grabbed the lace, twisted it into a fist, and flung it right into Capt's face.
It hit him softly. He blinked and grabbed the material before it fell to the ground. He kept it there for a brief moment, perplexed, before instinct took over. He smelled it.
Deeply...
I shifted uneasily in my seat. I couldn't resist. Watching him do that... seeing his eyes roll back slightly as the scent of her pheromones reached his brain... it did something to me.
She leaned down and whispered something in his ear. I didn't hear exactly what she said, but I noticed Capt. 's eyes widened. He looked like a monster had just been allowed to hunt.
"Vice..." Ragia said, his voice an octave lower. He lowered the panties, a crooked, hungry smile spreading across his face. "You finally made it. After a year of pleading. You really gave it to me."
"Shut up!" Vice''s cheeks flushed a dark crimson.
"Alright!" Capt stands up. The reluctance had gone. Replaced by that raw, animalistic vitality that made every woman on the ship weak at the knees. "You win, Vice. For the good of the mission."
He walked over to where Private was sitting. Ragia stroked Private's hair, wearing a wolfish grin as if he was about to prey on a lamb isolated from its mother.
"Ranyan? Are we going to clak-clak?" She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling.
"Yeah, Arala." His voice was husky. "We are going to clak-clak."
And...
The show is about to begin. Please fasten your seatbelts.