Page 8 of Alien Attachment
“Not happening,” she cuts me off, her voice hard as vacuum-forged steel. “I don’t hand people over to corporations, even weird tentacle people who’ve attached themselves to me without permission.”
The casual way she says “tentacle people” should probably offend me. Instead, it makes me want to smile, though I’m not entirely sure why.
“Not... people,” I correct her, the words coming from somewhere deep, some programming I can feel but not fully access. “Asset. Property of ApexCorp.”
She turns to look at me, her expression fierce enough to make my dual hearts skip beats. “Bullshit. You talk. You think. You just burned yourself to help me fix my ship. That makes you a person, not property.”
Her certainty flows through our bond, strong and unwavering and absolutely intoxicating. She believes what she says, even as she resents my presence. The contradiction is... confusing. Warming. Arousing in ways I don’t fully understand.
“Why help me?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Bond was accident. I am... burden to you.”
She sighs, returning her attention to the controls, but I catch her sideways glance, the way her gaze lingers on my hands before she looks away. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve spent enough time in the Fringe to know what corporations like ApexCorp do to their ‘assets.’ Maybe because I’ve been running from people who think they own me too, in a way.” She shrugs, and the motion draws my attention to the line of her shoulders, the graceful curve of her neck. “Or maybe because you’re literally attached to me, and I don’t have much choice.”
The last part is said with a wry twist of her lips that I somehow recognize as humor, though the concept feels new and strange. The expression transforms her face, makes her look younger, less guarded. I find myself wanting to make her smile like that again.
“Will protect you,” I promise again, the words feeling right, necessary, primal. “From them. From all threats.”
“Yeah, well, right now we need to protect each other,” she mutters, guiding the ship toward the asteroid field with movements that are part skill, part artistry. “And that means finding a place to hide while the drive cools down.”
As we approach the asteroid field, I watch her hands on the controls, the confident way she navigates the ship through the dangerous debris. Her mind is focused, calculating trajectories and adjustments with instinctive skill. Through our bond, I can almost feel the ship as an extension of her body, responding to her touch like a living thing. Like I respond to her touch.
“There,” she says, pointing to a cluster of larger asteroids. “That formation should hide our heat signature. And that big one has a crater we can nestle into.”
She guides the Nomad into position, the ship’s thrusters firing in short, controlled bursts as we settle into a deep impact crater on the asteroid’s surface. The maneuver is flawlessly executed,and I find myself admiring her skill with an intensity that borders on reverence.
The ship powers down to minimal life support, and the cockpit dims to emergency lighting that casts everything in soft amber hues. In the gentle glow, Kaylee looks ethereal, beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight with unfamiliar emotion.
“Now we wait,” she says, leaning back in her chair with a sigh that makes me acutely aware of how the movement emphasizes her curves. “And hope they don’t find us before the drive is fixed.”
I sense her exhaustion, bone-deep and dragging at her consciousness. She has been running too long, pushing too hard. The emergency jump, the repairs, the constant fear—all have taken their toll on her remarkable but ultimately fragile human frame.
“Should rest,” I suggest, my voice soft in the dimness. “Will watch. Will alert if danger comes.”
She looks at me, suspicion warring with fatigue, and I catch her gaze traveling over my form in the low light. The jumpsuit has stretched and torn in places during our repair work, offering glimpses of my indigo skin beneath. “How do I know you won’t... I don’t know, take over the ship? Try to return to ApexCorp?”
The suggestion is so absurd that I blink at her in confusion. “ApexCorp is... pain. Cold. Darkness.” The fragments of memory make me shudder—sterile laboratories, harsh voices, the agony of being shaped and reshaped according to someone else’s design. “Would never return. Never bring you to them.”
Never bring harm to what is mine, I think but don’t say aloud. Not yet. She’s not ready for that level of honesty.
She studies me for a long moment, and I feel her assessment through our bond—noting my apparent sincerity, the way my tendrils curl protectively rather than aggressively, the genuine distress that shadows my features when I mention ApexCorp.Finally, she nods slowly. “Lila will wake me if anything changes. And you...” She gestures to the tentacle still wrapped around her wrist, her expression stern but lacking real heat. “This better still be the only thing touching me when I wake up.”
“Only this,” I promise, though the restriction makes me want to growl with frustration. “Only what is necessary for bond.”
For now, I add silently. But someday, perhaps, she will want more than necessity. Someday, she might want choice.
She nods again, then closes her eyes, her body slumping slightly in the chair as tension begins to drain away. I watch as her breathing slows, her features softening in the dim light. Even in rest, she remains alert, her body poised for flight or fight. I wonder how long she has lived this way, always ready, never truly at peace.
The thought makes something fierce and protective stir in my chest. She deserves rest. She deserves safety. She deserves to be cherished, not hunted.
Through our connection, I feel the moment she slips into sleep, her consciousness dimming like a light turned low but not extinguished. Her dreams flicker at the edges of my awareness—fragments of memory and fear, ships and stars and running, always running. But also warmth, connection, the phantom sensation of tendrils wrapped around her in protection rather than restraint.
I settle deeper into my seat, tendrils curled protectively around my body, the one connected to her wrist pulsing gently with our shared life force. My purpose is clear, even if my memories are not. I will protect her. I will keep her safe. I will earn her trust, her acceptance, and perhaps, eventually, something more.
The ship hums quietly around us, systems running at minimal power. Outside, the void of space stretches endlessly, stars scattered like distant hopes across the darkness. I do not knowwhat I am, not fully. I do not know what I was made for, beyond the vague certainty of “connection” and “service.”
But I know what I choose, here and now. I choose her. My anchor. My light. My beautiful, stubborn, magnificently alive Kaylee.
And I will burn before I let anyone extinguish her—or the growing flame of something precious kindling between us in the darkness.
