Page 26 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
“I’m not a shield.”
“No,” she agrees. “You’re a storm. But even storms have sides.”
That one sinks deeper than it should.
Later, I catch her by herself, hands stained with grease as she adjusts the capacitor feed on a wind turbine. The sun catches in her hair, turning it into a black flame. She curses under her breath when a wire zaps her thumb.
“You talk to everyone,” I say from the shadows.
She doesn’t jump. Just glances over her shoulder. “Someone has to.”
“They trust you.”
“They need someone to believe in.”
I step closer. “And you picked me.”
“No.” She straightens, dusting off her palms. “I picked us.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I say nothing.
The wind howls through the colony’s skeleton buildings like a voice caught between wanting to wail and whisper. Josie’s eyes search mine, as if she can see through the image inducer to the truth of me—jagged, wrong, dangerous.
And still.
She doesn’t look away.
She swore it would work.
Gods help me, I believed her.
She rigged that food-delivery drone like a bomb in a care package. A rebel’s Trojan horse wrapped in plastic and hope. We loaded it inside one of the prefab supply shafts—cold, metal-walled corridors that smell like burnt toast and old sweat—and I told her it was reckless.
She winked and said, “This is how we get them to pay attention.”
She wasn’t wrong.
The drone’s propellers whirred like a toy on steroids. I watched from the shadows as she tapped the controls. That familiar spark in her eyes—brilliant, dangerous—lit up her face.
It took less than three seconds for it to start.
There was a spark, a hiss, then a pop so loud it rattled my teeth. I launched forward just in time to see the drone erupt—artificial mashed potatoes exploded like a geyser, thick and starchy, flooding the corridor. Circuit boards charred and fell like black snow, sparks raining against plexichrome walls, wires kissing flame and smoke.
Alarm klaxons slammed on.
And for the first time… we ran.
We dove, me pulling her under a tarp—one of those weatherproof surgical covers from the field med-kit stash. We shriek-laughed as the potato slurry dripped over us, hot and sticky. Steam rose from our heads, hot ghosts of absurdity in the cold corridor light.
We lay tangled beneath the tarp, hearts hammering. She is gasping—her laughter is wild and real—and it’s contagious.
I laugh, too. Deep, full-bellied, moonlight-on-metal catharsis. It’s been years since I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. Years since I forgot the ache that follows every kill.
Her elbow bangs into mine. “See? Theynoticed.”
I peek out through the tarp netting. Two stunned Vortaxians stare down the corridor, slipping on potato sludge. Their armorgleams cold and wrong among the mess. Behind them, colony guards scramble to avoid the splatter, shouting orders in clipped tones as they attempt crowd control.
