Orion's quarters in the Direct Fleet were a converted storage closet.
Five square meters. A folding cot. A portable washstand. A starmap of the Seventh Sector taped to the wall—placed there by his own hands, the jump point on the outer ring orbit circled in red. Peregrine's flagship, the Celestial Dome, sat in the adjacent berth, less than two hundred meters away as the crow flies, but separated by a chasm of rank and privilege.
"Warrant officer" only entitled him to this. The fleet's commissioned officers started at second lieutenant.
Orion didn't care. He lay on his cot, staring at the mold stains on the ceiling, counting the rhythm of the ventilation system's hum. 02:17. Same as last night. Peregrine should still be awake.
He rolled over, forcing himself toward sleep. Tomorrow brought fleet coordination drills. He needed his strength—
His communicator lit up.
Not a message. A direct call. Two characters pulsed on the screen: Peregrine.
Orion stared at those characters for three seconds, then answered: "Young Master Peregrine."
"Come here."
Two words. Imperative. No explanation. Then the line went dead.
Orion sprang from his cot, grabbing his jacket as he moved. Two in the morning. The crown prince summoned him, reason unknown. He ran toward the Celestial Dome, sifting through game lore in his mind: Peregrine's insomnia was standard, but summoning his "possession" at this hour was anomalous—no such scene existed in the original narrative.
He was creating new variables.
The Celestial Dome's airlock stood open, interior dark. Orion crossed the threshold, automatic lights igniting in sequence like a great beast slowly opening its eyes.
Peregrine was in the command deck. Not at the formal combat station, but in a recessed platform in the corner, piled with cushions and blankets like a nest. The silver-haired crown prince curled within it, golden pupils gleaming in the darkness, clutching a cup of black coffee long gone cold.
"Young Master Peregrine?" Orion stopped at the platform's edge. "You..."
"Get up here."
The platform's dimensions accommodated one person lying flat. Two required pressing close. Orion hesitated one second, removed his jacket, climbed up, and lay on his side beside Peregrine. The space was cramped, his knees pressing against Peregrine's thigh, his hands uncertain where to rest, finally hovering in midair.
"Your pheromones," Peregrine said, his voice hoarse beyond recognition, "Give them to me."
Orion startled, then understood. He shifted toward Peregrine, bringing their shoulders together. Pheromones weren't a switch—he couldn't "give" them, only draw near, let the scent diffuse naturally.
Peregrine buried his face in the hollow of Orion's neck and inhaled deeply.
"Not there today," he said, muffled against Orion's collarbone, "Didn't summon you during the day. Your scent has faded."
A chill ran down Orion's spine. This tone wasn't commanding—it was... complaining?
"I'm adapting to fleet training," he said, "If the Young Master requires, I could request a transfer, live closer..."
"Unnecessary." Peregrine cut him off. "This way, you'll come when called."
Orion fell silent.
He understood now. This was conditioning. Peregrine was training his conditioned reflex—summon at midnight, immediate response, forming a dependency loop. Not Peregrine depending on him, but him depending on Peregrine's summons, rendering departure impossible.
In the game lore, Peregrine's need for control was a hidden attribute, but it had never triggered for any character. The original Orion had died without meeting Peregrine more than a handful of times.
Now he had become the first specimen.
"Why can't you sleep tonight?" he asked, attempting to shift the subject.
Peregrine didn't answer. His breathing gradually steadied, heart rate dropping from one hundred ten to ninety, eighty, seventy beats per minute... The pheromones were taking effect.
Orion lay in the darkness, staring at the command deck's dome. It simulated the Seventh Sector's starfield, the three artificial suns dimmed to resemble true night.
"I dreamed of snow," Peregrine said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper, "It doesn't snow in the Seventh Sector, but I dreamed of it. White. Cold. Melting when it touched my face."
Orion's heart skipped a beat.
In the game lore, Peregrine's mother had died in the Seventh Sector's "artificial sun malfunction accident"—staged as technical failure, actually political assassination. When she died, the sector's climate control had failed, localized condensation producing rare white crystals—not true snow, but water vapor frozen into forms the nobility had never witnessed.
Peregrine had been five, hidden in a wardrobe, watching through the slats as his mother was dragged away. He had believed it was snow.
"Your mother..." Orion chose his words carefully, "Had she seen snow?"
"She said it was white," Peregrine's voice grew softer, "Like your pheromones."
Orion held his breath.
This wasn't game lore. This was real, emerging from Peregrine's own mouth, an association between "mother" and "snow" that he had never written. The five-year-old child hiding in the wardrobe that he had designed now lay beside him, sharing his breathing rhythm, speaking lines he had never scripted.
"My pheromones aren't snow," he said, his voice rougher than he expected, "Snow is cold. I'm..."
"You're warm," Peregrine said, the tip of his nose brushing Orion's carotid artery, "But you smell like snow. Clean. Without impurity. As if nothing had ever happened."
Orion closed his eyes.
He remembered his previous life. Jiang Jin, twenty-eight, game designer, dead at his desk. That office had no windows, central air conditioning perpetually fixed at twenty-two degrees. He had never seen snow, never been called "clean."
"Young Master Peregrine," he said, "If my pheromones can calm you, you may summon me anytime. But I also need rest, need training, need..."
"What do you need?" Peregrine interrupted, golden eyes locking onto him in the darkness, "Tell me. I'll give it to you."
Orion froze.
This wasn't the humiliation-wrapped gifting, not Sheer's "defective product matches defective ship" packaging. This was direct, almost childlike inquiry—what do you need, I'll give it to you.
"I need to know why you can't sleep," he said, the words escaping before thought, "Not the symptoms. The cause."
Peregrine was silent for a long time.
Long enough that Orion thought he had fallen asleep, or grown angry. The command deck's climate control emitted a faint hum, like some massive creature breathing.
"Because I'm afraid," Peregrine finally said, his voice light as a snowflake landing on skin, "Afraid to close my eyes and open them to find I've berserked again, hurt someone again, become... a monster again."
Orion turned his head, studying Peregrine's profile. Silver-white hair scattered across the cushions, golden eyes half-lidded, lashes casting fragmented shadows in the dim light. This imperial crown prince, this perfect heir, was using "monster" to describe himself.
"You didn't berserk today," he said, "You summoned me to prevent it?"
"To confirm," Peregrine said, "Confirm you're still here. Confirm your pheromones still work. Confirm..." He opened his eyes, meeting Orion's gaze directly, "Confirm I won't become a monster tonight."
Orion's heart raced.
This wasn't mere possession. Or rather, not only possession. This was fear, loneliness, a child turned weapon at age five, dependent on his "stabilizer."
"I won't leave," he said, his voice more certain than he expected, "At least not before the campaign."
"And after?" Peregrine asked.
Orion fell silent.
Eighty-four days from now, if everything proceeded according to plan, Peregrine would survive, the Empire would change, and he... he didn't know. The game had designed no "post-war" narrative. His transmigration was a one-way event, no return ticket.
"After the campaign," he said, "If you still need me, I won't leave then either."
Peregrine studied him, something flickering in his golden eyes. Not emotion—calculation. He was weighing the truth of this statement, determining whether it was another lie.
"You're lying," he said, his voice flat, "But it doesn't matter. Eighty-four days is sufficient."
He rolled over, presenting his back to Orion, his silver-white hair sweeping across Orion's hand. The touch was cool, like true snow.
"Sleep," he said, "Training tomorrow. Don't be late."
Orion lay in the darkness, listening as Peregrine's breathing deepened. He dared not move, feared disturbing this monster who had just found sleep, feared breaking this fragile equilibrium.
At four in the morning, he rose silently, preparing to slip back to his storage closet.
"Where are you going?" Peregrine's voice came from behind him, too alert for someone who had just slept.
"Returning to quarters," Orion said, "Morning drill at five..."
"Sleep here."
"Young Master Peregrine, this platform only accommodates..."
"Sleep here," Peregrine repeated, exhaustion underlying the undeniable command, "Or I'll kill you. Then you can't leave."
Orion froze.
This wasn't threat. This was statement. Peregrine's tone was as casual as discussing weather, but the content sent ice down his spine. In the game lore, the crown prince's "berserker" episodes carried violent tendencies, but he had never targeted specific individuals—now Orion had become that specific target.
"I'll sleep here," he said, lying down again, back to back with Peregrine, "But you must promise not to kill me."
"Won't kill you," Peregrine said, his voice already slurring, "Useful people, don't kill."
Orion closed his eyes, smiling slightly in the darkness.
Useful. His designation in Peregrine's calculus. More stable than "possession," more enduring than "stabilizer." As long as he remained useful, he would live, would change that script.
He fell asleep. His dreams held no snow, no mother, only the Seventh Sector's starfield, and a frigate named Meteor-II, waiting silently in the void.
He arrived five minutes late to morning drill.
Orion burst into the training ground to find the Direct Fleet's officers already in formation. Peregrine stood at the front, silver hair bound at his nape, golden eyes cold and clear—the person curled in the corner whispering "afraid" might as well have been someone else entirely.
"Warrant Officer Orion," he spoke, his voice carrying through the broadcast system to fill the entire ground, "Explanation."
"Reporting to Young Master Peregrine," Orion saluted, his face composed, "Night duty, handling fleet coordination affairs, exceeded time."
Not truth, but not falsehood either. He had indeed been "handling affairs"—handling the crown prince's insomnia, handling an imperial heir's terror.
Peregrine looked at him, something familiar flashing in his golden eyes. Not approval—... understanding? They had shared a secret in the early hours; now they pretended before the crowd that nothing had occurred.
"Fall in," Peregrine said, "No second occurrence."
Orion ran to the end of the formation. Beside him stood a mixed-blood lieutenant named Lumen Sage—the logistics department girl, now transferred to the Direct Fleet.
"Night duty?" she whispered, eyebrow raised, "The Young Master's night duty?"
Orion didn't respond.
"Interesting," she said, her voice barely audible, "Three months, seventeen aides, not one lasted through the night. You're the first."
Orion turned to look at her. Lumen's black hair and brown eyes were unremarkable among mixed-bloods, but her gaze was sharp, as if seeing through everything.
"What are you trying to say?" he asked.
"I'm saying," she smiled, "I want to invest in you. Sheer gave you a ship; I'll give you connections. I control forty percent of the Direct Fleet's logistics network. When the campaign breaks out, if you need supplies, find me."
Another investor. Orion remembered Sheer's words—"clever enough that I want to lock you up." Now Lumen too was looking at him as if appraising merchandise.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you smell like snow," she said, using Peregrine's exact words, but her tone entirely different, "And the Seventh Sector hasn't seen snow in three hundred years. Change is coming. I want to stand with the winners."
Orion fell silent.
Drill commenced. Mecha control, fleet coordination, tactical simulation. He sat in the Meteor, extreme mode, feeling the feedback of every command. Peregrine's flagship Celestial Dome served as command center in the virtual battlefield, every decision reaching Orion's cockpit through neural link.
"Sector B-7, ambush," Peregrine's voice was calm as always, "Orion, lead the team."
"Acknowledged."
The Meteor surged forward, five mechas following. The virtual battlefield was the Seventh Sector's asteroid belt, same as yesterday, same as the real battlefield eighty-four days from now. Orion wove between the rocks, predicting every enemy position, destroying, withdrawing, executing perfectly.
Drill concluded. MVP once again: Orion Ember · Meteor.
Peregrine announced at the debrief: "Next week, live-fire exercise. Location: outer ring orbit. Warrant Officer Orion, your Meteor-II joins the vanguard formation."
Orion's heart accelerated. Outer ring orbit. The ship Sheer had given him. The jump point he had secretly trained at for six hours. How much did Peregrine know? Testing him, or trusting him?
"Your servant thanks you for this grace," he bowed his head, his voice steady, "Young Master Peregrine."
The meeting ended. Peregrine passed him on his way out, pausing for half a second.
"Tonight," that voice was light as snow landing on stone, audible only to him, "Come here."
Then the crown prince departed, his silver-white hair trailing an arc behind him. Orion stood in place, feeling the envious and jealous gazes around him, remembering the person who had whispered "afraid" in the early hours.
Two Peregrines. The perfect heir, and the lonely monster. He could see both, touch both, could... use both?
"Warrant Officer Orion," Lumen Sage's voice came from behind, "Free this evening? I'd like to buy you dinner, discuss the details of that 'investment.'"
Orion turned to face her.
"Apologies," he said, "Night duty."
He left, leaving Lumen standing there, a meaningful smile playing at her lips.
That evening, Orion climbed onto the Celestial Dome's command deck platform once more.
Peregrine was already there. No coffee, no starmap, only a dimmed lamp and darkness filling the space. He curled on the cushions, silver hair loose, like a wounded beast.
"Today," he said, without looking up, "Shen Cetus asked me why your pheromones can stabilize me."
Orion froze at the platform's edge.
"I said I didn't know," Peregrine continued, "But I've been investigating. The Jiang family gene bank. Your mother's medical records. Your own physical examination reports..." He finally looked up, golden eyes gleaming in the darkness, "You're hiding something, Orion. What?"
Orion's heart accelerated.
Here it came. Testing, questioning, the prelude to a trust crisis. In the game lore, once Peregrine's "suspicion" triggered, he entered investigation mode, continuing until truth was revealed or the target eliminated.
"I hide many things," he said, choosing partial truth, "But regarding the pheromones, I truly don't know. The Jiang family discarded me as defective; they never studied my genes."
"Then how do you know the Meteor's activation code?" Peregrine asked, his voice calm as discussing weather, "The extreme mode gesture password—Shen Cetus doesn't know it. How do you?"
Orion fell silent.
This was the fatal question. He couldn't answer "because I designed this game," couldn't answer "because your entire world is my creation." He needed a lie, one sufficiently real for Peregrine to temporarily accept.
"I dreamed it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "Like you dreamed of snow. I dreamed of a mecha named Meteor, activation code Stardust, extreme mode gesture a pentagram. I thought it was hallucination, but I tried, and it worked."
Peregrine looked at him, his golden eyes revealing nothing.
"What else did you dream?" he asked.
"I dreamed of the campaign," Orion said, deciding to gamble, "Dreamed that eighty-four days from now, the Seventh Sector falls, Zerg break through the defenses, your flagship..." He paused, "Your flagship covers the retreat, perishes with the Zerg hive-mind."
The command deck fell into dead silence.
Peregrine's expression didn't change, but Orion could sense his breath catching for one instant. That wasn't surprise—it was... resonance? In the game lore, Peregrine had experienced similar premonitions; the genetic collapse syndrome's mental disturbances occasionally allowed him to "see" fragments of the future.
"You also dreamed your own death?" Peregrine asked, his voice light as inquiring about weather.
"I dreamed I died in the campaign," Orion said, this was true—the original Orion had indeed died in that battle, "So I want to change it. Want a ship that can run. Want to live."
"So you want to save me," Peregrine said, not questioning but stating, "In the dream, I died, so in reality you want to change the outcome."
Orion froze.
This logical leap, he hadn't anticipated. Peregrine interpreted his "prophetic dream" as "causal inversion"—not that he wanted to live therefore he saved Peregrine, but that because Peregrine died in the dream, he wanted to change the ending in reality.
"Yes," he said, accepting this interpretation, "I want to save you. Because you let me smell snow, because..." He searched for words, "Because you're the first person I've seen who knows fear."
Peregrine was silent.
Long, long silence. Long enough that Orion thought his lie had been seen through, long enough that he began calculating escape routes from the command deck.
"Come here," Peregrine finally said, his voice hoarse beyond recognition, "Let me smell your pheromones."
Orion climbed up, lay on his side, let Peregrine bury his face in the hollow of his neck. The gesture was the same as before, predatory greed, but this time he sensed something different—Peregrine was trembling, not the precursor to berserking, but... something else.
"I'm afraid too," Peregrine said, muffled against Orion's collarbone, his voice light as a single snowflake, "Afraid you're also lying to me, afraid your dream is real, afraid that eighty-four days from now, I really will die."
Orion closed his eyes.
This wasn't game lore. This was new narrative line he had created. Peregrine's trust, Peregrine's fear, Peregrine's dependence—none existed in the original script. He had woven them strand by strand with his "prophetic dream" lie.
"I won't lie to you," he said, his voice more certain than he expected, "At least not about the campaign."
"And after the campaign?" Peregrine asked, same question as before dawn.
"After the campaign," Orion repeated his answer, "If you still need me, I won't leave then either."
Peregrine didn't answer. His breathing gradually steadied, heartbeat synchronizing with Orion's rhythm. The command deck's climate control emitted its faint hum, like some massive creature breathing.
Orion opened his eyes in the darkness, gazing at the simulated starfield dome.
Eighty-four days. He had changed the script's opening, but the ending remained unknown. Would Peregrine survive? Would the Empire change? Could he transform from "designer" to "participant," ultimately becoming "survivor"?
He didn't know. But at least tonight, this afraid, lonely, snow-dreaming crown prince needed his pheromones to sleep.
That was enough. For now.
"Young Master Peregrine," he whispered, "Sleep. I'll watch over you."
The silver-white head in the hollow of his neck nuzzled closer, like a beast finally finding its den.
"Call me Peregrine," the muffled voice came, already half-asleep, "When no one's here... call me Peregrine."
Orion's heart skipped a beat.
This was a new variable. In the game lore, no one called Peregrine by name. Everyone addressed him as "Young Master Peregrine," "Crown Prince," "Heir." Names were privilege, intimacy, ... trust.
"Peregrine," he said, his voice light as a snowflake, "Sleep."
The command deck descended into darkness, only their breathing audible beneath the Seventh Sector's false starfield, gradually synchronizing.