Page 5

T he red dwarf sun crests the jagged horizon, painting the violet leaves in bloody hues. Dawn on Xylos is not a reprieve. It is an indictment. The night was a siege, and I am the last, exhausted soldier in a fortress of scrap metal and desperation.

The flame-torch sputters in my hand, its brilliant white light shrinking to a pathetic, flickering orange.

My arm aches from holding it aloft for hours, a ward against the darkness and the things that move within it.

The volatile paste I concocted is nearly gone.

Another ten minutes of fuel. Maybe fifteen, if I'm lucky.

Luck is not a quantifiable resource, Kendra. Rely on data. And the data is clear. My defensive perimeter is failing.

They are back. The hex-ocular predators.

The pack. They didn't retreat far, and their confidence has returned with the morning light.

They are smarter this time. They no longer charge the flame.

They circle, their movements a coordinated, intelligent dance of death.

They test the perimeter, using the terrain for cover, their amber eyes glowing from the shadows of the alien foliage. They are learning.

“Log entry, cycle three,” I whisper, my voice a dry crackle.

The recording is for a ghost, for whoever finds this data long after I've been rendered into nutrient paste for this planet's ecosystem.

“Predator pack has returned. Exhibiting adaptive hunting strategies. Defensive measures are at... five percent efficiency. Subject is experiencing extreme physical and psychological fatigue. Survival probability is approaching zero.”

A heavy thud against the western wall makes me flinch. A claw scrapes down the metal, a sound that vibrates through the ground and up my spine.

They're testing for weaknesses. Isolate, probe, exploit. It's a sound tactical approach.

I grip the energy blaster, its cool, smooth weight a pathetic comfort. Four shots left. Against a pack of four. The math is simple and brutal. I can take one with me. Maybe.

Is that the goal now? Not survival, but a final act of defiance? A last, angry data point in my own extinction event?

Another thud, closer this time, at the main breach I've been defending all night. A segmented snout, dark and wet, pokes through the gap. Six amber eyes fix on me, blinking in the dim light of my dying torch. There is no malice in them. Only a chilling, intelligent hunger.

My breath hitches. The torch sputters again, the flame shrinking to the size of my thumb. The creature sees it. It lets out a low, chuffing sound, a call to its packmates. The magic is fading. The prey is vulnerable.

I back away, my feet stumbling over the uneven floor of the pod.

This is it. The final moments. My life, my research, my entire existence reduced to a biological imperative: prey.

My mind, the only thing that has ever defined me, scrambles for an explanation, a theory, a final, beautiful equation to describe my own demise. It finds nothing. Only terror.

So this is what it feels like. The end of the experiment.

The alpha predator crouches, muscles coiling like immense springs. It is going to charge. I raise the blaster, my hand shaking so badly I can barely aim. My finger tightens on the trigger.

Then, the world explodes.

Not in fire and light, but in a cataclysm of motion and sound. A black shape, a living missile of shadow and fury, erupts from the treeline. It is a blur of impossible speed, a force of nature that tears through the clearing.

It hits the alpha predator mid-lunge. The impact is a wet, sickening crunch of bone and flesh. The sound is drowned out by a roar that is not a sound at all, but a physical concussion that slams into me, stealing the air from my lungs.

I stare, my mind refusing to process what my eyes are seeing.

The newcomer is a nightmare given form, an apex predator that makes the pack hunters look like lost puppies.

It is immense, easily twelve feet of corded muscle and terrifying power.

Its fur is a dense, black pelt, shot through with patches of iridescent scales that shimmer like oil on water.

A crest of sharp, obsidian horns curves back from its skull, and its jaw.

.. its jaw is a multi-layered contraption of interlocking bone and teeth designed to shear through anything.

It moves with a brutal efficiency that is both horrifying and beautiful.

It is on the second predator before the creature can even turn, its massive claws, each the size of a surgical scalpel, eviscerating it in a single, fluid motion.

The third tries to flee, but the black beast is faster.

It leaps, covering twenty meters in a single bound, and breaks the predator's spine with a snap that echoes in the sudden, ringing silence.

The last pack member, the one that had been hanging back, is frozen in terror.

It makes a low, keening sound, a sound of absolute submission.

The great beast turns its head, and for the first time, I see its eyes.

They are molten gold, glowing with a primal, intelligent fire.

It lets out a low growl, and the last predator turns and bolts, crashing through the undergrowth in a blind panic.

The clearing is silent again, save for my own ragged breathing. The air is thick with the coppery tang of blood. The great beast stands over the mangled corpses of the pack, its chest heaving. It is magnificent. It is genesis and apocalypse rolled into one. And it is looking directly at me.

New variable. Threat level: absolute. Do not engage. Do not provoke.

My hand is still gripping the blaster. I raise it slowly, my arm trembling. It's a pathetic gesture, a child pointing a toy at a god. But it's all I have.

The beast takes a step towards me. Its golden eyes are locked on mine, and there is an unnerving intelligence in them, a focus that is directed entirely at me. It is not looking at me as prey. It is looking at me as... something else.

Then, the impossible happens.

The creature shudders. Its massive frame begins to contort, to collapse in on itself.

Bones crack and reset with audible pops.

Muscles bulge and shrink. The dense fur recedes, the scales retract, the horned crest sinks back into its skull.

The transformation is a violent, biological symphony of deconstruction and reformation.

In seconds, the twelve-foot monster is gone.

In its place stands a male. An alien male.

He is tall, towering over me at what must be close to seven feet.

His body is a masterpiece of powerful, functional muscle, his skin a deep, navy blue, marked with lighter, intricate patterns across his shoulders and chest. His hair is a mane of thick, black braids that fall to his broad shoulders.

His face is all sharp angles and hard planes, a face carved for war and command.

And his eyes... his eyes are the same molten amber as the beast's, glowing with that same, unnerving intensity.

He is naked. He is magnificent. And he is walking towards me.

My finger is on the trigger of the blaster. My mind is screaming at me to fire. He is the apex predator. He is the thing that makes the other monsters run. Kill it. Kill it now.

But I can't. I am frozen, caught in the gravity of his presence.

He stops a few feet away, his amber eyes never leaving mine. The silence stretches, thick with a tension that is more potent than any sound.

And then our eyes meet. Truly meet.

The world dissolves in a sunburst of pure, agonizing pain.

It is not a physical pain. It is deeper. It is a searing, white-hot agony that erupts in my chest, directly over my heart. It feels like a star is being born in my sternum, its nova ripping through every cell, every nerve ending.

I scream, a raw, wordless sound of pure torment. I drop the blaster, my hands flying to my chest, trying to claw out the source of the fire. Through a haze of tears, I see him do the same. He staggers back, a guttural roar of pain torn from his throat, his own hand clenched over his heart.

I collapse to my knees, my vision swimming. The pain is unbearable, a supernova in my soul. I can feel my own heart hammering, trying to beat its way out of my ribcage.

Then, as quickly as it began, the searing agony subsides, leaving behind a strange, pulsing heat. It's a warmth that emanates from a single point on my chest.

I look down, my hands trembling as I pull at the collar of my torn and filthy jumpsuit. There, on the honey-brown skin over my heart, is a mark that was not there before.

It is a perfect crescent, intricate and elegant, like a sliver of a complex moon. It is not a tattoo. It is not a scar. It is part of my skin, a shade darker than my own complexion, and it seems to... glow. A faint, internal, blue light pulses from it in time with my frantic heartbeat.

Impossible. Biologically impossible. Spontaneous, complex cellular pigmentation? A targeted mutation? No known mechanism can account for this. This violates every law of biology I have ever known.

I look up at the alien male. He is staring at his own chest, at an identical, glowing blue crescent mark on his navy-blue skin. His expression is one of stunned, horrified recognition.

He looks at me, and his amber eyes are wide with something I can't decipher. Awe? Fear? Reverence? He takes a stumbling step forward, his hand outstretched, not in a threat, but in a gesture of... discovery.

He speaks, his voice a deep, resonant rumble. The words are guttural, alien, but my wrist-comp, its translator damaged but partially functional, flickers to life.

“ Maa-na... khol... ”

The screen on my comp flashes a single, terrifying word: [POSSESSION].

I scramble backwards, my mind reeling. Possession?

He takes another step, his eyes fixed on the glowing mark on my chest. He points from his mark to mine, then back again. He says another word, his voice filled with a strange, possessive certainty.

“ Vaa-kosh. ”

The translator flickers a new interpretation, just as horrifying as the first: [PROPERTY].

“No,” I whisper, the word a ragged gasp. I shake my head, pushing myself further away from him, my back hitting the cold metal of my shelter. “No. I am not...”

He doesn't seem to understand my words, or perhaps he doesn't care. His focus is absolute, a predator that has found its... what? Its prey? Its prize?

His culture, his instincts, whatever ingrained tribal lore he operates on, has given him a conclusion. He sees the mark, and it means something to him. Something fundamental.

He takes a final step, looming over me. He is no longer a monster of fur and claws, but he is no less intimidating. He is a warrior. A prince, if I am to judge by the innate authority that radiates from him. And he has decided that I belong to him.

He crouches down, bringing his face level with mine.

The scent of him is overwhelming, a wild, clean musk of ozone, forest, and something uniquely, powerfully male.

It should be terrifying. It is. But beneath the terror, my own traitorous body responds with a flicker of something else.

A pull. An inexplicable, biological resonance.

No. I will not be a specimen. I will not be a prize. I will not be property.

“I am not your possession,” I say, my voice low and fierce, each word a piece of sharpened flint. I meet his glowing amber gaze without flinching, channeling every ounce of defiance I have left. “I belong to no one.”

He frowns, the word “no” one of the few universal concepts, it seems. He cocks his head, as if confused by my resistance. To him, this is a settled matter. The marks have appeared. The bond, whatever it is, has been declared.

He reaches out, his large hand moving towards my face. I jerk back, pressing myself harder against the metal wall.

“Don't touch me,” I hiss.

His hand stops, hovering in the air between us. His eyes narrow, a flicker of frustration, of challenged authority, entering them for the first time.

We are locked in a standoff, two beings from different star systems, bound by an impossible, agonizing biological event. He, the warrior-prince, driven by an instinct I cannot comprehend. And I, the scientist, the survivor, refusing to surrender the one thing I have left.

My choice.

The glowing blue crescent on my chest pulses with a strange, insistent heat, a silent testament to the bond I refuse to accept. His mark pulses in reply. We are connected. We are marked. And I have no idea what that means.

But I know one thing with absolute, unshakeable certainty.

I will not be claimed.