Chapter XIV: In the Womb of Living Steel, My Organs Learn to Sing
Five planetary cycles. Half a decade beneath a sky that wasn't Earth's, breathing air laced with psionic resonance instead of smog and lost dreams. I'd survived. More than that — I'd thrived.
My childhood, if one could even call it that, had been something between a military apprenticeship and a never-ending fever dream of cosmic intimacy. Crystal trained me in mental defense, sharpening my mind like a blade forged in the crucible of thought itself. Kimchi taught me to laugh, to be, and occasionally to hide under a table during the hive's more... vivid collective dreams. And somewhere along the line, I picked up gyrokinesis. Because if you're going to survive a sentient star-hive's love, you might as well be able to spin through gravity like a drunken neutron star.
But today — today was different. Today, I would stop being only Irvine. Today, I would take the first deliberate step into becoming something else. Something greater.
Today, I began my gene enhancements.
Let's clarify for the slow-blooded among the stars: gene enhancements aren't like fixing your eyesight or popping a vitamin. They're the art of rewriting the manuscript of your flesh. Imagine reading your genetic code and saying, "That's cute," before adding fifty chapters of combat upgrades, metabolic godhood, and organ-level smugness.
There are flavors, of course. Gene augmentation — reshaping your existing body with flair. Need gills? Extra eyes? Boom. Done. Gene splicing — that's where you steal other species' homework. Want to metabolize lava? Breathe ammonia? Fuck gravity? Splice away.
But those come later. We, in our infinite paranoia (read: collective maternal instincts), decided to hold off on the wilder modifications until my growth slowed. You don't pour wine into a bottle still forming its glass.
The lab was only a few minutes' walk from the Queen's chamber — which is sort of like saying a cathedral of infinite light is just down the hall from a star-forge. And yet it was mine. Well... ours. The laboratory wasn't built — it was grown, a living space that pulsed softly with hive energy. Walls of organic silicon, data-tendril veins writhing beneath translucent skin, faint pulses of consciousness flickering like dreams trapped in resin.
Crystal had designed it for me after realizing I processed information slower than the hive average — which is another way of saying I'm a meat brain in a supercomputer commune. So she created massive bio-data pads, each one tailored to my speed. Even the fonts were friendlier, bless her.
My body appeared on one of those pads — a 3D render that shimmered in colors beyond normal human sight, parsed through the Hive's perception filters. Five years old, but sculpted by psionic overflow and an absurdly nutritious diet. I looked like a ten-year-old if ten-year-olds came prepackaged with budding muscle definition and too many philosophical opinions.
Wavy brown hair, streaked subtly with purple from the latent energy I constantly soaked in. Deep, dream-heavy brown eyes that had seen too many galaxies explode in maternal daydreams. Nose small, precise. Face soft but striking. Symmetry that would make a Greek statue whisper "cheating cunt."
If I'd been born on Earth, I'd be one of those kids suburban moms ogled at farmer's markets while saying things like, "He's going to be a heartbreaker someday," and, "Shame he's not eighteen."
Yes, Brenda. Shame.
I shook off the intrusive double-standard thoughts and turned back to my work. Data consistency. Pattern validation. I was running simulated enhancement iterations — essentially doing ritual checks on my future organs, making sure nothing would explode, liquefy, or grow a second mouth. Crystal assured me she could manage the entire process herself with zero risk. But that wasn't the point.
I had fallen in love with this science. Watching Kimchi synthesize her exocrine biology on my old home world had lit a fire in me. I wasn't just Crystal's son. I was her scientist. Her little divine research grant.
And I would earn my discoveries.
After triple-checking the enhancement protocol, I stripped off my lab garments and approached the tank — a six-foot column of shimmering fluid the color of moonlight spilled through milk. I called it Rejuvenation Gel, because branding matters even when you're mutating yourself.
Normally, the hive's healing pods wrapped victims in bio-cocoons. But I was taking a full-body soak, thank you very much. Because if you're going to Frankenstein yourself, you might as well do it in style.
Climbing the short ladder, I slipped into the viscous warmth. The fluid was neither water nor gel but something in-between — womb-thick and softly glowing. A breathing mask clicked over my mouth and nose, buzzing lightly as it adjusted to my vitals.
Then came the needles.
Five of them. One in each limb. One in my chest. Hive-grown, sharp as psionic intent. They slid into me like whispers — painless, but no less uncomfortable. Trauma doesn't respect anesthesia. I'd hated needles in my past life, and that loathing had apparently survived death and dimensional travel.
Within moments, they pumped a cocktail of numbing agents and nutrient fluids into my bloodstream. Think of it as a lullaby for my organs. A prelude.
Then the real show began.
From the chest needle came a surge of neon green. Not just a color — a statement. The liquid slithered upward, thick as molten emeralds, before breaching into me.
And then — agony.
Every nerve screamed. Not cried — screamed. My insides thrashed like trapped serpents. It was the kind of pain that burns too deep for sound. The kind that unravels your awareness of time. I trembled, not violently, but with focused resistance. Like a monk on fire, refusing to scream.
This was not suffering for the sake of suffering. This was a forging.
I endured two and a half hours of it. Long enough to see entire galaxies burn behind my eyelids. And then — it passed. Not like a storm, but like a god deciding I'd had enough for now.
I floated for a few more minutes in the afterglow, letting the Rejuvenation Gel do its job. My breathing steadied. Muscles realigned. Bones... sang.
When I emerged from the tank, I expected fatigue.
What I felt was radiance.
Light exercises confirmed what my intuition already whispered — I wasn't just enhanced. I was reborn.
Let's break it down:
Heart — Now semi-autonomous from the brain, capable of sustaining circulation even during catastrophic cranial damage. It beat stronger, slower. A thunder drum muffled in velvet. Resting BPM: 40.
Lungs — Restructured alveoli, improved diffusion rate. Each breath a banquet. I could hold air longer, endure greater pressure. No more decompression sickness. The bends were for lesser mortals.
Kidneys, liver, intestines, stomach, bladder — A full system overhaul. Toxin resistance increased by orders of magnitude. Digestion was now so efficient I could theoretically metabolize protein sludge and still build lean muscle. Poisons? Try again.
Still, I tested everything. Because that's what scientists do. We test. Then we retest. Then we test harder, just in case the universe is fucking with us.
Eventually, my eyes grew heavy from scanning so much data. I rubbed them lazily, basking in triumph, when a voice sliced through the air like sugar poured into acid.
"Irvine, it's late. Why don't yo—"
"HO-LY SHIT!" I shrieked, my pitch shooting into orbit. "Kimchi! Don't just stand there like a horror movie NPC, what the fuck?!"
Kimchi, standing innocently in the corner like a polite predator, tilted her head. "Kimchi does not understand. She has been with you the entire time."
Ah. Right. We walked in together. She had been here the whole time. My mind had simply thrown her into the void while I was playing god.
"Sorry, my Kimchi," I said sheepishly, scratching the back of my head. "Lost in the science. You know how it is."
"No need to apologize, my beloved mate," she said sweetly.
Then she added in a tone far too sultry for any biological entity:
"Watching you work so intently stirred something... wet in Kimchi's reproductive systems. Your focus... mmm. It made her want to pounce."
I blinked. Slowly. With the emotional stillness of a man at the gallows.
Without speaking, I walked toward her.
Still smiling, still blushing in that innocent mass-murderer way, she tilted her head. "What is it, Irvine?"
"Kneel."
She obeyed instantly. Our eyes now met evenly.
"Go get the stick."
Her smile shattered like cheap porcelain.
"W-w-what did you say, my Irvine-mate?" she asked, her mental link suddenly full of fear and regret.
"You heard me. Go to my room. Get. The. Stick."
She flinched. Not from fear of pain — but from disappointment in herself.
"Of course... Orchid is sorry. She crossed a line. But she only—"
"I know," I said gently. "You love me. You, Crystal, the whole hive. I love you all too. But you broke the rule."
Don't lewd the Irvine.
That was the law. My soul may be older than solar dust, but my body? It's five. Five and a half, now. No amount of cosmic affection could make that okay.
The Stick was my reminder.
Forged from the same material as the Hive Queen's honor guard — a psionic disruptor in bat form. No physical damage, but the mental dissonance it caused made even Crystal wince when I tapped her once (and by proxy, made the entire Hive wince). She rarely needed more than one reminder.
Kimchi, on the other hand... collected reminders like plushies.
She shuffled out of the lab.
I stretched, cracked my knuckles, and grinned.
"Time to bonk."
--