With each step, the scent grows stronger, filling my senses with an unknown yearning.
My mind screams at me to stop, to be cautious.
This could be another trap, but danger seems to be a fleeting concept when the smell clinging to my palate like an embrace simply refuses to go away. I pull it deep into my lungs, then ignore my mind's attempts to be reasonable and cautious.
I pad toward the wafting scent.
What else do these insects have in store for me?
7
Kira
The alien sun dips below the horizon, casting long, distorted shadows across the endless red wasteland. Sweat stings my eyes, blurring my vision as I have long abandoned the fruitless task of wiping them off every ten seconds.
Hunger gnaws at my stomach, a constant companion that I could have done without, but it isn't as if I have a say in the matter.
The alien weapon feels heavy and awkward in my hand, a stark contrast to the standard issue slug luggers I am used to wielding back on Earth, but I hold it at the ready, regardless. It's been quiet so far, but every step from the crash site feels like a gamble, a dance with an unknown predator in a hostile environment.
I roll my eyes.
Damn, Kira, way to tempt fate, I chide myself.
Given the fact that I'm heaven knows where on some unknown planet somewhere in the universe, some predator might very well be following me. I don't even know what to look for or what sounds might signal impending doom. This is so stupid.
I halt my advance, frowning.
I don't enjoy complaining. Right from my early days in the academy, it was something I took care to expunge from my system, and with time, it became second nature to ignore uncomfortable situations I had no control over.
Now look at me.
Right from the moment I got entangled in this whole alien nonsense, I seem to have gotten a long list of things to complain about. Am I really all that tough if years of training and built-up fortitude can get wiped away so easily?
It's a vexing thought.
A flicker of movement in the distance catches my eye, rousing me from my thoughts, and I catch a ripple in the endless sea of red sand. I squint, adjusting the makeshift scope on the stolen weapon.
Two figures emerge from the haze, their grotesque forms resolving into a horrifying scene.
One is unmistakably the same pink slime covered three-legged abomination that I've seen more than enough of for a lifetime, its bulbous body pulsating with that same old infuriating shade of pink I am slowly starting to abhor with every fiber of my being.
Luckily, it's a different shade than my new hair or I'd have clear evidence the universe fucking hates me.
The other alien is entirely new, and a cliché that's making it seem like all those conspiracy theories about Area 51 I used to laugh at might not have been as insane as they seemed.
It stands taller than the blob. Slimmer and drier, its gray-green, bulbous form vaguely humanoid except for the spindly arms. Its large black eyes gleam with cold intelligence.
The new creature, this Graylord, I christen it on the spot—and let it be known that my penchant for naming shit is dog water—seems to be aligned with the slime.
I'm not sure how much longer that will last for them. Even though I am some distance away, I can deduce that it isn't a smooth partnership.
It might look like a child, but I am sure it's the one calling the shots, judging by the way it has its small chest puffed out and the decisive gesticulation. The slime doesn't seem to appreciate whatever it's saying.
A sickeningly familiar surge of wanton sensation washes over me as the pink blobs' body modifications do their job and I feel a sickening arousal bubble up in my gut the longer I stare at the slime-covered freakazoid and its Graylord master.
Fury clouds my vision.
Before I can rein it in, I raise the alien weapon, aiming for the slime's pulsing mass. No, that's stupid thinking.
