Page 78 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
Tonight, we exposed the enemy. But more than that, I revealed something else: my allegiance, unfiltered, for all to see.
He collapses against the dim glow of streetlamps, the suppression field humming around him like a caged beast. The Grolgath—Lipnicky stripped of human disguise—liesunconscious, trembling across the concrete, bound by alien tech that even Earth’s finest wouldn’t recognize. The crowd has frozen into stunned tableaux: phones still raised mid-record, eyes wide under autumn streetlights.
I stand, breath ragged, over both the real and the revealed. Sirens grow nearer, muffled yet urgent. Emergency crews arrive—paramedics, police, and one too-many glances upward as if expecting spaceships. My suit jacket, torn at the shoulder, flutters in the night air. From the crowd, I catch Nessa’s eyes. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, fear and relief and something warmer flicker there.
It wasn’t a long fight. A few calculated moves: a disabling leg sweep, a slam through council chambers, a final binding seizure. But within those moments, I channeled everything I’ve ever been trained to do: protect, dismantle, conquer… and all for what, Nessa and Sammy represent.
I reach out to Nessa. “I—” My throat tightens. Words fail under the weight of what’s just happened.
She steps forward, a little shaken but steady. “So… your cover’s blown,” she says, voice dry but eyes shimmering. I nod, swallowing hard.
“Wasn’t subtle to begin with,” I admit.
She steps closer, her hand slipping into mine. Her touch is warm, human, grounding.
“Guess it’s time we stopped pretending.”
I swallow, letting her words settle like a salve over scorched earth. “I’m here,” I say quietly. “All in.”
She squeezes my hand, and she leaks a soft breath, as if exhaling the tension of every nightmare she’s carried for weeks.
Behind us, the emergency crews converge. Flashing lights, panicked voices—Earth’s response to sudden violence. But in that moment, all I feel is Nessa’s hand in mine, and a distanthum in my chest I haven’t felt in centuries—a strange, pulsing sense of belonging.
Nessa pulls me forward, stepping between me and the police barrier. She raises her other hand, palm out, a shield of assertion: "This is our neighbor. Our friend. He saved us all."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Some nod, some recoil. But she stands tall, chest forward. I mimic her posture—no longer hiding.
Even now, as uniforms move in and flashbulbs pop, the whisper of Earth’s citizens steals toward me: fear, awe, and a startling note in many voices—hope.
I draw breath. "We have a lot to fix," I say, my voice quiet but steady.
Nessa’s laugh is soft but resolute. "Yeah," she says, squeezing my hand. "Welcome home, Richard."
And for the first time in my long life, I know Earth might just be where I'm supposed to fight my hardest—not warlords or alien tyrants, but injustice, betrayal, and the desperate hope of people like Nessa and Sammy.
I’ve waged war beneath the shattered skies of Dravath Prime, danced across the steel carcasses of burnt-out cruisers, and defended orphaned cities carved into asteroid belts. I’ve stalked enemy generals through the hollow courts of Sh’Kar and shattered command nodes with a single-handed hammerstrike. But none of that has prepared me for what stands before me now: a courtroom-fueled siege of the mind, a battleground of paper and bureaucratic loopholes, and the man at its center—a Grolgath in the skin of a human, masquerading as Lipnicky.
The air in my makeshift command center—Nessa’s kitchen table—smells of fresh espresso and printer ink. Evidence folders fan out across the tabletop, each laden with testimony, code violations, and ripple logic that will cut through Lipnicky’s schemes like plasma through steel. Across from me, Nessaclasps a mug of tea so tightly her fingertips are white. Her eyes, tired but fierce, are locked on me. Hers and Sammy’s safety resting on my next moves.
I take a breath, steeling myself. “He’s escalating,” I tell her. My voice, even after months of careful tone training, carries an edge she’s begun to trust: calm, decisive, protective. “Issuing eviction orders legally—but illegally enforced. He’s targeting families with no legal support, threatening with bulldozers. This isn’t property control. It’s psychological warfare.” The words taste like acid in my mouth.
She nods once. “He’s trying to ruin us all—but especially, me…” Her voice trails, but I feel the weight of her confession. We’ve discussed timelines, counters, fallback positions. Now it’s close. Final. The moment he’s miscalculated arrives.
I stand, the worn wooden chair scraping the hardwood floor. My compad lies open beside the evidence—last-minute adjustments to the petition. I swipe once, and the final document unlocks. A folder marked “Biometric Discrepancies: Dr. Lipnicky” expands on screen. It will be the crack that reveals the fracture in his mask.
“Tonight,” I say softly, turning toward the large window that looks out onto the yard where Sammy plays soccer with Sabrina. “Tonight we file everything: the affidavits, witness statements, zoning infractions, and—most importantly—my scan. We submit to the county clerks. We let the law do the work.”
We move together in practiced unison, like soldiers on the edge of battle. I gather the stacks of papers, Nessa bundles them in her purse. Sammy peeks in, curious. “Everything okay?” she asks.
I bend down. “We’re good, Stellar Pilot.” It’s the nickname I gave her long ago. She grins, satisfied, and trots off.
I stand again and meet Nessa’s eyes. “Are you ready?”
She breathes in. “With you? Always.”
The county office is sterile—fluorescent lights humming overhead, fans whirring in the ceiling, and air that smells like antiseptic and old complaints. Filing cabinets line the walls like silent watchers. I feel the tension coil tight in my chest—warrior posture, alert, ready. My suit still feels alien, but I’ve grown accustomed to its confines. It helps my image adhere to Earth law.
Nessa stands next to me, clutching a legal pad. Every muscle in her face is tense, body straight with determination. We approach the counter. The clerk—a middle-aged woman in a bun and glasses perched low—regards us. I offer the file confidently.
