Page 4 of Reluctantly Abducted
My spoon clinks against the bottom of the bowl. Empty. I should probably get dressed, make some actual decisions about my life instead of wandering around in my underwear feeling sorry for myself.
The thing is, I know I'm good at what I do. Eight years of keeping people alive in impossible situations doesn't just disappear because you change zip codes. The Army may have medically discharged me for a back injury that won't pass their physical standards, but my hands still work fine. My brain still works fine. But all these civilian positions want you to follow protocols and procedures, to work within systems that prioritize liability over actually helping people. They want medical technicians, not medics.
I'm heading back toward the kitchen when the world explodes in blue light.
Not explodes, exactly. More like... dissolves. The apartment, the walls, the floor - everything just stops being solid and starts being light instead. Blue, humming, electric light that seems to come from everywhere at once.
My training kicks in before my brain catches up. Threat assessment: unknown. Environment: compromised. Priority: escape and evade.
I drop the bowl - though I never hear it hit the floor - and am reaching for the nearest potential weapon when everything stops.
The light cuts out like someone flipped a switch, and suddenly I'm standing on a floor that definitely isn't mine, in a room that's so white it hurts to look at. The walls curve in ways that seem wrong, and there's a humming sound coming fromeverywhere that makes my teeth ache. The air smells clean, too clean, like hospitals but without the antiseptic bite. There's an underlying metallic tang that coats the back of my throat, and each breath feels slightly thicker than it should.
And there's someone standing about five feet away from me.
Not someone. Something. Humanoid, but wrong. Shorter than me - he looks barely out of his teens, small and slight in a way that makes him seem almost fragile - with skin that has a bluish tint and eyes that are gold where they should be brown or blue or green. He's wearing what looks like a uniform, formal and fitted, and he's staring at me with an expression I can't read.
My brain kicks into threat assessment mode automatically. Small target, no visible weapons, formal posture suggests non-combatant. The room itself is another problem - no obvious exits, walls that curve in unnatural ways, no cover. Whatever this thing is, it's got me at a serious disadvantage.
And I'm standing here in my fucking underwear.
"Owen Hayes," he says, and his voice has an accent I can't place. It resonates oddly, like there's a subtle harmonic underneath his words. "You have been selected for—"
I don't let him finish. My fist connects with his jaw before my conscious mind has time to evaluate whether hitting the alien is a tactically sound decision.
Turns out it's not.
He goes down like he's never been hit before in his life - which, judging by his complete lack of defensive reflexes, he probably hasn't. He staggers backward with a look of pure shock, his feet get tangled up, and he goes down hard, the back of his head connecting with what looks like a control panel with a sound that makes me wince.
The alien - because that's clearly what he is, and holy shit, aliens are real - slides down the wall and doesn't get back up. There's a thin line of blue blood trickling from his lip where I hit him. It catches the light differently than human blood would, more iridescent, like motor oil on wet pavement.
"Fuck," I say aloud, because the situation seems to call for it.
I stand there for exactly three seconds, taking in the scene. Unconscious alien. Weird white room that's definitely not on Earth. Me in my boxers, apparently having just assaulted an extraterrestrial.
Then my training takes over again, but different training this time. Not combat assessment - medical assessment.
I drop to my knees beside him, automatically checking for responsiveness. "Hey. Hey, can you hear me?"
No response. His eyes are closed, and there's already swelling starting where his head hit the panel. I check his pulse - or what I hope is his pulse. His wrist feels different than a human's, the bone structure subtly wrong, but there's definitely something beating under the skin. Fast, but steady. His skin is cool to the touch, several degrees below human temperature, with a texture like fine suede.
"Okay, okay," I mutter, gently turning his head to check the injury. Just a bump forming where he hit the panel, no bleeding. The split lip is minor too. "This is what I get for punching first and asking questions later."
When I touch his head to examine the bump, something weird happens. His skin suddenly glows brighter, patterns of light rippling across his face and down his neck like he's got Christmas lights under his skin.
"What the hell?" I pull my hand back, and the glow fades immediately.
The alien - person, whatever - makes a soft sound, somewhere between a groan and a sigh. His eyelids flutter.
"That's it," I say, falling back into the voice I use with patients. Calm, steady, professional. "Come on back. You're okay."
His eyes open, unfocused and confused. They really are gold, I realize. Not brown with gold flecks or hazel that looks gold in the right light. Actually, genuinely gold, with pupils that remind me of camera shutters adjusting to light.
"What..." he starts, then stops, blinking slowly.
"You hit your head," I tell him. "Can you tell me your name?"
He stares at me for a moment, and I can practically see him trying to process what happened. "Ry'eth," he says finally. The name has a musical quality when he says it, almost like two notes played simultaneously.
