For months now, he had been living with an alien general’s voice constantly chattering in his head. At first, despite the generals whining, that it was a blessing in disguise. The spaceman—spacerobot? had access to technology straight out of a sci-fi flicks—blueprints and ideas from out of this world.
And for him, an unemployed engineer with a degree collecting dust, it had seemed like the perfect opportunity. He had imagined himself sketching out plans for a stable nuclear fusion reactor, patenting it, and raking in the big bucks.
But there was a problem with being ahead of your time.
When there’s no evidence that your designs actually work and there are no means to create it, no one takes you seriously and no one pays you. The patent office had laughed him out the door, thinking he was just another crackpot inventor trying to get rich quick. Which, if he was being honest, wasn’t entirely wrong.
And so, here he was—filling out a Pantheon Porter registration form, dragging his pen across the dotted lines and boxes. As he signed, his thoughts drifted back to how he had even ended up here in the first place.
A couple years ago, things had been fine. More than fine, actually. He had been a top-level engineer at a certain aircraft company—one that was best left unnamed. He was even in the running for a managerial promotion, since the current manager was looking to retire.
Then, during one particularly reckless night of drinking at an office party, that same manager had let something slip.
The aircraft they built weren’t as structurally sound as they should have been. The company had been cutting corners, using cheaper materials that barely skirted past regulations, all to keep their pockets full.
At first, he had shrugged it off. Sure, it was shady, but he liked money as much as the next guy. And besides, if there really was an issue, the government could always conduct inspections, right?
Then the first plane almost crash-landed when an emergency door ripped clean off mid-flight.
When he saw that on the news, the guilt started eating away at him. He could have done something—said something to someone, anyone—but he had ignored the problem for the sake of convenience.
And then it happened.
A full passenger plane did crash. Hundreds of lives lost.
he couldn’t stay silent any longer. He reported everything to every government organization that would listen, launching investigations that shook the entire industry. Overnight, he became the face of corporate whistleblowing—the man who exposed one of the biggest aviation scandals in history.
But before the court date, the company made its move.
Corporate assassins started coming after him, trying to silence him before he could testify. He wasn’t just a whistleblower—he was the whistleblower. The first domino. And because his face had been plastered all over the news, he had become a walking target.
He was screwed.
One night, they finally got to him. He was drugged, kidnapped, and dumped in the middle of a secluded forest, left to die. The plan was simple: make it look like he had gone on a hike, gotten lost, and perished. A convenient accident. An autopsy would show nothing suspicious, and the company would walk away clean.
By the time the drugs wore off, he had been wandering the forest for days, desperately searching for civilization. That’s when he saw it—a shooting star streaking across the night sky.
He sighed, exhausted. Might as well make a wish.
"I just want to make it out of this alive…"
Then he realized something.
The star was getting closer.
Too close.
His stomach dropped.
"Holy shit!"
he turned and ran, barely escaping the impact zone as an explosion of force sent him tumbling forward. The shockwave rattled his bones, and for a moment, he just lay there, gasping for breath.
After regaining his senses, he staggered toward the crater’s edge, peering inside without getting too close. Who knew what kind of radiation or toxic fumes it might be spewing?
But as he leaned in for a better look, the loose dirt beneath his feet gave way.
“Ah, hell—”
He slid down, landing hard at the center of the crater. So much for caution.
Muttering curses under his breath, he pushed himself up and finally got a good look at what had crash-landed.
A perfectly smooth metal sphere, about the size of a basketball, sat in the middle of the crater. Its surface was flawless, almost liquid-like, reflecting his dirt-streaked face back at him.
He looked like hell.
“Damn,” he muttered.
As he brought his face closer to inspect his own reflection, the sphere moved.
Before he could react, the metal turned to liquid and latched onto his face.
Panic flooded his veins as he staggered back, clawing at the substance now creeping into every orifice. But it wasn’t like drowning in liquid metal—it was worse. It felt like thousands of microscopic ants swarming over his skin, mapping him, learning him.
His body spasmed as a wave of foreign energy surged through him. His vision flickered with cascading streams of data before a voice—not his own—cut through the noise.
[Boot-up sequence initiated…]
[Analyzing host biology…]
Information flooded his brain like an overclocked computer, raw data flashing in his mind’s eye.
- Species: Homo sapiens (Human)
- Classification: Bipedal, carbon-based lifeform
- Neural complexity: Suboptimal (subject to improvement)
- Cellular integrity: 72% (nutritional deficit detected)
- Musculoskeletal structure: Moderate durability (enhancement protocols available)
- Power core status: Critical failure. Immediate host integration required for emergency repairs.
Rowan barely had time to panic before another voice—this one far less robotic, far more irritated—cut in.
Oh, for the love of—pause that diagnostic nonsense. Hooman, if you start screaming, I swear I’m going to be very disappointed.
Rowan’s breath hitched. The voice wasn’t cold and clinical like the first. It was… annoyed?
"What the hell—who is this?!" he rasped.
Right. Introductions. The voice let out a tired sigh. I’m General Xy’Rosh. Supreme Strategist of the Varnian Dominion, current involuntary tenant of your very squishy, very fragile hooman body. And before you freak out—well, more than you already are—no, I am not an AI well not fully any way, a parasite, or some kind of mind-control program.
Rowan clenched his fists. "Then what are you?"
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
An unfortunate bastard who had to make a split-second decision. The voice huffed. Listen, genius, the techno-organic nanite cluster you so graciously decided to touch? It wasn’t supposed to latch onto you. But thanks to your planet’s ridiculous atmosphere and a rather violent reentry, the cluster sustained damage. My power core was fried, my external systems were compromised, and I had two options: either integrate with a local host to buy time for repairs, or shut down permanently.
Rowan swallowed hard. "And I was the lucky winner?"
Ding, ding, ding. Give the man a prize. The General tone was dry. See, these nanites aren’t just fancy space tech. They need resources to self-repair—trace minerals, nutrients, waste byproducts. Stuff that, conveniently, your body produces.
"...You latched onto me so you could eat my shit?"
Crude, but technically correct. Don’t flatter yourself—it’s not like I had a better option. It was either you, or some random squirrel, and frankly, I have standards.
He groaned, rubbing his temples. “So let me get this straight—you crashed, your fancy alien hardware broke, and now you’re using me as a damn charging station?”
Charging station, repair vessel, lifeline—take your pick. Point is, we’re stuck together now. And before you ask, no, you cannot remove me. Believe me, if I had any other choice, I wouldn't be trapped in the brain of a malnourished primate with questionable survival instincts.
Rowan scowled. "Oh, yeah? And what exactly makes you think I have questionable survival instincts?"
The alien let out an exaggerated sigh. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that you wandered toward a freshly made impact crater—without any protective gear—just to poke the weird alien object inside? Or how about the part where you stuck your face right up to an unknown, highly advanced piece of technology like some curious toddler licking a power outlet? Truly, a display of peak evolutionary intelligence.
Rowan opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. He had, in fact, done exactly that.
"...Okay, fair."
Good, we’re finally getting somewhere. Xy’Rosh exhaled. Look, hooman, you can keep having your little existential crisis, or we can focus on getting out of wherever here is
Rowan took a deep breath, trying to wrap his head around everything. Then, something clicked.
"Wait, hold on—have you been calling me ‘hooman’?" he asked, incredulous.
Xy’Rosh made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan. Yes, hooman. Now, if you’re done having an identity crisis, we should really focus on—
"It’s ‘human.’ Hu. Man." Rowan corrected, enunciating each syllable. "Not hoo—we’re not a species of confused owls."
A brief silence. Then—
Noted, hooman.
Rowan’s eye twitched. "You did that on purpose."
Unless you’d like to keep bickering about linguistics while slowly dying of hunger and dehydration, be my guest.
A sharp gust of wind blew through the trees, making Rowan shiver. His body felt weak; his limbs sluggish. He had no idea how long he’d been out here, but if dehydration or exhaustion didn’t get him, hypothermia would.
"Alright, fine," he muttered. "You said you can get me out of here. How?"
Simple. I temporarily reinforce your frail biology with my remaining operational nanites, allowing you to move efficiently despite your current physical state.
Rowan frowned. "That sounds like a lot of words for alien steroids.’"
That is a gross oversimplification, but sure, if it helps your primitive brain understand.
"Gee, thanks." Rowan rolled his eyes. "Alright, do your thing."
There was a brief pause, then—
[Limited Nanite Reinforcement Activated]
A sudden shock ran through Rowan’s body, like a jolt of electricity surging through his veins. His muscles tensed, his vision sharpened, and the exhaustion that had been weighing him down lifted almost instantly.
"Holy—" He flexed his fingers, feeling the newfound strength thrumming beneath his skin. "This is insane."
Yes, yes, marvel at the wonders of superior technology later. For now, start moving.
Rowan didn’t need to be told twice. He took off at a steady jog, weaving through the dense forest with newfound ease. His footing was surer, his reflexes sharper—it felt like his body was operating at peak condition, better than it ever had before.
Left.
Rowan instinctively veered left just in time to avoid a low-hanging branch.
Jump.
He leaped over a fallen log without missing a beat.
Duck.
He dropped into a crouch as brambles whipped past his head.
"Okay," he panted, slightly exhilarated, "this is starting to feel a little too natural."
That’s because I’m overriding your sluggish neural response time. Xy’Rosh said, almost smug. If I let you operate at your normal speed, you’d be tripping over your own feet like a newborn calf.
"I hate how much sense that makes," Rowan muttered.
Hate it all you want, hooman, but listen up. This little boost? It’s draining what’s left of my reserves. Once we get out of this damn forest, I’ll be going into sleep mode for repairs.
Rowan's steps faltered. "Wait, sleep mode? You mean you're just gonna conk out on me?"
Yes, because if you were pay attention you’d remember I’m beat up and I am running on fumes.
"So what am I supposed to do when you’re out?"
"Eat. A lot. Proteins, Carbohydrates, vitamins, minerals—I need high-quality nutrition to restore the nanite network. If you don’t get enough, I’ll be out of commission longer."
Rowan groaned. "Great. So my alien overlord is also my dietitian now."
Overlord? Please. If I had my full power, you wouldn't even be worth conquering. Xy’Rosh shot back. Now shut up and keep running. We’re almost there.
A few minutes later, Rowan spotted it—the faint outline of a road cutting through the trees. Civilization.
As soon as his feet hit the pavement, the reinforcement faded. His body returned to its usual state—
And immediately, his entire body screamed in agony.
His muscles seized, his joints burned, and a deep, bone-deep ache settled into his limbs like he’d just run a marathon after years of couch surfing. His lungs gasped for air, like they had forgotten how to breathe.
"H-Holy… shit!" Rowan wheezed, doubling over. "You didn’t—" He coughed, his legs shaking beneath him. "You didn’t warn me about this!"
Oh. Did I forget to mention the side effects? Xy’Rosh’s voice was filled with mirth and exhaustion. Yeah, those only happens to people who are untrained. Considering the circumstances didn’t think you’d be so gung ho about it if I did mention them. My bad.
"You piece of—"
Sleep mode engaged. See you later, hooman.
And just like that, Xy’Rosh went silent.
Rowan barely had time to process his annoyance before his body fully gave out. His legs buckled, his vision blurred—
And then everything went dark.
……
If it weren’t for some old guy in a truck nearly running him over in the middle of the road, he wouldn’t be here. the guy lugged him into his truck recognizing him from the news
Then he woke up in a hospital, stitched back together with the doctors telling him he was lucky to be alive, given a second chance. He got his day in court. He testified.
From there, things snowballed. Lawyers. The media. The goddamn FBI. Once he resurfaced, his testimony was inevitable. He laid everything out—the faulty aircraft, the cut corners, the corporate fuckery.
Executives went to prison. The company collapsed. Families of the victims got their justice.
But the world didn’t work on karma alone.
Because while the law saw him as a hero, the industry saw him as a traitor.
Rowan tapped the pen against the clipboard, lips pressing into a thin line.
He had tried to go back to engineering. Hell, he had the credentials. The experience. But no one was willing to touch him. Every major firm had blacklisted him, and even the smaller ones didn’t want the PR risk.
He tried applying for other jobs. Mechanics. Technicians. Anything remotely related to what he knew.
But people didn’t see him the way the news did.
To them, he wasn’t a man who saved lives. He was the guy who spoke up too late. The one who kept quiet until the blood was on the pavement.
“You knew,” their eyes would say. “You knew and did nothing.”
No one wanted him in their shop. No one wanted him in their office.
So after months of rejection, Rowan finally gave up. Landing him here
tapping his fingers against the clipboard, the cheap plastic rattling under his grip. The Coalition lobby buzzed around him—voices overlapping, the hum of neon lights, the occasional static crackle from a Hunter’s gear. The receptionist barely glanced at him as she processed forms, her movements robotic from repetition.
With a sigh, Rowan got up from the dinky plastic chair and walked over to the counter, handing her his porter registration form.
“We’ll give you a call when we have work bring your own gear”
Unlike Hunters, who had to prove they were Awakened through a grueling combination of physical tests and mana output measurements, porters just had to sign up. And while Rowan could’ve made it through the physical part thanks to Xy’Rosh, there was no telling what would’ve happened when he showed up with exactly zero mana.
As Xy’Rosh had oh-so-helpfully put it:
“I don’t want to be poked and prodded by a bunch of monkeys who think they’re the next Xal’Brt En’Staiin.”
Whoever the hell that was.
Rowan barely registered the receptionist’s half-hearted “Next” as he turned toward the exit, his mind already elsewhere. He stepped through the glass doors, still zoned out—
And walked straight into someone.
Rowan remained solid. Over his tenure of being jobless, Xy’Rosh had been altering his body—making him bigger, stronger, more resilient, his senses sharper, and his reaction time faster. Basically, turning him into a certain Star-Spangled character and then some. Blinking down, he realized the guy he had just collided with wasn’t standing. Instead, he was flat on his butt with his knees pulled up.
Dark hair, a little messy but not unkempt. Sharp hazel eyes, flickering with something unreadable—calm, but not indifferent. More like someone who had seen too much and was just waiting for the next thing to happen.
He wasn’t bulky, not in the way most Hunters were, but there was something about the way he carried himself—like a coiled wire, something built for efficiency. Not wasted movement. Not wasted effort.
“Shit, my bad, man,” Rowan said, stepping aside and offering a hand.
“No worries,” the guy replied, his voice even, like he’d already moved past it.
Rowan’s eyes flicked down to the clipboard in his hands. Porter registration form.
“Joining up too, huh?” Rowan asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Job markets kicking everyone’s ass amiright.”
The guy gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
Rowan smirked. “Guess that means there’s a chance we’ll be stuck on the same job. We porters gotta stick together to make it out.”
He turned away, raising a lazy wave over his shoulder as he walked off.
“Good luck then. Hope to see you around.”
Behind him, the man watched him go, then exhaled through his nose.
“Yeah. Maybe.”