Page 66 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I exhale—laughing with equal parts relief and amusement. Sammy claps. “Nice hack, Dad!”
Rychne flushes bright red behind his image inducer. “I’m not your dad,” he says stiffly. “I am an accountant.”
Sammy snorts. “So... Dad.”
I shake my head as we walk on. Everything about this day is wrong but also perfect. Here he is—aliens, hacked ATMs, horseradish hats—and somehow, I want him alongside me.
Across the path, Sammy jumps into the slingshot line again, dragging Rychne with her. As they load another horseradish balloon, I linger back, listening to their laughs and competitive banter. I can’t deny it anymore: I’m falling, tangled beyond repair.
When the two of them turn to wave, Rychne’s wave is stiff—like he’s greeting a galactic delegation. Sammy squeals, I raise my lemonade "toast," and he echoes it with his water bottle. People around us dance, eat, celebrate, oblivious to the cosmic underpinnings of this moment.
The festival is strange, chaotic, pungent—and beautifully messy, like life. And here, standing on cracked concrete in Collinsville, I realize that maybe that’s exactly how love should feel: unexpected, spicy, and full of crazy.
I’m balancing a big paper bag of kettle corn in my lap as we settle onto a battered wooden bench, the sun dipping into the horizon. The sugar-salt crunch fills the air like autumn in slow motion. Rychne sits beside me, casting glances in the direction of Mr. Lipnicky’s booth—an oddly regal pavilion that reads like a time machine; not rustic charm, but strategic façade. The smell of butter-swish popcorn bleeds into the taffy-sweet air, buzzing with the last shreds of festival energy.
We’d all been riding high after the slingshot fiasco, Sammy practically pulsing with joy. That swirl ended abruptly when we passed Lipnicky—smiling as though nothing in the world is amiss, booth glittering behind him. Somehow his grin, polite and practiced, feels colder than the autumn wind. He offers to shake Richard’s hand—taps it once, twice, lingering too long, eyes bored into Rychne’s image inducer. It’s a predator’s handshake. Beware, I think, muscles coiled.
As his grip releases, I sense something in Richard’s posture shift—jawline tightening, shoulders briskly straightening. Then Lipnicky turns to me, voice smooth as lotion. “Nessa, you look lovely today. How’s Sammy?” The tone is so saccharine it leaves metallic tang behind my teeth.
“She’s great,” I manage, voice clipped. Lipnicky smiles again—the corporate crocodile toothy grin that suggests a shred of satisfaction, as though he’s glad ‘great’ still means something he can exploit.
He strolls off, glancing over his shoulder. My gaze meets Rychne’s. His eyes flicker over me, searching for the same alarm I feel. I grip the popcorn bag so hard I tear through the bottom.
A long beat, then I let out a breath, loud enough to rustle the final festival tents.
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s a corporate vampire. Real estate cold caller with blood-sucking charm.”
Rychne’s jaw ticks. He leans forward, voice a low rustle. “No. I scanned his biosignature.”
My hand pauses mid-pop corn fluff.
“He’s not human.”
The words land like thunder. My heart jumps, stutter-sprinting.
“Not human,” I echo, disbelief weaving through me. The sweet salty stillness of kettle corn seems suddenly alien.
Rychne’s golden eyes lock on mine. “No bioscan, no biochemistry. My reading: shapeshifter. Grolgath.”
The chill creeps up my spine. The Grolgath—shadowing on his origins—ancient, monstrous rivals to the Vakutans. They infiltrate. They subvert. They destroy. And now one is behind the façade I’ve trusted since I started this messy journey. It feels like betrayal fangs snapping inside my chest.
I breathe out, tasting fear. But beneath it, respect for Rychne—his precision, loyalty, willingness to mark a predator no matter how civility-shrouded.
He lays a hand gently on my knee. It’s warm and real. My rebellious heart quiets at his touch, even as alarm whistles end-to-end.
I pick up a handful of corn, fingers trembling. “So… what do we do?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “We watch. We prepare. We don’t react without data.”
The tone is tactical. He swaps instincts for strategy, even while fear and fury coil around us.
I straighten—resolve igniting. “He’s threatening Sammy. Threatening me. Threatening any property owner who stands in his path.”
Rychne nods, scanning the empty fairgrounds. “This is planetary tactic. He studies through festival politics, observing community loyalties.”
Anger blooms. I ball my fist around the corn bag. “Well, so am I.”
He smiles a small, dangerous smile. “Nessa Malone, strategist. I like this version.”
