Page 75 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
“Get used to it,” I whisper to him. “I did core. I code. I can dismantle your swagger too.”
His dry chuckle sparks between us like a promise. “Go ahead, I dare you.”
That afternoon, I slip into the VR bay and write a hidden Easter egg—each soldier's HUD flashes random motivational lines mid-simulation:
“Boss Lady says: You got this.”
“Courage is earned, not ordered.”
“Fight like you feed the kids tonight.”
Heads swivel. They smirk. A few tap their helmets in salute.
I lean against a workbench, arms crossed. “Consider it morale.”
They laugh—warm, rugged, alive. The tension dissolves. The team feels… bonded. I breathe it in: trust growing, fear melting into something stronger.
Dayn pulls me aside near the end of the day. Welders hiss nearby, plasma drills idle. He rests his hand on my shoulder plate. “You’re turning them,” he says quietly.
I glance at the exosuits, men, aliens as the evening light pools across the bay. “We’re all just machines waiting for the right calibration.”
He nods, eyes soft. “Calibration—and courage.” His voice husks. “You have both.”
He slips an arm around me. The factory dust clings to our coveralls as he kisses my temple. “Boss Lady.”
I lean into him. “Let’s rebuild tomorrow.”
Later, we stand by the hanger’s silent doors. I watch him move among their suits, his posture confident, changed. He’s accepts more now—not just an assassin, but a leader. Fear blindsided me into love with him. Now I see him stepping into someone larger.
Dayn closes his eyes. Breathing in the hum of loyalty, oil, purpose. “Couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
I turn and smile, sliding my hand through his gauntlet. “You would have done it anyway.”
He squeezes my fingers and whispers, “But I’m glad you did.”
We walk back into base—together—laughing at some inside joke. They call me Boss Lady again, louder this time, companionably. When I glance back, Dayn’s at my side, pride and pride and exosuit humming around us.
I inhale the scent of potential—oil, earth, rebellion, hope—knowing tomorrow brings missions that could shatter worlds. But for now, in this hanger full of warriors and misfits, I fit.
And under neon lights and powdered grease, I feel proof: rebuilding doesn’t come from orders. It comes from inspiration—sparked by a little engineer in chipped boots.
I step off the transport ramp into the base and notice the atmosphere has shifted—every sound sharper, every movement more precise. Metal plates clank in rhythmic drills, exosuits hum as they recalibrate. This isn’t Snowblossom anymore; this is a crucible of elite operatives. I sense the weight of tasks ahead, lethal missions waiting in the wings.
I pull the sleeve of my coveralls over my grease-stained arm and run my fingers through my ponytail, tasting the metallictang of machine oil. I thought I’d inspire and rebuild, but now I realize how steep the cost may be. In the mess hall later, the scent of algae paste and burnt coffee drifts through the air. Hellfighters eat in silence, grabbing protein cubes and scanning screens for mission updates. I slide in next to Dayn, tray clattering against the table. He glances at me, muscles tight under his armor.
“How was the recon upload?” I ask quietly, lowering my voice.
He takes a measured breath before answering. “Done. We start tomorrow.”
My chest stutters at the brevity in his tone, senses tingling with unease rather than pride. “Us?” I venture.
He looks at me, expression unreadable. “We’ll talk later.” His words weigh like steel.
I swallow hard around my toothpaste-textured food. “Okay,” I say almost inaudibly.
He stands, knives of moonlight chipping through his calm façade, and walks away. I finish my meal, heart hollowed by his distance.
Later, the sparring ring beckons. I wear a soft padding vest and gloves as I face Dayn opposite me. The dull roar of exos effectors and distant shouts fades into a tunnel around us. Our swords clash—metal screeching against practiced parries. He’s fluid, lethal, coiling moves around me effortlessly. The scent of sweat, polymer coating, heated metal fills the air. My lunges are strong, but every strike echoes off his defense. My breath comes in ragged bursts, fear and adrenaline colliding. I force myself to keep going, though doubt claws at me—will I always be the amateur wrench in his lethal code?
