Orion took a shaky breath, Jaxon's face vivid in his mind, his final moments replaying in brutal detail. Each recollection fed the anger simmering within him, igniting a fury that pulsed through Orion's veins like a raging inferno.
A heavy silence fell over the room. Elara and Ren exchanged a glance, each understanding that this was no empty threat. Ren opened her mouth as if to speak, to offer comfort or caution, but something in Orion's expression stopped her. His rage radiated outwards, an oppressive weight that settled over everyone in the room.
Orion's thoughts churned, trying to reconcile the fragments of information swirling in his mind. The Hive's attack seemed like a diversion, a smokescreen to conceal their true objective elsewhere.
"We're blind here," Orion muttered to himself, his frustration apparent. "We need intel, and we need it fast. "
"Orion," Elara said quietly, pulling him back to the present. "we'll make sure they answer for what they've done, but we need to be smart about it."
Orion nodded, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He couldn't share what he had seen—at least, not yet. Not until he understood more. He needed answers first.
A soft, urgent voice cut through his thoughts. "Orion, you're pushing yourself too hard." The medic, a wiry woman with grim eyes and hands stained from countless battle wounds, knelt beside him, immediately checking the bruises around his ribs. Her frown deepened as she examined him. "You've got fractured ribs. Normally they take four to six weeks to heal—longer if you don't take care of yourself."
Orion's breaths were shallow and uneven. It took him a moment to realize he hadn't actually felt the worst of the injuries until she'd pointed them out. He could deal with the pain, but he couldn't ignore a body that had already been pushed past its breaking point.
"Don't spend too much time lying down—walk around for at least a few minutes every hour while you're awake to keep your lungs working, but we'll need to monitor these for infection every three days." she added, voice stern. "Frankly, it's a miracle you're breathing in this state—your ribs alone are bruised and fractured enough to make breathing feel like inhaling fire."
The medic pulled back, assessing the grimy, makeshift room around them. Her expression was tight with frustration. "I can't do much, not without proper equipment and sterile conditions."
She rummaged through her kit and handed him a small packet of pills. "Take some ibuprofen for now. It'll help with the pain and inflammation, if you feel the need to cough, brace your chest with a pillow or your hand."
The medic stood back, eyes narrowed. "And absolutely no lifting or fighting."
"Appreciate it, Doc, I'll have to start bringing you gifts," Orion said, trying to lighten the mood. "A box of chocolates for every broken bone?"
The medic's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Trying to butter me up, huh?"
"Try to stay out of trouble for five minutes, would you?" the medic declared, patting Orion's shoulder lightly. "I need to check on the little ones."
Elara knelt down beside him, her hand gentle on his shoulder. "You're pushing yourself too hard." Her tone softened as she met his gaze, her eyes a calm, grounding force against the storm inside him. "You need to heal."
Orion's gaze moved around the room, pausing on the faces of his team. The toll of recent battles was apparent; exhaustion lined their features, and a sense of urgency filled the air. "Where's Marlow?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Elara glanced at Ren, a shadow crossing her expression. "I was hoping he'd be here by now… he said he would meet with the army."
"How many wounded?" Ronan inquired, his brow furrowed with worry as he took a steadying breath, bracing himself for the numbers.
Elara skimmed the latest casualty report, her expression darkening with every line. "We lost eighty seven people." She paused, jaw tight, the numbers weighing heavily on her.
Orion asked, his voice laced with concern. "How many wounded?"
Elara glanced back at her tablet, scrolling through the latest reports. "Seventeen," she said. "Six of them are in serious condition - broken limbs, internal injuries. They won't be able to make it far without assistance, and moving them could worsen things."
Orion sighed, absorbing the information. "Alright," he said, fatigue washing over him, he realized he needed to step back for a moment. "I need to take a rest, we've got a lot to plan, but I can't think straight like this." he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Orion leaned on Elara as they made their way to the makeshift tent, each step a reminder of his injuries.
Elara eased Orion onto the cot, her touch gentle as she adjusted his position. The worn canvas sagged under his weight, and he stifled a groan as his ribs protested.
"Rest," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm against the chaos of the past few hours. "We'll figure things out."
Orion's eyelids fluttered closed, exhaustion tugging at him. "Don't let me sleep for too long," he mumbled, his voice thick with fatigue. "There's too much to do."
His thoughts raced over the terrifying glimpse into the alien past the System had revealed. The knowledge it offered was both a blessing and a curse. Silently, he called the System again, focusing his mind, hoping it would respond without disrupting the tense silence.
To his surprise, it reacted immediately, materializing at the edge of his vision in a faintly glowing display, like a window hovering just beyond his focus. He stiffened, his heartbeat quickening, but forced himself to examine it.
As Orion's gaze settled on the first icon, the smooth sphere labeled "Direct Interaction," the System's voice whispered in his mind, "Allows the AGI to respond to the host's thoughts directly."
His eyes flickered to the second icon, shaped like an old-fashioned console panel and labeled "Dreamweaver." The System's voice echoed. "The host enters a simulated dreamscape for post-action analysis and tactical training. This mode allows for the review and optimization of combat strategies, enhancing the host's adaptability and decision-making capabilities."
Finally, his gaze landed on the third icon, a stylized emblem of a book labeled "Archive." The System's voice resonated again. "Access a comprehensive database of the host's experiences and knowledge for real-time analysis and strategic recommendations. This mode provides valuable insights and predictive analysis based on the host's accumulated knowledge."
Orion clenched his jaw, feeling a reluctant fascination creep in. Each option held a unique power, each one promising to make him stronger, sharper, more deadly. The thought of wielding such tools both thrilled and unnerved him. He'd be sacrificing something of himself, but perhaps that was the only way to face an enemy as relentless as the Hive.
"We'll make them pay," he repeated, to himself this time. His voice dropped, the fury in it tempered by a cold resolve. He had to choose—between relying on himself or embracing this alien system that was his new reality.
Orion leaned back, his eyes narrowing at the faintly glowing icons. "Enhanced reflexes, alien combat knowledge, brain power on overdrive… Sounds like a free ride to superhuman status." He gave a wry smile. "But I know a pitch when I hear one. What's the real price tag here?"
"Integration entails inherent risk," the System replied in a flat, uninflected tone. "Minimal chance of dietary cravings for extraterrestrial species, such as 'space squid'."
Orion chuckled despite himself, but his gaze remained fixed on the interface. "Alright, but let's be real—what's your agenda?"
"Objective: Host survival and optimal functionality," the System responded immediately, with no inflection. "Directives are programmed to align with host intentions. However, the "partnership" model enhances decision-making efficiency."
"Partnership?" Orion scoffed, suspicion flickering in his eyes. "You're not exactly my teammate here—you're a program. Programs don't 'partner up'; they execute orders. So, why am I the one making choices?"
"Interface operates on host agency model. Decisions filtered through host objectives, method variation applies only in survival-critical scenarios."
Orion's skepticism deepened. "Alright, so say it's my life on the line, and you make a call. What if it's one I wouldn't? What if you make a choice that crosses a line I wouldn't go near?"
"Calculations prioritize host viability. In cases where host survival probability falls below threshold, autonomous action may be enacted. Likelihood: low, assuming host remains within parameters."
Orion's jaw tightened. "And if you decide I'm a "low viability host"? If you decide someone else's "survival" is worth more?"
"Host prioritization is determined at initiation. Transfer of functionality is not permitted under current system parameters."
Orion sighed, a tension still lurking beneath his calm. "We're not partners," Orion stated, his voice firm. "You're a tool, and I'm the one wielding it. Got it?"
"Acknowledged: Host command. Interface response will occur only with host consent."
"Alright," Orion said, a hint of determination creeping into his voice. "Let's see what you've got."