Reincarnated as a Mushroom?-Chapter 71 - 70: A Song of Circuits and Cunt-Glares

Chapter 70: A Song of Circuits and Cunt-Glares

There is something fundamentally disconcerting about waking up with a vacuum-sealed steak resting reverently atop your sternum. Not a lover’s arm. Not a blade. Not even a weird alien fungus with aspirations of symbiosis. No — a packaged bovine fillet. And it wasn’t even warm.

Turning my head sluggishly, the culprit of this sacred morning rite was already sitting cross-legged at my bedside, beaming with a kind of pride usually reserved for hunting trophies or first kills. Kimchi — glorious, terrifying Kimchi — clasped her clawed hands together like an overexcited schoolgirl. "Good morning, mate! Kimchi has acquired nutrition for you."

Gods above, she was so proud of herself. She’d probably battled an airlock for this thing. Normally she just shoved biltong mystery slabs into my mouth without warning, often while I was sleeping. So her not feeding me like a python force-feeds a hatchling was... progress?

I grunted, hoisting the chilly packet in the air. "Good morning, my petite predator. Thank you for placing raw meat directly on my solar plexus like some kind of sacrificial altar. Very hygienic. Very normal."

If she caught the sarcasm, she gave no indication. Instead, she clapped once and made a happy chirping noise, clearly thrilled her offering hadn’t been hurled across the room in confusion.

Choosing not to ruin her moment (or encourage more meat-on-chest rituals), I dragged myself to the kitchen in search of something vaguely resembling cookware. Maybe even fire. I wasn’t picky.

Inside the ship’s galley — a sleek, sterile box with way too many blinking lights and suspiciously touchable surfaces — I spotted Ronnie fiddling with buttons like a raccoon let loose in a tech store. His fingers danced across the interface in rhythmic patterns, tapping, dragging, caressing.

"You’ve been doing that all morning," I called out, watching him fondle the console like it owed him rent. "Is the ship gonna explode if you stop touching her, or are you just into foreplay with your dashboard?"

Ronnie turned bright red, like someone had caught him spooning a toaster. "N-no, nothing like that! It’s just... she likes it."

I blinked. "She. As in the ship. Likes it."

He nodded meekly, as though expecting me to crucify him for techno-fetishism.

Silence. Long enough to make him sweat.

Finally, I spoke. "You wanna go ahead and explain that, or should I just keep assuming you’re into dirty talk with HVAC systems?"

Ronnie fumbled but rallied. "It’s not weird! It’s part of my psionic ability!"

That got my attention. I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall. "I’m listening."

He took a steadying breath and spilled the circuitry-flavored beans. "Before Mother Sophia brought me into the family, I lived on the streets. Even back then, machines just... spoke to me. Not with words exactly. More like feelings. I could tell if they were overheating, needed repairs, or just wanted to be used. I was six. Thought everyone could do it. People called me crazy. Kicked me out of homes. Said I was talking to toasters."

He looked genuinely hurt for a moment. "Toasters are awesome, by the way."

I nodded solemnly. "Damn straight they are."

He brightened, then continued. "Mother Sophia found me eventually. Said my ’mind smelled good’ and brought me home. Told me I wasn’t crazy — just psionically gifted. Said my connection with machines was a rare mutation: a mix of technokinesis and emotional interface."

Holy fuck. He was like a machine whisperer. A cybernetic empath with a talent for coaxing affection from inert metal. If this was Earth, he’d either be a government weapon or selling overpriced healing crystals on YouTube.

"Can you manipulate electricity too?" I asked.

Ronnie nodded. "Yeah. I can absorb energy from power sources and channel it through control points. Hands mostly. I’m still practicing. But sometimes when I’m overloaded, I shock myself sneezing."

I bit my lip to suppress a laugh.

Ronnie beamed at the praise, then added, "Next year I’ll be enrolling in the Spartari College of Psionics."

Ah, yes. The mythical meat grinder of ambitious brain-zappers. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

"And what happens after that? Grand plans for galaxy domination?" I asked.

He puffed up with pride. "Well, it’s Mother’s plan really. I’ll either climb the military ladder or end up in charge of a forge-world — maybe both. Either way, it strengthens the family."

Not bad. The kid had ambition. And judging by the slight sparkle in his eye when he talked about the college, he was more than just another cultling following orders. He actually wanted to learn.

"What’s this college like?" I asked.

Ronnie went into infodump mode. "The Spartari don’t force psionics into military service — not openly, anyway. If you choose to serve, you get bonuses. Perks. Glory. But if you just want to study or do mercenary work, that’s fine too. Their motto is: ’So long as humanity grows stronger, we don’t care where the strength ends up.’"

I nodded slowly. "Smart. Keeps the talent happy."

"The enrollment test is annual," he added. "Next one’s in a year."

I made a mental note. If I didn’t get obliterated by some eldritch horror or melted into Crystal’s next psychic love letter by then, I might just check it out.

Ronnie spent the rest of the day in full-on lore-dump mode, pouring out every detail he knew like a loyal little infopedia. To his credit, he was thorough. When he didn’t know something, he admitted it. When he really didn’t know something, he said Crystal would have to approve before he spoke — probably to avoid psychically combusting from breaking cult protocol.

Eventually, his yawns began to outweigh his sentences, so I granted him mercy. "You’re free, little data mule. Go rest before you collapse."

He saluted. I left him to whatever dreams techno-psionics have and returned to my quarters.

Big mistake.

As soon as the door opened, I was greeted by the unmistakable spiritual flavor of murderous feminine tension. The kind that could make entire solar flares pause in awkward silence.

Kimchi was perched on the bed, legs crossed, spine straight, expression still and seething. Onyx, meanwhile, was cradling my space suit like it was her firstborn. She was humming softly. Like a serial killer before the opening credits.

"Okay," I muttered. "Why does the room feel like a snowstorm just walked through and got moodier halfway?"

At the sound of my voice, both women underwent instant emotional whiplash. Smiles bloomed. Eyes sparkled. Predatory glee replaced near-homicidal stillness.

"IRVINE-MATE!" Kimchi exploded toward me, teleporting bodily from seated calm to full-contact tackle in zero-point-five seconds. I barely had time to yelp before she slammed into my chest, knocking me to the floor in a heap of limbs and hissing affection.

"...ow," I said reflexively.

Before Kimchi could smother me into another dimension, she was yoinked upward by something not quite visible. A thick, sinuous tail had wrapped around her waist and flung her unceremoniously back onto the bed like a misbehaving plush toy.

Onyx stood there, calm as death. "Kimchi. I told you I was next to receive Irvine’s seed. That order is fixed. Immutable. Cosmic."

Then she turned to me and looked me up and down like I was a gourmet cut of meat hanging in a butcher’s window.

"And now the death glare makes sense," I muttered.

Welcome to polygamous psionic hell. Population: me.

End of Chapter

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