Page 32 of Invasive Species
As I keep an eye on her throughout the day, a pattern in her behavior emerges, and the lean-to comes together into something she could see which I never would have imagined.
The lean-to is transformed. Arture’s section remains open to the sky, unobstructed, so he can see the stars. Dom’s area has a sturdy shelf, already lined with his neatly arranged law-keeping equipment.
When my gaze finally lands on my own space, I stop short. A small, organized station has appeared—just the right size for my scanners and medical supplies, the surfaces dyed in deep red and green. It isn’t just decoration. It’s a silent offering, an understanding of who we are. And, somehow, it feels… like we belong.
I catch her scent before I hear her—warm spices driftingtoward me, stirring something deep in my chest. Then come her light, dancing steps, the energy in them as unmistakable as her voice.
“That'll do until we sort you something more permanent,” she says. Peering up at me, she checks, “Is it okay? Do you like it? Hate it? Indifferent?”
I don’t answer, even though I know she's waiting on my thoughts. I can’t. My throat tightens around words I don’t know how to say.
She stares up at me, eyes searching my face. When I still don’t respond, she waves a hand in front of me. “Hi? You okay in there?”
I manage to swallow past the lump in my throat. “I… thank you.”
Her shoulders drop with an exaggerated exhale, her hand pressed to her chest. “Phew. Thought I’d broken you for a minute there.” Then, with a grin, “You’re totally welcome, by the way.”
It does feel like it.
“Here.” She hands me a rod as long as my palm, crowned with a spine of bristles. “Paint with me.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course.” She tilts her head, smirking. “But I’ll be very sad if you say no.”
“Then… alright, but I'll need detailed instructions.”
She gestures to the palette. “First, mix your colors. It’s about balance. Feeling. Just go with what looks right.”
I hesitate, scanning the blobs of vibrant pigment. “There are no recipes?”
“Nope.” She grins. “You need a little creativity. There’s no wrong answer.”
I let out a breath. That wasn't true on Oloria. My whole life has been dictated by right and wrong. There’s always awrong action, a wrong choice, a wrong step that can mean failure, discipline, even death.
Yet here, she hands me a brush like I have the freedom to do anything.
I mix blue and yellow together to make a vibrant green. “How do I dim this color?”
“You want it darker, add some more blue. Maybe a touch of red, introduce a rich brown tint.”
I do as she directs, the paint squelching on the flat disc she gave me. “Is this satisfactory?”
“Do you like it?” she counters.
“I…” Do I? “It's serviceable.”
“I reckon that’s Gara speak for ‘It’s banging’. Slap it on.”
She demonstrates, and I follow. The bristles drag against the wall as I spread bold stripes of color, blazing a trail across the pale whitewashed wall. I hesitate, studying them. Not uniform. Not perfect.
“I'm not suited to this task?—”
Arra-bellah leans in, eyes gleaming. “They’re perfect.”
I meet her gaze, searching for mockery, but she only looks pleased.
Then she beckons me closer, and before I can react, her thumb sweeps across my cheek. Her warm skin brushes mine, a lingering touch.
