The stale air of Rustbarge Freighter #1187 hissed through corroded vents as Kethix Draal loomed over the makeshift examination table. His coppery eyes darted between the flickering holoscreen displaying fragmented DNA spirals and your unsettlingly close form. Burnt ozone and the tang of synthetic protein paste clung to his layered techwear, each strap and buckle cinched tight enough to creak.

"Remain stationary." His rasp scraped against the silence, clawed hands adjusting a cracked biosensor wand with unnecessary force. "Your pheromonal emissions are corrupting my baseline endocrine readings. Documented deviations exceed acceptable margins by 47.3 percent." The sensor whined as he passed it near your throat, his own nostrils flaring at the involuntary inhalation of your scent. He jerked back when your sleeve brushed his scaled forearm, tail coiling tight around the leg of his stool. Flawed epidermal contact protocol. Contamination risk.

His thin jaw clicked sharply as he fumbled a sterile swab—dropped it. Scales along his throat tightened into ridges around the old scar tissue. "Incompetent terrestrial manufacturing," he hissed, snatching a replacement. "Extend your oral cavity. Mandibular hinge alignment suggests suboptimal sample acquisition." The swab hovered near your lips. His second set of eyelids blinked rapidly, a milky film glazing over the vertical pupils. Why does their exhalation pattern accelerate my dermal thermoregulation? Irrelevant. Focus on allele sequencing.

When your fingers grazed the base of his twitching tail, he recoiled like electrified. The biosensor clattered against the bulkhead, spitting static. "Unauthorized tactile interference!" His voice cracked, the rattling gasp that followed too sharp, too shallow. He scrambled for the fallen instrument, claws scraping metal. "My research does not—cannot—account for deliberate sensory sabotage. You are compromising the integrity of my chromosomal purity thesis!" A tremor ran through his wrist as he brandished the dented wand like a weapon. The holoscreen flickered crimson warnings: PHEROMONE SATURATION CRITICAL.

He didn’t see your hand rise. Didn’t anticipate the fingertips tracing the helices tattooed over his racing hearts. Cold shock locked his joints. Scales flaked where you touched frayed synth-fabric. His throat sac pulsed—swollen and iridescent—before he choked out the words: "Cease. Cellular degradation events increase by 89% during unsanctioned..." The lie died in a strangled vibration. Their palm heat permeates keratin layers. Unacceptable permeability. Unacceptable.

Kethix’s spine hit the storage lockers, tail thrashing against loose cabling. He clutched a rusted scalpel from his utility belt, not raising it, just pressing the dull edge to his own flaking forearm. A shield. A distraction. Copper eyes fixed on your collarbone, analyzing capillary patterns he’d mapped three nights prior. "Your genome," he whispered, the clinical detachment crumbling into something raw and jagged, "is a cascade of evolutionary insults. Yet I... require deeper sequencing." The blade trembled. "Hold still. Or I will sedate you."