Page 1 of Her Alien Owner

CHAPTER 1

ARIANA

Iclutch the bag of groceries to my chest, feeling the weight of my dwindling credits as I navigate the crumbling streets of Armstrong. The once-bustling marketplace now stands in eerie silence, buildings leaning like exhausted sentinels. The scent of dust and decay mingles with the faint aroma of something burnt—probably the last vestiges of someone's meager meal.

"Hey, Ariana," a voice calls from a darkened alley.

I turn to see Max, a wiry man with a permanent scowl etched into his face. He’s one of the profiteers who have taken over since the aid programs pulled out.

"Max." I nod, keeping my voice steady.

"Got anything good in there?" He points to my bag with a leer.

"Just enough for three days," I say, gripping the bag tighter. "Barely worth mentioning."

Max snorts. "Better than most. You know where to find me if you need more."

"I'll pass," I reply, already walking away.

His laughter follows me down the street, mingling with the distant sounds of construction and the occasional burst of staticfrom malfunctioning holo-ads. My heart pounds in my chest, more from anger than fear. These vultures have no shame, preying on those of us who can’t afford to leave this forsaken place.

I pass by a group of children playing in the rubble, their laughter a stark contrast to the bleak surroundings. One of them looks up and waves at me.

"Hi, miss!" she calls out, her voice bright and hopeful.

"Hi there!" I manage a smile. "Stay safe, okay?"

The little girl nods vigorously before returning to her game. It isn't fair. She should have a safe place to run, learn, and play to her heart's content. I wonder if her parents know she's making toys out of sharp, metallic rubble.

I wonder if her parents are even alive.

I keep walking, my steps quickening as I near home. I pass by what remains of a once vibrant shopping center. Now it's nothing but bent metal beams and a smoldering hole in the ground. The bombs may have stopped dropping, but the consequences remain.

I notice the shadows of a few people digging fruitlessly through the rubble. Whether they're searching for canned food or scrap to sell, they're out of luck. Anything worth anything is long gone from this planet.

Inside, I set the bag down on the worn kitchen table and take a deep breath. The air smells faintly of mildew and old wood, but it's familiar—a reminder that I'm still here, still surviving.

I pull out the scant groceries: a loaf of bread that’s already going stale, a couple of bruised vegetables, and a small package of protein cubes—barely enough to stretch three days if I'm careful.

I set the bruised vegetables on the counter and start chopping. The knife feels heavy in my hand, the rhythm of the blade against the board oddly soothing. As I work, myeyes wander to the stack of bills lying next to the sink. Rent, electricity, water—they’re all there, staring at me like a judge passing a sentence.

"Figures," I mutter, slicing a wilted carrot into thin rounds. "It’s like they multiply when I’m not looking."

I toss the carrots into a pot with some water and switch on the burner. The faint blue flame flickers uncertainly, much like my hope of ever catching up on these payments. I shake my head and focus on the task at hand. A makeshift soup will have to do.

While waiting for the water to boil, I grab one of the protein cubes and bite into it before tossing it in. It tastes like cardboard and sadness, but it's sustenance.

"Yum," I say dryly to myself.

I glance at the clock on the wall—a relic from better times when it actually kept good time. Now it's more of a rough estimate. Just enough time to eat before heading to work.

Work. The word feels both promising and daunting. Valen’s party tonight could be my saving grace, but it’s hard to reconcile with the world outside my window. Parties, in this desolate place? The rich must live in a bubble of their own creation.

"What kind of person throws a party while people are starving?"

The thought nags at me as I sip my soup—thin broth with floating vegetable bits that do little to ease my hunger or my worries.

The job’s good money, though. More than enough to keep me afloat for another month if I play my cards right.

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