Dusan
The hold of the Requiem was Dusan’s sanctuary of order and decay. Here, the chaos of the biomass was harnessed, the jagged shards of corrupted Spectrocite humming with a malevolent, contained energy. He stood before a large, unstable-looking crystal cluster mounted on a brass console, its dark heart pulsing with a sickly purple light. It was the ship’s dark heart, its power source, and his burden.
The scrape of bare feet on metal grated on his nerves. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“I told you to remain in your quarters, witch,” Dusan growled, his voice a low rumble of machinery and displeasure.
Izel stopped a few feet behind him. She was a wraith of a girl, all sharp angles and pale skin swathed in her patchwork fur cloak. But her presence filled the cold chamber, carrying the scent of musk, old magic, and something else… something acrid and deeply organic.
“Your quarters are boring, Captain,” she said, her voice a sibilant whisper. “And this… this is interesting.” She gestured with a thin hand to the pulsating Spectrocite. “It’s hungry, you know. It’s eating your ship. Eating you, from the inside out.”
Dusan turned, his metal arm whirring softly. His one good eye narrowed. “I control it. I contain it. You would do well to remember that.”
Izel laughed, a dry, rustling sound. She let her cloak fall open, revealing her gaunt, naked form beneath. Her skin was like pale parchment, stretched tight over her ribs. Her pubic hair was a meticulously groomed dark triangle, a stark, deliberate point of focus in the dim light. She was a study in contrasts—malnourished yet potent, vulnerable yet terrifyingly confident.
“You don’t control it,” she purred, taking a step closer. “You merely lease its power. You’re a warden, not a master.” She stopped beside the console, her green eyes fixed on the crystal. “It needs to be fed. Properly.”
With a fluid, practiced motion, she squatted beside the console, her knees parted. She held Dusan’s gaze as she did it, a challenge and an invitation in her eyes. He was a creature of dominance, of pain and control. This open display of raw, biological function was a language he didn’t speak, and it unnerved him.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice tight.
“Feeding the children,” she whispered, a faint, cruel smile playing on her lips.
A soft hiss filled the air. A stream of hot, golden liquid arced from between her legs, splashing directly onto the base of the Spectrocite cluster. The effect was instantaneous. The purple light of the crystal flared violently, the hum in the room escalating to a deafening shriek. The air grew thick, crackling with a new, more potent energy. The scent of ozone intensified, mingling with the sharp, ammoniac smell of her urine.
Dusan stumbled back a step, his human hand instinctively going to his weaponized arm. The sheer, unapologetic carnality of the act, the way she wielded her own waste as a tool of power, was a violation of his sterile, violent world. He could break bones, he could inflict pain, but this… this was a corruption of a different order. It was primal and feminine and utterly beyond his control.
“Stop it,” he snarled, but his voice lacked its usual authority.
Izel only smiled, her stream never wavering. She watched the crystal drink, watched its light brighten to a feverish, angry violet. “It likes me,” she said, her voice dripping with a dark ecstasy. “It knows where the real power comes from. Not from your cold iron, but from life. From warmth. From… release.”
She finished, shaking the last drops from her skin and rising slowly, leaving a glistening, steaming patch on the console. She didn’t bother to cover herself. She took a step toward the frozen captain, the air around her thrumming with the amplified energy she had just unleashed.
“You see?” she murmured, stopping just before him. She was so close he could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She reached out, her thin fingers tracing the cold, hard line of his jaw. “It’s stronger now. More alive. And all because of me.”
Her touch was electric. He felt a jolt—not from the crystal, but from her. It was a surge of unwanted, erotic energy. His body, a ruin of pain and metal, responded with a treacherous twitch of interest. He was the Nightmare Captain, a weapon of the Verdant Order. He was not supposed to feel… this.
“Don’t touch me,” he gritted out, his voice a strained whisper.
“Why not?” she breathed, her other hand coming up to rest on the center of his chest, right over his heart. “Are you afraid of a little warmth, Captain? Afraid of a little life?” She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “Your ship runs on poison. I can teach it to run on something else. On me.”
He could smell her now—the scent of her skin, her hair, and the lingering, earthy musk of her act. It was intoxicating and infuriating. His mind screamed at him to push her away, to strike her down, but his body was frozen, trapped between revulsion and a horrifying, primal desire. She was the Amber Alchemist, and she was turning his own iron will to lead.
With a soft, knowing chuckle, Izel pulled back. She looked down at the console, at the evidence of her power. She dipped her fingers into the warm, golden puddle and then brought them to her own lips, her eyes locked on his the entire time. She tasted herself, a slow, deliberate act of possession.
“Anytime you want more power, Captain,” she said, her voice a silken promise. “You know where to find me.”
She turned and walked away, her cloak swirling around her, leaving him standing alone in the humming, vibrating chamber. Dusan remained frozen, his body a battlefield of conflicting impulses. The crystal pulsed behind him, stronger than ever, a testament to her dominion. He was the master of the Requiem, but in the hold of his own ship, the Nightmare Captain felt utterly, terrifyingly, powerless.