Page 31 of Naga's Mate

"Easy," Reed appears beside me with clinical detachment. "The purging compounds worked faster than expected. We had to perform an emergency procedure to complete the termination."

Termination. Such a sanitized word for what happened. I was pregnant, and now I'm not. The hybrid child that had somehow become more than just an unwanted biological imposition is gone.

"How long have I been here?" My voice sounds unfamiliar to my own ears.

"Three days," Reed checks something on a tablet. "Your vital signs are stabilizing, though you'll experience significant withdrawal as the remaining naga biochemicals leave your system."

As if summoned by his words, violent tremors course through my body, muscles contracting painfully as they demand what I can no longer provide. My skin feels simultaneously too tight and numb in patches. Sweat breaks across my forehead while chills race down my spine.

"I need—" The words die in my throat. What I need is venom. My body screams for it with an addiction more profound than any chemical dependency I've studied.

Reed produces a syringe filled with amber liquid. "This will help manage the symptoms. We can't eliminate them completely, but this should dull the worst until your system purges the last naga influence."

The injection burns through my veins, nothing like the euphoric rush of Nezzar's venom. It softens the worst tremors but leaves a hollow ache behind, a persistent emptiness encompassing more than just physical withdrawal.

"Where are we?" I ask when coherent thought returns.

"Somewhere safe," Reed replies with maddening vagueness. "Rest now. We'll talk more when you're stronger."

Rest proves impossible when your body fights itself, when half your cells seem to mourn a connection they believe should still exist while the others struggle to function without alien biochemistry directing them.

The next few days pass in a blur of pain, medication, and gradually returning clarity. Reed appears regularly with injections that barely touch the worst symptoms, each time assuring me they'll fade as my system "normalizes." His choice of words doesn't escape me—as if my adaptation to Nezzar's venom was aberrant rather than an extraordinary evolutionary response.

When I'm finally strong enough to leave the bed, curiosity drives me to explore beyond the small medical room that's become my new prison. Because that's what this is—locked door, limited access, monitored movement—still captivity, just with different surroundings.

The resistance compound reveals itself as a converted pre-Conquest research station, its utilitarian architecture starkly contrasting the organic integration of function and form in Nezzar's quarters. Everything here is aggressively human—sharp angles, artificial lighting, temperature control maintaining a constant, slightly-too-cool environment without accommodation for individual comfort.

I wait until Reed becomes occupied with other tasks before venturing further, following the layout I've been mapping mentally. My scientific curiosity persists, even without enhanced senses. What I discover during these unauthorized explorations systematically dismantles the noble freedom-fighter narrative I'd always associated with resistance efforts.

The first laboratory I slip into contains rows of specimen containers housing tissue samples. The labels freeze my blood: "Naga embryonic tissue," "Juvenile scale regeneration," "Venom gland extraction—sub-adult male." These aren't specimens collected from natural deaths or medical necessity—they're trophies harvested from kills.

In another section, I find biological weapons under development. Not defensive measures, but offensive formulations specifically targeting naga reproductive systems. One compound labeled "Clutch Sterilizer"—designed to render eggs nonviable while causing maximum distress to the mother. Another bearing the clinical designation "Juvenile Neural Disruptor," which accompanying notes explain will cause paralysis and slow death in naga offspring not yet mature enough to develop immunity.

My hands tremble as I carefully commit certain formulations to memory. Not to replicate them, but to understand what might be deployed against the nagas—against Nezzar. Knowledge equals survival, and currently, I'm navigating hostile territory.

The propaganda materials displayed in common areas reveal the Purist faction ideology underpinning this branch of resistance. Posters depict hybrid offspring as monstrous abominations, their features exaggerated into grotesque caricatures. One image particularly sickens me—a stylized rendering of a human woman giving birth to serpentine creatures devouring her from within. The caption reads, "The Future They Want For Us."

The same future that was growing inside me. The same future violently taken away.

Most disturbing are the trophy collections maintained by senior resistance members. Behind glass, illuminated like museum pieces: iridescent scales harvested from nagas of various ages, fangs extracted from juveniles not fully mature, preserved reproductive organs displayed with clinical notations about size and venom production capacity. Each specimen labeled with the collector's name and "acquisition" date, documenting hunting trophies.

I maintain an expression of neutral interest when observed, nodding at appropriate moments during indoctrination sessions Reed insists I attend. Internally, something fundamental has shifted. The resistance I once idealized now appears as extremist as the Prime forces they oppose—perhaps more so in their willingness to target the most vulnerable.

When I've gathered sufficient evidence to warrant confrontation, I approach Reed in his private laboratory while he works on what he euphemistically calls "species control agents."

"You killed children during my extraction," I state without preamble.

Reed doesn't look up from his microscope. "We neutralized three juvenile threats adjacent to the extraction route."

"They were children."

"They were monsters in development." Now he meets my gaze, his expression clinically detached in a way that suddenly seems more alien than Nezzar's inhuman features ever did. "The only good naga is a dead one. Especially the young ones before they reach full strength."

His casual discussion of infanticide sends ice through my veins. "Those were living beings under Nezzar's protection."

"Protection." Reed scoffs. "Is that what you call it when he forced himself on you? When he pumped you full of venom until you couldn't think straight? When he impregnated you with that abomination?"

Each word strikes like a physical blow, not because they're accurate but because they're so profoundly simplistic. Yes, Nezzar claimed me without consent. Yes, his venom created dependency. But something else had developed between us—something complex and unnamed that transcended the simple captivity narrative Reed clings to.

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