Page 44 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
Inside, I pause near the replicator again. It hums steadily—machine born of desperation. I place a hand on its metal surface, lean in.
“You are my answer,” I murmur to the humming steel. “Not her.”
But the machine doesn’t respond. Only hums. Only echoes what I already know.
I turn away and walk up the stairs toward rest, but sleep eludes me.
My mind is an illumination loop: star maps, tactical overlays, her face in pale moonlight. The bond pulses like a warning beacon I’ve locked onto but refuse to accept as truth.
This is the way of warriors—not mates. Logic over love. Strategy over sentiment. Firepower over fragility.
But the soul doesn't follow strategy.
Tonight, as shadows shift overhead, I whisper:
“I will prepare for war.”
But in the echo of my vow, the word “for” stutters. As though the opponent might be something other than the enemy.
Something… else.
I’m deep in the basement still, the orbital relay beacon taking shape beneath my hands—wires, capacitors, repurposed emitter arrays, ancient Earth wiring fused with Vakutan crystal lattices. The soft hum reminds me of distant planetary grids, the quiet chorus of coordination and connection. Every rivet, every splice, feels like a step toward reclaiming my purpose and forging a link back to home.
I’m calibrating the phase variator when I hear the door open above me. Footsteps—small—descend. It’s Sammy.
“Sir,” she announces with mock deference, voice echoing in the concrete chamber. “Fashion emergency. You have five minutes.”
I freeze, chest jerking. My hands shake the soldering iron.
“I’ve seen you dressed like you’ve been in combat every day for a week,” she continues. “If you’re going to woo Mom, you need help.”
My brow furrows. “Woo?”
She rolls her eyes. “Swoon strings, man. You know… when you talk to her, you don’t look like you’re trying to scare off predators. Let me help.”
This is absurd. She stands there—ten years old, hands on hips, bravado alight in her freckles. I can’t say no.
I leave the beacon half-finished—wires dangling like wounded limbs—and follow her upstairs, my heart pounding inthat hollow way it’s been doing since bond began. The basement door clangs behind me like a signal.
We exit to the front yard. The morning sun slants over our lawns, painting Richard’s house and Nessa’s in long, slow dawn light. It glints off my tool belt and makes me look like I’ve been digging foxholes in full kit.
She shuffles her feet. “Okay, so first thing—take off the hoody, the cargo pants, the military boots. “Space hobo” is not an aesthetic.”
I glance down. I’m wearing dark cargo pants with six pockets, canvas boots that have seen better days, and a faded hoodie with a bomber zipper I fashioned from ship parts. I look like I’m auditioning for a scavenger crew.
She tuts. “We’re going thrift-store shopping. Road trip!”
I hesitate. But she’s already dragging me toward the driveway, shrill enthusiasm pulling me forward faster than I realized I could go.
The thrift store is small—rows of mismatched racks, half-empty shelves, and one flickering fluorescent light buzzing above the checkout. A musty scent drifts through the air—old cotton, fabric-softener ghosts, and memories that smell vaguely like my grandmother’s sweaters. Sammy leads me inside like a general through her conquered city.
She steers me directly to a rack marked “Men’s Casual.” She snatches a crisp white button-down, hangs it in front of me. “Look up, sir.”
I do. The collar is starched and neat. Too neat. I lift the shirt and hold it tentatively. It’s soft in my hands—cotton, human, gentle.
“Try it,” she orders. “Buttons on left side. Don’t mess it up.”
I nod, hands slightly shaking, and duck into a cramped changing area built of curtain and sad faith. I change, wrestle the sleeves into place, tug at the hem. I emerge with jeans that fit likethey were made for me—not cargo pockets, no functional clutter. A belt. Loafers—brown leather, scuffed elegantly. She beams.
