Reincarnated as a Mushroom?

Kathrine ended her call with Hailey and immediately began rubbing her temples in frustration—like she was trying to physically massage a prophecy out of her skull.

"A bad omen's brewing," she muttered aloud to no one, eyes twitching around her suite like the shadows might confirm it. The migraine of impending bullshit was approaching, she just couldn't tell from which vector.

Her gaze caught something across the room—a quiet leviathan standing sentinel in her wardrobe.

Irvine's power armor.

And not just any armor. This thing was a war crime given form, humming with a stillness that dared you to blink first.

"Hm."

She strode toward it like a woman confronting an altar. Circling it. Eyeing it. Measuring the angles of its joints, the curves of its plating, the unsettling asymmetry of its shoulders that seemed designed not by pragmatism but by something that had observed pragmatism from across a dying galaxy and decided to mock it.

"I can't for the life of me figure out what species this originated from," she murmured, arms crossed, head cocked to the side like a bird trying to solve a quantum puzzle.

Even among the cruelest, slimiest, and most backstabby alien species of the known galactic theatre, this suit stood apart. No allegiance. No manufacturer's mark. Just... menace, personified. Like something had seen the Spartari elite, scoffed, and then built a cosplay from scrap metal and old nightmares.

"Extra-galactic?" she speculated aloud, voice low with caution. "If so... technically, I'd be within my rights to confiscate it under interstellar relic acquisition protocols."

She placed her hands on her hips and scowled at herself for even suggesting it. No, she wouldn't. Couldn't. She liked her future nephew far too much. And she liked her niece even more. Making that kind of move was the sort of suicide reserved for diplomats on bad acid.

Her eyes flicked to the trio of glowing purple orbs set into the armor's chest. She took one step closer.

And froze.

Something clawed at her Mindspace.

An invasive pressure. An almost sentient unease that slithered across her inner mental lattice like static charged with memory and malevolence.

"What the fuck are you?" she whispered.

Whatever instinct ruled her in that moment—be it noble discretion or simple fear—stopped her from going further. She turned away from the armor, spine stiff.

"I need to find him. Make sure those walking sacks of testosterone Caleb calls crew haven't done anything stupid."

—

A fist the size of a Thanksgiving turkey collided with my jaw and launched me a full three meters back into a crate of rations.

"OWWW! The fuck, dude?!" I yelled, rolling upright with a grunt. "What is your head made of? Fucking damatrium? You Spartari-built bowling ball!"

Ernie—the victor of the last sibling slugfest and current champion of zero-impulse-control decision-making—shook his hand out with a grimace.

"Bloody fuckin' hell," he grunted. "Thought your skull would give way by now."

He'd decided, like the absolute intellectual he was, that the best way to gauge my worth wasn't a résumé review or a philosophical debate—it was fisticuffs. No holds barred. Just good old-fashioned meat-on-meat violence.

Now, being a somewhat-mature adult, I could have just dropped him in one hit. But that felt petty. Also, boring. So instead I cranked my power output down to Kimchi-training levels and opted to dance.

I couldn't, however, reduce how durable I was. Which meant his punches were doing approximately jack shit, except making my bones itch.

"Try open-palming next time, yeah?" I said, flicking some blood-spittle from my mouth. "Less breaky on the knuckles."

I rose with ease, rotating my shoulders and taking a defensive stance again. I wasn't fighting to win. I was observing. Understanding how this human brute fought. Ernie wasn't tactical. He was raw muscle and misplaced optimism, but he had enough brute strength to pulp a normal opponent. Shame for him I was built like a biotic tank with a sarcasm drive.

He took my advice seriously—surprisingly so—and started slapping at me like a drunk bear. Haymaker after haymaker. Arms like steel trebuchets. I weaved, dodged, and peppered his abdomen with light punches to slow him down, like tapping a keg until it fizzes out.

Occasionally, the fucker surprised me. A few of his flailing attacks slipped through, catching my ribs with enough force to make me blink. If I hadn't been holding back, he might've even bruised me.

Eventually, he overcommitted with his left.

I saw it coming.

Stepped inside.

And dropped a jab right into his jaw—clean, clinical, kinetic poetry.

His momentum did the rest.

He stumbled backward, staring at me with unfocused reverence. "Fuck me... what a smack," he slurred.

Then he collapsed backwards. Into the waiting arms of his newly conscious brother, Bertram, like it was a family ritual.

—

Silence.

Then chaos.

"FUCKIN' MINGE!" bellowed Willy, the crew's resident swearing savant. "The pretty cunt's a lion hidin' behind a porcelain dick-grin! Bloody hell, that was a fuckin' knuckle opera!"

Others were less eloquent, but equally enthusiastic. Laughter, cheers, applause. Caleb stood off to the side with a bottle of synthetic something, nodding solemnly.

'Even if we don't expect combat on this non-Spartari mission,' Caleb thought, 'a tough bastard like him will be good for morale... and with that armor, he'll be hell in a firefight.'

Then came the footsteps.

Heels. Rapid. Sharp.

Caleb's grin dropped like a stone.

"Oh fuck."

Too late.

Kathrine entered the room like a storm in heels and silk. "What in the core-burning fuck is going on in here?!"

All motion ceased.

Mercenaries froze mid-cheer, mid-drunken stumble, mid-'ay he's not bad for a psionic bastard'. Her gaze scanned the crowd and zeroed in on me.

One head taller than the rest. Shirtless. Covered in another man's blood. Unapologetic.

She stormed over, hands cradling my face like I was her prize purebred that just wandered into a blender.

"Are you hurt? Who did this to you?" she whispered, voice gentle, soft, a razor disguised as lace.

Before I could respond, the softness cracked—and the beast roared.

"WHICH ONE OF YOU USELESS, INFERIOR, LAZY SHITS PUT YOUR HANDS ON HIM?!"

Every merc's sphincter cinched like a collapsing star.

Her wrath was gravitational.

"Kat. Kat. Hey. Yoo-hoo."

I gently placed my hands on hers, drawing her gaze back to me.

"None of this blood is mine. I'm not hurt. It was a consensual duel. See?" I spun, arms out. "Still sexy, still symmetrical."

She glared at me for three seconds before exhaling like she was expelling a nuke through her nose.

I walked her out of the room with a hand on her back.

—

Once we were gone, the room relaxed again. A single voice broke the silence:

"Fuckin' hell. Iron cunt's got her wrapped around his pinky. Or his dick."

More laughter followed, a wave of release after the tension snapped.

"William! Shut the fuck up!" Caleb snapped. Silence.

Then he stood on his chair like a prophet with a clipboard.

"Alright, listen here, you lovable sacks of wet disappointment. I'm usually the chill boss, yeah? You know that. But for the next few weeks, we've got VIPs on board. And I think some of you cunts have forgotten how to act when nobility's involved."

He pointed to the floor. "So. Everyone—clothes off. Undergarments only. Twenty laps around the ice-field base. While the janitors clean this fuckhole."

Groans, but no complaints.

They started stripping, men and women alike. Zero shame. Just resignation. Caleb ran a tight ship, and when he punished, he earned it.

—

Back in Kathrine's room, she'd finally calmed. At first she was holding my arm like a life raft, but by the time we reached the door, she was casually stroking my biceps like she was preparing to adopt them.

"Hey, Kat," I said, peeling at the dried blood. "You got a shower in here? I don't know where that guy's plasma's been, and I'd rather not leave a trail of DNA through your bedroom."

"Oh, yes, handsome," she said, regaining her noble smug. "It's through the left door."

I nodded and carefully navigated her pristine suite, making sure not to touch a thing. As I disappeared into the bathroom, the air changed.

Kathrine became hyper-aware.

He's naked. In her shower. In her space. In her—

She fought the urge to peek. She really did. She was, after all, a lady. A refined, blackmail-wielding, kingdom-toppling lady. But damn it, she liked him. In a way that bypassed her usual thrill of power games and skipped straight to 'what if he actually likes me for real?'

Still.

If he happened to come out and ravish her, well... who was she to object?

Peeling off her jacket so only the skin-tight bodysuit remained, Kathrine casually picked up a pen from her desk.

"Oops."

She dropped it.

Bent over like a sprinter at the blocks.

Poised.

Prepared.

Perfect.

—

Meanwhile, in the shower, I was enjoying the water pressure like a god discovering hydrotherapy for the first time.

And humming the elevator music from Sophia's penthouse.

Of course I was.

Some things are sacred.