Development in the Serums Part 2

  Please note that the Gorean Saga is a fictional series, and its world, customs, and values may not align with modern societal standards or moral principles.

This story is based off Chat logs and CHAT GPT was used to make it into this.

Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman

He moved through the city without hurry, his pace casual enough that an observer might have thought him wandering without purpose. Yet there was intent beneath it—quiet, deliberate. His steps carried him unerringly to the inn, where he finally came to a stop. The place was nearly empty, the muted calm of the hour settling over it like a held breath.

His keen eyes found her at once.

Crow paused, just inside the edge of the space, as though searching for the right words before stepping fully forward. Social ease had never been his strength, yet there was an undeniable charm about him—something polished that lingered from a high-caste upbringing never entirely erased by blood or shadow. Assassin he might be, but not a crude one.

Inclining his head, he greeted her, his voice dark in timbre, warm yet edged with something fierce beneath the surface.

Neeve looked up from her cup of warm larma juice at the sound, her expression open but reserved, as it always was with strangers. She offered him a polite smile. “Tal, sir,” she replied. Her gaze flicked briefly around the inn before returning to him. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. I hope you’re finding the Var welcoming.”

He moved closer then, though he remained behind the low fence of the inn—far enough to suggest distance, close enough to speak easily. Perhaps it was intentional, that subtle illusion of safety. Crow had survived far worse than fences and knew well enough what could stop him and what could not. Age had not robbed him of his agility, nor his precision.

A faint smile touched his lips as his gaze searched for hers. “It is often a good thing,” he answered lightly, as though being unseen were a small blessing. “Strangely enough, the welcome has been well.” His thoughts briefly returned to a prior conversation, one that had paved the way here.

“Forgive my ignorance,” he continued. “I am called Crow. Of the caste of Assassins.”

Her brows lifted slightly at that, and a small sound of surprise escaped her. “Oh,” she said, then added with a soft, amused chuckle, “Not sent to kill me, I hope?” She drew her cloak a little tighter against the lingering chill, though the snow had finally ceased its fall. “I’m glad the welcome has been kind to you. Have you come for food or drink—or are you simply passing through?”

Crow studied her reaction carefully. “Do you expect someone to pay good coin for your life?” he asked evenly. It was a question he’d answered countless times—sometimes with steel, sometimes with silence. He wondered, briefly, whether honesty would be taken as jest here.

“And are you glad?” he added, his gaze steady. “You’ve yet to offer me the courtesy of your name.”

He wasted little time after that. Crow had never been one to circle his prey—or his purpose—for long. “Do I stand before the Head of the Physicians?” he asked. “I make it my business to know certain things, and there is a matter of importance I would discuss… if you are who I believe you to be.”

Neeve licked her lips slowly, considering him. The weight of his attention was deliberate, measured. For a moment she hesitated, then reminded herself that this was her city. She gave a small nod.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “You do. My name is Neeve Barbosa.” A quiet chuckle followed as she finished her drink. “Would you prefer to speak here, or in the infirmary?”

Crow’s response was calm, his movements precise, every gesture considered. His posture carried the discipline of a man long trained to understand how presence alone could influence a room. “The matter is delicate,” he said. “But the choice is yours. I won’t place you in discomfort or isolate you unnecessarily.” There was care in the words—genuine, not performative. He understood power, and he understood respect.

With a soft sigh, Neeve rose from her seat. Assuming the delicacy was medical in nature, she gestured for him to follow and led the way toward the infirmary. As she did, her fingers brushed briefly against her hairpin—prepared, just in case.

Crow followed at an easy distance. As they passed the Ubar, he dipped his head respectfully, sensing the man’s concern. It was justified. Gold made no one safe—not truly.

At the infirmary door, Crow paused, remaining standing even after entering. He waited until Neeve had taken her seat before speaking. “When I speak of serums,” he said quietly, “I don’t mean the kind one needs simply to grow old.”

Neeve hummed thoughtfully. The implication was clear enough. She gestured for him to sit, settling herself only after. “One who looks as you do hardly seems in need of serums for age,” she replied evenly. “Which tells me you’re not here out of necessity, but interest.” Her gaze sharpened. “So let us not speak in riddles. Say what you came to say—plainly.”

Crow regarded her with quiet interest. He produced a coin, flipping it into the air and catching it absently. “Once, there was a rumor,” he said. “A whisper about physicians delving deeper into serums. Playing at godhood, perhaps. Arrogance bred by possibility.” His tone was devoid of emotion, though the words themselves were harsh. “You understand how such rumors can become weapons.”

Neeve was silent for a long moment before responding. “I don’t dwell in the past,” she said at last. “What matters is what can still be done.” Her gaze lowered briefly. “There are people I value—people told they have five years left while others may have centuries.”

She looked back at him, steady and unflinching. “This isn’t arrogance. It’s belief. That time doesn’t always need to be stolen. Sometimes, it can be given—carefully, willingly.”

Crow listened. Truly listened. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I don’t ask you to dwell on the past,” he said. “I end lives where you prolong them. Neither is easy.” He straightened. “I would sit and continue this discussion, but other obligations call me away.” A faint pause. “Still… when word spreads, your infirmary may find itself in need of me. More than you might wish to admit.”

Neeve frowned slightly but nodded. “Then come back,” she said simply. “And we’ll discuss just how dire that need may be.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

Neeve stood at the worktable with deliberate restraint, her attention deliberately turned away from the more volatile vials. The toxic serums—those whose dangers Hilda herself had explained in detail—remained untouched for now. Their properties were too unstable, their risks too poorly defined to introduce at this stage. Instead, Neeve focused on what she knew with certainty: the stabilization serums. These were familiar ground, their mechanisms well understood, their behavior predictable within carefully controlled parameters.

For a baseline reference, she chose her own blood.

It was a calculated decision, not an emotional one. Over sixty years earlier, Neeve had undergone similar treatments, yet her body showed no meaningful signs of aging beyond that of a woman in her mid-twenties. Whatever had been altered within her physiology had stabilized long ago, making her an ideal comparative sample—proof not only of possibility, but of longevity without degeneration.

She worked methodically, isolating and cataloging the biochemical profile of her blood: proteins, carbohydrates, lipids, enzymes, metabolic byproducts. Each value was recorded with care, forming a complete physiological snapshot. Only once the data was logged did she introduce a measured portion of the stabilization serum into Hilda’s preserved blood sample from the original vial.

Aware of Hilda watching her closely, Neeve allowed herself a small, reassuring smile. She opened the working formula for the de-aging serum and explained her reasoning calmly, without embellishment. The solution, she proposed, would be engineered using a controlled portion of her own blood as a template—paired with Hilda’s equations—to create a serum tailored specifically to Hilda’s altered physiology. Given the failure of the earlier attempt, exclusivity and precision were essential. Any deviation risked catastrophic interaction.

Hilda listened with rapt attention, hope flickering dangerously bright in her eyes. When she asked if the equation worked, Neeve nodded without hesitation. The science itself was sound. The uncertainty lay not in theory, but in interaction—in whether the serums would coexist rather than collide.

With steady hands, Neeve prepared a small laboratory palette. She introduced a controlled sample of her blood, isolated platelets, and the stabilization serum, then added Hilda’s blood and the reagents dictated by the equation. As the reaction initiated, the solution shifted from blue to yellow—clear evidence of molecular activity. Neeve placed the sample beneath the microscope and watched.

The result was failure.

She set the palette aside with a clipped motion and began again, this time removing her own blood from the equation entirely. Only Hilda’s blood and the specified reagents were combined. Again, she observed. Again, the reaction failed.

Frustration crept in. Neeve massaged her temple, eyes drifting toward the remaining vials. After a moment, she muttered an idea—one she openly admitted might be a terrible one. Carefully, sparingly, she added a minute quantity of Rose’s blood—the poisoned sample—to Hilda’s, followed by the reagents and a single drop of serum.

This time, she pushed the microscope toward Hilda.

When Hilda looked, her reaction was unmistakable. The markers aligned. The reaction stabilized. The serum worked.

Neeve’s breath caught as she confirmed it herself, excitement breaking through her usual restraint. But reality followed immediately after. The successful mixture incorporated poisoned blood—blood altered by the panther’s venom. She voiced the risk plainly and gave Hilda the choice: attempt replication with safer reagents, or proceed now.

Hilda chose now.

Five years, she said. Five failing years at best. Better to risk everything than continue to wither. She wrote a brief will with shaking hands, sealing it and leaving what little she owned to Neeve. Then she lay down, resolute despite the fear in her voice.

Neeve reviewed the notes once more before preparing the injection anew—same components, same ratios. When the mixture reacted correctly again, a fragile hope took root. She secured the remaining vials downstairs, locking them away, reminding herself of the panther’s claim that one vial held the cure. Whether that referred to salvation or poison remained unanswered.

Back upstairs, Hilda refused numbing salve. Unknown interactions were too dangerous. She lay on her side, gripping the sheets, breath steady but strained. Neeve sighed, muttering irritation at being told how to work even as she smiled, then began to massage the muscle above Hilda’s hip.

The needle followed—slow, deliberate, driven deep into tissue. Pain came immediately. The serum burned as it entered, spreading through muscle and bone like fire. Hilda clenched her teeth, her body rigid, tears slipping free despite her resolve.

Neeve withdrew the needle once the dose was complete and took a seat beside her, clasping Hilda’s hand firmly. She stayed. She hummed a low, steady song—an old healing chant from her homeland, words layered with hope and longing, sung not to undo what was lost, but to mend what still could be.

Hilda squeezed her hand weakly, trembling as the burning sensation spread, breath coming faster now. The serum was working—whether toward salvation or ruin, neither of them yet knew. But the choice had been made, and the science, for better or worse, was finally in motion.