Page 40 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
A ripple of nodding heads. Anxiety warps the air.
Josie doesn’t flinch. “He isn’t a monster. He’s as human as you or me—and moreheroicthan most.” Her words are guerrilla arrows, aimed at the heart of every doubt-lashed doubt. “What we build here won’t happen if we feed on fear. It only stands if we trust what’s real.”
Relaxation blooms in her voice. Confidence. She smiles. “Will you stand with him?”
A beat.
Then a roar.
First faint claps, rising to cheers. I feel it—a tidal wave of acceptance I never dared imagine. The chant starts low: “Josie! Josie!” echoes up the walls of prefab facades. More join: “Dayn! Dayn!”
I stare at her—this woman who carved meaning from fire and rubble and changed everything without spilling a drop of diplomacy.
I step forward. The square parts. My boots sound loud on crushed gravel. I approach the crate.
Josie lifts a hand. “You don’t have to?—”
I climb up before her words finish.
God, I never wanted fame. I wanted shadows.
But this—this is more terrifying than any battlefield.
I draw in a breath, voice raw. “I’m not human.” My voice is low but clear. “My people are not your people. I carry claws, scales, eyes meant for war.” I flex fingers, the crowd trembles. “I killed—but only to protect. Not just this colony—buther.Her faith made me believe I could be more.”
I feel Josie’s hand on my shoulder. It anchors me. I meet her gaze. “I chose to fight for you all—not because I’m one of you, butbecauseyou chose me.”
I glide my gaze across the crowd. Their fear, hope, scars, hunger—all of it raw and human. I swallow steel.
“Acknowledge the monster,” I say, voice shaking. “Then ask what it does.”
The square lights up with applause. Some tears water the dust. Some shields still close—but they’re silent now.
Josie beams up at me and crouches. “Thank you.”
I press her arm to my cheek, voice soft. “Thank you for letting me step into your light.”
We stand together—monster and engineer, alien and human, bound by love and choice.
It doesn’t fix everything. Fear lingers. But here, today, we’ve knifed the darkness—with truth.
And for the first time, I believe we’ve got a shot.
We sit in the gutted hangar, its cavernous walls still echoing from last night’s explosions and confessions. I trace a worn skid mark on the metal floor—a scar in the bones of this colony—and feel my own heartbeat thrum the same steady, unyielding rhythm. We won a vital battle yesterday, but the war—Gods, the war—is only beginning.
Around us, resistance fighters huddle in clusters, rubbing tired eyes and warming their hands on meager fires. Hargon’s quiet chatter rattles through the steel rafters. Tessa adjusts her goggles and nods at the plans laid out on the scratched holo-table. Even the miners—scarred, weary—shift with purpose.
But fatigue gnaws at them. And at me.
Josie stands in front of the holo-table—eyes bright, shoulders squared, presence crackling. She’s the rebel sun we never knew we needed.
She taps me on the shoulder: “You ready?”
I look at her, still beautiful in the aftermath of bloodshed, paint smudged on her cheek like war paint. My chest tightens—because I’m ready, and terrified.
“Go,” I say.
She brings up a schematic of Vortaxian positions and orbital skirmish zones. The plan is audacious. Insane. Lunacy wrapped in strategic brilliance.
