Page 16 of Alien Assassin's Heir

Didn’t know I was sent to use her.

Didn’t know that when they told me to clean up the asset—I said no.

That I killed the man they sent to make sure I followed orders.

That I disappeared into the war rather than let them touch her.

I stare at that photo for too long.

Then I thumb it away.

Tomorrow, I’ll see her again. And I’ll pretend I don’t care.

But the truth is—my soul's already hers. It always was.

The shack creaksas I step inside. Wind whips against the outer panels like impatient fingers trying to peel me apart. The temperature’s dropped—Arkoshan nights bite with a kind of chill that settles into your marrow, like the planet’s trying to whisper its secrets through your bones.

I like it.

Cold keeps me sharp.

I kick the door shut behind me, shake out the dust from my coat, and toss it onto the mech cradle that passes for a chair. My claws twitch involuntarily as I sit back down in front of the console. The screen buzzes awake with a sickly green glow, casting shadows across my scales.

I plug the uplink jack into the port behind my ear—standard Grolgath field implant, upgraded with Coalition tech I wasn't supposed to keep. Feeds stutter to life across the screen. Surveillance channels, audio intercepts, heartbeat monitors, and the grainy overhead view of Wildwood’s main square.

Most of it’s static and droid loops. Delivery schedules. A busted hoverlift engine whining into a hangar bay. A meatvendor arguing with an off-duty miner over the price of tuber spice.

And then I find her.

Luna’s shape is unmistakable—even in low-res grayscale. She walks with purpose, even when she’s dead on her feet. The girl—Solie—flits beside her, talking a mile a minute. I can’t hear it, but I see it in the way her lips move, her fingers gesture.

She’s animated. Smart. Bright.

Not mine.

That thought lands in my gut like a hammer. She can’t be. Luna would've told me. Right?

I rake a claw across the edge of the console, peeling up a curl of metal. It squeals in protest. The sharp edge bites the pad of my finger, and I watch a single drop of dark red blood gather, well, and fall.

I deserve worse.

The next file I pull up is encrypted, and marked with Targen’s clearance code. My jaw tightens as I decrypt it and the message unfolds in standard Coalition black-script:

STATUS: STAY INVISIBLE

PRIORITY: LOW

NEW DIRECTIVE: CONTINUE MONITORING

NOTE: WILDWOOD CIVILIAN FAB HUB MAY CONTAIN POTENTIAL ASSET OF INTEREST TO ALLIANCE

SURVEILLANCE MUST REMAIN COVERT.

ASSET CLASS: OMEGA-TIER, FORMER IHC ASSOCIATION.

TAG: DESMOND, L.

REDACTED ADDENDUM: OPERATIONAL AT HANDLER DISCRETION.