Page 23 of Claimed by the Alien Assassin

JOSIE

T he morning air presses on my skin like a benediction—warm, humid, scented with damp earth and the first flush of rainforest blossoms. For the first time in weeks, Snowblossom breathes.

I pause at the cluster of rebuilt prefab huts along the perimeter, my fingers tracing the rough kiss of plaster and patched polish where we once stockpiled weapons and supplies.

The smell of fresh pineboards mingles with high-altitude ozone—it’s surreal, as though we’ve awakened from a nightmare into a dream we didn’t imagine was real.

Laughter—pure and trebly—drifts across the breeze.

Kids run ahead of me, two little engineers draped in patched bomber jackets trailing homemade kites fashioned from migrant sheets and covert communications paper.

Their kites wobbled in the sky like stubborn birds, dancing in loops of freedom.

I smile; the cuteness strikes me like a jolt—a reminder of what we fought to resurrect.

My boots crunch over reclaimed stones and shattered paneling.

I come upon Jonas, a miner who lost his brother in the early days of the occupation, hammering nails into a sturdy frame that will become a proper home.

Sweat drips down his grimy face, but his eyes—so utterly alive—lock with mine as I approach.

“Morning, Josie,” he says, voice warm like reclaimed sunshine. “Made it.”

I nod, feeling something sort through my chest. “Aye, Jonas. And so did you.”

He smiles and returns to his work. A child behind him adjusts a wireline at the roof’s peak. I inhale—sawdust and fresh blood from the repair site—tiny sacrifices of this new dawn.

I move further along the perimeter, visiting the gun turret that once rumbled with ammunition.

Its barrel is bent, charred by Vortaxian energy blasts.

A team of engineers patches joints, fitting new servos and reinforcing the base with reclaimed alloys.

I crouch beside them, whispering technical praise as I smooth a weld, fix a loose sensor, test a manual override.

It’s routine—mundane even—but it feels miraculous.

We’re teaching our people to defend and rebuild with the same hands. There’s power in that.

Across from the turret, farmers have uprooted prefab containers, transforming them into community gardens.

Tomato vines dip in raindrops. Beans hang by twisted wires.

I kneel, the soil cool under my palms. Rich and hungry.

I plant a seedling beside a makeshift trellis, silent as a prayer: this colony will blossom again.

A voice calls: “Engineer McClintock!” I turn to see Tara—the seamstress who rigged uniforms in the dark during occupation—arriving with her daughter, a wide-eyed girl holding a handful of daisies.

She presses them into my palm. Their petals are soft and trembling, alive.

My throat tightens. I tuck them into my belt beside the torch lighter.

“Thank you,” I say, voice catching. “They’re beautiful.”

She smiles, mother-proud. “Just like you.”

I leave her to her seedlings and continue my walk, breath pulling in the promise of every rising nail, every retrained arm. Every reclaimed space. Every repaired dream.

The air begins to bloom with midday heat. A breeze rustles the creeping vines wrapped around repurposed rails. The sound is a lullaby, not a warning. A child runs past me, pressing a toy drone against my hand—olds from the resistance. He looks up, eyes bright. “Test flight?” he asks.

I grin. “Yeah.” I flick the switch, and the rotor hums back to life. He squeals as it lifts, buzzing off into the canopy. I watch until the signal fades. Then I feel Josn’s presence behind me.

He encloses me in a hug, warm and solid. I lean into him. Behind us, life bursts—tools drop, kids cliff-jump into streams, bakery smoke drifts, church-bell chimes ring weakly but jubilant. I bury my face in his chest. I can taste earth and sweat and salvation.

He whispers: “We did it.”

I close my eyes. “We did. But there’s more…so much more.”

He nods, pressing a kiss to my temple. “One day at a time.”

I smile, a slow flowering of heart and hope. “Aye.”

We walk back toward the heart of the colony, side by side.

With every step our dirt kicks up, another broken dream is absorbed back into the soil, turning it fertile for what comes next.

Across the hills, where shadows still linger, our victory pulses.

We’ve owned back more than land—we’ve taken the sky.

And right here, Snowblossom is alive again.

The evening air in the half-ruined command shed is thick with lingering heat and the tang of burnt circuitry—plus a sweetness of lavender soap that I’ve worn all day, hoping it reaches him.

Outside, laughter and celebration drift faintly across the compound, but here, silence coils around Dayn like a tomb.

I push open the warped metal door and find him standing by the central map table, the image inducer off now—his real form cracking through.

He stands tall and still, features heavy with weariness and something like dread.

His hands rest on the table’s edge, tapping in silence at our reclaimed world.

My boots click on the cracked concrete floor, and he turns, green eyes meeting mine—haunted, uncertain.

I offer him a plate of reclaimed soup and warmed bread.

He doesn’t reach for it at first, but I stay, hands folded in front of me like I’m bracing against force.

Finally, he takes the bowl with quiet reverence, like it’s something precious.

“Thanks,” he says—voice low, raw.

I lean against the metal console behind me. “How are you holding up?”

He lifts his gaze to the shattered skylight. “Like a soldier awaiting judgment.” His hands tremble as he traces a gouge in the console’s metal.

I step forward, brushing arms with him. “People… they’re scared. But I stand beside you.”

He touches my hand, thumb grazing my palm. “I am grateful.”

I press the plate against his chest. “Eat.” I wait for the first spoonful, measuring every second. He sips, and his shoulders drop—just a little.

Each night I return to him like a tide, offering warmth. I bring clothes to wash, a fire going in the portable heater, a small candle glowing like a star in the ruined shed. After dinner, we sit on crates—soup bowls empty. The candle ripples in his eyes; I feel its pulse in us both.

He asks softly, “Do you regret it?”

I tilt my head. “Regret? Never. But I regret that feast ceremonies mark our victory, when I’d rather be… curious about you.”

He nods, shifting forward. “I feel the same.”

So we move, wordlessly. Every distraction fades as he guides me backward through the rubble.

We undress, shells of clothes falling away into dust. Our skin flashes in and out of candlelight—soft flesh and feral muscle.

I feel him measure me; I feel the hesitation in his touch—a man slowly learning to trust intimacy again.

He slides me down, folds me into him. The world tilts. My cheek sinks into his chest as he holds me—finger tracing idle constellations on my back. It’s quiet—no pain, no war, no masks. Only skin and breath and what we survived.

We move together, slow as forgiveness, deliberate as prayer. He kisses my hair, and I let tears track my cheek—tears of relief, of love, of fractures finally meeting repair.

In the hush, he mutters against my skin, “We won.”

I reach up, brush his jaw. “Yes.”

He doesn’t let go. “For now.”

Silence folds around us again. I close my eyes. My heart settles. In his arms, I believe that for now is enough—and maybe, the only victory that matters.

Dawn has barely kissed the sky when I hear the first crisp crackle on comm channels.

It’s the IHC. Nothing like their earlier warmth—this is clipped, businesslike, distant.

My heart thumps as I hover beside Dayn, still draped in those protective arms that have become my sanctuary.

He twists the communicator in his hand, jaw clenched.

“This is the IHC Command. We will arrive in two hours. Our mission is retrieval of strategic assets and restoration of colonial governance. Militarized intervention is not authorized. We expect full cooperation. Let colonies self-manage under Vortaxian withdrawal plan. All rogue elements, including unauthorized militia or individuals, will be detained for debriefing.”

The words slice through morning air like a cold blade. I taste metal on my tongue, sour and stunned. The Alliance and IHC—they’re not coming to celebrate or acknowledge sacrifice. They’re coming to sweep in, take control, and haul us all in as collateral.

I glance at Dayn. His eyes narrow, jaw tight as steel. I swallow the freight of what this means for him. Rogue assassin, foreign species, part of official diplomatic leverage. He's not just a hero anymore—he’s a ticking political bomb.

I reach for his hand. My voice trembles, but I hold it steady. “They’re not here for us.”

He squeezes my fingers. “They never were.”

I close my eyes and force breath back down my throat. Skyfire washes across broken turrets, fresh bricks, restored gardens. Our living victory. But now the powers that be intend to label it all—‘rogue action,’ ‘unauthorized aggression.’ It’s unspeakably cold.

“They’ll lock him up,” I whisper, voice thick like ash. “Take him away. Same as they took the Hellfighters before. No freedom, no mercy.”

Dayn rubs his thumb over my knuckles. Quiet. Patient.

I wince, step back. “This changes everything.”

He tilts his head. “We can’t outrun that ship.”

I swallow against the sting. “But we can fight the narrative. We can show them what we are .”

He studies me, emerald gaze cracking. “This isn’t their fight.”

“I know it is for us.” I rest a hand against his chest. “If they see what you are—what we’ve done—every one of us could be branded traitors and spies.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead. “And yet—what we are is the reason Snowblossom stands.”

My throat burns. I didn’t expect this. I thought after victory we’d hold hands and cry, and laugh, and the world would bend its knee to us. Instead, the world stretches its stare and says: Comply… or we will.

I walk out onto the ridgeline, arms over my chest. The colony hums below—families moving, rebuilding, oblivious to this new storm. I swallow smoke-thick guilt. My people deserve peace. But this is political theater, and Dayn is winning—and that terrifies me.

My comm crackles again: "Docking in sixty seconds."

I look at Dayn. He steps beside me—towering, solid—scars and scales hidden under image skin. The moment forms between us: fear, despair, defiance, love.

He speaks first. “We stand together.”

I nod, tears shining. “Always.”

Ships glint in the clearing sky. I taste the tension in the wind. I slip fingers between his, nodding, chin firming. “Let them come.”

He pulls me into his arms, voice soft as dawn. “Let’s show them who we are before they define it.”

Here on the ridge, where rebellion thrives and love whispered above sirens, I realize—this fight isn't over. It’s just changing shape. And everything that comes next relies on whether we stand strong enough to hold our truth.

The IHC ships descend, polished hulls with silent intent. And I step forward, stride leveled. My hand is in Dayn’s, but this chapter—it starts with me, and it starts now .