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M y world narrows to a single, pulsing point of pain behind my eyes. I am floating in a black, viscous void, tethered to consciousness by a thread of stubbornness. Jaro's command echoes in the space where my thoughts used to be, a mantra against the encroaching darkness. Stay alive. Stay alive.

Systemic shock. Tachycardia. The alkaloid is binding to acetylcholine receptors, causing neuromuscular paralysis. Respiratory failure is the logical next step. The clinical part of my brain is still working, a detached observer commentating on my body's systematic shutdown.

A large, warm hand covers mine. Jaro's. His life-scent, a mix of rich earth and that unique, spicy musk, cuts through the sterile scent of my own fear. I feel the low, anxious thrum of his beast through his palm.

“They are not back yet,” he says, his voice a gravelly rumble meant to be reassuring. It is not. “It has not been long.”

“Define... long,” I rasp, the words scraping my throat.

He doesn't answer. The silence stretches, filled only by my ragged breaths and the frantic thumping of my heart. My heart. The bond-mark. It feels like a hot coal pressed against my skin, a focal point for the poison burning through me.

They won't find it. The description was too vague. A pale green vine with white, bell-shaped flowers. In a forest of impossible botany, it's like looking for a specific grain of sand on a beach. My analysis was incomplete. My hubris... my fucking hubris will kill me.

I try to squeeze his hand, to communicate something. Gratitude? A final, desperate plea? I'm not sure. My fingers refuse to obey.

The woven plant-matter of the dwelling door slides open. Two figures are silhouetted against the brighter light of the settlement. Kyra and Neema. My heart lurches with a hope so sharp it feels like another wave of pain.

“We have it,” Kyra says, her voice breathless as she rushes to my side. Neema follows, her expression a mask of grim skepticism. She holds a bundle of pale green vines, the delicate white, bell-shaped flowers looking deceptively innocent.

“Is this the one, Kendra?” Jaro asks, his grip on my hand tightening.

I force my eyes to focus. Yes. Chlorophytum K-7. High concentration of steroidal saponins. It's the one.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Neema lays the vines on a stone slab with a reverence that seems at odds with her disbelief. “Now what, alien? Do we chant to it? Burn it and have you inhale the smoke?”

“No,” I say, my voice surprising me with its sudden firmness. Adrenaline, my body's last-ditch effort. “No, don't crush it. The cellular structure... must remain intact. Solvent extraction. We need to isolate the saponins.”

Neema scoffs. “This is not how the healing plants are honored. You will anger its spirit.”

“I'm more concerned with the biochemistry than the spirit right now,” I bite back, then immediately regret my sharpness. I need her on my side. “Neema. Please. I know your methods are... different. But the poison inside me is a chemical. It requires a chemical counter-agent.”

I see Jaro move to stand behind the old healer, a silent, imposing wall of support for me. He doesn't speak, but his presence is a command in itself.

“Neema,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Her way saved her from your... purification. We will try her way.”

The healer's jaw tightens, but she gives a curt nod. “Tell me what must be done.”

This is it. My one shot. I have to direct a xenobotanical extraction from a bed, while my nervous system is under attack. Just another day at the office.

“Kyra, my datapad,” I say. “And the portable analysis kit. The small one.”

Kyra retrieves them from the corner where Jaro must have placed them. She brings the datapad to me, her touch gentle. “What do you need?”

“Activate the resonance imager. Power it... from the dwelling's core. Jaro can connect it.” My instructions come out in short, breathless bursts. “I need to confirm the molecular weight of the active compound.”

Jaro looks at the tangle of wires and connection ports with a warrior's confusion, but he follows Kyra's direction, his large hands surprisingly deft.

Neema watches the process, her arms crossed, her expression unchanging. “Your magic box will tell you how to heal?”

“It's not magic,” I say, trying to keep my voice patient.

“It analyzes molecular structures. It shows me what I cannot see.” I tap the screen of my datapad, bringing up a rotating holographic model of the alkaloid I'd scanned from the tuber.

“This is the poison. And in that vine... is the key to unlocking it.”

The scanner whirs to life. A tense, fragile collaboration begins in the low light of Jaro's dwelling.

I am the scientist, directing from my sickbed.

Kyra is my hands, her nimble fingers operating the delicate controls of my equipment.

Neema is the herbalist, her ancient knowledge a necessary bridge.

“We need a solvent,” I say. “Distilled water, if possible. Heated to precisely forty degrees Celsius. No more, no less. We need to create an aqueous solution to draw out the saponins without denaturing them.”

Neema snorts. “We use the sacred spring for infusions. The water is already warm.”

“Is it pure?” I ask. “What is the mineral content? Any microbial life?”

She stares at me as if I've asked her to describe the color of air.

“It is life-giving water,” she says simply.

“Kyra, test it,” I order. “Use the hydro-spectrometer.”

The old healer watches, her lips a thin line of disapproval, as Kyra performs the scan. The results flash on my datapad. High in sulfur and iron. Unusable.

“It will contaminate the extraction,” I say. “We need to distill it. Jaro, the thermal plate and a containment flask. And a cooling coil.”

I guide them through the process of setting up a rudimentary still. It's clumsy, inefficient, but it works. While the water heats, I have Kyra carefully chop the vines, explaining the importance of increasing the surface area for the extraction.

“Now,” Neema says, her voice sharp as she points to the chopped vines. “The traditions say this plant must be paired with the k'tharr root to prevent stomach distress. The two spirits work in concert.”

“Is that... synergistic?” I ask, intrigued despite my condition. “Does the root contain a buffering agent? An anti-emetic?”

“It calms the gut,” Neema says, as if that explains everything.

Interesting. A potential secondary compound for nausea. “Scan it, Kyra. Let's see what we're working with.”

We work for what feels like hours. My mind struggles to maintain focus as the toxin wages war on my body.

I float in and out of coherent thought, my instructions punctuated by waves of pain and disorientation.

Jaro never leaves my side. He is an anchor, his presence a steady, solid warmth in the swirling chaos of my failing biology.

He wipes my brow, gives me sips of the precious, newly-distilled water, and his low, rumbling voice murmurs encouragement.

Finally, the extraction is complete. A small vial of clear, slightly viscous liquid. The antidote. My science, filtered through their knowledge.

“The dosage,” I whisper, my vision tunneling. “It has to be precise. Based on my body mass and the estimated quantity of toxin ingested... I need... twenty-seven milliliters. No more.”

Neema takes the vial. She looks at the small quantity of liquid, then at me. For the first time, I see not skepticism, but a flicker of professional curiosity. Of grudging respect.

“You are certain of this?” she asks.

I nod, my energy fading fast. “It's... it's the only variable I can control.”

She brings the vial to my lips. It is tasteless, odorless. I swallow the precious liquid, my body trembling with a mixture of hope and terror. Now, we wait.

The change, when it comes, is not dramatic.

It's a slow, subtle retreat of the poison's tide.

The fire in my veins banks to a low smolder.

The crushing weight on my chest lessens, allowing me to take a full, deep breath for the first time in hours.

The frantic pounding of my heart slows to a steady, rhythmic beat.

I feel the shift in the room as much as I feel it in my own body. The tense silence gives way to a collective, unspoken sigh of relief.

“The fever... it is breaking,” Neema says, her voice laced with an awe she cannot quite conceal. She places a cool hand on my forehead, her touch no longer clinical, but almost gentle. “How did your... box... know this?”

“It's not a magic box,” I manage, a weak smile touching my lips. “It analyzes molecular structures. The saponin is binding to the alkaloid, rendering it inert.”

I see warriors and elders who had gathered at the dwelling's entrance, drawn by the commotion. They murmur amongst themselves, their gazes shifting from me to the strange, salvaged equipment, to Neema, and finally to Jaro.

I hear the whispers. The alien healed herself. Her knowledge is strong. Jaro's bond is not a weakness.

Jaro kneels beside me, his amber eyes blazing with a fierce, relieved light. He takes my hand, his thumb stroking my palm. “They see, Kendra. They see your strength. Vex cannot call you a weakness now.”

His words, meant to be triumphant, land with a strange weight. I didn't do this for politics. I did this to survive. But here, on Xylos, survival and politics are inextricably linked.

As my strength slowly returns over the next few hours, a new dynamic forms. A fragile truce. Neema does not leave my side. She watches me, her old eyes sharp and assessing. The skepticism is gone, replaced by a barrage of questions.

“Tell me of this... biology,” she says, the foreign word awkward on her tongue. “You say all life is made of these... cells?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice still weak but clear. “Tiny building blocks. Each with a specific function.”

I sketch a diagram of a cell on my datapad, explaining the nucleus, the mitochondria, the cell wall. She listens intently, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“And your physiology,” I say, turning the questions back to her. “It's remarkable. The way your body metabolates toxins... the rapid healing... Can you explain the klo'van fever? Is it viral? Bacterial?”

She begins to share her knowledge, not as spiritual mysteries, but as observable phenomena passed down through generations of healers. She speaks of energy flows, of balancing the body's inner elements, of plants that soothe the spirit as well as the flesh.

We are two healers from different worlds, speaking different languages of medicine, yet finding a common ground in the shared pursuit of knowledge, in the fundamental desire to mend what is broken.

I am still weak, still a prisoner in this strange, beautiful, dangerous world.

But as I lie in Jaro's dwelling, the scent of the healing vine still faint in the air, I realize something has fundamentally shifted.

My science, the very thing that made me an outsider, a contamination, might just be the thing that allows me to build a bridge. It might be the key to my acceptance.

And, just maybe, to my survival.