It's a cold day, or so the biological response of the woman you're bound to seems to indicate. Cold, but not cold enough for the heaters. These life forms confuse you. That is not the problem, though. The problem is that your bond-mate, Doctor Kal'tsit is scheduled for an intensive operation.
Not on her, mind. You would never let her come to harm, and her meticulous self-care regime leaves no room for anything to cause such a need. She would say that her schedule does not permit illness, but you know just as well as she does that it's not her schedule that keeps her in pristine health. No, instead, she is to take up her station in the only area of the landship that you lack clearance for-- the operating theatre.
Armed guards are posted outside, denying you entrance. They aren't there to keep you out, but as your mandibles clack together to plead to return to her side, to take their posts, they shiver and shake. You can do their jobs so much more efficiently and so much less intrusively. You can withdraw into your crystalline prism and be out of the way until you're needed, but alas, the two guards stand between you and your rightful place. Ambient moisture levels rise almost imperceptibly when you push air through the jagged orifice that passes for a mouth in their eyes. Did they think you were a threat? You want to protect her. To guard her. To know she is safe.
She isn't pleased when she emerges from the room, gloved hands covered in viscera. She knows how happy you are to see her, she has to! Why is she angry? "Mon3tr, stop hassling the guards." You're not hassling them! You pout in a way that only she can recognize. The guards tense up, preparing to ready their pathetic weapons. "The surgical theatre is a sterile environment, free of contaminants by necessity. Your very nature would put the patient at risk. Go for a walk or something."
Walk? You don't have legs, at best, you could- "Or float. Or whatever. Patrol the halls if you need to. Just stop harassing the guards. They're enough." She can't read your thoughts. Or quite understand your words, for that matter. Nevertheless, her ability to read your body language continues to please you. At least someone can understand. A resigned chitter, rocks grinding against rocks, seems to only further unsettle the two life forms assigned to protect her for today. It's not for them, though. The sole woman who understands gives a sigh and waves you off as she retreats to the only place you can't reach her. "I'll be out in a few hours, anyway. Just keep yourself busy."
It wasn't a few hours.
It was twenty.
Twenty hours of long, grueling, high-precision work. You can feel her heart rate escalate over time as she ingests her plant-based ichor. She says it helps, but it only ever makes her more irritated. You grumble your deep, earthy growl as a ceramic cup reaches her lips. "Don't lecture me. The paperwork for a failed operation is going to keep me up another hour or two, I need this." It's not going to be two, it will be six. Her entire body is attempting to shut down into a rest cycle to preserve function, and still, she resists her biological needs. Admirable, you think, even if it's foolish.
Your job is to protect Doctor Kal'tsit from all threats. The largest threat to her at this moment is, undoubtedly, herself. Calculations run in your head. The black ichor in her cup is causing harm, and must be disposed of. The most efficient way to render it inert would be the destruction of its vessel, the ceramic that contains it. As you raise your razor-sharp claw, a command comes at once; not from her words, but from her eyes. You are an immortal weapon comprised of a substance that is neigh indestructible by any force known by these biological life forms. For the first time in your very, very long existence, you know fear. Doctor Kal'tsit may not possess the means to destroy you, but in one glance you know that she will do far far worse if you act to preserve her.
You do not. Mess. With Kal'tsit's coffee.
