Sting Chameleon: The Sweetest Energy
The jungle humidity clung to Dr. Melissa Chen like a second skin as she gripped the steering wheel of her reinforced transport truck. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the vehicle's struggling air conditioning system, and she could feel her lab coat sticking uncomfortably to her back. The dense canopy overhead filtered the afternoon sun into scattered emerald beams that danced across the overgrown path ahead—if it could even be called a path anymore.
"Command, this is Transport Seven," she spoke into her headset, her voice tight with concentration as she navigated around a particularly massive root system. "I'm approximately fifteen kilometers from the checkpoint. The jungle route is... challenging."
Static crackled in response before a voice broke through. "Copy that, Transport Seven. How's the cargo holding up?"
Melissa glanced in her rearview mirror at the truck bed behind her, secured under heavy tarps and reinforced netting. Beneath those coverings sat forty-eight crates, each containing a dozen of her latest breakthrough: hyper-condensed energy tanks. Three years of research, countless failed prototypes, and more sleepless nights than she cared to count had led to this moment—a new generation of power cells that could sustain a Reploid for weeks on a single tank.
"Cargo's secure," she confirmed. "Though I'll be happy when we're out of Maverick territory. This route makes me nervous."
"You're almost through the worst of it. Just keep—"
The communication cut out abruptly, replaced by harsh static. Melissa frowned, tapping the headset. "Command? Command, do you copy?"
Nothing but white noise answered her.
A chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. Communication disruptions in the jungle weren't uncommon—the dense foliage and mineral deposits played havoc with signals—but the timing felt wrong. She pressed harder on the accelerator, eager to put more distance between herself and the heart of the jungle.
The truck lurched forward, engine growling as it climbed a slight incline. Melissa's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Just a few more kilometers. Just a few more—
A massive shape dropped from the canopy directly onto the path ahead.
Melissa slammed on the brakes, and the truck skidded to a halt with a screech of protesting tires and a cloud of disturbed earth. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she stared at the figure now blocking her way.
He was unmistakably a Reploid—and just as unmistakably a Maverick.
Sting Chameleon stood nearly seven feet tall, his biomechanical body a masterwork of reptilian design. His armor plating gleamed with an iridescent quality that shifted between greens and purples depending on how the light caught it. A long, powerful tail swished behind him, and his digitigrade legs ended in clawed feet that dug into the earth. His head was distinctly chameleon-like, with independently moving optical sensors that could have been mistaken for eyes, and a crest of blade-like protrusions that ran from his crown down his spine.
But it was his build that struck Melissa most—he was lean, almost whip-thin, with a predator's economy of form. Every line of his body spoke of speed, stealth, and deadly precision. His armor plating followed the contours of what would have been muscle and sinew in an organic creature, creating an appearance that was simultaneously mechanical and disturbingly lifelike.
"Well, well," Sting Chameleon's voice was smooth, almost playful, with a slight hiss that emphasized his reptilian nature. "What do we have here? A little human, all alone in the big scary jungle." His head tilted, one eye focusing on her while the other scanned the truck. "And in such a heavily loaded vehicle. You must be carrying something valuable."
Melissa's mind raced. She'd heard the briefings about Sting Chameleon—a B-Class Maverick who'd gone rogue six months ago, abandoning his post at a nature preserve to join Sigma's rebellion. He was known for his camouflage abilities, his agility, and his tendency to toy with his prey before striking.
She was, in short, in serious trouble.
"I'm just a supply runner," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Medical supplies for the forward base. Nothing that would interest a Maverick."
"Oh, I doubt that very much." Sting Chameleon approached the truck with fluid, sinuous movements. His tail swayed hypnotically behind him. "You see, I've been monitoring Hunter communications. And I heard something very interesting about a certain Dr. Chen and her revolutionary new energy tanks." He leaned closer to the driver's side window, and Melissa could see her reflection in his optical sensors. "You wouldn't happen to be that Dr. Chen, would you?"
Her silence was answer enough.
A grin spread across his reptilian features—an expression that shouldn't have been possible on such an inhuman face, yet somehow was. "I thought so. You know, we Mavericks have a hard time getting proper energy supplies. The Hunters have cut off most of our access to refineries and distribution centers. We make do with what we can scavenge, but it's never quite enough." He tapped a clawed finger against the window. "So imagine my delight when I learned about energy tanks so condensed, so powerful, that a single unit could sustain a Reploid for weeks."
"Those tanks aren't for Mavericks," Melissa said, finding her courage. "They're experimental. We don't even know all the side effects yet."
"Then I suppose I'll be your test subject." Sting Chameleon moved to the back of the truck with startling speed. Before Melissa could react, he'd torn through the tarp and netting as if they were tissue paper. "Let's see what all the fuss is about."
Melissa scrambled out of the truck, her heart pounding. "Wait! You can't just—those are calibrated for specific Reploid models! We haven't tested them on—"
But Sting Chameleon had already pried open one of the crates. Inside, nestled in protective foam, sat twelve cylindrical tanks, each about the size of a soda can but glowing with an intense blue-white light. The energy within was visible even through the reinforced transparent casing, swirling and pulsing like captured lightning.
"Beautiful," the Maverick breathed. He plucked one from the crate with surprising delicacy, holding it up to examine it more closely. "I can feel the power radiating from it even through the casing. Your work, Doctor?"
"Yes, but—"
He'd already activated the tank's release mechanism. A port opened at the top, and Sting Chameleon brought it to his mouth—or rather, to the intake valve located where a mouth would be on an organic creature. The energy flowed into him in a stream of brilliant light.
Melissa watched, fascinated despite her fear. She'd seen Reploids consume energy before, of course—it was as natural to them as eating was to humans. But this was different. The hyper-condensed energy she'd developed was far more potent than standard E-tanks, and she'd never seen it consumed by a Reploid of Sting Chameleon's particular design.
The Maverick's optical sensors brightened as the energy flooded his systems. His armor plating seemed to glow from within, circuits lighting up in patterns across his body. He drained the entire tank in seconds, then lowered it with a satisfied sigh.
"Oh," he said softly. "Oh, that's... that's incredible." He looked at the empty tank in his hand, then at the crates full of them. "That's the most intense energy infusion I've ever experienced. It's like... like lightning and sunshine and pure power all at once."
"That's the hyper-condensation process," Melissa explained, her scientific instincts overriding her caution. "We've managed to compress nearly a month's worth of standard energy into a single tank. The sensation you're feeling is your systems processing an enormous influx of power all at once."
"It's wonderful." Sting Chameleon reached for another tank. "I need more."
"Wait, you should let your systems stabilize first! We don't know how multiple doses will—"
But he was already consuming the second tank, and then a third. Melissa watched helplessly as the Maverick worked his way through the first crate with increasing speed, each tank disappearing in seconds. His movements became more animated, more energetic. His tail lashed excitedly behind him.
"This is amazing!" he exclaimed after the sixth tank. "I feel like I could run for days! Like I could take on X himself!" He laughed—a sound that was surprisingly warm and genuine. "Doctor, you're a genius! An absolute genius!"
It was after the eighth tank that Melissa noticed the first physical change.
Sting Chameleon's midsection, previously flat and streamlined beneath his armor plating, had developed a slight roundness. It was subtle at first—just a gentle curve where before there had been none. But as he continued consuming the tanks, the change became more pronounced.
"Um," Melissa ventured, "are you feeling alright? You're looking a bit... different."
"Different?" Sting Chameleon looked down at himself, swaying slightly. "I feel fantastic! Better than fantastic! I feel... I feel..." He giggled—actually giggled, a sound that seemed completely at odds with his fearsome appearance. "I feel tingly! Is that normal?"
"Tingly?" Melissa's scientific curiosity warred with her concern. "What kind of tingly?"
"Like... like everything is buzzing. Like my circuits are singing." He reached for another crate, tearing it open with less precision than before. "These are so good, Doctor. So, so good. Can I call you Doctor? Or do you prefer Melissa? I feel like we're friends now. Are we friends?"
Melissa blinked. The change in the Maverick's demeanor was startling. Where before he'd been threatening and predatory, now he seemed almost... giddy? His movements had lost their fluid precision, becoming looser and more exaggerated.
"I think," she said slowly, "that the energy might be affecting your behavioral processors."
"My what now?" Sting Chameleon drained another tank, then another. His midsection was definitely rounder now, pushing out against his armor plating. The plates were designed to be flexible, to accommodate movement and minor damage, but they were clearly straining to contain his expanding form. "Oh! Oh, these are even better than the first ones! Or maybe I'm just appreciating them more? Doctor, you're amazing. Have I mentioned you're amazing?"
"You're exhibiting signs of intoxication," Melissa observed, her scientific fascination growing. "The energy overload is affecting your higher functions. It's similar to how alcohol affects human neural pathways."
"Intox... intoxi... I'm drunk?" Sting Chameleon looked at the empty tanks scattered around him, then at the ones still remaining in the crates. "On energy? That's hilarious! That's the funniest thing I've ever heard!" He laughed again, louder this time, and nearly toppled over. His tail whipped out to steady him. "Whoops! Getting a bit wobbly there."
He was also getting significantly larger.
With each tank he consumed, Sting Chameleon's body expanded. His midsection had gone from slightly round to distinctly pot-bellied, the armor plating creaking audibly as it stretched to accommodate his growing girth. But it wasn't just his stomach—his entire frame was thickening. His arms, previously lean and sinewy, were developing a softer appearance. His legs were growing sturdier, more substantial. Even his tail seemed thicker, less whip-like and more substantial.
"You're gaining mass," Melissa said, unable to keep the wonder from her voice. "The excess energy is being converted into physical matter. I theorized this might happen with extreme overconsumption, but I never imagined..."
"Gaining mass?" Sting Chameleon looked down at himself again, patting his rounded middle with both hands. The sound was like drumming on metal. "Huh. I guess I am getting a bit bigger. That's weird. That's... that's..." He giggled again. "That's kinda funny! Look at me! I'm getting fat!"
He said it with such delight, such complete lack of concern, that Melissa couldn't help but smile despite the bizarre situation. The fearsome Maverick who'd stopped her truck was now swaying on his feet, giggling at his expanding waistline, and reaching for yet another tank.
"Maybe you should slow down," she suggested. "Your systems might not be able to handle much more."
"Nonsense!" Sting Chameleon declared, waving a tank in the air for emphasis. "I'm a Reploid! I'm designed to handle energy! And this energy is delicious! Did I mention it's delicious? Because it's really, really delicious." He consumed another tank, then leaned against the truck for support. "Okay, maybe I am a little full. But in a good way! In a really good way!"
His armor was definitely straining now. The plates that covered his torso had gaps between them, revealing the softer synthetic material underneath. His belly hung over where his belt would be if he wore one, round and prominent. His chest had developed a noticeable softness, and his arms had lost their sharp definition entirely.
But what struck Melissa most was how the changes seemed to suit him in a strange way. Where before Sting Chameleon had been all sharp edges and predatory grace, now he had a softer, more approachable appearance. His movements, though clumsy, seemed friendlier. His entire demeanor had shifted from threatening to almost endearing.
"You know what?" Sting Chameleon said, sliding down to sit on the ground with a heavy thump. "You're really cute, Doctor. Has anyone ever told you that? You're really, really cute. With your little lab coat and your worried face and your smart brain." He reached out and gently booped her nose with one clawed finger. "Boop! You're adorable!"
Melissa felt her cheeks heat up. "I... thank you?"
"No, no, thank YOU!" He spread his arms wide, nearly overbalancing. "Thank you for making these amazing energy tanks! Thank you for being so smart! Thank you for being here so I could meet you!" He paused, his optical sensors dimming slightly. "Wait, why are you here? In the jungle? That seems dangerous for a cute little human."
"I was delivering the tanks to a Hunter base," Melissa explained, finding herself oddly charmed by the intoxicated Maverick. "Before you stopped me."
"Oh. Oh no. I'm a bad guy, aren't I?" Sting Chameleon looked genuinely distressed. "I stopped you and scared you and took your tanks. That's not nice. That's not nice at all." He looked at the scattered empty tanks around him. "And I drank all your tanks! Well, not all of them. There's still..." He counted on his fingers, got confused, and gave up. "There's still some left. But I drank a lot of them!"
"It's okay," Melissa said, and was surprised to find she meant it. "I'm not hurt, and the tanks were experimental anyway. This is actually providing valuable data about overconsumption effects."
"Data!" Sting Chameleon perked up. "I'm helping science! I'm a science helper!" He tried to stand, wobbled dangerously, and sat back down. "Okay, standing is hard now. When did standing get hard?"
"You've consumed approximately eighteen tanks," Melissa calculated. "That's roughly eighteen months' worth of energy in less than an hour. Your systems are completely overloaded."
"Eighteen months!" Sting Chameleon's eyes widened. "No wonder I feel so full! And so happy! And so..." He looked at Melissa again, his expression softening. "And so glad I met you. You're the nicest human I've ever met. Most humans are scared of me. But you're talking to me like I'm a person. Like I'm not just a Maverick."
There was something vulnerable in his voice that tugged at Melissa's heart. "You are a person," she said gently. "Maverick or not, you're still a sentient being."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in months." Sting Chameleon reached for another crate, pulling it closer. "I'm gonna drink more tanks now. Because they're delicious and they make me happy and I like being happy."
"I really think you've had enough—"
But he was already opening another tank, and another. Melissa watched as he worked his way through a second crate, then started on a third. His body continued to expand with each tank, his armor creaking and groaning under the strain. His belly grew rounder and softer, pushing out further and further. His chest developed distinct pectorals that sagged slightly under their own weight. His arms and legs thickened considerably, losing all trace of their former sleekness.
Even his face seemed rounder, his features softer. The sharp, predatory look had been replaced by something almost cherubic—if a seven-foot biomechanical chameleon could be called cherubic.
"Oh wow," he said after finishing the third crate. "Oh wow, I'm really big now. Look at me! I'm huge!" He patted his massive belly with both hands, the sound echoing through the jungle. "This is so weird! This is so, so weird! But also kind of nice? Is that weird that it's nice?"
"Your perception is definitely being affected by the energy intoxication," Melissa observed, circling around him to get a better look. From a scientific standpoint, this was fascinating. From a personal standpoint, she was finding the transformed Maverick increasingly endearing. "How do you feel physically?"
"Heavy," Sting Chameleon said immediately. "Really heavy. And soft. And warm. And tingly. Still tingly. So much tingly." He looked at the remaining crates. "How many are left?"
"About twenty-four tanks," Melissa calculated. "But you really shouldn't—"
"I want them all," he said with childlike determination. "I want to drink all of them. Can I drink all of them? Please? You're so nice, and I'm asking nicely, so can I please drink all of them?"
Melissa hesitated. From a safety standpoint, she should absolutely refuse. From a scientific standpoint, she was curious to see what would happen. And from a personal standpoint... well, he had asked nicely.
"Alright," she said. "But I'm monitoring you. If you show any signs of system failure, we stop immediately."
"You're the best!" Sting Chameleon declared, reaching for another crate. "The absolute best! When I'm not drunk anymore, I'm going to remember that you're the best!"
He continued drinking, slower now but no less determined. Each tank added more mass to his already considerable bulk. His belly grew so large it rested on the ground when he sat. His chest became a shelf of soft armor plating. His arms were so thick he had trouble reaching around his own body. His legs could barely support his weight when he tried to stand.
But through it all, he remained cheerful, giddy, and increasingly affectionate toward Melissa.
"You should come closer," he said after finishing the fourth crate. "Come sit with me. I'm very comfortable now. Very soft. Very warm. Good for sitting with."
"I'm fine standing," Melissa said, though she was smiling.
"But I want you closer," he insisted, his voice taking on a plaintive quality. "You're so far away. And you're so cute. And I like you. Come closer please?"
Against her better judgment, Melissa found herself moving closer. Sting Chameleon's face lit up—literally, his optical sensors brightening with delight.
"There you are!" he said happily. "Now I can see you better. You have nice eyes. Did you know you have nice eyes? They're very nice. Very smart-looking. Smart eyes for a smart person."
"Thank you," Melissa said, unable to suppress her smile. "You're very sweet when you're drunk."
"I'm sweet?" He seemed delighted by this assessment. "Nobody's ever called me sweet before! They call me dangerous and sneaky and a threat to society. But never sweet!" He reached out and very gently took her hand in his much larger one. His grip was careful, mindful of his claws. "You're sweet too. The sweetest. The sweetest scientist in the whole world."
They sat like that for a while, Sting Chameleon slowly working his way through the remaining tanks while holding Melissa's hand. The sun was setting now, painting the jungle in shades of orange and gold. The sounds of nocturnal creatures were beginning to replace the daytime chorus.
"Almost done," Sting Chameleon announced, his words slightly slurred. "Just a few more. Then I'll have drunk all of them. All of your amazing tanks." He looked at her with an expression that might have been concern. "Are you mad that I drank all your tanks?"
"No," Melissa said, and realized she meant it. "I'm not mad. This has been... educational."
"Educational!" He giggled. "I'm educational! I'm a big, fat, educational Maverick!" He drained another tank. "Big and fat and happy and full and..." He yawned, a surprisingly human gesture. "And sleepy. When did I get sleepy?"
"Your systems are probably trying to process all that energy," Melissa explained. "It's like a food coma for Reploids."
"Food coma," he repeated, giggling. "That's funny. You're funny. Everything's funny." He finished the last tank and set it down with exaggerated care. "There. All done. I drank all the tanks. All forty-eight tanks. I'm very accomplished."
"You certainly are," Melissa agreed, looking at the massive Reploid before her. Sting Chameleon had to be at least twice his original size, possibly more. His armor plating was stretched to its absolute limit, gaps showing between every plate. His belly was enormous, round and soft and prominent. His entire body had taken on a softer, more rounded appearance that was completely at odds with his original sleek design.
And yet, somehow, he looked content. Happy, even.
"I like you so much," he said suddenly, his words running together. "You're so nice and smart and cute and you didn't run away even though I'm a Maverick and I'm scary. Except I'm not scary now, am I? I'm too fat to be scary. I'm just... I'm just big and soft and happy." He yawned again. "And sleepy. So sleepy."
"Maybe you should rest," Melissa suggested. "Let your systems process everything."
"Rest sounds good. Rest sounds really good." Sting Chameleon looked around, his movements slow and clumsy. "But not here. Here's not safe. Hunters might come. Or other Mavericks. Not safe for you." He focused on her with obvious effort. "Gotta keep you safe. You're too important. Too cute. Too nice."
"I appreciate that, but—"
Before she could finish, Sting Chameleon had scooped her up in his arms. The movement was clumsy and he nearly fell over, but he managed to steady himself. Melissa found herself pressed against his chest, which was surprisingly warm and soft despite being made of armor plating.
"Taking you home," he announced. "To my lair. It's safe there. Hidden. No one will bother us there." He started walking, his gait unsteady but determined. "You'll be safe and I'll be safe and we can both rest and it'll be nice."
"Wait, I don't think—"
But Sting Chameleon was already moving, carrying her into the jungle with surprising speed despite his size and intoxicated state. Melissa considered struggling, but his grip, while gentle, was also very secure. And truthfully, she wasn't sure what else to do. Her truck was disabled, her communication was down, and she was in the middle of Maverick territory.
At least with Sting Chameleon, she knew she was safe. Somehow, she was certain of that.
The journey to his lair took about twenty minutes, during which Sting Chameleon kept up a running commentary about how nice she was, how smart she was, how cute she was, and how happy he was that they were friends now. Melissa found herself responding, engaging in conversation with the intoxicated Maverick, and discovering that beneath the fearsome exterior was someone surprisingly thoughtful and articulate—when he wasn't drunk on hyper-condensed energy, at least.
His lair turned out to be a cave system hidden behind a waterfall, the entrance camouflaged so perfectly that Melissa would never have found it on her own. Inside, it was surprisingly comfortable—furnished with salvaged items, lit by bioluminescent plants, and maintained with a care that spoke of someone who valued their personal space.
"Home," Sting Chameleon announced proudly, setting Melissa down gently on a pile of soft materials that served as a bed. "My home. Now your home too. Temporarily. Or permanently? Would you like to stay permanently? That would be nice."
"I think we should discuss that when you're sober," Melissa said diplomatically.
"Sober," he repeated, swaying on his feet. "Right. Sober. That's a thing I'm not." He looked around, his optical sensors dimming. "So tired. So full. So happy. So..." He toppled forward, and Melissa barely had time to move before his massive bulk landed on the bed beside her.
Or rather, partially on top of her.
Sting Chameleon had fallen asleep mid-sentence, his arms wrapping around Melissa in an embrace that was surprisingly gentle despite his size. His massive belly pressed against her side, warm and soft. His chest rose and fell with simulated breathing—a feature some Reploids had for comfort and heat dissipation. His tail curled around them both, creating a cocoon of biomechanical reptile.
Melissa lay there, her heart pounding, trying to process what had just happened. She'd been kidnapped by a Maverick. She was being held in his lair. She was trapped in the embrace of a seven-foot biomechanical chameleon who'd drunk himself into a stupor on her experimental energy tanks.
And yet... she felt safe. Comfortable, even.
She looked at Sting Chameleon's face, peaceful in sleep. His features were soft, almost gentle. His optical sensors had dimmed to a faint glow. His grip on her was protective but not restrictive. He looked, she thought, almost vulnerable like this.
"What am I going to do with you?" she whispered.
He didn't answer, of course. He just held her closer, a small smile on his reptilian features.
Melissa sighed and settled in. There was nothing she could do tonight anyway. Her truck was back in the jungle, her communication was down, and she was exhausted from the day's events. She might as well rest and deal with everything in the morning.
When Sting Chameleon woke up and realized what he'd done. When he saw what he'd become. When the energy intoxication wore off and he was faced with the reality of his actions and his new body.
She hoped he would be receptive. Hoped he would remember the connection they'd formed, however strange and unexpected it had been. Hoped he wouldn't regret what had happened.
Because despite everything—despite the danger, despite the absurdity, despite the complete insanity of the situation—Melissa found herself hoping that the sweet, affectionate, goofy Maverick who'd called her cute and carried her to safety wasn't entirely a product of the energy intoxication.
She hoped that somewhere in there, beneath the programming and the Maverick designation and the fearsome reputation, was the person she'd glimpsed today. Someone thoughtful and kind and capable of connection.
Someone who might, just maybe, become a friend.
Or possibly something more.
Melissa felt her cheeks heat at the thought. That was ridiculous. He was a Maverick. She was a human scientist. They were on opposite sides of a war. This whole situation was already insane enough without adding romantic complications.
And yet...
She looked at his peaceful face again, at the way he held her so carefully even in sleep. At the soft rise and fall of his chest. At the gentle glow of his optical sensors.
He was kind of cute like this, she had to admit. In a big, soft, biomechanical reptile sort of way.
"I must be losing my mind," she muttered to herself.
But she didn't try to escape his embrace. Instead, she let herself relax against his warm, soft bulk. Let herself enjoy the feeling of safety and comfort, however temporary it might be.
Tomorrow would bring its own challenges. Tomorrow, Sting Chameleon would wake up and they would have to face the reality of what had happened. Tomorrow, she would have to figure out how to get back to civilization, how to explain the loss of her cargo, how to process the data from this unprecedented experiment.
Tomorrow, everything would be complicated.
But tonight, in the soft glow of bioluminescent plants, held in the gentle embrace of an intoxicated Maverick who'd called her cute and carried her to safety, Melissa let herself simply be.
She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the warmth and the steady rhythm of simulated breathing and the feeling of being held close.
Whatever tomorrow brought, they would face it together.
She only hoped that when Sting Chameleon woke up—sober, aware, and confronted with his new size and the human scientist sleeping in his arms—he would remember the connection they'd formed. That he would be receptive to her presence, to his new body, to the possibility of something beyond the simple categories of Maverick and Hunter, enemy and ally.
She hoped he would remember that she'd called him sweet, and that he'd smiled.
She hoped he would remember that she'd stayed.
And as she drifted off to sleep, held close by a biomechanical chameleon who'd drunk himself fat on experimental energy tanks and declared her the cutest scientist in the world, Melissa Chen found herself hoping for something she'd never expected to hope for.
She hoped for a tomorrow where they could figure this out together.
Whatever "this" turned out to be.
The first thing Sting Chameleon became aware of was weight.
Not the weight of his body—though that felt different somehow, heavier and softer than he remembered—but the weight of responsibility. The weight of consciousness returning after what felt like the deepest sleep of his life.
The second thing he became aware of was warmth.
Specifically, the warmth of another body pressed against his. Small, soft, organic. Human.
His optical sensors flickered online, adjusting to the dim light of his lair. The bioluminescent plants cast everything in a gentle blue-green glow. It was peaceful. Quiet. Safe.
And he was holding someone.
Memory came flooding back in fragments. The truck. The energy tanks. The human scientist. Drinking tank after tank after tank, feeling the power surge through his systems, feeling giddy and happy and strange. Talking to her. Laughing with her. Calling her cute.
Oh no.
Calling her cute.
Sting Chameleon's systems ran a quick diagnostic, and the results made him want to shut down and never reboot. He'd consumed forty-eight hyper-condensed energy tanks. Forty-eight. His power reserves were at 847% capacity. His behavioral inhibitors had been completely overridden by the energy overload. His memory files from the previous evening were flagged with warnings about compromised decision-making and erratic behavior.
He'd been drunk. On energy. And he'd kidnapped a human scientist.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
He tried to move, to extract himself from the situation without waking her, but that's when he became aware of the third thing: his body felt wrong.
He looked down at himself and froze.
He was huge. Not tall—he'd always been tall—but huge. His midsection was enormous, round and soft and completely unlike his usual sleek form. His chest was broad and heavy. His arms were thick. His legs were substantial. Even his tail felt heavier, more solid.
He'd gained massive amounts of mass. The energy hadn't just powered his systems—it had converted into physical matter, adding bulk to his frame in a way that should have been impossible.
He was fat. There was no other word for it. He was fat.
Panic surged through his systems. This was a disaster. He was a stealth operative, designed for speed and agility and camouflage. How was he supposed to function like this? How was he supposed to fight, to hunt, to survive?
And the human—Dr. Chen, his memory supplied—was still sleeping peacefully against his chest, completely unaware that she was being held by a Maverick who'd lost his mind on experimental energy and ballooned to twice his normal size.
He should let her go. Should wake her up, apologize, and send her on her way. Should try to salvage what remained of his dignity and figure out how to reverse whatever had happened to his body.
But...
She looked so peaceful. So comfortable. And his arms were already around her, and she fit there so perfectly, and some part of him—the part that had been talking last night, the part that had called her cute and carried her to safety—didn't want to let go.
She'd been kind to him. Even when he was threatening her, even when he was stealing her cargo, even when he was obviously intoxicated and making a fool of himself, she'd been kind. Patient. Understanding.
She'd called him sweet.
No one had called him sweet in... ever. No one had called him sweet ever.
Sting Chameleon lay there, holding the sleeping scientist, trying to figure out what to do. His logical processors said to wake her, apologize, and let her go. His emotional subroutines—which were apparently much stronger than he'd realized—said to hold her closer and never let go.
He compromised by staying very, very still and hoping she'd wake up on her own so he wouldn't have to make a decision.
It was, he reflected, possibly the most cowardly thing he'd ever done.
But after the night he'd had, he figured he was entitled to a little cowardice.
He just hoped that when she woke up, she wouldn't be too angry. Or too scared. Or too disgusted by what he'd become.
He hoped she would remember that he'd tried to keep her safe. That he'd been gentle, even in his intoxicated state. That he'd meant it when he said she was cute and smart and the nicest human he'd ever met.
He hoped she would give him a chance to explain. To apologize. To maybe, possibly, figure out if the connection he remembered from last night was real or just a product of energy intoxication.
He hoped for a lot of things, lying there in the soft glow of his lair, holding a human scientist who should have been his enemy but felt like something else entirely.
But mostly, he hoped she wouldn't hate him when she woke up.
That seemed like a good place to start.
