Book One - Chapter Thirty-One: Death by Snu-Snu!

I'd prefer not to describe what took place over the following seven days in any detail beyond the rough overview, partly for the sake of maintaining some dignity, but mostly because I'm not entirely positive, having blacked-out a few times.

Whiskers had been kind enough to allow us to “honeymoon” aboard the Paw's Pride, though I suspect his motivations were less romantic generosity and more morbid curiosity about whether I'd survive the experience. The Mewsari had apparently developed something of a betting pool regarding my life expectancy, with odds fluctuating wildly based on the volume of sounds emanating from our quarters.

According to witnesses, there were screams loud enough to prompt several crew members to request transfers to different decks. The reports insist these were my screams, though I maintain that at least some of them had to have been the ship's hull protesting structural damage.

What I do remember comes in flashes that feel more like fever dreams than actual memories:

Green Lady, as she preferred I call her, apparently took the phrase “honeymoon activities” as a personal challenge. The Xarnathi, it turned out, were a species that believed in testing their partners' endurance in ways that would make Navy SEAL training look like a spa weekend.

At one point, I'm pretty sure she picked me up and used me like a kettlebell. Not metaphorically. Literally lifted me over her head for what she called “couple's exercises.” The medical bay later confirmed I'd experienced G-forces typically reserved for fighter pilots.

But it wasn’t all one-sided, I’ll admit. The real breakthrough came on day three, when I was sprawled across our bed like roadkill, desperately trying to recover from what Green Lady had cheerfully described as “light warmup stretches.” My everything hurt. My hair hurt.

That's when I discovered something I couldn’t believe I didn’t think about before.

I'd pulled a Morning Brew from my apron—the one that locks your health at 1 HP for a few hours. But as I raised it to my lips, Green Lady snatched it right out of my hands.

“TINY MAN DRINKS MAGIC JUICE?” she asked, eyes lighting up like a kid who'd just discovered the cookie jar.

Before I could explain that A) it wasn't juice, B) it was definitely not meant for nine-foot-tall goblin warrior princesses, and C) I wasn't sure her body could process it without exploding, she'd already knocked it back in one gulp.

I waited for her to keel over. Or explode. Or transform into something even more terrifying.

Instead, she grinned, a expression that revealed far too many teeth for comfort, and flexed. Her already considerable muscles bulged like she'd just mainlined protein powder mixed with rocket fuel.

“MORE,” she demanded, holding out the empty cup like Oliver Twist with anger management issues.

Over the next few days, we ended up splitting everything; Battle Brews, Booster Concoctions, even some of the weirder experimental stuff I'd been afraid to try solo. Turns out, Green Lady had the constitution of a black hole and the enthusiasm of an alcoholic at an open bar. I learned what a half-dozen other brews did in record time.

But it was the Battle Brews that really impressed her. The first time I handed her an INCREME, she looked at the can like I'd just offered her the secrets of the universe.

“TINY MAN MAKES WARRIOR JUICE?”

“It's... more complicated… yes, yes Little Man makes warrior juice,” I said.

When the enhancement hit her, I finally understood why the System had been so enthusiastic about catchphrases. Green Lady, pumped full of caffeine and cosmic energy, spent twenty minutes punching holes in the reinforced walls while shouting things like “FISTS OF JUSTICE BREWING!” and “TASTE THE RAINBOW OF PAIN!”

Whiskers later informed me that the Mewsari engineering department had submitted a formal request for hazard pay.

But the look on her face when the effects wore off—pure, unfiltered admiration—made all the property damage worth it. For the first time since this cosmic nightmare began, someone looked at my ridiculous coffee powers and saw something genuinely impressive instead of just weird.

“TINY MAN,” she said, eyes wide with what I can only describe as reverence, “IS MAGIC.”

Coming from a giant warrior princess who could benchpress a small building, that felt pretty good.

When the ceremony was complete on day eight, I stumbled my way to the ship's medical bay with a collection of System notifications that read like a combination of injury reports and bragging:

[Constitution +13]

[Pain Tolerance +15]

[Flexibility +14]

[Stamina +17]

[New Achievement Unlocked: Death by Snu-Snu!]

You survived intimate relations with a being of significantly greater strength, dexterity, and constitution.

Congratulations! You have been put to the test and lived to tell the tale. Your bones have evolved, hardened into something new, something the periodic table doesn’t have a name for yet. Tougher than steel. Lighter than mithril. Wolverine eat your heart out!

[Healing Factor: +100%]

[Warning: Several of your joints now bend in directions not found in human anatomy textbooks.]

The medical droid that checked me over made several concerned beeping sounds and recommended I avoid “strenuous activity” for at least a year.

Green Lady, meanwhile, looked absolutely radiant. She'd apparently found the whole experience “refreshing” and was already planning our second honeymoon for when I'd “built up more stamina.” She'd also taken to referring to me as her “delicate little flower,” which was both endearing and deeply concerning.

I made a mental note to never, ever get on her bad side. Or her good side, for that matter. Maybe just aim for a safe middle distance.

“Tiny mate very resilient,” she declared proudly to anyone who'd listen, which unfortunately included most of the ship's crew. “Will make strong offspring!”

I choked on my recovery Brew of Hope. “Offspring?”

She beamed, patting my head with enough force to rattle my teeth.

---

The war council convened in Whiskers' private quarters three days later. The room was spartanly elegant—polished surfaces, floating holographic displays, and furniture that somehow managed to look both alien and oddly familiar. Like IKEA had been redesigned by cats.

Present: Admiral Whiskers sitting on a soft cushion. Whipsteele, boots propped on the table. The Xarnathi King—Grax—who'd immediately asked if I had any more of that “warrior juice” his daughter had been telling him about. And me, still walking like someone who'd been hit by a freight train driven by another very enthusiastic freight train.

Riley and Peña had returned to Earth to begin peace talks and explain the updated situation.

“Twenty-one days,” Whiskers said without preamble, his tail flicking toward the holographic countdown floating above the table. “Chuck arrives with a Network fleet, and Earth becomes his playground.”

The display showed our solar system, Earth highlighted in sickly red. Surrounding it, dozens of trajectory lines converged like arrows aimed at a bullseye.

“Any chance we can talk them out of it?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“There’s no one to convince. The ships headed for Earth aren't normal fleets,” Whipsteele said. “The Network sucks the life out of species and turn them into remote-controlled meat; puppets, who’s owners died long ago.”

“Think we’ll have help from the other Council members?” I asked,

“Depends on what you agree to give them in return,” Whiskers said dryly. “The problem is Earth doesn't know we're allies now. As far as your people are concerned, we're still at war And while you can promise things and barter, are you sure your fellow humans will listen?”

I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache building. “So we've got twenty-one days to convince eight billion people that the aliens trying to kill them last month are now the good guys?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“And if we can't?”

Whiskers' ears flattened slightly. “Then, we give it our best. But even the Mewsari will need certain agreements, to enter war on your behalf. But there is no guarantee that your people don’t fight us instead of him, we all die horribly, and Earth becomes the Network's newest theme park.”

The timer ticked down.

“There's more,” Whipsteele said. “The Karens aren't done with you, I can promise you that. Cassandra's been awfully quiet since the trial, which means she's planning something.”

I felt my jaw clench.

That's when I felt it; a stirring in the back of my mind, like someone gently shaking me awake.

Jerry.

Marla's voice, barely audible even in my thoughts. The Earth Core, speaking for the first time since our integration.

He's close. We don't have much time.

The others kept talking, planning supply routes and communication strategies, but I could barely hear them over the sudden pressure in my skull. The Core was resonating with something, like a tuning fork that had found its matching note.

“Jerry?” Whiskers' voice seemed to come from very far away. “Are you alright?”

I looked up to find them all staring at me with varying degrees of concern. “Yeah, just... the Core. She's waking up.”

“She's telling me Chuck is closer than we think.”

As if summoned by my words, my HUD flashed with an update that made my blood run cold:

[WARNING: TIMELINE ACCELERATION DETECTED]

[CHUCK'S ARRIVAL: 14 DAYS, 6 HOURS, 22 MINUTES]

[REASON: UNKNOWN]

“Shit,” I whispered.

Whiskers read the panic on my face. “How long do we actually have?”

“Two weeks. Maybe less. Chuck is speeding up.”