Page 13 of Claimed by the Alien Assassin

DAYN

N ight air presses like a vise around my lungs—cold, biting, laced with the scent of burned resin and anticipation. The world beyond the supply hub glimmers in electric whispers from distant watch towers, their glow a reminder that we’re walking into the Vortaxians’ jugular.

The ceremonial supply tree—an aberration masked as a tribute—is taller than any sapling should be, girdled in racks and strung with crates of everything from synthesized food to weapon parts. Tonight, we’re turning it into a funeral pyre.

I stand in the shadows by the gnarled roots, listening: the rasp of breath behind me, Josie’s soft shift. She leans close; I swallow. Her perfume—cinnamon and machine oil—is a tangible vow. I nod.

She gives me the nod back. We move together.

No signal. We slip through guards like ghosts—me, sculpted by years of silent death; my people, born under a mandate of stealth. And then we reach the cache.

I kneel to plant incendiary charges along the neural conduits. They sparkle against the intricate runes—protection sigils I won’t waste on ghosts of imperial pride. My gloved fingers trace the circuits, and my pulse drums in sync with every spark.

A soft hiss. My tail—stripped from concealment—flicks, brushing the rough bark. My blood hums, electric. Purpose.

“Aligned?” I whisper.

Josie presses her palm to mine, steady. “Ready.”

I trigger the charges. They light the tree’s core in molten red veins that feed out through the silhouetted ribs overhead. Metal boards hiss and buckle. Flames cough to life around us.

The world tilts into sensory overload: the blaze roars, heat tangles with sulfur; the smell of melting plastic stings my throat. Guards scream orders in Vortaxian, crisp and raging. I draw my blade.

The world condenses to edge, breath, heartbeat. I cut. One, two, three—shields slice like paper in storm wind. I taste copper on my tongue. I growl into the dark, the sound not mine, primal.

Josie covers our flank, demolishing a crate cuffed to Vortaxian dignity with a brutal elbow. Sparks flare, and I watch her in the blaze—shadow and starlight in human shape. My chest clenches.

We vanish into night's black folds, backtracking through concealed tunnels. Ash rains like weaponized snow. Adrenaline hammers, limbs itch with finality.

Then—crack. Splintered wood. A shout behind us.

We whirl. A colonist—bare-faced, aghast, eyes caught between worship and horror at my unmasked form. My image inducer flickers, fails.

Four eyes, cobalt scales, claws—monster’s birthright.

He screams—not command, not alarm—but pure terror.

He’s not the enemy. He’s us.

One step backward.

Another colonist appears, child at her side; they shriek and scramble. The night fractures.

My heart seizes. I raise my hands, voice raw in their language: “Stand down! I’m?—”

But there’s no undoing it now.

Flames reflect off my scales. My breath hitches.

Movement behind me: Josie. Her presence is a tether. She leaps in front of me, arms wide.

“It’s okay. We’re one of you,” she says, voice calm, fierce. “He’s Dayn. He’s saved us.”

The colonist stumbles, still shaking.

I close my eyes, shoulder trembling, eyes still burning hot.

I swallow. There’s no hiding in darkness anymore—not tonight.

But for the first time, I stand unmasked in rebellion, monster and protector, flesh and steel all at once.

Dawn cracks the sky like a promise—and a warning. I'm perched in the shadow of a gantry overlooking the main square, the place I’ve watched silently for weeks. Now it thrums with hushed voices rippling like currents, swinging between awe and alarm.

“He’s one of them,” someone whispers behind me. The words clamp like steel at my ribs.

I press back against cold metal, neck taut, claws flexing against empty gloves. I’m steel forged into flesh, and I'm exposed.

Josie strides into the square with nothing but that fierce determination blazing in her eyes—like she's carrying the sun on her tongue. The crowd’s a sea of anxious faces: hopeful, fearful, some resigned. I can taste the tension—a mix of sweat, ration dust, and dread.

She hauls a hover crate forward, sets it centerstage, and climbs atop it. She clears her throat and speaks, voice bright and unyielding against the murmur.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she begins. The square hushes. All eyes are locked on her—and me. I wish the world would swallow me instead.

She gestures toward where I stand, half-shrouded in steel shadows. “Dayn is one of them— a Jalshagar. A creature our people were told to fear, to hate. But tonight, he saved us. He fought for us. He bled with us.”

A pinch of wind lifts stray strands of her hair, and I see every pore in her skin alive with conviction.

“There are things in the universe that scare us. Myths that warn us off what we don't understand. But if we let fear decide who walks beside us, we lose.” She pauses. The silence hangs, like the calm before storms strike farms. “Let me tell you who Dayn really is.”

In that moment, I feel the full weight of it: the altar of judgment built from lies, a world poised to decide if I’m savior—or beast.

Josie lifts her voice, unwavering. “He’s honor. He’s the steel behind our walls, the blood that warms our cause. I know his scars. I know the monster they feared. But I also know his heart.” She glances at me—eyes glowing with something fierce and tender. “I love him. I believe in him.”

The square crackles.

Some faces twist in fear and murmurs snake while others flush with something I haven’t seen here in weeks—pride. Defiance. Belief.

One man at the front steps back, voice hollow. “I can’t follow a monster.”

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 more heroic than 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—but her. 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, but because you 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.

She spins the holo: “They think this is just a coup. Vector strike, reclaim underground, maybe a hit-and-run in orbit. But I have a better idea: we drive them off-planet.”

Silence ripples through the hangar. A captive aerogel soldier scores low chatter. I lean in.

Josie’s gaze skips over me—steady and fearless. “We hit hard, on two fronts. Sabotage the orbital cannons. Then stage a reclamation strike from the east ridge—with you leading. We force them to choose between ground and sky.”

“Mad,” I whisper. Because that’s what it is. Lunacy.

She grins. “Militants call me that a lot.”

I rise and pace. The rest watch like prey. “Orbital cannons are fortified. Vortax controls the station orbiting Drexar Seven. You’re suggesting we—what?—repel spaceborne forces from a planet-side strike.”

She nods. Voice steady: “Exactly. Drive their fleet off-station, then reclaim the colony. We send a message to the Alliance that Snowblossom isn’t expendable.”