23. Kira

23

Kira

The serene silence settles back around us, thick and comfortable. Drasuk's words hang heavy in the air—a simple statement laced with truth.

I don't have a good retort, and it bothers me. How am I going to survive here if there are more aliens like him?

He probably does hit like a truck.

My gaze drifts down to my lap, where the ruined armor lays discarded. Most of it is useless, but I decide to keep the bracers on and put the chest piece in my pack just in case there is a use for it. The rest just can't be fitted to me and I toss it under a bush with a growl, using my left arm without even having to think about it.

My fingers twitch toward the newly healed bicep, a reminder of the nightmare as I rub at it.

As observant as always, he notices. "Were you injured there during that dream memory?"

I almost ignore him, just like I've ignored anyone who asked.

It's classified.

Then I remember where I am and the desire to share some of the misery and possibly expunge it makes my heart thump painfully in my chest.

I clear my throat. "The arm was all but ripped off during a botched operation. It barely worked before I came here. My career was over."

"As a warrior?'

"Yes. That mission was a disaster, and the rest of my original battle group died. The memory of their screams still haunts me."

He makes a low sound that manages to communicate his own shared experience.

That day has been the cause of my persistent nightmares. Despite the trauma, I all but begged to return to active service, but after months of healing and physical therapy, my arm never improved enough.

The familiar phantom ache blooms in my limb, a dull throb that never fully subsided until the genali took me. My squad was taken from me in a few short moments.

It's a memory I lock away most of the time, a gaping hole in my past that still manages to claw its way to the surface in the quiet moments.

And then I just up and dreamed about it. I hadn't had that dream in weeks.

Pushing the memory down, I flex my left hand. Fully functional flesh and bone, the familiar ache of exertion.

I still can't get over how seamlessly it moves. If I'm honest, all of me moves better than I have for years. Maybe better than I ever did.

A marvel of alien biology, a fully functioning limb thanks to those damned pink slime monster genali. It feels strange. Not alien, exactly, but different. Like wearing a well-made, but ill-fitting glove.

They did more than fix a limb, of course. The whole-body modification surgery, or whatever they did, is a mystery. A jumble of fragmented memories and hazy explanations.

The ability to speak alien languages after a single exposure, the persistent low hum of energy that seems to course beneath my skin, and the occasional, unexpected pang of regeneration when I scrape a knee.

What else were they hiding in me, these unwanted upgrades?

Lost in thought, I idly trace the unfamiliar curve of my new arm, the smooth, hairless skin nothing like the scars that used to be etched across it. My fingers brushes down to the tips of my fingers, and a frown mars my face.

Pink nails. The same disconcerting shade as my hair, which, much to my dismay, has somehow grown to midway down my back since yesterday.

I hate the pink. It screams 'alien experiment' louder than any other modification, though I suppose that's because I don't often see my eyes.

A quick look in the reflective glass was nauseating.

Scowling, I run my thumb over one of the newly formed nails. They are different. Thicker than human nails, with a slight, unsettling sheen.

An idea sparks in my mind, a flicker of defiance against the helplessness that gnaws at me. With a determined set to my mouth, I reach into my backpack and retrieve the makeshift glass shard.

So engrossed am I in my task, meticulously scraping and sharpening the pink nail into a point, that I don't notice Drasuk looming over me until his shadow falls across the makeshift workbench of leaves and twigs I created.

"What are you doing?" he rumbles, his voice deep and curious.

I flinch, startled, and nearly stab myself with the blade. "Ugh, you scared the living daylights out of me, Drasuk," I exclaim, tossing the glass shard down in annoyance.

"Do you survive on lights? What an odd form of sustenance."

"What? No."

"Then why—"

"Don't worry about it, lizard brain."

He regards me for a moment, his spines shifting in what might be concern, confusion, or possibly wondering how crazy I am.

"You were sharpening your nails?" he finally asks, the amusement evident in his voice.

Heat floods my cheeks. "Not exactly," I mumble, self-consciously flexing my newly sharpened appendage. "More like, uh, making them into weapons. You know, just in case."

The amusement in his eyes deepens.

"Interesting tactic," he rumbles out, his voice low. "Not very elegant, but perhaps effective for a human."

"Hey," I protest, puffing out my chest in mock indignation. "Don't underestimate the power of a good manicure, lizard man."

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through the ground. The sound, surprisingly, isn't unpleasant.

"I'm only guessing at what you mean, but perhaps not," he concedes, his amusement fading. "But is it truly wise to rely on such fragile weaponry?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Fragile? Have you seen how thick these things are? They're practically claws now, thanks to you scaring the creativity out of me."

The spikes on his head rise, a playful glint in his slitted eyes. "Is that what it is? Creativity?"

"Don't mock me," I grumble, turning my attention back to my makeshift claws.

There is a relaxing silence for a while, broken only by the rasping of the glass against my nail. Then Drasuk speaks again, his voice softer this time.

"Carry on."

I roll my eyes, but don't bother pointing out to him that I don't need his permission. Instead, I get lost in the task of sharpening all of them.

He moves away at one point; I assume to patrol.

Soon after, Drasuk's voice rumbles from behind, causing me to jump and nearly mangle my finger with the makeshift blade. "Those are tiny, but definitely better now. I approve."

How can he move so silently, but then earlier sounded like a bulldozer moving through the trees?

My heart hammers in my chest. "I'm not doing things for your approval," I snap, throwing him a glare. "Fornicate in your own hole."

The words are out before I can filter them. A knee-jerk reaction fueled by frustration and lingering anger over his selective use of stealth. Even though I've tried the same insult and failed miserably at it.

He lets out a soft, amused rock grinding sound. "So you like it that way? Is the goal to list all the ways you like it before we try?"

His voice is laced with a teasing lilt that sends a prickle of heat up my neck and then down from there.

Down low indeed.

"I'm not talking about me," I grumble.

I say it again in English this time, knowing he won't understand, but it makes me feel better.

"See? It wasn't an invitation."

His spikes shift again, and his eyes let me know he is still getting way too much enjoyment out of making me squirm.

"I see," he drawls. "It's a delightfully creative way to express your displeasure."

I clench my jaw. Talking to him is like walking through a minefield—one wrong step and I'll detonate. There is no winning with this alien.

It doesn't help that my go-to method of deflection makes me look like a fool.

Fucking genali tech.

He seems to take my silence as an invitation to continue. "Perhaps a more conventional insult would be better suited to the situation?"

His voice has a mock seriousness that makes me want to throw something at him.

A crack of a twig catches my attention before I can reply, and I snap my head in that direction.

"It is merely a genali, they will be in range in moments."

"What the fornicate, Drasuk? I need some warning about this excrement."

He ignores me and simply stares in the direction of the approaching noise. I pull out my gun, assuming he will go pounce on the thing, but instead he just stares.

I look away from him, shaking my head. I can't figure him out.

A moment later I see the flash of gray, and within a breath I take aim, squeeze the trigger, satisfied when I see the spray of gray blood.

"Well done, Kira."

"You need to tell me if something is coming."

He looks back over to me. "Noted, though it's a poor reflection of your species that it got that close before you knew."

Motherfucker. Instead of engaging this time, I manage to keep my mouth shut. Time to wrap up the chores and get moving. I've got women to save, if I survive all of the verbal sparring with this iguana.

The wind whips past, tugging playfully at the strands of my long hair. It's a reminder of the unexpected changes the aliens inflicted on me.

I set down the makeshift blade and reach for my salvaged military knife.

Drasuk's head tilts as he watches me. "And what might you be planning with that?"

He isn't moving away, so he must know I don't plan to stab him.

Or doesn't care.

Yes, probably the latter. Ugh.

"A haircut," I mutter, already sawing at the thick hair cascading down my back. "Then we need to leave."

The alien tinkering may have provided some clear benefits, but it didn't make the hair any easier to manage. The long strands feel like an unwelcome tether, a constant reminder of my captivity.

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates along the ground and sends a pleasant shiver through me. "An unconventional approach, but perhaps effective. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer assistance?"

I snort. "From you? Doubtful. You'd probably cut my head off just to test your skills."

"Possibly. Although," he adds with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I wouldn't want to deprive you of the opportunity to create your own masterpiece."

His words are laced with a playful undercurrent that makes me suspect he is still messing with me. Is there a goal to it? A way to lower my guard for some unforeseen reason?

It's an unsettling realization—has this alien been toying with me all along, even after we called a truce? Has the teasing, the almost flirtatious banter been a deliberate strategy?

It seems impossible, yet I don't know what his angle is.

Or why he is so damn interested in everything I do.

I ignore him, focusing back on my hair. With a practiced hand, I hack away at the hair, aiming to simply get it as short as possible. It won't be winning any awards, but it is practical and efficient.

As the hair falls away in clumps, a sense of satisfaction washes over me.

It's a small victory, a way of reclaiming a piece of myself. I just hope I don't have to do it three times a fucking day or the good vibes will wear off really damn quick.

Drasuk watches me in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he speaks. "You know, humans are an intriguing species."

"How so?" I mumble, still focused on checking for missed strands of hair from my impromptu haircut.

"Your capacity for both resilience and self-destruction is fascinating," he says, his voice thoughtful.

I give a humorless laugh. "Resilience, huh? Maybe."

It feels like a loaded word given the situation I find myself in.

"Indeed," he continues. "Facing a situation like this, I assume most of your kind would crumble. Yet, here you are, sharpening your nails and cutting off your hair."

"What am I supposed to do?" I grouse, dropping the knife and turning to face him fully. "Just sit here and wait for them to dissect me?"

He takes a step back, a hint of surprise on his big blue face. "Dissect you? No, I highly doubt that was their plan."

"Then what was the plan, Drasuk?" I challenge. "Because so far, everything with you aliens seems to be one big, confusing experiment."

He hums noncommittally. "Actually, I'm being hunted for my skull. You are being hunted for... another body part. I doubt they'd have the facilities to experiment on us here."

It reminds me of the women. I'm going to have to tell him about them. Now that I know him a bit better, I think the risk to them is minimal and if his sense of smell is as good as I think it is, then he is perfect for this task.

I give him the flattest look I can muster, before letting out an explosive sigh and returning to the task of cutting the rest of the stray strands of my hair.