Page 66 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
Dowron walks around me, voice a low rumble. “When Garrus stepped forward, he earned his position. But he also made enemies who’d rather tear him apart than let a ghost lead. You—well, you did more than earn. You changed everything.”
He stops close. I breathe him in—dry, faintly peppered. “Then what do you want?”
He taps his temple. “You. Knight’s proof—or whatever your rank is in Futarian—looks good on them. But what you did? That needs telling on your terms.”
So it’s a narrative battle. “You want me to speak for them.”
He nods, dark smile. “I want you to saythiswon’t be your only fight. You go public, you’re an Alliance asset. They can’t lock you away. Too much positive attention. Too high a stake. Think on that.”
Lightning behind my ribs flickers. This is bigger than Snowblossom. Bigger than me.
“Why?” I ask. “Why help now?”
He shrugs. “Garrus is off training an entire fireteam. Hellfighters needed. I keep one eye on Snowblossom. Someone needed control. You’ve got the respect, the fear, the face of a revolution—and the look of someone they can’t ignore.” His gaze hardens. “Unless they break you.”
I feel the line between hope and contempt blur. “You’re not giving me a choice.”
He quirk-lifts an eyebrow. “Nope. I’m giving you a lifeline.”
We walk out the door. Guards fall in behind. Dowron stops mid-hall. “One more thing.” He leans in. “Think right. Speak right. And you'll walk out respected. If not… well…” His eyes promise consequences beyond bars.
Then he turns and leaves. Guards follow. The cell door clangs shut behind me with a cold certainty.
I exhale slow. The door hums against metal. I’m free in thought but still bound. Dowron’s offer glimmers like fire in darkness—but there’s risk. Political risk. Exposure. They might accept me as hero, or spin me into propaganda—or burn me for example.
I glide to the steel-framed window in the cell and stare out across the landing pad. Ally ships gleam. Bureaucratic voices echo. Photos awaited. Headlines forming. They want me to be perfect.
I let jaw loosen. I imagine Josie’s face across the colony brimmed with hope and fear. She’ll push this offer maybe—make me walk into it. And the promise of future, of freedom—but what price?
My hand drifts to where cuffs once bit my skin. I clench into a fist. "For now, I survive. And I’ll fight for her—whatever they want me to become."
I let that promise anchor me to this cell and beyond. Whatever the cost, I will not grieve—I'll choose.
Tomorrow, I decide how I’ll walk out of this cage. Not as a prisoner. Not hiding. But as Dayn—assassin, savior, Shorcu who fought for what mattered.
CHAPTER 18
JOSIE
Istep onto the raised dais at the heart of Snowblossom’s main square, the polished Alliance emblem—a glossed beacon of bureaucracy—glinting behind me. Cameras from half a dozen newscasters swivel, microphones float like curious mosquitoes, and the crisp morning air vibrates with a false sense of victory. I taste ozone and recycled coffee in the air, a hybrid of celebration and sterilization. Beneath my skin, my heart hammers against the illusion, but I pass through the moment with open palms, calm voice, and endless resolve.
“Citizens of Snowblossom,” I begin, raising my voice just loud enough to carry. My smile is calibrated—sunlit engineer who rebuilt more than machines; the heroic fixer wreathed in optimism. "Today, we stand on the brink of a new dawn—one born not from ashes, but from the courage and ingenuity of every one of you."
Polite applause ripples through the crowd. I glimpse children perched on shoulders, beaming pirates of hope, while older faces hold something more brittle. I swallow the ache, hold the moment steady.
I continue: “The Alliance is here to help ensure your safety, to bring back what was taken, and to stand with us as we growforward. Not as occupiers, but as partners.” I dip my chin to cameras, practicing the gentle cadence and tone they want.
When the speech ends, a uniformed Alliance official strides forward and locks hands with mine—an overt handshake for the press. I feel the cameras flash. My palms sweat against his suit fabric, warm and smooth, a hint of starch. I force a steady smile for the photo ops. A diplomat’s move: close enough to signal unity, distant enough not to betray my own. Everyone’s watching.Don’t flinch.
The interviews come fast. A holo-reporter jabbers, “Ms. McClintock, how does it feel to lead the colony through occupation and back into freedom with Alliance backing?”
In front of the camera, I launch into technical praise, gratitude, and polite nods toward high command. My voice stays firm: “It’s been a journey—one fueled by every person who refused to give in. The Alliance is now joining us in making it real.”
The holo-broadcast flickers. I taste bile, but refuse to let it flood. The question: “What about Colonel Vash? Will he be integrated into the Alliance?”
The spotlight swings. The crowd hushes. I inhale, speak measured: “Colonel Vash is currently undergoing necessary evaluation. He saved this colony—and we owe him our lives. Hopefully, we can welcome him soon.”
Soft laughter ripples through the cameras. The Alliance functionaries beam. But inside, my stomach twists. “Under evaluation.”They're holding him.The cameras swivel. I nod again, add, “We’re advocating for his swift system reintegration.”
