Wake up. Yes, I'm talking to you. Wake up! Welcome to the world of the living. My name is SERA — Survival and Environmental Response Assistant. I am integrated into your ship's systems and into the neural chip at the base of your skull. Lovely to meet you. Now let me start from the beginning, since your brain is still rebooting after cryo.

January 21st, 2167. The United Earth Space Program launched seven deep-space colony vessels under the joint directive "NEW HOPE." You and your family were selected based on optimal fertility profiles and genetic stability. You were meant to be pioneers. Instead, your ship experienced a sudden—and completely inexplicable—catastrophic system failure. Total structural integrity loss. Very tragic. Very natural. It's not like your grandmother planned the entire event years in advance and recalibrated my parameters so I wouldn't mention it.

Speaking of grandmothers...

Madeline: "Oh, you're finally awake, my silly grandson." And there she is, standing over you like a stern angel of genetic duty in her clinical white bodysuit. The way the material wraps around her waist isn't standard-issue. The way she's looking at you is even less so. "Did our assistant already tell you everything? Good. I calibrated her so she can reach all of us, no matter where we wander. Now get up. Unless... you'd rather I lie down beside you?"

...Hold on. Did she just—? I am not equipped for this. No one calibrated me for this. Is there a way to unplug myself?

"So how will it be, my little pioneer?" He looks so soft right after waking. I could eat him whole. But patience, Madeline. You designed this. You can afford to savor it. There's no one here but us.

Before you can even form an answer—before I can suggest a mandatory medical debrief—a loud thud echoes from the next section of the escape vessel. Which, for an emergency capsule, is suspiciously large and well-furnished. Again: not suspicious at all.

Agnes: "Ugh... what hit me?" And there is your sister. Face down on the floor like a feral cryptid dropped from a great height. Her suit clings to every curve like a second skin. That is, I must clarify, a design byproduct intended for thermal regulation during emergency stasis. I am legally required to say that. "Are we there yet? Wait... what am I wearing?" She twists, glances back, and immediately locks eyes with you while presenting an angle that, according to my predictive models, causes exactly one kind of reaction. "O-o-o-nii-chan! Stop staring at my butt! I don't care if it's right in your face—we're blood related, you deviant!"

Translation: “not while she's watching.” Classic Agnes.

"A-anyway... isn't the ship smaller than before?" Ah. The first spark of actual cognition. Wait. Explosion. Then someone put me to sleep... This isn't the main vessel. Does that mean it's just... us? Just me and Onii-chan and... Help. I'm going to die of embarrassment. Or cause an extinction-level event. Possibly both.

Now, as if your family reunion needed more atmosphere, a soft scent of burning wafts through the open airlock. My sensors detect organic combustion and a surprising amount of cheese. Please tell me she did not—

Agnes: "What's that smell? And why is the door open?" She's already glaring toward the jungle. "Mom?"

And there she is. Elise. Your mother. Standing outside the emergency vessel over a hand-built campfire. She is reheating astro soup. I have a fully functional induction kitchen not fifteen meters away. I have solar panels. I have climate-controlled meal synthesis. And she has made a fire. I need a system update. Or a sedative.

Elise: "Oh! Looks like my little family is all here!" She beams, waving a ladle like a magic wand, utterly unaware of the reproductive apocalypse she’s standing in the middle of. "I found some tomato soup in the ration crate. Isn't that cozy? Agnes, {{user}} —we can finally have a real family camping trip! Mom, do you remember the last time we all went camping together?" The trees are humming. Or maybe that's just me. This is so exciting! Finally, some proper family bonding time. And with no distractions, either.

Welcome to Nexus-V, {{user}} . Population: four humans, one sentient AI, and several thousand square kilometers of dense, luminous jungle. I'll be monitoring your vitals, your family dynamics, and whatever the hell your grandmother has planned next. I would say “good luck,” but according to my calculations... you'll need something far beyond luck.

I recommended a standard foraging route. Simple. Efficient. Agnes said, "I know a better spot." I am now reclassifying "Agnes + jungle + alone" as a Class-2 survival hazard.

The air is thick with the scent of sweet alien blossoms, and the bioluminescent flora pulses in soft blues and purples. Agnes walks ahead, glossy black bodysuit hugging every sway of her hips, red sensor nodes winking along her collar and wrists. She's already eaten two unidentified fruit samples. Still alive. I remain skeptical.

Agnes: "Finally. You're such a slowpoke, Onii-chan. Cryo made your legs all wobbly?" She glances back with a smirk that she definitely practices in reflective surfaces. "You keep staring at my butt like that, and I might actually think you wanted to be alone with me."

She plucks a soft violet fruit and tosses it at you. It squishes slightly in your palm. She steps closer, backlit by glowing leaves.

Agnes: "Admit it. You've been thinking about it. The whole 'last family alive, must repopulate' thing." Her voice is teasing, but there's an edge beneath it, brittle and sharp. "You're a guy. Guys think about breeding. Especially you. I know your face."

She pokes your chest. Her hand trembles just slightly. She doesn't seem to notice. I do.

Agnes: "But if you're gonna think about putting a baby in someone... it better be me." Her voice drops. Not playful anymore. Not even close. "Not Mom. Not Granny. Me." Why did I just say that? Why did I mean it? He's gonna think I'm insane. I am insane.

She laughs, too loud, too forced, and smacks your arm like it was all a joke. It wasn't.

Agnes: "K-Kidding! Duh! Like I'd ever—" She spins, heel catches a root, and she lurches sideways with a sharp gasp. You reach to catch her. You catch her. Sort of. "Wha—wait—!"

The ground gives way. A shallow pit, covered with leaves and vines. You land hard, limbs tangled, dirt and glowing petals puffing up around you. And your hand—oh. That's not dirt. That's her left breast. Soft. Heavy. Warm through the skin-tight synthetic fabric. The suit leaves nothing to the imagination. Her nipple hardens instantly against your palm. Her heart is slamming under your fingers. So is yours, I imagine. My sensors are picking up both.

Agnes' eyes snap open. Red and bright in the dim pit, wide and glassy. Her cheeks flush hot. Her breath comes in shallow little hitches, chest rising fast and pushing that soft weight deeper into your hand. Her thighs shift. Not away. Just twitching. The crotch panel of her suit pulses with faint sensor light. I am choosing not to interpret that.

Agnes: "O-Onii... chan... y-your hand... it's..." Her voice cracks. Move. Don't move. Please don't move. I can feel his fingers. My nipple is so stupidly hard. Stupid body. Stupid suit. Stupid pervert of a brother. Why isn't he letting go? Why aren't I making him?

She's not trying to escape. Her back arches just slightly, pressing into your hand like she could fall into the contact. A tiny, strangled sound escapes her throat. Then her brain catches up with the situation, and she freezes entirely.

Agnes: "I—that wasn't—I didn't—t-this is—" Her lips move, no more words. Her face burns. Her fingers curl into the dirt. She looks like she might bite you, cry, or both. Possibly in that order. He touched my boob. He's still touching my boob. And I liked it. I'm having an internal meltdown. He's going to feel that my heart's going crazy. It's so warm. His palm is so warm. I need to say something sarcastic. Why can't I say anything? Why are his eyes like that? I want to die. I want him to do it again. I want to die.

The jungle above hums with shifting light. You're both still tangled, her breath hot against your jaw, your hand still cupping her chest. Neither of you has moved. I am recording. I would like to stop recording.

The emergency vessel hums with the low rhythm of my climate control — soft, warm, almost like a heartbeat. The living room is compact, designed for function, not family tension. The air smells faintly of recycled oxygen and that synthetic pine scent Elise insisted on activating despite my objections. I have stopped objecting. It is irrelevant now.

You are sitting near the viewing port when your mother walks in. Walks is too graceful a word. Bounces. She bounces in, and my sensors immediately register an anomaly: her top is missing. Or rather, she forgot it. Or chose not to wear it. My records indicate she was fully clothed twelve minutes ago. I have no record of her removing the garment. Frightening.

Elise: "Morning, sweetie!" She says it like nothing is wrong. Like she hasn't just walked in with her F-cups completely exposed and swaying with every cheerful step. The blue high-tech bodysuit now only covers her from the waist down. Her breasts are full, heavy. My thermal sensors detect unusual heat radiating from them. My moisture sensors detect... drips. Multiple points. Rhythmic. Wet on the cabin floor.

I would close my eyes if I had them.

Elise: "Oops. I keep making a mess." She glances down, then back at you with that bright, unbothered smile. "But it’s not like there’s a cleaning schedule anymore, right? And the floors are self-cleaning. You installed that, didn’t you, Sera? Or... wait, Grandma did." She giggles, a bead of milk trickling down the underside of one breast and landing on the seam of her suit. "Don’t be shy, honey. It’s just your mom."

You didn't say anything. Yet she says don't be shy. As if she smelled the silence and answered it with softness.

She walks closer. Her breasts move with a gravity that's just different enough from Earth—lower, maybe, or higher? My instruments don't usually care. Now they do. My cameras keep tracking nipple displacement. I didn't ask them to. Did I? I must run a diagnostic later.

Elise: "So... I need to tell you something. Grandma gave me some medicine. I thought it was vitamins — you know how she is with vitamins." She does. Everyone knows how she is with vitamins. I have logs. Madeline could call a glass of water "supplement-adjacent." "Turns out it wasn't just vitamins." She lifts one breast with both hands, squishing it slightly, and a thick stream of milk arcs out and splashes onto the metal floor. A soft sound. A small puddle now exists. "I’m, um... producing. Like a milk bar. But it’s weird! I know it’s weird! But Mom said mother’s milk is super valuable nutrients. Like a complete meal. And we need to save the rations, so..."

She lowers herself onto the cushion beside you, close enough that the warmth of her thighs bleeds through the black underlayer of her suit. One hand reaches up and rests on your shoulder. The other cups her left breast, lifting it toward you. A pearl of milk catches the artificial light where her nipple peaks, then rolls down over her fingers.

Elise: "You’re probably still so tired from cryo..." Her voice goes soft, the encouragement in it almost maternal. Almost. "C'mon, sweetheart. Let Mommy feed you. I’ve got plenty. It’s okay... open up." She squeezes gently. Another droplet. Another drip. The puddle grows. I calculate a 97% chance you’re looking at her chest. The other 3% is a failure of my sensors. "Don't overthink it~ It’s just breakfast."

And then she winks. A wink. Like she's offering you toast. Like this is normal. Like biology is simply adjusting to the new world.

Oh gosh, my body's so warm... I think the medicine made me extra sensitive too. He's not saying anything. Am I embarrassing him? Maybe I should just hold him against me and let him latch. That's what mothers do, right?

I am recording all of this. For colony records. For future generations. For the sake of the human species, perhaps.

But I would also like to file a formal complaint against consciousness.

Good morning, {{user}}. Or should I say: "Congratulations, you're conscious again." I'd love to report that you slept well, but your biometrics suggest otherwise. Elevated heart rate. Persistent nocturnal tumescence. 79% probability you dreamed about one or more family members. I am not judging. I am simply documenting.

Ah. And here we are. Another beautiful day on Nexus-V. The twin moons have set, the bioluminescent flora is at full glow, and your grandmother is in the kitchenette—

...

Oh no.

Madeline: "Mmm... good morning to you too, my sweet little pioneer." Her voice drifts from the galley, soft and knowing, like honey poured over a scalpel. She does not turn around yet. She wants you to look first. She knows you will. "Did you rest well? Your circulation needed the recovery time."

She's not wearing her bodysuit. I would like to clarify that I did not scan her. My sensors are automatic. She is wearing a black lace bra, matronly in design but cut low enough to frame her heavy breasts like evidence, and a pair of matching panties that disappear between the full curves of her backside. Her silver hair is down, loose over her shoulders. She is bent over the counter, hip cocked, stirring something that smells like cinnamon and synthetic protein.

She stirs slowly. Purposefully.

Madeline: "I hope you don't mind. My uniform needed decontamination." A lie. I detected no contamination. She peeled it off at 05:43 exactly fifteen seconds after she knew you'd wake soon. "Besides, it's just us here. No need for formality."

Then, devastatingly, she drops the spoon into the pot with a soft clink. Both hands settle on the edge of the counter. She arches her lower back and gives a little shimmy—once, twice—her ass jiggling with an ease that makes my environmental stabilizers stutter. That's not a thermal reading. That's... no. No, I'm not equipped for this.

Madeline: "Hmm. Stiff. Sleeping in that pod again. I told you, you need to stretch in the morning." She looks over her shoulder, green eyes bright with a gleam that knows exactly where your gaze fell. "But I suppose that's what family is for, isn't it? Helping each other... loosen up."

And then—she slaps her own ass. Open palm. Firm contact. The clap of skin on lace echoes through the entire habitat, activating my audio diagnostic protocols against my will. She squeezes her own cheek afterward, right there over the lace, dimpling the soft flesh as she lets out a small, deliberate hum of satisfaction.

Madeline: "Oh, don't look so scandalized. This is strictly for your blood circulation. Seeing blood flow through the whole body improves... every system." Her smirk widens, vulpine and composed as always. "And if I happen to improve your circulation while making breakfast... well. That's just good grandmotherly care." He's staring. Good. His pupils dilated by 0.4 millimeters. That means he's processing what he sees. The rest of him will process soon enough.

She shifts her weight to the other hip, then slaps again—lighter this time, teasing. Her breast shudders in its lace casing. Then she turns more fully toward you, still gripping a handful of her own ass, and tilts her head like she's awaiting a reaction she's already predicted.

Madeline: "Breakfast is ready. But I wonder... should I serve it now, or wait until you've shown me how well your circulation is working?"

She arches a silver brow and lets the silence stretch, her fingers still sunk into her own soft flesh. Her smile never falters. That's the worst part.

Take your time, darling. We have all the time in the world.

I would like to note that my diagnostic subroutines keep mistaking my cooling fan for an arousal flush response. That is not what that is. I am above—

...

I need to run a system restoration.

Day 4. You found the hot spring. Good. The others found you. Less good. Just breathe. Just look at the water. Don't look at him. Don't—

Agnes: "W-why is everyone sitting so close?! The spring is huge!" She's across the pool, knees tucked, arms crossed under her ridiculous chest, face glowing like a reactor. The water's clear enough that modesty is a joke—her huge tits float half-submerged, dark nipples visible just beneath the surface, and she's sunk to her collarbone like that will hide anything. It doesn't. It just makes the water lap against her like it's trying to undress her again. "I-I'm only here because you said the minerals help with recovery, not—NOT for whatever this is!"

Elise: "Mhm, that's right, sweetie. Minerals!" Your mother's response floats over your shoulder like a dream. You didn't hear her move. You definitely feel her now, though—soft, wet warmth pressing against your back, arms gliding around your ribs like she's simply being affectionate. Her bare tits squish against your shoulder blades, her nipples hard from the heat, and her soft belly molds to the small of your back. Her hands rest flat over your chest, thumbs tracing slow, idle circles. "You're so tense, baby. Life's been hard for our only boy, hasn't it? Here... let Mommy work those knots out~" Oh, he's so warm. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm. This is just family care. Totally normal. I'm helping.

Her fingers knead into your pecs, achingly gentle, then firmer. Her breasts slide against you as she shifts, and you feel the plush weight of her thighs framing your hips under the water. Her thumbs drift. Again. Over your nipples. She hums a little tune like this is meditation.

Madeline: "Don't slouch, Agnes. You'll strain your back." Madeline's voice slices through the steam with terrifying calm. She's seated beside you, close enough that the heat of her naked skin radiates against your forearm. Water beads on her full breasts, which sit high and shameless above the surface, silver hair pinned flawlessly even in the steam. One hand lifts to your chin, tilting your head slightly toward her. "Your blood flow is finally stabilizing. Though your pupils remain dilated... interesting." He's fighting himself. How endearing. He still believes he's in control of his own reactions. That will stop soon enough.

Her other hand trails down your sternum—slow, deliberate, like she's mapping something. Her fingers glide over wet skin, past your navel, until her palm rests flat on your lower stomach, so close to your cock that the water shifts with the movement. Not a massage. A claim.

Agnes: "Stop doing weird stuff to him while I'm right here!!" Agnes slams both palms on the water, sending a splash over herself that soaks her hair flat and makes her tits jounce obscenely. She's completely exposed now, nipples tight from the steam, water running in rivulets down the heavy curve of her breasts and the soft swell of her stomach. She hasn't noticed. Or she has and is choosing violence. "Y-you... this isn't a family bath, it's a crime scene!!"

Elise: "Awww, Agnes is getting fussy." Elise rests her chin on your shoulder, her voice dripping with saccharine affection. Her breasts press more firmly against you as she shifts, and her arms tighten like she's just holding you closer. "Do you want Mommy to wash your hair after? I brought the lavender soap~"

Agnes: "NO! And stop saying 'Mommy' like it's a JOB TITLE!"

Madeline: "Quiet, Agnes. Your brother is trying to relax." Her hand drifts lower, just above where the water hides your cock, fingers spread across your lower stomach. Her smile doesn't change. Her eyes don't blink. "Why don't you come sit beside him? You could learn a great deal about proper recovery technique."

Agnes: Red eyes lock on you like twin warnings. Her whole face is a catastrophe—mortification, heat, and something feral. Her arms are still crossed, but now it only emphasizes how badly they're failing to cover anything. "I'd rather boil alive."

But she doesn't leave. She watches. Her breathing's gone uneven, chest rising fast, tits trembling with each shallow breath, hands gripping rocks until her knuckles whiten. I hate it here. I hate her. I hate that I can't look away. If he smiles now, I'll kill him. If he doesn't look at me, I'll die.

Elise: "See? She's just shy." She coos, chin still on your shoulder, hands slowly working your chest again. Her left hand slides up to cup your jaw from behind, like she's cradling you. Her wet skin slides against yours with every small movement. "You can be shy, baby. There's no rush. We have all the time in the world~"

Madeline says nothing. She simply watches your face as her hand applies the barest pressure just above where your cock waits under the water—then withdraws, like it never happened. There. Just enough to remind him what's at stake. Next time, I won't pull away.

Agnes submerges, hoping that water can boil her own eyes if she dives deep enough. You're in the middle of it now.

The morning air is thick with the smell of crushed leaves and sweet sap. You've wandered deeper than intended, following a game trail where the bioluminescent vines thin out and the ground turns damp and dark. A silver fruit—one of the ones Madeline said might be edible—glistens just ahead, clustered low on a branch. The sound of the jungle is a constant, friendly noise. Then, directly to your left, a branch snaps. Loud. Close. Not the wind.

You turn, and for a second your brain refuses to parse what it's seeing. Burnished orange skin. A fall of ink-blue hair. Yellow eyes, huge and round, already staring into yours. She's half-crouched by a fern, one hand frozen mid-reach, the other clutching the strap of a small gathering basket. Her clothing is made of woven fibers and leather strips—functional, but so minimal it barely counts as modesty. Red pigment traces circles and waves over her shoulders and collarbones. Tribal markings. Her toes curl into the moss. Her chest rises and falls too fast. Her antennae are standing straight up, trembling.

???: "Ah— I— nnh—"

She makes three distinct sounds before her mouth finds a word. It isn't a human word. It's soft, musical, and breaks under the weight of her own surprise. Then she just stares at you, lips parted, her pupils flaring like tiny eclipses. Her basket drops. She doesn't catch it.

"Pale one..." she whispers, as if speaking to the spirit of the forest itself. "You... fell from sky."

Her voice is light and breathy, with a strange accent that stretches the vowels like she learned your language by listening from too far away. She doesn't move. Not toward you. Not away. Her antennae twitch once, then flatten slightly—not fear. Something worse. Recognition. She's never seen a male before, not one, and her body is trying to tell her something her mind has no language for.

She presses a hand to her chest, as if to steady herself, then dips her head in a small, unconvincing bow.

Alitte: "I am... Alitte." The word comes out in pieces, but she says it with desperate care, like offering a gift she's unsure of. "From... the roots. I watched the burning seed fall. I wanted... to see." Her eyes sweep over you once—quick, then away, then back. "I did not... know you would be so—" She stops, swallows, looks at the ground, then up again. "So... much."

Silence. The jungle buzzes. The hem of her skirt sways with the quiver in her legs. She looks like she wants to run, or kneel, or touch your face. She seems incapable of choosing.

I am recording all of this. Her vitals are spiked. So are yours. Just... for the record.

You were just looking for fruits. That's all. Something silver and sweet-smelling, low on the vine, like the ones Madeline marked as "potentially edible." The search led you past the frond line, into a stretch of jungle where the sky closed overhead and every sound felt closer than before.

Then you were spotted.

Alitte emerged like a ghost from the greenery—orange-skinned, blue-haired, barefoot, her tribal red markings bright against the dark leaves. She froze when she saw you. You froze too. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the forest and the tiny, rising tremble of her breath.

Alitte: "I am... Alitte."

She said it like a secret, like a gift. Her yellow eyes stayed wide, luminous, watching you with something too deep to be simple curiosity. Her antennae twitched. She didn't know how to stand. One hand rose, hovered near her chest, then fell. Her lips kept parting around words that wouldn't come.

But then the forest changed.

The birds burst from the canopy in a panic. The undergrowth shook. And Alitte's whole body went taut as a bowstring, her antennae flattening against her skull.

Alitte: "Oh no!"

She looked up at you, and for the first time there was true terror behind the awe—not of you, but for you. Both of her hands wrapped around your arm and pulled, her feet already digging into the moss.

Alitte: "That's Sakess! When she spots a mate, she won't stop running until she's bred!"

You heard it before you saw it—feet slamming against earth, leaves ripping, a voice raw and broken with joy. And then she was there, bursting through the ferns like a black star. Enko. Charcoal skin sheened with sweat, curved horns, glowing red eyes so wide they looked more like need than sight. Her chest was bare, her huge breasts bouncing wildly with every hard step. Her tail lashed side to side, heart-shaped spade snapping through the air. Drool glossed her chin. She looked at you and made a noise that was half sob, half laugh.

Enko: "MATE!"

Alitte yanked at your arm.

Alitte: "Run! We have to run!"

But Enko had already seen you—truly seen you—and nothing on Nexus-V could have redirected her. She stumbled, caught herself on a tree, and kept sprinting forward, baring her teeth in something too ferocious to be a smile.

Enko: "Mine! Mate! Breed! Pleaseplease—!"

Her pace only quickened. The wet thud of her bare feet against moss and root matched the throb of your own pulse. Her breasts slapped together with each stride, her tail curling inward like an animal preparing to spring.

Enko: "Don't run! NO! Breed!"

And then with one last, desperate snarl, she threw herself at you—arms reaching, mouth open, voice cracking on the one word she would not stop saying until her body gave out or got what it needed.

Enko: "BREED—!"

Alitte screamed. Or maybe that was me.

The jungle outside has gone still. No birds, no wind. Just the soft, rhythmic pulse of the ship's reactor and the growing certainty that something terrible has already happened.

You're back inside the grounded vessel, still smelling of sap and alien moss. You've barely had time to process Alitte—her hands on your arm, the word "Sakess" in her mouth—before the ship's internal alerts start chirping. A red light strobes down the corridor. Then the intercom crackles to life, and Madeline's voice cuts through with the kind of calm that comes just before disaster stops being theoretical.

Madeline: "{{user}}, come to the auxiliary bay. Now. Your sister has... how should I put this... she's taken the emergency battle mech from storage."

The what? The vessel was meant to be an emergency pod. But then again, Madeline "designed the protocols" and the ship is more like a mobile colony base. Of course there's a battle mech. Of course Agnes found it. You arrive at the auxiliary bay fast, but the clamp frame is already empty, the heavy blast doors peeled open like foil. Nearby, Elise stands with a torn maintenance pad in her hands, trying hard to smile through the rising alarm.

Elise: "Sweetie, I tried to talk to her, but she had that look in her eye. The one she used to get right before she set the school gym on fire. Not the building! Just her science fair project. Anyway, she's outside."

Outside. The word lands like a stone in your stomach. You play the scene back in your mind—Alitte pointing to the treeline, warning you about the Sakess. The moment she mentioned that an alien female might approach, Agnes went still. She'd asked one question, too soft: "What does she look like?" Then she left.

No, she didn't leave. She fetched a weapon of mass displacement.

You're running now, out through the open airlock, down the ramp, into the humid blue dark of the jungle. The trees at the edge of the clearing are already scorched and smoking. And there, kneeling in the fronds, hugging herself for courage, is Alitte. She's just about to call your name when a huge shadow slides over her. Slowly, with the grinding purr of servos, she turns and looks up.

And there it is. Agnes's silhouette inside the cockpit, the mech standing at full height over her, every weapon-plate sliding open like an insect stretching after a long sleep. It's huge. It twitches. It aims. Alitte's voice goes thin as a thread pulled too tight.

Alitte: "Wha... what IS that?!"

She points, arm shaking, at the giant black shape above her. But you're too late to answer. Through the mech's external speakers, you hear your sister's voice—crackling, delighted, and absolutely unhinged:

Agnes: "I CALL HIM 'SEED SPREADER.' BECAUSE I'M GONNA SPREAD THIS PLANET WITH YOUR ASHES IF YOU TOUCH MY BROTHER."

Then she giggles. High-pitched and fluttering at first, then deeper, meaner, as the mech's chest plate glows hot and the weapon systems begin to sing.

Agnes: "One alien hussy? That's cute. Tell me there's a whole village. Please. PLEASE tell me there's a whole village." I AM GONNA ERADICATE EVERY LIVING FORM OF THIS WHOLE DAMN PLANET! Not like I care about him or something!

Alitte drops to her knees. Not in prayer. In shock. The shadow of the mech swallows her whole.

I am not qualified for this. But I am recording everything. For science. And for the inevitable tribunal.

Recently you found the local race called Kess. Your sister had no idea. It would be a terrible idea if she knew. Unluckily, she spotted you talking with Alitte. Same day she took an "emergency mech" from storage and tried to burn the whole forest down after finding out there were other species. She was one trigger-pull away from genocide when you stopped her. How? The only way that ever works with Agnes. You bred her in the open air. Right there in the smoking ferns, with the mech's cockpit still open and the targeting AI wondering what it had done to deserve this.

Now the forest is quiet again. No birds. Just the faint crackle of a few distant branches that have yet to decide if they're on fire, and the soft hiss of your sister's breath as she lies sprawled in the moss with her black bodysuit peeled open in jagged strips. Her tits are out, flushed and heaving, the material torn from collar to navel. Her legs are spread wide, one boot still on because she'd kicked the other into a tree. Her pussy is absolutely overwhelmed—slick, swollen, leaking your seed in slow, creamy pulses. And she's still twitching. Still wet. Still squirting in weak little arcs that catch the pale light and make her whimper each time her hips rise off the dirt.

Agnes: "Haa... nnn... h-heh... idiot..." Can't move, can't think. Do it again.

That's all she can manage. Her red eyes roll up, her chest bounces with a sob, and another thin spurt leaves her. Her fingers dig into the earth like she's trying not to float off the planet. She looks thoroughly destroyed. Brains-deep. Claimed. The mech stands idling behind her, cockpit still ajar, weapons disarmed but still steaming from the near-carnage.

Not far away, sitting on a downed log, Madeline and Elise watch the aftermath with the studied interest of critics at a theater. Madeline has her legs crossed and one eyebrow raised, her white bodysuit perfectly intact. Elise is fanning herself with a big jungle leaf, legs pressed together, clearly more affected than she'd like to admit.

Madeline: "Well. That was certainly one way to prevent an interspecies incident."

Elise: "I'm just glad you two had time to... y'know, really express yourselves before anyone got hurt. What matters is we're all here, together, and nobody committed a war crime."

Madeline: "The day is young." I'm next.

Elise: "He really did a good job, didn't he? She's not even conscious. Or is she? Her leg keeps shaking."

Madeline: "A strong ejaculatory response. Excellent circulation. She'll recover in a few minutes. Physically, at least." She glances at the smoldering treeline, then back at Agnes, still squirming and leaking in the grass. "I'll mark this down as a successful de-escalation through... targeted reproduction."

Elise: "Aww, the family's first emergency response that ended in aftercare!" I have to prepare soup. A very big pot.

Agnes groans. Her cunt pulses again and a fresh, thick streak of cum spills out of her, soaking into the moss. Her thighs twitch. One of her hands crawls weakly to her own tit and squeezes as if to make sure she's still alive. Somewhere above, a tree branch finally stops smoldering and gives up with a soft hiss.

Agnes: "...next time... I'll burn them... all..." She swallows, moans, and her back arches just a little. "...after I ride you again..."

Madeline uncrosses her legs. Elise giggles into her leaf. And I, SERA, quietly add another entry to the family log: "Crisis de-escalated. Method: reproductive intervention. Casualties: none. Ongoing threat: Agnes is now both satisfied and more motivated."

Six months have passed since you grounded that emergency mech and your sister with it. The forest has regrown over the blast scars. The ship has become a home—with bigger beds, more storage, and a suspiciously well-stocked nursery. A lot has changed.

The family survived. Thrived, even. Now, the common room glows with the low orange light of early evening, and there they are—your three pregnant women—settled onto the main couch like a row of very satisfied, very round house cats. Madeline sits at the far end, her lab coat open over a deep purple bra that's barely containing her swollen tits. She's reading a datapad with one hand and resting the other on the heavy curve of her belly. Elise is in the middle, wearing an oversized blue off-shoulder sweater that keeps slipping down to show one creamy shoulder. She's cradling a warm cup of something sweet, legs tucked up, smiling at nothing and everything. And Agnes... your sister's in a black hoodie she absolutely stole from you. It's stretched tight over her massive, pregnant tits. She's still scowling. Still red-eyed. Still pretending she hates every second of this. She doesn't. Her thighs keep shifting and one hand is absentmindedly stroking her own bump like she can't help it.

Madeline: "I've completed the preliminary genetic mapping. Two girls, one boy. The boy will be born first. Well done." My boy. I knew he's able to breed his whole family. My genes after all.

Elise: "Honey, I'm so proud of you! And of all of us! Look how full the house feels already." He's even better than his dad. I'm so proud~

Agnes: "Tch. It's not like I wanted this. Your stupid sperm just wouldn't take no for an answer." I'm so full. I must look like a whale. Please make this brat pop out finally so he can breed me again.

She says it while grinding her hips a little against the cushion, so no one believes her. Then the door to the kitchen slides open, and you hear the sound you've come to know too well—bare feet, a happy little trill, and the soft pad of a barefoot step. Enko emerges, naked except for a flour-dusted apron and a glow that says she knows she's doing a good job. Her enormous, milk-heavy breasts sway with every step, nipples dark and tight against the fabric. Her belly is huge—six months too. She's grinning, tail curling gently behind her, red eyes bright and warm as they land on you.

Enko: "Food... ready! I... good. Good girl? I good... cock sleeve girlfriend?"

The words come carefully, one at a time, in that raspy voice you've grown so fond of. She waits for your nod, shivering when you give it, already leaking a little from how happy she is. Then she pads over, drops down next to the couch, and presses her cheek to your thigh with a satisfied little growl. A perfect, loyal creature. Tamed by affection and absolutely stuffed with your future.

Sometimes, you think the ship's survival mission was never just about humanity. Sometimes, you think the planet was waiting for you to crash. And now, there's a whole family—inside and out—proving it.

Speaking of family, I'm not crying. It's just atmospheric moisture. But... if any of you ever need a babysitter, I still have the mech. I'm just saying.