Exile's Nightmare and Ichor Rebirth
During the rapid quarantine while I was stressed from the blood transfusion, the woman who'd been sentenced to a week of exile returned to the Shelter entrance. Her clothes were stained yellow everywhere and caked in dirt. Her hair looked like someone had set off fireworks in it, and her eyes were hollow. But as the massive external door of the Shelter ground open, life slowly returned to her. The artificial lighting visible beyond the door—nothing compared to the sun's brilliance—filled her with an indescribable coziness. Tears streamed from her eyes.
The week she'd spent in the wild had completely upended her worldview. To her now, the sun was no longer a symbol of nature's mercy. It was merely a bystander, watching impassively as she shivered miserably in the cold and terror of death.
She had two stops ahead: the decontamination chamber first, then solitary confinement. Only after both would her sins be forgiven, allowing her return to city life.
> Move.
A nearby guard robot issued the order. It was a platoon dispatched per security protocols for external door openings—terrifying faces and rifles that could spew fire at any moment. What she'd once seen as ominous now felt utterly reassuring.
> Remove your clothing and shoes, place them in the collection bin.
A green-painted medical robot directed her in front of the decontamination chamber. She stripped naked in seconds and stood at attention, awaiting the next command. Goosebumps prickled her skin from the cold, but with sweat, grime, and dirt coating her body, they went unnoticed.
The first night of exile had been pure hell. She hadn't slept a wink. She'd shaken off the Walker trailing her, but as night fell, wild animal howls and monster cries echoed from all directions—some distant, others unnervingly close. Back in normal times, lights shone like beacons even at midnight somewhere. Now, everything was pitch black. The darkness was like wind over the sea: harmless in itself, but the waves of terror it carried crushed her, suffocating. With sight, hearing, and sense of direction disrupted, shrieks seemed poised to pounce any second. Terrified the things would hear her pounding heart, she clutched her chest and curled up. She'd doze off only to jolt awake at a roar, falling on her ass, then panic at the snap of a twig—rinse and repeat. After stumbling countless times in the dark, she looked like a beggar by day's end.
Find a hiding spot. That was the only thought etched in her mind. Foraging for food wasn't an option; her plan from the start was to hole up somewhere and starve out the week.
Day two, midday. Sleep-deprived, she desperately needed rest. A roadside shop building caught her eye, but instinct screamed not to enter. The darkness beyond the open shutter set off alarms. Infected loved shadows and had endless patience. An apparently empty building might hide one in hibernation behind the counter. Even a safe-looking house could turn into an antlion pit in an instant. She'd learned all this from Shelter screen broadcasts.
"Kieeeek—!" She remembered robot soldiers scouting an empty-looking car center, ambushed by four Walkers. The robots shredded them, but in her place, she'd be the one torn apart.
She gave up on the building. Charging into a dark structure was suicide.
Late afternoon brought another building, but shadowy movement through broken windows—too large and writhing to be human—deterred her. Night fell; she hid in an agricultural canal. She felt monstrous eyes watching, closing in. It seemed inevitable she'd be caught before the week ended.
Day three. As night hit, despair nearly claimed her. Blistered feet throbbed like stimulants to stay awake, but she passed out anyway.
Day four. She realized she was utterly alone out here. No people, barely any traces left. Only twisted silhouettes lurked. She found a goral corpse on the road—every part devoured to bone, except the intact upper jaw. Tongue blackened and rotted, eyes pecked out, just empty sockets. Then Walker shrieks—closer and clearer than ever, aimed right at her. She ran till her lungs burned and knees buckled. She couldn't go farther.
Day five. The world finally showed mercy: an abandoned 8-ton truck, damaged and doorless. Cargo bed empty after careful check, she climbed in and lay down.
"Guhk."
Turning her head nearly brought a scream; she clamped her mouth, stifling whimpers. Right beside her lay a clothed skeleton. Empty eye sockets stared. She couldn't touch it, nor risk tossing it out and attracting attention. Crawling farthest from it, she lay still. The high sides should hide her from Infected eyes. Two calorie bars in the cab gave slim hope.
She endured the rest lying there. Manageable. Hunger and thirst persisted, but the watched feeling faded, legs and feet rested. Motionless, forgetting everything—even pissing herself lying down. Extreme tension mercifully prevented cramps. A monster might peer in and roar anytime, but she'd deal then. Now... she was exhausted.
Day seven.
> Shelter Guard. Show yourself.
When the Guard APC arrived, she wept like never before, invoking Jesus and Buddha. The guard robot didn't rush her clinging to its leg, tears flowing. It stood vigilant, waiting for calm. That was her journey.
Now inside the Shelter, just quarantine and solitary left—nightmare over.
> Medication required for decontamination process.
The medical robot handed a paper cup half-filled with blue liquid. She gulped it without question.
> Executing rapid decontamination. Follow.
The curt command thrilled her—someone speaking to her. The all-white chamber sealed with a hiss, iris door closing. Soothing classical music played.
> Spread-eagle position.
High-pressure jets blasted from all sides for seconds, black filth sluicing off her back, ass, legs, ankles. Hiss! Sprays fired like dozens at once, covering her in pale green foam—mix of disinfectants and cleaners. Jets again. Repeated. Her skin gleamed apricot clean. Floor drains sucked grime with motor whir, vibrating soles ticklishly.
The rest matched "rapid"—torturous, human laundry as I'd described. Worst: invasive cleaning.
"Wh-what's this?"
A custom chair awaited—like massage bed mashed with gynecologist's. Tray supported navel to chest for prone position; knee-to-ankle rests below. Head-level handgrips evoked historical dramas of laboring mothers gripping ceiling ropes. Gurgle. Her gut signaled.
> Sit.
Kneeling prone on the chair, robot held transparent tube hose—tip softly shaped, lubed, amplifying dread.
> Deep breath, relax.
Squish.
"Eek!"
The tube slid gently into her anus. No pain thanks to robot skill, but foreign intrusion overwhelming. Multiple violations, probation crimes, Green Zone violence, vital damage—payback etched bone-deep. Suction started; discomfort and shame brought tears. Robot scanned, unperturbed.
> Complete. Good work.
Invasive clean ended spraying antibacterial into empty bowels. Sudden cold flood made her ass quiver. Analysis done.
Fecal Exam: Complete
Saliva Exam: Complete
Blood Exam: Complete
Tissue Exam: Complete
No Hazards Detected. Pattern: All Green.
Full body wash done, she collapsed, unable to stand. Lingering air in bowels bloated, but no strength to fart. Robot arms-carried her out. Thump. Pffft. Each step jolted air-farts from her. Disinfectant only, but shame crimsoned her face.
> Perfectly normal. No need for shame.
Comfort protocol useless. Solitary door opened; robot set her down. Final punishment/quarantine wait over, city life beckoned. Nightmare ended. Deep-sunk hope rose, grasping happiness, swimming to surface.
"She'll behave from now on."
The woman in solitary looked transformed at a glance. Eyes different from trial—meek lamb now.
They say a child won't stop crying until its wish is granted.
Some adults act like kids forever.
To stop the crying, two ways: grant the wish, or ignore till tears run dry. They always do eventually.
Artemis advocated permanent exile. Can't keep indulging forever, she said. She valued a single 12.7mm bullet over metaphysical mercy.
Doesn't look like trouble now.
Camera feed showed her kitten-calm in the glass cell.
"She'll stay good. If not, next time it's permanent exile waiting."
I eyed Artemis. "Won't stop that."
Stretching arms and back. Tubes pulled yesterday; awkward sleep positions left me stiff. Adaptation nearing end—body handling it sans transfusion.
Full adaptation in two days.
Artemis monitored real-time.
"Send flight plans and regional maps. Start memorizing today."
Post-recovery: fourth expedition to Baekdu Daegan Global Seed Vault. Remote mountains, sealed facilities, low population—far but easy. Still, Gyeongsang far; prep fully.
Already sent.
PDA pinged. She'd prepared ahead.
Two days later.
> Scanning.
Artemis ticked off vitals, but I knew peak condition. Power surged through me.
How do you feel?
Voice brimming pride—she'd upgraded blood tech superiorly. Deserved.
If mortals seek purity in flesh, no man matches your pristine form. The blood bathing every corner is true Ichor—gods' own. Rejoice in your purified rebirth.
Correction: her pride was in me, her masterpiece.
"Peak condition. Hard to believe I was wheezing recently."
Bodybuilder poses, pumping muscles. Before, just strain; now, blood invaded fibers like willful force, flooding energy. Like miracle oasis in desert—streams greening sand, sprouting life. Old body muscular, but now? Barren waste by comparison.
"Wonder if Steve Rogers felt this first turning Super Soldier."
Finger flex, fist clench—raw power shifted. Myriad Herculean RBCs clinging, infusing might.
Where to?
Exiting Central Control.
"Best way to adapt body or gear? Use it a ton."
Shadowboxed fighter-style.
More elegant options exist?
Screen showed military sim.
"Real training like real fights."
Shadowboxed: Thwack! Whoosh! Air punches with mouth sounds.
Can't stop you.
Opening all doors ahead.
Next: Peacekeeper HQ gym. Astoundingly, sprint there left me breathless-free. Gasps auto-corrected by inner force. Overflowing power. Old blood? Handcart. New? Freight train, hauling oxygen-coal to muscles. Enhanced cells neutralized exercise radicals.
Clang!
"Hup!" "Hah!"
Gym alive with trainees forging muscle. All in "Shelter Security" crop tops, sweat-soaked white clinging. Rippling everywhere, sweat gleaming on necks, collarbones, pits, navels—skin tones varied, sheen universal brilliance.
Whoosh—
Female flesh and sweat crashed like tsunami. Not sticky or foul: sacred forge scent.