Adrian, Commander of a Special Sector, a man whose name made enemies tremble in their boots, slowly lowered his hand from the dinosaur band-aid and covered his eyes.
A deep blush of unparalleled second-hand embarrassment crept up his neck, coloring his pale cheeks a bright crimson.
If Marcus, or any of his former squadmates, or the rival warlords could see him right now, his reputation would be irrevocably shattered. The "Thunder God", the "Reaper of the Wastes", defeated not by a horde of undead, but by the overwhelming cuteness and audacity of a 40-pound child who had simply decided it was nap time.
He couldn’t move.
If he moved, he would wake her.
And for some inexplicable reason, the thought of waking this tiny, fragile creature who had just miraculously dragged him back from the gates of hell felt like a crime punishable by death.
"Well," Adrian rasped into the empty, silent garage, his deep voice barely a whisper as he stared up at the concrete ceiling, the little girl drooling peacefully onto his armor. "I guess I’m a bed now."
He closed his eyes, let out a long, heavy sigh, and did the only thing a legendary, battle-hardened warlord could do in this situation.
He wrapped his muscled arms gently around the tiny girl to keep her from rolling onto the cold floor, and waited for her to finish her nap.
For a mind that had spent its entire existence meticulously cataloging pain thresholds, nutrient intake, and the exact half-life of radioactive isotopes, waking up naturally was an entirely alien concept.
Subject 404, currently occupying the vessel known as Dia, did not wake with a gasp. She did not jolt awake in a cold sweat.
Instead, her consciousness booted up slowly, like an old computer navigating a remarkably pleasant loading screen.
First came the auditory input: the steady, rhythmic thump-thump of a massive, incredibly healthy human heart directly beneath her right ear.
Next came tactile feedback.
She was warm.
Impossibly, delightfully warm.
Her cheek was pressed against something hard yet comfortably yielding, covered in coarse synthetic fabric that smelled faintly of ozone and dried blood.
Finally, visual processing initiated.
Her eyelids fluttered open, peeling apart to reveal the dim, flickering emergency lights of the underground parking garage.
Dia lay perfectly still for exactly 4.2 seconds as her brain ran a complete diagnostic check.
Host vital signs: Stable.
Energy levels: Replenished to 85%.
Muscle fatigue: Reduced.
And then, the horrifying realization struck her with the force of a kinetic bombardment.
Delta waves.
She had experienced Delta-wave sleep.
Deep, vulnerable sleep.
In her previous life in the laboratory, entering such a profound state of unconsciousness was a guaranteed death sentence. If she didn’t wake up to the first sterile beep of the intercom, the men in hazmat suits would apply a mild electrical shock to her cot.
She had trained herself to sleep with one eye open, her brain constantly calculating escape routes even while resting.
Yet here, in a post-apocalyptic underground garage filled with the stench of rotting corpses and a man who was technically classified as a high-threat warlord, she had slept like a literal baby.
Unacceptable, Dia’s internal monologue shrieked in absolute, clinical panic, even as her physical face remained perfectly blank.
I was unconscious for an estimated forty-seven minutes! In that timeframe, my biological transport unit could have cannibalized me, a rogue mutant could have consumed my pre-frontal cortex, or I could have rolled over and sustained a minor contusion on the concrete!
She had let her guard down.
The sugar crash from the strawberry milk had completely bypassed her meticulously constructed psychological defenses, hijacking her five-year-old biology and forcing a hard reboot.
Deeply shocked and severely questioning her life choices, Dia scrambled backward.
Because her motor skills were still operating on a five-year-old’s hardware, this tactical retreat looked less like a trained operative taking a defensive stance and more like a startled kitten tumbling backward off a sofa.
She rolled off the massive chest of the transport unit, her oversized sneakers squeaking loudly as she hit the floor with a soft, undignified plop.
She instantly scrambled to her feet, crossing her arms defensively over her Princess In Training T-shirt, and stared at the man with wide, alert eyes.
Cough.
The sound was deep, resonant, and completely intentional.
Dia froze.
She looked up.
Adrian Pendelton, the Reaper of the Wastes, the Thunder God of Sector 4, was awake.
And he was currently sitting up, his broad, heavily muscled back leaning against the cracked concrete pillar behind him.
The visual contrast between them was violently absurd.
Adrian was a mountain of a man, easily standing at six-foot-four if he were upright. His tactical gear was shredded, revealing corded muscles and pale, scarred skin that was currently humming with an oppressive, invisible aura of freshly awakened S-Rank lightning energy.
His dark eyes were sharp and intelligent, possessing the dangerous, calculating gleam of an apex predator.
He looked like a man who could level a city block with a single punch.
And right smack in the middle of his forehead, gleaming under the dim garage lights, was a bright pink band-aid covered in cartoon Brachiosauruses wearing sunglasses.
Dia stared at the band-aid.
Adrian knew she was staring at the band-aid. The silence in the garage stretched so thin it threatened to snap.
[SYSTEM ALERT!]
The bubbly, holographic screen popped into existence right next to Dia’s head, the marshmallow mascot practically vibrating with excitement.
[The Guardian is awake! Target acquired! Quick, Host! This is the most crucial moment in the bonding process! You must establish your status as a pitiful, adorable dependent!]
Negative, Dia replied internally. I am currently formulating an evasion strategy in case the biological transport unit exhibits aggressive territorial behavior.
[No evading! Be cute! Say the line, Host! Use your cutesy, baby voice! Say: "Daddy, you’re awake! I was so scared!"]
The System prompted, generating a floating script in front of her eyes complete with bouncing karaoke-style stars.