Page 6 of Salvaged By the Alien Pirate

MylungsburnlikeI've been running for miles through toxic air, each desperate breath scraping against my ribs like sandpaper. I crouch behind a stack of cargo containers, the cold metal biting through my synth-leather pants like ice against bare skin. The distinctive throb of the engines tells me we're already in space, their vibrations humming through the deck plates in a frequency that makes my implants buzz. Perfect. Just perfect. File that under "escape plans that definitely need a patch."

The cargo bay is dimly lit, recycled air heavy with the musty scent of metal and machine oil—that universal spacecraft perfume no amount of filtration ever quite eliminates. Emergency lights pulse in slow, crimson waves that remind me of failing system diagnostics, casting shadows between towering stacks of crates that my enhanced vision struggles to penetrate. At least the artificial gravity is working—small mercies in a universe that seems bent on crashing my entire existence.

I pull my knees to my chest, muscles trembling from an adrenaline spike that's making my upgrades glitch like cheap bootleg tech. What a day. Wake up, run standard analytics, discover someone's trying to frame me for corporate espionage, get chased by security, and end up a stowaway on some random ship. Just another Tuesday in the life of Neon Valkyrie. Though right now, I feel a lot more like Lyra Arden—tired, scared, and running dangerously low on both options and processing power.

My training bag reveals a sorry collection of emergency resources that wouldn't pass even the most basic survival protocols: datapad with its cracked screen (thanks, security drone), commlink that's probably being traced, spare clothes that smell like yesterday's synthcoffee, and one sad-looking protein bar that's seen better development cycles. Not exactly the emergency kit I'd want for running from... whoever it is. The encrypted data still burns in my neural cache like a virus I can't quarantine, along with that final warning that flashed across my vision:RUN.

Well, mission accomplished on that front. Though I might have been more selective about my escape vehicle if I hadn't been busy dodging security drones and their trigger-happy operators, their plasma bolts still leaving ghost-images in my enhanced retinal display like corrupted pixels I can't clear.

Heavy footsteps echo through the hold, each step sending vibrations through the metal floor that registers on my internal sensors like seismic activity. They're accompanied by the soft whisper of... wings? The sound like silk over steel in my audio processors, alien and dangerous in ways my database can't categorize. Great. My mysterious ride comes with an equally mysterious captain. I press deeper into the shadows, though something in my code tells me it's already too late for stealth protocols.

The footsteps stop.

I can feel eyes on me, predatory and intense, making my threat assessment subroutines spike into the red. Slowly, I raise my head, my heart attempting an unauthorized override of my ribcage's structural integrity.

Oh.

OH.

He towers over me, easily over six feet of lean muscle and dangerous grace that makes my usually reliable threat assessment protocols stutter and freeze. His skin has a bronze tone I've never seen on any species in my extensive database, marked with strange glowing patterns that pulse with a crimson light like living circuit traces. But it's his wings that short-circuit my thought processes—huge, bat-like appendages that spread behind him like living shadows, filling the space between cargo containers with deadly elegance.

I run a system diagnostic, scrambling for anything in my memory banks that can identify him, but I come up blank. My neural interface has cataloged thousands of alien species, yet none match the towering, winged predator in front of me. My enhanced vision drinks in every detail with ruthless precision—the way his glowing, crimson markings pulse in sync with my own hammering heartbeat, the liquid grace of his movements, as if every step is calculated for maximum lethality.

Mental note: hack into the xenobiology archives the first chance I get. Because right now, my ignorance isn't just embarrassing—it's dangerous.

The worn leather and battle-scarred console behind him scream pirate ship louder than a siren blaring "security breach detected." Because of course. Apparently, today hadn't fried my nerves enough—I had to go and stow away on some cutthroat's death trap.

I rerun my search, hoping for a delayed match, but my data banks remain frustratingly void of answers. As an analyst,I've documented countless alien races drifting through Orion Outpost, but this one? He's a glitch in my system, an outlier my algorithms can't classify. And that sets off more internal alarms than an unpatched vulnerability in a high-security network.

Dangerous. Unquantifiable. And staring at me like he already owns me.

"Found you." His voice is a low growl that sends cascading errors through my neural network, triggering responses I definitely didn't program. Not entirely unpleasant ones either, which sets off a whole new set of warnings in my threat assessment protocols.

I force myself to stand, squaring my shoulders despite every instinct screaming to run. "This isn't what you think. I can explain everything if you'll just—"

"No." The word carries the weight of absolute authority, like gravity itself has bent to his will. He steps closer, nostrils flaring, and suddenly my enhanced senses betray me completely—drinking in his scent like stolen information: metal and starlight, something darker and wilder that reminds me of deep space, and an underlying note that bypasses all my careful defenses and strikes straight at something primitive inside me. "You're not going anywhere."

"Excuse me?" I back up until I hit metal, my spine registering the cold contact like a system shock. "You can't just—"

"You're my mate." He says it like it's hardcoded into the universe's base programming. Like it explains everything.

I laugh, the sound as brittle as corrupted code. I can't help it. The absurdity of this situation hits like a failed system reboot—here I am, carrying enough stolen data to get me dissected in some corporate black site, and this walking security breach thinks we're destined mates. "I'm really not."

His wings flex, stirring the air and carrying more of that intoxicating scent that keeps crashing my usually reliablesensory filters. The bat-like membranes absorb what little light remains, casting living shadows that my enhanced vision can't quite process. "I can smell it. Feel it. The burn in my blood—"

"Is your problem, not mine." I cut him off, forcing my attention away from how my tech keeps glitching around him, spitting out data about his biochemical markers when it should be calculating escape vectors. "We've known each other for exactly zero-point-zero-three cycles. I don't do relationships, and I definitely don't do fated mates. Especially not with pirates who probably want to sell me to the highest bidder."

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and my vision helpfully zooms in on the movement without my permission. "This isn't a choice, little hacker. For either of us."

Ice floods my processors. "What did you call me?"

His smile shows teeth. Long, sharp ones that my visual enhancement automatically measures and calculates damage potential for. "You think I can't smell the neural upgrades? The illegal tech humming under your skin?" He leans closer, and my body executes a completely unauthorized shiver as his heat signature overwhelms my proximity sensors. "You're running from something. Someone. And now you're on my ship."

"Captain!" A gruff voice calls from above. "Security forces are demanding we return to dock."

His eyes stay locked on mine, the patterns in them shifting like quantum calculations I can't quite solve. "Tell them to go to hell. We're on course for Driftspire." His wings shift, shadows stretching around us with deadly grace—like a firewall I can't hack.

"Sir," another voice joins in—female, concerned. "What about the stowaway? Spacing is standard protocol—"

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