Page 67 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I scoot closer, the bench wood rough beneath my thighs. “Because I have unavoidable baggage.”
Rychne meets my gaze. “That baggage is… astonishing.”
We share a silent moment—fear blazing, attraction humming, dangerous clarity coursing. Around us, children’s laughter drifts from the exit stand, festival remnants dotting the grass. But a predator is readying to strike.
I take his hand. “We’re in this together.”
His grip tightens—reassurance tempered with instinct.
“To the edge of my galaxy,” he whispers.
“And to the edge of mine,” I reply.
Sammy bounds back, bouncing like a rubber ball. She’s clutching a half-squashed horseradish candy stick and wearing that unholy grin of knowing and chaos. She plops between us, stretching long legs out and handing me a candy stick.
“Battle-dad says he’s hungry.”
Rychne winks at Sammy. “Battle-dad is always hungry.”
Sammy groans. “No more rides.”
My breath escapes in a laugh. For a moment, we’re normal. Not aliens or horror or real estate crooks. Just broken suburban family, balancing popcorn and candy, united by risk and love.
But under our feet, the earth shifts. Lipnicky tucked behind the foliage, watching. And we—blissfully aware—are ready to stand our ground.
CHAPTER 19
RYCHNE
I’ve stared down Coalition cruisers, danced in the hull of Grolgath dreadnoughts, and locked eyes with battlefield specters at Centuries’ end—but tonight, I sit at Nessa’s kitchen table, reading through property laws until the fluorescent kitchen light dims. Human bureaucracy is its own battlefield, and Lipnicky is waging war on legal terrain.
I open the digital file I downloaded earlier: Madison County real estate ordinances, zoning codes, eviction statutes. My amber eyes glow dimly in computer light. I scroll through lines of legalese—penalty clauses, notice requirements, tenant protections—each phrase a strata in his labyrinthine trap.
On paper, Lipnicky looks untouchable: contracts folded under thin legal veneers, loopholes welded shut. He’s displaced families with textbook precision: blindside notices, ninety-day eviction rules, “redevelopment efforts.” Nearby code enforcement partners in tow. He’s skilled at masking harassment as progress.
I run my fingers across the text of a tenant protection act. It specifies notice periods and relocation funds. I read again—the passive voice buries intent. I feel... disgusted. Not with humans—but with the platform he uses as a weapon. Heexternalizes violence through paperwork, and no armor can stop bureaucracy.
I pause, inhaling the blended aroma of Nessa’s evening stew. It’s home, domestic, familiar—everything he's threatening. I glance at the kitchen window; through it, I see her reading on the couch. Sammy traces words in a children’s book beside her. Home.
Lipnicky’s threat has breached the boundary. I need more than instincts. I need evidence. I open a new tab—municipal records, property deeds, developer plans. I cross-check dates on Nessa’s move-in files. I pull building permit logs tied to Lipnicky Properties. Too many anomalies: suspicious “renovation” filings on impending eviction properties; parking permit requests misaligned with use; code infraction logs mysteriously missing. It’s a pattern.
My jaw sets. This is no longer landlord malice; it’s sabotage, strategic erasure of Earth’s civic fabric. His war here isn’t plasma blasts—it’s paperwork and press releases. But war I know. Strategy, terrain, sabotage—all apply.
I open a folder labeled “Next Step.” I’ve scraped court records, tenant complaints, email headers: everything that hints at his coordination with code officials. I download audio files—recorded council meetings, his speeches on "community revitalization." The content drips with Grolgath duplicity—thinly veiled disdain for working-class tenants. I translate the double meanings: where he congratulates “heroes” updating historical buildings, he means erasing generational ownership.
This battle is gray and murky, not black-and-white warzones. But I’ve adapted before. I was forged in conviction. I stand.
Beneath the documents, I hear footsteps. Sammy opens the door, sleepy-eyed, slippers dragging. She peeks at the screen, nods sagely. “Daddy...?” she whispers. I smile, hide files.
“Yes, Sammy?”
She yawns. “Mom says I should get to bed.” She yawns again. “Love you.” Then she pads back to her room.
My heart clenches. Protect them. Not just with lasers or bombs—but with law. With evidence. With strategy.
I send a quick message to my compad’s secure server: “Allied data sync, phase one ready.” I close the lid.
In the hush, the weight of universe-shaking consequences settles. My warrior heart approves this. My human heart—learning—braces.
