Page 105 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
When the last tear falls, she snaps the toolkit shut and slides it into her pack. She stands abruptly, resolute. “Take me back,” she says. “To where we began.”
We walk hand-in-hand, retracing our most important waypoints. First is the ridge where I watched her rally the miners. The ground is still pitted from the skirmish, but new saplings sway in the breeze. She leans into me, whispering, “I saw the fear in their eyes… you gave them permission to believe.” I smile, squeezing her hand. “You gave it to them.”
Down the path, we pause at the edge of the rainforest where she first saw the capital ship cast its golden shadow. The remains of turrets—some rebuilt, others rusted to memory—mutable monuments to the invasion. I wrap an arm around her shoulder. “That was the day I found you at my weakest.” I meet her gaze. “You made me strong.”
Her laugh is soft, teasing. “And I still think you growled like a kitten the first time you caught me.” That laugh, the sparkle in her brown eyes—it’s the thing that drove me mad and made me believe in more than vengeance.
I press my lips to the shell of her ear, grinning. “And I still think you’re insane. I mean, me—my scowl on children’s t-shirts?”
She bumps her hip against mine. “They like it.”
Our final stop is the bar: once dingy and dangerous, now clean and lively with the hum of conversation. A dozen patrons look up and raise mugs quietly. I watch her take in the change—plants lining the bar, a fresh coat of paint, even a real jukebox. She whispers, “We healed more than land.” I kiss her temple and she squeezes my hand.
Later, we climb to the rooftop of the colony’s first permanent building—a squat, proud slab of reinforced concrete and steel.Lights are strung around the perimeter; the rainforest stretches below like a dark sea full of breathing life. We lie back, legs tangled, staring up at constellations etched in silence.
She rests her forehead against mine. Her voice is low, reverent: “This is where I became me.”
I trace patterns on her neck with my thumb, breath soft and warm. “This is where I found us.”
We lie together in stillness, savoring the weight of all we’ve built—our breaths quiet in rhythm with the night. Somewhere, a distant alien howl echoes through the trees, and we press closer. Her hand finds mine in the impossibly soft darkness.
When we finally give in to sleep, it’s not a surrender—it’s a promise. A magnetic pull that neither war nor politics can sever. Around us, Snowblossom sleeps beneath a canopy of stars, wild and resilient. And here, on the rooftop under constellations still weaving their cosmic tales, we lay the foundation for whatever comes next: two souls irreversibly intertwined, ready for the journeys ahead.
CHAPTER 37
DAYN
Ihear the comms’ static before I see her—Josie’s voice crisp despite the unsteady line. The Deep Space Network quivers with a Vortaxian deepfake of Colonel Kernal: his voice booming, visage flickering with malicious intent. "Traitors," he hisses, the screen warped but unmistakable. "All traitors must be purged—especially banished Shorcu." Even though sparks dance in the holo, the message hits like a slap. Attacks on fringe worlds are surging—bounty parties, sniper strikes, harassment of Shorcu sympathizers now disguised as revenge. Kernal may lie in the ground at Snowblossom, but his ghost has become a weapon.
I press my palm to the cold viewport, gripping it until the tremor passes. "He’s using his death as fuel," I mutter.
Josie steps beside me, dark silhouette framed by starshine. "Not death," she says softly, "propaganda." Her fingers find mine. "They're rallying the fractured."
The room smells like hot metal and gun oil. All around us, Hellfighters stand ready—their gazes taut, alert. I catch Garrus’s nod. Dowron's rare smirk registers beneath the stubble on his jaw.
I take a steadying breath and turn back to Josie. "We bait them," I say, voice low but absolute. "Set a trial site. Let them come."
Her eyebrows lift. "You want to lead them into a trap using the colonels' ghost?"
"A legacy is only as dangerous as its believers."
She half-smiles, but the gravity in her eyes is real. "One stipulation: this is?ours. IHC stays off the kill zone. One strike team. Ground and orbital. Zero collateral."
I search her face. We’ve spent years building trust; I don’t question her words. "Agreed."
I outline the plan on the holo-map: three ships deep in iterable space, shipped logistics to a basalt moon for "trial location." Our team—two Hellfighters squads in stasis orbit, a comm net controlled by Colonel Kernal’s fake replica. Josie will lead ground defenses; I’ll coordinate orbital interdiction. The tension nods through the room. No hesitation.
Garrus leans in, voice steady. “Afterburners clear? We’re not here for hearts—they're ghosts. Let’s exorcise them.”
Dowron shrugs, expression unreadable. “Approved. But we’re logging this as defensive.”
We all know better.
The faux-trial ground zero is an abandoned mining facility carved in ash-grey basalt, miles from civilization. We've positioned mock witnesses: resistance scouts posing as insurgents defying the once-colonial “symbolic authority.” Our bait is live: Sabotage, lies, vengeance—they’ll bite.
Josie’s fingertips dance across the control panel, each keystroke a heartbeat. She’s tethered to the orbit loop, pulling sequences together like a grand symphony. The roar of orbital drop pods echoes under my armor when the first loyalist cruiser emerges against the star-black sky.
Their emblem—a twisted bronze falcon clutching broken chains—hisses across screens. Light curves off their hull, gold flashes like a heartbeat in the void. My gut clenches.
