Following Jin'ar's idea was a scum and here is why:
He woke the same way he had the last six mornings—Cody's voice filtering through the half-dark.
"Mobility protocol commencing in two minutes. Please rise, Master Jinyue."
He rolled over, dragged the blanket higher, and stared at the ceiling. His eyes felt gritty. The voice repeated the instruction, patient as stone.
"Please rise."
He groaned. "You said two minutes yesterday."
"Correction. Yesterday you negotiated for two minutes and took ten."
He pushed himself upright, every muscle complaining. His back cracked when he stretched. "You're starting to sound smug."
"I lack that capability," Cody replied. "Now...stand, youngmaster."
He stood. Eventually. His tail dragged sluggishly behind him, the movement almost resentful
The first few days after he'd fainted had been a blur; waking in the med bay with Cody hovering overhead, endless questions about pulse rates, hydration, oxygen absorption, and neural clarity. He'd ignored most of them. The next morning, the robot had rolled out a schedule: nutrition, rest, and "physical reinforcement."
He'd wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but instead had only felt…tired. Always tired.
It was ridiculous. He'd been a corporate director once, not a patient recovering from a fever. Still, the fainting had proved Cody right, and Cody never forgot when he was right.
Now it was routine.
He stretched. The new body resisted the way metal resisted bending—flexible but unfamiliar. His muscles ached with every motion.
"Begin with lateral extension," Cody instructed. "Tail stabilisation recommended."
The tail flicked automatically at the mention, brushing the floor. He scowled. "I'm trying."
"You are attempting," Cody corrected. "The outcome remains pending."
His shoulders tensed as he muttered something that might have been an insult. In fact, he felt so fed up, he just had to comment more, "You're asking to be recycled."
The routine ran through balance tests, arm rotations, and step alignments. By the tenth minute, sweat pricked his temples. By the fifteenth, his breath rasped audibly.
"Your endurance is below projection," Cody observed.
"Projection was made by someone who doesn't have to breathe." He leaned against the wall and let his head drop back. "Call it a day."
"It is eight-twenty-three in the morning."
"Then call it a very long morning."
Cody hummed...a sound that had begun to sound suspiciously judgmental. "Rest cycle authorised. Duration, five minutes."
"Generous," Jinyue muttered.
Later, when the air outside settled and the trash orbit above had cleared for the day, they cooked.
Cody handled the heating plate—an improvised contraption powered by salvaged coils—while Jinyue prepared the vegetables. They weren't really vegetables, but fibrous plants with translucent stems and a taste somewhere between metal and soap.
"Boil first, then sear," Cody instructed, the way he always did.
"I know."
"Last time you claimed knowledge, the texture resembled insulation foam."
He stabbed the piece on the fork. "I call that innovation."
Cody's ocular lights flickered in what could only be disbelief. Jinyue's chest tightened with something close to amusement—but he swallowed it quickly, like it was a mistake.
The scent wasn't bad, at least—earthy and faintly sweet when the edges browned. He'd eaten worse things in worse places.
They ate together on the ramp, watching the horizon shimmer. The trash would start falling again in a few hours—metal debris streaking through the sky like cold rain. Until then, the desert was still.
The silence felt almost companionable until it wasn't. Until it reminded him of how empty everything still was. How absurd his life had become actually.
Cody sat motionless beside him, powercore humming softly. "Nutritional content is low," the robot said. "You require protein intake within forty-eight hours."
"You see any animals around?"
"Negative."
"Then stop reminding me."
He tried to keep his tone sharp, but it came out flat. The kind of tone that sounded more tired than irritated.
He'd been trying to spot movement for days—anything that suggested life beyond plants and metal. Nothing. Not a wing, not a print in the sand. The world seemed sterilised. Sometimes he swore he heard movement in the distance, but it was always just the wind—or his imagination, which was worse. He was going crazy!
That night, he dreamed again—something about warmth, something human—and woke up furious with himself for missing something as trivial as taste.
Cody wasn't amused when he explained in detail how he was calling out for fried chicken in his dreams. His ears had burned for hours after that. He was left fuming by that meddling one-eyed creep…he ignored Cody for the rest of the day as he died of embarrassment.
Maybe it was this region. Maybe the wild things kept to cooler zones, far from the crash sites. Either way, the silence stretched too wide.
Cody didn't seem bothered by it. Machines never were.
******
Each morning he woke hoping the air would smell different, the silence would break, something would change. It never did. The days blurred into sameness—wake, train, eat, repair, repeat.
He'd started to get a feel for the ship, though not in the way Cody might have hoped. The layout made sense now, muscle memory guiding him through the narrow corridors, but the systems themselves remained a mystery.
He hadn't even looked for the repair handbook. The screens were all in Dominion script—curling marks he couldn't begin to read. Cody could translate, but even that felt like a waste. The technology here was too advanced, and for all the self-proclaimed genius he was, he couldn't reverse engineer any of the things there to save his life…maybe wait until he could read his ABCs of Zerg.
"Would you like me to read the technical manual aloud?" Cody offered one evening.
"No."
"It may improve your understanding of flight operations."
"I'm not flying anywhere."
"An unexpected emergency may arise."
"Then I'll call you."
"You may be incapacitated if I do not come on time or help adequately."
He shot the robot a look. "Then you'll have peace and quiet."
Cody paused. "That would not be desirable."
Jinyue snorted and returned to adjusting the small storage compartment he'd converted into a workspace. The ship hummed around him, its interior half-lit, quiet, familiar in a way that didn't feel like home but didn't feel foreign anymore either.
He'd learned enough from Cody's lessons to navigate the ship's systems for water filtration and heat control. Anything beyond that, he left alone. The power grid functioned, and he preferred not to question why.
Besides, it was easier not to try. Easier to pretend ignorance was a choice.
******
The biology lessons were another matter.
He hated the charts—the glowing projections of his anatomy that never felt like his. Each time he looked, he half expected the body to reject him then and there.
Cody had suggested them after one too many complaints from himself about fatigue and blaming his adjusting body. At first, Jinyue had refused. Then curiosity won out. His question about having a housefly's head was still unanswered.
Learning about this body was both fascinating and infuriating. The data Cody displayed showed cellular regeneration patterns, muscle density ratios, and adaptive organ functions. It also revealed everything wrong with it.
"Your structure aligns with a high-grade morphotype," Cody explained one afternoon. "Classified in the Dominion as Zerg Subgroup Seven-A, current percentile estimate—top fifteen."
"Fifteen?"
"Affirmative."
"That's low."
"For reference," Cody said, "the top five percent are fully humanoid in appearance and maintain retractable appendages."
Turns out, an insect head man…no zerg might just exist. If he was top 15 % with his poofy tail, how about the common Zerg? The horror.
Jinyue raised an eyebrow. "So if I could hide the tail, I'd move up ten percent?"
"Approximately."
He stared at the tail curling against the floor. "And how, exactly, do I do that?"
"Data unavailable. Attempt voluntary muscular retraction."
He tried. The tail twitched twice and hit his face; he glared at it. He wanted to throw something, but the irritation dissolved too fast into something softer—something like shame. It felt wrong to hate a part of himself.
Cody observed. "Unsuccessful."
"I noticed."
"Would you like to record the attempt as training?"
"Delete the record."
"Record deleted."
Jinyue rubbed his forehead. "You enjoy this, don't you?"
"I lack that capability," Cody said again, but the pause that followed was long enough to sound suspicious.
He looked away quickly, trying to ignore the flicker of warmth that came with the familiarity of the exchange
He'd also learned about rut cycles—information Cody delivered with the kind of mechanical neutrality that made the subject worse. Suddenly, a sex education class seemed like a better option. At least there you'd enter the class knowing the majority of things. But this…he got goosebumps and felt all kinds of mortified and distressed.
"Your susceptibility period recurs biannually on average," Cody said, projection graphs floating above the console. "Pain intensity decreases after initial adjustment."
Jinyue stared. "You're saying this happens twice a year?"
"Two to one times annually, depending on physiological stability."
He sighed. "And I'm supposed to just deal with it?"
"The most recommended action is taking a female zerg partner or companion to calm yourself. However, with your limited options, the best is just rest, hydration, and regulated heat levels to reduce discomfort. Pharmacological options are nonexistent aboard."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't believe he'd have to experience biological drugging for a full four days. What type of body produces aphrodisiacs naturally, anyways? To make matters worse, he'd…no! He couldn't even complete that thought without shivering.
"I hate this system."
"Hatred noted," Cody said. "Would you like me to log it as a recurring emotion?"
"No."
"Entry cancelled."
He shut off the projection and walked away before Cody could offer more data and trauma.
******
The strangest part wasn't the lessons or the routines. It was how easy it had become to settle into them.
Every morning began the same: Cody's voice, the slow ache of muscle, the soft hum of recycled air. The days felt both endless and indistinct. He caught himself thinking that the predictability made him feel safer, and immediately hated the thought.
Sometimes he thought of his old life, boardrooms and cities, the constant noise. Then he'd think of the silence here and realise he didn't miss it. He missed himself instead—the version of him that never hesitated, never second-guessed, never woke up unsure where he ended and someone else began.
What he also missed was agency.
Cody treated him like a child—monitoring, correcting, and recording. It wasn't malice; it was programming. While he could acknowledge that his emotional state had taken a huge hit since waking up in this place, he blamed Jin'ar for the mess; it still didn't dwell well with him.
Being lectured on water intake by a robot grated on him.
During the first few days, he'd argued. Then he'd learned arguing only gave Cody more data. Now he just ignored it.
One evening, as they cooked outside again, he caught himself laughing under his breath at something Cody said—an unintentional joke about vitamin ratios. He stopped immediately. The sound had startled him—it had been so long since he'd heard it.
Cody tilted its head. "Are you experiencing respiratory distress?"
"No."
"Then what caused the irregular exhalation?"
"Nothing. Eat your plants."
"I cannot consume organic matter."
"Then go charge yourself!."
Cody obeyed, though its ocular lights dimmed in what looked suspiciously like disapproval.
******
About two weeks after fainting, he had tried jogging.
It lasted four minutes.
Cody timed it. "Improvement of twenty-three seconds from previous attempt," the robot announced.
"Congratulations to me." He dropped onto a crate, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes, feeling every bit sick and weakly, "Remind me why we do this."
"To prevent further collapse events."
"I only collapsed once."
"One instance is sufficient evidence of deficiency."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You are the worst medic I've ever had."
"I am not a medic. I am an auxiliary operations unit."
"Then act like one and stop mothering me."
"Maternal protocols are not installed."
Jinyue stared. "You've been running them perfectly anyway."
Silence. Then, faintly: "I will review that statement for accuracy."
He almost smiled. Almost.
******
By the third week, the monotony pressed heavy. The desert hadn't changed; the sky hadn't either. Trash storms came and went. The ship endured.
He woke sometimes certain he'd dreamed with someone else's memories again—faces, light, laughter—but they always dissolved before he could grasp them. Sometimes he felt like he was watching himself move—like the body belonged to a stranger he was only imitating
He spent more time outside now, adjusting the solar panels and checking the filters Cody couldn't reach. The heat didn't bother him as much. The body was adapting, stronger than when he'd arrived. Still unreliable, but stronger.
Sometimes, when the light hit right, he caught a reflection in the ship's hull and barely recognized himself—the pale skin, the faint shimmer beneath it, the long lines of muscle that hadn't existed before. He didn't know if the sight comforted him or made him uneasy.
He told himself it didn't matter. It was survival, nothing else.
That night, Cody ran a system diagnostic while Jinyue sat by the viewport watching dust move in the distance.
"Power reserves stabilized," Cody reported. "Radiation levels nominal."
"Good."
"Would you like to review tomorrow's schedule?"
"No."
"Would you like to create a schedule?"
"No."
A pause. "Would you like to do nothing?"
"Yes."
"Confirmed."
The ship hummed. The air smelled faintly metallic, like storm ozone. He leaned back in the chair, half-smiling despite himself.
Cody stood nearby, motionless except for the steady pulse of its lights.
"Cody," he said after a moment.
"Yes, Master Jinyue."
"When you nag me less, I almost forget you're a robot."
"I am still a robot."
"I noticed."
"Then the experiment failed."
He laughed once, quietly. "Maybe."
The sound faded, leaving the low hum of the engines and the endless stretch of quiet beyond.
******
MINI THEATRE
CODY: (pleasantly) Good morning, Master Jinyue. Please rise.
JINYUE: (Groaning and muffled) System error. Unit Jinyue not found.
CODY: Sarcasm detected. Please rise.
JINYUE: Reboot tomorrow.
CODY: Mobility protocol begins in two minutes.
(A boot flies across the room. It bounces off the wall beside Cody with an unimpressive thunk.)
CODY: Hostile action detected. Is this a declaration of combat?
JINYUE: You're malfunctioning. Stand down.
CODY: Incorrect. You are horizontal.
JINYUE: Horizontal is efficient. (Jinyue starts to fall asleep once more)
CODY: Then consider this social interaction.
(Cody's arm extends, grabs the blanket, and yanks. Jinyue erupts from the bed like a startled animal.)
JINYUE: CODY—!
CODY: Excellent response time. Heart rate optimal. Training may commence.
JINYUE: (glaring) …