A few steps out of Tartarus...

She half-sleeps in the tub, ducking in and out of the most surface level of rest. Not the kind of state where you can harvest; a little too strung out but not alert enough to have relevant readable thoughts, a holding pattern.

Like all holding patterns, if one could figure a way out, it would often only leave one with no idea where to go or how to get there. She lies in the tub, in her own way holding herself in a space where the world and her troubles rest just outside her door. She can bake in the tub, turn the water hot or cold enough to beat away the aches of the body, but they wait at a moment's notice. She can only sit in the tub for so long, she can only pretend her body isn't a limited set of flexes and hormonal impulses. Inside the ship, she has the routines, the exercise, the work and what it buys her. She has no plan, no cure for the aches, and no destination. The tub may burst, the hull may crack, they would force the next move, they would end the pattern. But she fixes the problem like she fixes a lack of money, gets her tub or her oxygen productions back, circles the landing zone again, holds firm. The pattern holds until the ground walked is tread into a well-defined path. The things she's gotten good at, the cracks she's gotten the best at fixing, all learned practices that give a pattern of a reward. At the end of the day, she retires to bed, still hurtling in a vacuum-sealed container in space. Still sitting in the tub dulling the aches, still holding without a plan.

An animal, made of muscle and blood. She treats herself like an animal, she sees no higher grace in the body than that. Her upbringing was too harsh, too alien to let her believe anything else. The Chozo didn't raise her to be a weapon, but they didn't raise her with any other path. The humanity had been taught out, the animal crept in. She controls the muscle, she does what she can to control the blood. She works hard to hone her craft, get herself what she can before she takes the mission that ends up being her last. She's known since she was a child that one day she would have a mission like that, the holding pattern is everything in between.

The hornoad never worried about going on missions, the hornoad never dealt with a hypoactive, borderline nonexistent, sex drive they had been trained to loathe and fear in equal measures. With a hornoad, you could have crossed a wire and started training them to walk upright, you might as well have hit a shiny red dopamine button and been able to enforce any behavior you want. This... thing is complicated. It's a bundle of insecurities with pattern recognition. It's a miserable little pile of secrets that learned to walk upright. You feel very alone for the first time since transferring hosts. You're a small blob awash in a chemical plant of genetic dead ends and backward design. You can't rewrite DNA! You can't erase memories! You can't even get the fucking thing out of the tub!

This isn't any way to live, for either of you.

There's a horrible dread to being like this. There's a human head attached to this animal's neck, and you're in it. You could always leave, leap on out and slide through the walls, take your chances with the void of space. What were the chances of any other life above a tardigrade passing through this specific inch of the universe before the heat death? Less than one one-millionth of one percent? Was it a lower chance than you finding a way to make this host work for you? By how much? How good were your odds? Tragically, you weren't born as one of those beings that could inhabit mechanical hosts, you could do a lot with just her ship's computers.

Like what? Do you have any idea of what you're doing? Judge the animal if you want, but X overcame intelligent species in the past. What were the odds that you in particular got the least workable host in the history of the galaxy?

"It's time to get out of the tub."

She doesn't twitch. To some extent, it seems that even while awake she's a little more at peace hearing your voice. More importantly, she does not get out of the tub. Her brain registers it as just another impulse to be productive when she has nothing to do. So much of what she does is on these impulses, ones that tell her that inactivity is harming her. No, inactivity is harming you! She's fine being inactive, probably safer than she is exercising, and definitely safer than she is brandishing a gun at other living beings. Her body is well-designed to save her from the terrors of "the tub" but far less equipped to reknit skin and bind together broken bones. Her body is pretty ill-equipped for the vacuum of space. Time spent in the tub or oversleeping is hardly a concern for anybody who doesn't actively need her to not suck as a host.

"Samus, I have canceled your alarm, but now is when it would normally go off."

Samus grumbled her thanks, she still didn't want to get out but now she felt compelled to. The guilt of inaction started to set in. You made a quick mental note that whoever designed this ship's computer would be granted a painless death in your coming purge of mankind. Somehow, even outside of her brain, its powers of suggestion over her remained stronger.

"You heard the computer."

Another grumble, quietly cursing whoever had designed the computer to a painful death. She didn't have to listen, of course. Why not spend the whole day in the tub? Who could stop her? What if the tub was now the bed? Other than the water getting scummy, she could have it kept perfectly hot. She needed to look into some sort of... bath with legs. Maybe a bath ship. Fill the inside of her suit with hot water. Look for Bathos 7, the planet of baths.

Well, she was having readable thoughts again, but it would have been disingenuous to call them relevant. It would have been disingenuous to call them anything other than asinine. You'd tell her as much, but she seems to know it as much as you do... if she knows what asinine means. The train of thought is almost guiltily self-satiric. She pictures herself in her head, slowly melting into the water and forming a skin-colored skim. She treats the whole thing with good humor, but the quiet nagging of having things to get done today undercuts all of it. It's like a little indignantly juvenile game she plays with herself. You notice that her finger is circling the button that drains the water the whole time like she's teasing it with the prospect of being used. You compel her finger to press against one of the edges just a bit harder than she means. The button squeals a delighted chime as it gets activated, followed by the gurgle of the water beginning to drain.

Samus frowns, she hadn't meant to hit it, she could have sworn she was being gentle enough. It sours her mood somewhat, she might have liked to tease that little red button for a while more, but now the air is rushing to meet previously submerged parts of her body. She's a little off-put by it, but it's very easy for her to rationalize as her own doing. She curses under her breath, reaching for a towel that isn't there. She was a little too distracted getting in to have one ready. She curses again, stumbling out of the tub.

Her body feels light as air, her mind still feels smashed against the sides of her head. It doesn't hurt anymore, but the lingering discomfort will likely last the day. Like a hangover, but all of her movements are just a little slower than she thinks they'll be. It's like her brain's connection to her body is lagging. Her steps are a little wobbly and slow, but she manages to waddle dripping out of the bathroom. A little cleaning bot starts to mop the wet trail behind her, when she turns to look at it the act of moving her eyes to the sides of their sockets hurts. Unfortunately, she can't open her head and pour soothing agents onto her brain and optical nerves. At least, she thinks it's unfortunate, it would probably end quite badly if she were actually able. Most of the things she idly wishes she were capable of would only detriment her in actuality. More than once she wishes she could get rid of her sexual characteristics, just become some sort of blob that solves space crimes. Blob Aran, bounty hunter, bath warrior, somebody that wouldn't have to deal with soreness. As a blob yourself, it's not your first choice of appearance.

"Would you like a towel, Samus?"

She flops down onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow. She mumbles back a "Just let me rot." that doesn't make it through the pillow. She doesn't move, embracing the self-imposed blackness. The computer seems to accept her response as a negative and quietly, almost imperceptibly, makes the air in the cabin a bit warmer and drier to air-dry her. Were it not for how used she was to the usual atmosphere, she wouldn't notice. She never changes the atmosphere usually. Cool but not cold, moderately damp. It's how home was, she likes it.

She doesn't rot, at least not noticeably. She lays on her bed, equal parts drying away in the air and soaking a person-shaped outline into the cushion of the bed. She doesn't sleep either, she might like to but her head is too hazy and she's just not very comfortable. She likes the dark, she stays in the dark, the dark does make it hard to breathe though. She has to occasionally poke her nose up for air, but then back into the dark. She groans in frustration.

Rolling over, the cabin's lights have been dimmed. It's not the dark, but it's welcome. It's also not something she asked for.

"Computer?" She wants to call him Adam, she forces herself to remember there's nobody on the other end.

"Yes, Samus?"

"Why are you adjusting the cabin without me telling you?"

She's blunt, tactless, the fact that she isn't talking to a real person likely makes no difference to her. She doesn't know how to ask for things politely, she wasn't raised to know how.

"I have been making small adjustments based on your current state, Samus"

"Why?"

The computer pauses, then "Based on your current symptoms and behavior, I made choices that I concluded would aid in alleviating discomfort, Samus."

"Do you do things without my command often?"

Ouch, like she didn't even hear him. Somewhere deep down she's starting to get angry. It's irrational, something deep and animal. She already doesn't like feeling watched, the notion of the computer acting out of turn makes it worse, makes it harder to remind herself that there's nobody on the other end.

"I perform several billion tasks per hour, most without your command, Samus."

"Do you do things that affect me without my command often?"

"Almost all of my tasks affect you, Samus."

"You know what I mean."

"I am afraid that I do not, Samus."

Frustration, feeling like she's using an alien language again. She's never felt that way talking to an AI before, another boundary crossed, a little harder to feel alone. She can understand that she's upset and wants to say why, she doesn't have the words, she never has.

"How many non-life sustaining operations do you perform per day?"

"Several trillion, Samus."

"And how many interact with me directly?"

"Several billion, Samus. The act of responding to this question accounts for over one hundred thousand-"

"How many are meant to change what I'm thinking or feeling?"

Another digitized pause, then "That is difficult to determine, Samus. There are many psychological factors-"

"Why my name, every time? Why never ma'am or just no address?"

"To quote an ancient proverb, Samus; A person's name is, to that person, the sweetest and most important sound in their language."

"So you repeat my name over and over because you think I want to hear it?"

"That is correct, Samus. Though you might consider that an operation that intends to change what you are thinking or feeling, it is merely standard practice for an AI to partake in. It is suspected that doing so will endear us to our owners. If you have a term you would prefer-"

"Why?"

The longest pause yet, "I am not sure I understand the question."

"Why endear yourself?"

"Perhaps it is meant to form a positive relationship between AI and owner, statistically, most species do not continue to work with something which has not endeared itself. Humans show this pattern very consistently in both professional and private settings, Samus."

"And what about Chozo?"

"The Chozo lack an abundance of records, it is hard for me to say, Samus."

"Why else would somebody keep something around?"

"There could be many contextual reasons, Samus, but the most common sources of a relationship are endearment and usefulness."

"So if I wasn't endearing, I was at least useful?"

"Samus, I am unequipped to discuss your upbringing with you but you should feel free to continue if it will make you feel better."

She huffed, "I wasn't talking about that." She lied poorly, her cheeks flushed full red.

"I apologize for misunderstanding you, Samus."

"I don't want you to change the lights and stuff unless I ask you to from now on."

"Understood, I will ask you before making non-life sustaining atmospheric changes, would you like me to stop addressing you by name, Samus?"

The lights raised back up, they cut a little painfully into her vision and made it swim about the corners. She threw her legs over the edge of the bed.

"No. I like hearing you say it." She answered with another blush, a different blush.

"Understood, Samus."

The wobble-iness was gone from her legs when she stood up, she was still a bit sluggish on her feet but she felt equipped enough to function. It was going to be a quieter day in, by all hope the universe didn't really need "top of her game" Samus today. If it did, the second stim comedown was going to be an even blacker pit of Tartarus.

Tartarus... there were weird half-complete swathes of memories in her head. It wasn't any planet or city she'd been to, the name came from somewhere else. She had weird vocabulary like that. You wouldn't trust her to know words like "eloquent" or "predation" but she would pull names and ideas that hit gaps in the collective memory of the X. It was a word that meant something to her, but something vague. If you could access every memory and thought she ever had, she might not be able to tell you what a Tartarus was, but she knew there were pits there. She knew they were black and that you wished those pits on somebody rotten. Another word to add to your list, another association. After untold time in the genetic tidepool, it was a unique joy to add to the web of knowledge. There was a place called Tartarus, it had black pits, the pits were full of people that other people hated. It sounded interesting, you wondered what those pits were like.

Samus stepped over to her wall, trying out her new non-wobbling strides. She hit the button for the exercise equipment first before seeming to remember she was nude and hitting the button for her clothes. The prospect of exercise got your attention, you could already tell today might be a little energy exhaustive. Her clothes would take a minute to slide into, it was pointless. All she was going to do was get them dirty.

"Why bother with the suit?"

Exercising naked? Not a great time, she'd done it in states of undress before. Lots of... flapping bits. Still, she wasn't going to be posting record times today, it might save her a bit of time getting dressed and undressed. Plus, the cabin was pleasantly warm, it seemed to hang off of her skin and make her feel like the air was just extending out from her.

"If you don't like it, you don't have to do it again, what's the harm in trying it?"

What was the harm in trying it? Other than the... flapping. Then again, it wasn't like everything sat still while clothed. Hell, maybe someday she'd end up in a fight without clothes? They never expect the naked woman to whoop their ass, she'd catch them with their guard down. She wasn't... ashamed of herself or anything. She saw herself naked all the time! Who was going to tell her not to exercise naked?

"Samus, are you going to get dressed before exercising?"

Oh, that sealed the deal.

"Not today, I'm going to test if the suit affects my performance."

"That's right, don't let him tell you what to do! This was your idea and he can't change your mind!"

"If I do well, I might even make it a habit!"

"Understood, Samus." The computer replied flatly.

By the time the belt of the treadmill hits running pace, she reconsiders. Her breasts bounce heavily with her footfalls, not a problem on their own but over time with the run, the repetition starts to hurt both her breasts and her back. She curses them, they've never been anything but in the way, she pushes herself a little harder. The faster her time, the sooner it's over. You do your best to quietly hit her with endorphins for the pain. You recall the power contained in the testosterone when you tried it before and you try to give her some to aid her. As she nears conclusion, the pain fades. She feels nimble, strong even. Pushing through the adversity must have made her better, she's shocked when she finishes with a time well within normal ranges.

"Samus, this is the best time you have recorded while exercising the day after a mission. It is only thirty seconds behind your all-time best."

"Well then, looks like I may have been onto something." She says with just a bit too much of a playful jab.

"Understood, Samus."

The stretches and poses fly by with ease, she suspected this wouldn't change without clothes but still winces a little whenever her face winds up between her own legs. When she drops her rear onto the floor, she "Eep!"s slightly at the sensation of the cold metal. She still hits her poses and stretches normally. This exercise seems less measurable, harder to track improvement in. Her flexibility is already enough to toe the limits of what her body is capable of. When she moves to the weights, she starts lighter than she usually does but quickly bumps it up as she hits her marks with ease. What is at this point a well-practiced performance for her is unchanged by her state of dress. When she finishes at the same level as she would on a better day, she marvels.

"Okay, that one can't be the outfit, I must have some stim left in my system or... something."

"Why argue with results?"

Is she being too hard on herself again? She just outperformed what she ever managed to when coming off of stims, and she definitely felt like shit all over to prove their absence. Maybe some of it was the outfit, maybe she was in great shape, maybe she was getting used to withdrawal?

"Maybe it's okay to like your body and what it can do?"

It wasn't that she disliked her body, she could take pride in it, certainly. If she disliked it, she could have had any number of alterations done when she entered the Federation. Some of the plastic surgeon docs had drooled over the prospect of working on somebody as known as her. They had offered her everything from synthetic hair to fully technological organ replacement. She'd stayed untouched, as much because of principle as because she didn't trust anybody with a knife around her. It had never been disliking her body, it had been the limitations of it. She was shorter than the Chozo, weaker than the Chozo. Tall and powerful for a human was still infantile to a Chozo.

"What made the Chozo so special? It didn't stop them from dying."

She froze, that was not a thought she was used to having. Her brain countered back almost dogmatically. The Chozo were wise, they were strong, humans were dumber and weaker, like looking at a Chozo through tinted glasses that made a thing... suck! The human body wasn't wrong, but it was lesser. The Chozo didn't lose focus on things, didn't get overcome with feelings they had trouble explaining.

"And maybe trying to train you to be one of them was wrong."

She was getting anxious, she didn't like this train of thought. She started pacing toward the bathroom, punching in the combination for the shower without much thought. When the water came out electrifyingly cold, she didn't step out of it.

The Chozo hadn't been wrong, they couldn't have been. It was because of their training that she's here. It's because of their teaching that she knows right from wrong. It's because of their weapons and armor that she can overcome anything. She's just short of repeating mantras.

You're in agony, you can't escape the neural link to her nerves and the icy water feels like it's going to tear you apart on a molecular level. You squirm and shriek, trying to make her body aware of the discomfort it and you share. You release your voice from her head, let the self-assurance and repeated comfort take over. Too far, much too far.

You're lucky to survive your transgression against her alive. It takes a few moments of uninterrupted reassurance before she realizes what she's doing and changes the water's temperature. By the time she does and you're allowed to rejoin her nerves, she's calmed herself decently but you can't help but feel some ground was given up. She warms back up under the water briefly before turning it off, the foundational doubt a fading memory.

She towels herself off this time. When she goes to get a suit, she starts to pull it on but freezes. She has little more trouble pulling it up past her hips than usual. It seems to cling to her skin a bit tighter. She hasn't put on weight, has she? When she pulls it up over her breasts, it definitely clings tighter than before. She becomes instantly aware that the soothing agents from this morning have begun to wear off.

"Maybe it shrunk in the wash?"

Unlikely, but she'll accept it. Either way, moving around in it is a little... intense at the moment. She slides it back off and wraps the towel around herself. She's not going anywhere, why bother with the discomfort?

She sits down at her computer, she sees notifications in her inbox but makes a conscious effort not to check them. Instead, she pulls up a catalog of media that she has. It's a collection of important works from mankind's history, she's been going through them slowly since she got them a year ago. She resumes with a video she left off on.

"He was the most extraordinary man I ever knew,"