Page 20 of Alien Attachment
“Remember,” I say, checking my blaster one last time and trying to focus on practical matters instead of how good he looks in dramatic lighting, “let me do the talking. Don’t react to anything, no matter what. Obsidian Haven is full of the worst scum in the sector, but they mind their own business as long as you don’t give them a reason not to.”
“I understand,” Jhorn says, his voice low and slightly muffled by the hood. Through our bond, I feel his unease, his heightened awareness of potential threats. “I will be... inconspicuous.”
I almost laugh at the idea of him being inconspicuous. He could be wearing full armor and carrying a sign that says “Definitely Not An Alien,” and he’d still draw attention just by existing. Some beings are just too much—too tall, too graceful, too intensely present—to blend into a crowd.
The airlock cycles open, revealing the chaotic tableau of Obsidian Haven’s main docking bay, and I’m immediately grateful for the distraction.
The smell hits me first—recycled air tinged with engine grease, alien spices, and the unmistakable reek of too many species living in too close quarters. It’s like someone took every spaceport in the galaxy, concentrated their essence, and then added a liberal dose of criminal desperation for flavor.
“Charming,” I mutter, stepping onto the deck plating. “Really captures that ‘lawless frontier’ aesthetic.”
The noise follows: the constant mechanical drone of life support systems, the cacophony of a dozen different languages being shouted across the bay, the clanging of tools against hull plating. It’s chaos given form and sound, and I love it. This is the kind of place where you can disappear, where credits matter more than questions, where everyone has something to hide.
Through our bond, I feel Jhorn’s senses reel from the assault. His perception is different from mine—sharper, more intense. The smells are overwhelming, the sounds discordant and threatening. Every stimulus seems to hit him like a blow to the head, and his tendrils tighten beneath his cloak in response.
“Easy,” I murmur, stepping closer to him than strictly necessary. “Focus on me. On my voice.”
I feel his attention shift, centering on me like a targeting array locking onto a beacon. The sensation is unnerving but oddly comforting. At least one of us knows exactly what they’re doing, even if it’s the alien bred for devotion rather than the supposedly competent pilot.
“Better?” I ask, and feel his nod through our connection.
We make our way through the docking bay, past ships of all sizes and states of repair. Most are like the Nomad—battered, patched, and heavily modified. A few sleeker vessels hint at more lucrative, probably illegal operations. I keep my head down, moving with purpose. In places like this, hesitation is blood in the water.
Jhorn follows silently, a looming shadow at my back. Despite his obvious discomfort with the environment, he moves with that predatory grace that makes every step look deliberate, controlled. I try not to notice how the cloak emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, or how other beings in the bay give him a wide berth without quite understanding why.
“You’re attracting attention,” I murmur as we pass a group of Barovian traders who stop their conversation to stare.
“I am attempting to be inconspicuous,” he replies, sounding genuinely puzzled.
“Try harder. Maybe slouch a little. Look less like you could kill everyone in this bay with your bare hands.”
“But I could,” he says matter-of-factly.
“I know. That’s the problem.”
Through our bond, I feel his confusion at the concept of hiding one’s capabilities. Everything about his body language screams predator, from the way he holds his head to the fluid economy of his movements. It’s like asking a star to dim its light—possible, maybe, but fundamentally against its nature.
The plan forming in my mind is desperate but simple. I need credits—untraceable ones. I need information about ApexCorp’s bounty on us and, most importantly, I need to find out if there’s any way to sever this bond. The thought sends a strange pang through me, half longing, half dread. I push it away. Focus on survival first. Existential crises later.
We enter the main concourse, where the crowd thickens and the sensory overload intensifies. The station’s central hub is a chaotic marketplace, three stories high, with shops and stalls crammed into every available space. Flickering holosigns advertise everything from weapon mods to pleasure dens in a dozen languages.
“Cozy,” I observe, scanning the chaos for likely information brokers. “Like a flea market designed by someone with severe spatial issues and a hoarding problem.”
Jhorn’s hood turns slightly toward me, and I feel his amusement through our bond. “Your descriptions are... colorful.”
“Three years of courier runs to places that make this look upscale. You develop a certain way with words.”
“We need to find an info-broker,” I continue, keeping my voice low as we navigate the crowd. “Someone discreet who deals in corporate intel. I’ve heard rumors about someone called Silas, but I don’t know if—”
“Your arm,” Jhorn interrupts, his voice tight with sudden alarm.
I glance down at my bandaged wrist where his tendril connects. “What about it?”
“No. Your other arm. It is... leaking.”
I follow his gaze to my right forearm and notice a dark stain spreading across my sleeve. “Shit,” I mutter. Must have caught it on something sharp in the docking bay—probably the edge of a loading crate when I was checking our gear. The wound isn’t serious, barely more than a scratch, but the sight of my blood sends a spike of alarm through Jhorn that nearly buckles my knees.
The reaction is immediate and overwhelming. Through our bond, I feel his focus narrow with laser intensity, his entire being suddenly oriented around this threat to my wellbeing. It’s like being caught in the gravitational pull of a planet—inescapable and slightly terrifying.
