Page 14 of My Big Fat Fake Alien

“Then tell me how you plan to convince Giscard you’re just another human businessman,” Pyke demands, crossing his arms.

I push off the wall, stepping closer. “By playing the part. Humans are greedy, opportunistic creatures. I’ll make him think I’m in it for the money, nothing more. He’ll buy it.”

Pyke studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Fine. But one slip, and you’re out. Understood?”

I nod, my jaw tight. “Understood.”

I find Jareth in his lab, hunched over a workbench scattered with circuit boards and holographic projectors. The smell of ozone and burnt circuitry fills the air.

"Need a favor," I say, tossing my image inducer onto his desk.

Jareth's yellow scales catch the light as he turns. "The great Karc needs my help? Must be serious."

"I need more power. The inducer has to simulate injuries."

His red eyes narrow. "Planning to get hurt?"

"Planning to pretend to get hurt. In front of Giscard."

Jareth picks up the device, examining it with practiced ease. "Interesting strategy. Show weakness to throw him off?"

"Exactly. Can you boost the power enough to fake bruises, cuts, maybe some blood?"

"Of course." His fingers dance over the device, making adjustments. "But the power drain will be significant. You'll have maybe four hours before it needs recharging."

"That's enough time."

He hands the modified inducer back. "Test it."

I activate the device, and my golden scales shimmer into human flesh. A touch of the controls, and an ugly bruise blooms across my jaw. Another adjustment adds a split lip, complete with realistic blood.

"Perfect." I deactivate the injuries. "This'll work."

Jareth crosses his arms. "Just one concern."

"What's that?"

His lips twitch in amusement. "Are you going to be able to swallow your pride and let yourself be beaten up by a lowly human?"

I bare my teeth in what humans would call a smile. "For the greater good? Of course. Won't enjoy it, but that's the job."

The bullet shuttle hums beneath me as I lean back in the seat, the faint vibration of the magnetic track sending a low thrum through my bones. The image inducer rests in my pocket, ready to do its job. I flick the switch as the shuttle slows, my golden scales melting into the smooth, tanned skin of Kirk Stevens. I adjust the cufflinks on my black suit, straightening the tie that feels like a noose. Humans and their ridiculous formalwear.

The elevator to the street level dings open, and I step out into the crisp evening air. Area 51 looms ahead, its neon lights casting a sultry glow over the sidewalk. I stride inside, the thrum of bass-heavy music hitting me like a wall.

The bar is already crowded, the kind of place where the air smells like expensive whiskey and desperation. I order a double scotch, neat, and down it in one swallow. The burn hits my throat, but it does nothing to dull my senses—thanks to my Vakutan biology. I order another, then another, slamming them back as the bartender raises an eyebrow. I need Giscard to see this.

I start stumbling, letting my words slur just enough to sell the act. I bump into a guy in a suit, spilling his drink. He shoves me, and I stumble back, crashing into a table. Glass shatters, and I land hard on the floor, wincing as I tweak the image inducer to display a bruise blooming on my cheek.

“Watch it, asshole!” the guy growls, his face red with anger.

“Sorry, man,” I mutter, slurring my words. “Didn’t… didn’t see ya there.”

He grabs me by the collar and hauls me to my feet. I let him, my body going limp. He swings, and I let the punch connect—not too hard, but enough to sell the damage. I stagger back, clutching my jaw as the image inducer kicks in, showing a split lip. Blood trickles down my chin.

Security descends, pulling the guy off me. I slump against the bar, breathing hard, pretending to be dazed. Across the room, I catch Giscard’s eyes. He’s watching, his expression unreadable. Good. He bought it.

“Mr. Stevens,” Giscard says, striding over. His voice is smooth, apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry about this. Are you all right?”

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