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.
