Page 30 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
“Incorrect,” I say. “There is no spaceship.”
“Right,” she deadpans. “No spaceship. No alien gadgets. Definitely no flip move I saw you use on a guy behind Garrison’s Hardware. Totally normal.”
I inhale through my nose. “You were watching?”
She shrugs. “You’re not exactly subtle, Richard.”
I want to correct her, remind her that on thirty-two worlds I was invisible when necessary. But here, on this warm, too-green planet, I can’t seem to disappear correctly.
“Teach me,” she says suddenly.
“Teach you what?”
“The flip thing. Where you yeeted that guy into a dumpster without even trying.”
“‘Yeeted’ is not a verb recognized by?—”
“Teach me.”
I stare at her. She stares right back, eyes fierce, freckles bunched like constellations across her cheeks. She reminds me, uncomfortably, of cadets I trained years ago. Braver than they had any right to be. Smart enough to know when they were being lied to.
Reluctantly, I set down the plasma solder and clear a space on the floor.
“You will need to lower your center of gravity,” I instruct. “And stop thinking like a human.”
She beams. “So I should think like a Vakutan?”
I blink.
“Where did you hear that word?”
She grins wider, and I realize too late—I’ve been talking in my sleep again.
She mimics my stance as I show her the basics. It’s laughably crude, this dance of balance and force reduction, but she takes it seriously. She learns fast. Within minutes, she’s pivoting into the throw sequence—too slow, too clumsy, but determined.
“You’re actually kinda good at this,” I admit.
“I know,” she says, and throws a cushion at me. “Alien MacGyver.”
I catch it without looking.
For a moment, we’re both still.
The garage smells like ozone and old mulch. Dust swirls in the sunlight. Her laugh echoes, small and bright and sharp enough to cut something loose in my chest. I pretend it’s just an old scar twitching.
Later, after she runs home and I’m alone again, I work through the final adjustments on the lower stairwell. The house has a basement—unfinished, but perfect for containment. I install biometric locks on the substructure and haul in what’s left of my ship’s fusion relay. Most of it is scrap, but the core integrity buffer is intact. If I can repolarize it, I might stabilize the jump drive matrix long enough to send a beacon.
This is still a mission. Still survival.
I’m not here to grow roots.
Not here to connect.
I find a sticky note on my workbench.
It’s bright pink. Covered in glitter.
In blocky, ten-year-old handwriting:“To Richard, aka Secret Space Ninja. Don’t blow up our block, kthx. –Sammy.”
