She stands framed in the garage light, eyebrows lifted. “Risky enterprise?”
I cough out a lungful of smoke, waving her hands back. “No. I mean, yes. I am cooking meat for human consumption protocol.”
She snorts. “Looks more like cremation.”
I jerk the lid shut. Embers flare. “Unexpected... oxygen surge.”
She steps in. Detangler in hand—a small fire extinguisher. Douses the flames before I can register fear. The grill smolders, the vegetables nearby are slightly charred but not incinerated.
She beams. “That was epic. Want help?”
I nod—relief trickling in. We salvage the embers. We talk directions—she suggesting better airflow, I nodding like I’m absorbing sacred truths.
Over the next hour, she stays. We laugh when I refer to the firebowl as “incomplete combustion array.” She teaches me how to use tongs. She says I’m “totally the weirdest neighbor ever,” and I feel something like pride warming under my chest plate.
And it’s comforting.
Because in this messed-up house, with its jury-rigged labs and oil-stained tools, someone sees me. Not the alien. Not the warrior. Just... me.
Later, I wave at joggers again, this time with better timing—maybe even a believable human wave. The setting sun glints off my inducer. I scan the street, waiting, hoping for another neighbor nod.
It’s still odd. Strange. Illogical.
But for now?
It’s home.
Sunrise finds me awake, restless. I’ve spent more hours in this house than on any battlefield. And yet, today I feel both stronger and more vulnerable than ever before.
I step onto the front porch, breathing in the crisp morning air. The sky is pale, the grass glistening with dew. Across the way, the silo-shaped water tower glows in the gray light. Ketchup-colored—or so I’ve heard—and entirely irrelevant to survival, but somehow emblematic of this strange, human world.
Vanessa is outside in her yard, kneeling by a row of tomato plants. Her hair is pinned up loosely; a few strands fall across her face. I watch her pinch off a yellowing leaf, carefully inspecting the stem. The tension on her forehead is unmistakable.
Even the early glow of the day can’t brighten that expression.
I sip from my coffee mug—coffee being as bitter and foul as any herbal suppressant I had in the medbay. But I drink it anyway, because it’s hers.
With each sip, I feel something shifting. In my chest. In my bones.
Not fear.
Something else.
I want to protect her.
It’s not a warrior instinct, not exactly. It’s something more... fundamental.
A draw.
A claim.
The Jalshagar bond—I know its edges. On my world, it’s ancient. Unbreakable. It binds soul threads across lifetimes. It’s not about attraction. It’s about destiny.
Destiny terrifies me.
On Vakut, I reveled in solitude. Self-reliant. Unattached. My only attachment was loyalty to the Emperor’s fight. But here? Every time I see her, my breath stalls. My limbs lock. My awareness heightens as though enemies surround us—but there are none.
I realize I’m paying attention to her breathing. To the way her shoulders shift when she leans forward. To the small sound when she pulls a vine taut.
