Page 6 of Alien Attachment
“I am... sorry,” I say, the words feeling strange on my tongue. Language comes to me in fragments—knowledge without memory, like pieces of a puzzle with no picture to guide assembly. “Did not mean to frighten.”
She stares at me, her eyes wide and wary. I can feel her calculating, assessing me as a threat even as her gaze travels over my form with what I recognize through our bond as reluctant appreciation. The jumpsuit she directed me to wear hangs awkwardly on my frame—far too tight across the shoulders and chest, constraining in ways that make me want to tear the restrictive fabric away. The sleeves strain against my biceps, and I can see her eyes tracking the movement when I flex unconsciously.
Her pulse quickens, and a warm flush of interest flows through our connection before she can suppress it.
“What are you?” she asks, her voice steadier now but still edged with fear. And underneath it, curiosity that tastes sweet through our bond. “And why the hell won’t this thing let go of me?” She tugs at the tentacle wrapped around her wrist, her frustration spiking through our connection alongwith something else—awareness of how the appendage pulses warmly against her skin, of its surprising softness.
I tilt my head, searching for words to explain what I barely understand myself. “I am... Jhorn.” It’s the only name I know, the only identity I possess. “Created by ApexCorp. For... connection.” I gesture to the tentacle linking us, watching how her breath catches when it tightens slightly around her wrist. “This is bond. Keeps you safe. Lets me feel if you are harmed.”
It’s partly true. The bond does allow me to monitor her physical state, to sense threats to her wellbeing. But there is more—a desperate, clawing need to maintain this connection, this tether to another living being who makes every nerve ending in my body come alive. Without her, there is only the cold void I almost remember, the emptiness of stasis that feels like death.
She is warmth.
She is light.
She is real.
And she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, even flushed with anger and fear.
“I don’t want a bond,” she snaps, yanking harder at the tentacle. The motion sends a jolt of sensation through me that is definitely not unpleasant. “I want you to let go of me, now.”
The tentacle tightens reflexively, and I force myself to relax it, though not completely. The thought of losing contact with her skin makes panic claw at my throat. “Cannot fully release,” I explain, feeling her anger burn through me like sweet fire. “Bond is... necessary. For both. They will return. We must prepare. Together.”
“Together?” She laughs, a harsh sound without humor that somehow still makes something low in my abdomen tighten with want. “I don’t even know what you are, and you’ve latched onto me like some kind of... of parasite!”
The word strikes deep, wounding in ways I don’t understand. My tendrils curl tighter around my body, and I feel myself shrinking, hunching as if to protect vital organs from attack. Through our bond, I sense her immediate regret at the harsh word, a flash of guilt that she quickly suppresses.
“Not parasite,” I whisper, my voice rougher than intended. “Protector. Companion. Created to... serve. To shield.” To please, whispers a voice from deep in my genetic programming, but I don’t say that part aloud. Not yet.
Her emotions shift, softening slightly. Curiosity flickers through the anger and fear like sunlight through storm clouds. “Created? You mean they made you? Engineered you?”
I nod, though the memories are fragments, impressions rather than clear images. “Yes. Made for bonding. For... connection.” I pause, studying her face, the way her lips part slightly when she’s thinking. “Made to be... compatible.”
A flush rises in her cheeks at that word, and arousal flickers through our bond before she can suppress it. The taste of her desire makes my skin warm, my tendrils shifting restlessly beneath the confines of the jumpsuit.
Before she can respond, the ship’s AI—Lila, I extract the name from Kaylee’s thoughts without meaning to—speaks in a calm, measured tone that cuts through the charged moment: “Warning: Jump drive coolant system critically damaged. Core temperature approaching unsafe levels. Manual intervention required.”
Kaylee curses, a colorful string of words that somehow makes perfect sense to me despite their illogical combination. The way her mouth moves around the profanity is surprisingly arousing. She pushes herself to her feet, swaying slightly, and I resist the urge to steady her with my free tendrils. “I need to fix the coolant system before the drive melts down. Stay here and... just stay.”
She speaks as if to a pet, a creature of limited understanding. I should be offended, but her dismissal barely registers beneath the wave of alarm I feel from her. The ship is in danger. She is in danger. And I find myself oddly charmed by her attempt to order around a being who could probably crush the ship’s hull with his bare hands.
I rise in a single fluid motion, my tendrils helping me balance with predatory grace. “Will help.”
“You’ll stay put,” she counters, already moving toward the door with determined strides that do interesting things to the fit of her jumpsuit. The tentacle connecting us stretches, allowing her several meters of distance before pulling taut. She glares at it, and I feel a spike of frustration that tastes suspiciously like arousal. “Can’t you at least give me some slack?”
I concentrate, extending the tentacle further despite the effort that makes my head throb. The sensation of stretching the connection is like pulling at a taut wire, but her relief makes it worthwhile. “Distance... difficult. Bond is new. Needs stabilizing.”
And I need to be near her, need to feel her warmth and scent and the vibrant life force that flows through our connection like sweet wine.
She rolls her eyes—an expression I find unexpectedly endearing—but doesn’t argue further, hurrying through the door and down a narrow corridor. I follow, moving with a grace that surprises even me. My body knows things my mind does not—how to balance, how to coordinate limbs both human and not, how to navigate tight spaces despite my size. How to move silently when stalking prey, though that particular knowledge seems less relevant to my current situation.
The corridor opens into a small engine room, cramped and swelteringly hot. The air shimmers with heat waves, and warning lights flash on various panels like angry eyes. Kayleeimmediately moves to a console, her fingers flying over controls as she mutters curses under her breath that would make a space pirate blush.
“Lila, give me a damage assessment,” she commands, her voice taking on a crisp, professional tone that makes me want to see her give orders in other, more intimate contexts.
“Primary coolant line ruptured during emergency jump,” the AI responds with maddening calm. “Secondary system unable to compensate. Manual bypass required. Warning: Engine compartment temperature exceeding human safety threshold.”
Kaylee’s resolve floods through our bond, but beneath it, I sense her exhaustion and fear. She’s been running too long, pushing too hard. The ship—her ship, an extension of herself—is failing around her, and she has nowhere else to go. The vulnerability hidden beneath her competent exterior makes something protective and fierce stir in my chest.
