Page 1 of Mated to the Monster God

ESME

S weetwater smells like ozone, fermenting fruit, and burnt tool grease—meaning it’s a normal morning.

I’m hip-deep in a mud pit that used to be our southeast weather sensor array, sweat rolling down my back and collecting in the curve of my spine.

Every few seconds, my left boot tries to suction itself off my foot and steal my balance, and the damn panel I’m trying to replace keeps sparking when I slot it in.

“Do you have to do this barefoot?” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the trees, equal parts amusement and judgment.

I grunt, glancing up at my eight-year-old brother as he balances on the broken fence rail, legs swinging like he hasn’t a care in the world. His mop of hair is soaked in sweat, freckles bright against his sun-flushed cheeks.

“These boots are practically marsh soup, and I’m not trying to cook my toes in electrified goo,” I shoot back. “Why aren’t you with Tara doing inventory?”

“Because I actually like my brain. She’s in a mood again.”

He’s got a point. Tara’s been a walking snarl since the solar array shorted last week and fried half the medigel stocks.

Jimmy hops off the fence, squinting at my hip. “Your pistol’s crooked again.”

I look down. Damn it, he’s right. The plasma pistol’s riding high, grip flared out awkwardly from my holster.

“Colonial fashion is evolving,” I say, tightening the strap. “Crooked is in.”

He snorts. “You keep telling yourself that, Es.”

I’m about to toss a mud clump at his head when it happens.

A thundercrack splits the sky. A streak of fire rips overhead, blazing gold and violent red. It’s so close I can feel the heat across my skin. The trees shudder with the aftershock. The air smells scorched—like burnt copper and singed dust.

Jimmy stumbles, shielding his eyes. I stare, mouth open, heart kicking into overdrive.

“Was that a shuttle?” he whispers.

My blood is singing . Something big just came down.

Perhaps a supply drop, a crash, or even pirates. Anything would be better than the unending routine of repairs and ration distribution.

Other colonists are pouring out of the east gate now—dozens of voices overlapping, all talking at once.

“It came from Sector Five?—”

“—crash site, we need to report it?—”

“—what if it’s the Combine, finally?—?”

Dad jogs toward us, face pink from the heat, mustache drooping like a sad broom. “Esme! You okay?”

“Peachy.” I pull myself out of the pit and shake the mud off one leg. “What was that?”

“No idea yet, but we’re locking down. Protocol, just in case.” His voice drops lower. “Get inside.”

Lock down? Inside? We just saw something crash, or at least land hard enough to kiss the dirt. Someone might be hurt. Someone might be dying out there.

“I can go check it out?—”

“No,” Dad snaps, then softens. “Please. Let the scouts handle it.”

I spot Mom in the crowd, arms crossed, a scowl plastered across her face like it’s painted on. Blondie Cruise—botanist, mother of four, undisputed queen of disappointed sighs.

“Esme, don’t even think about it,” she says, eyes narrowed. “Whatever came down is someone else’s problem. We are not equipped for alien drama.”

“Someone might need help,” I argue. “I’ve got medical training, remember?”

Tara appears like a summoned demon, lab coat stained with what I hope is nutrient broth. “You have basic triage training. And a bad habit of nearly dying every time you leave the perimeter.”

“She does have a point,” Jimmy mutters, traitorously.

I turn to him with a mock glare. “You wound me, little man.”

Tara steps closer, hands on hips. “If you go, and it’s hostile, you’ll lead them straight back here. You’ll risk the whole colony.”

My jaw clenches. The crowd’s noise blurs in my ears, a mess of fear and speculation and the quiet hum of a place that’s been stuck in survival mode for far too long. Sweetwater is safe. Secure. Stagnant.

I’m not .

I need something more than weather sensors and plasma-fed boredom. I need purpose . And maybe—just maybe—I need to do something reckless.

So I nod. I act like I’m backing off. “Fine.”

Tara relaxes. Dad sighs in relief. Blondie turns to talk to one of the other colonists.

Which is when I bolt.

Jimmy yells something behind me. Feet pounding the cracked red soil, I sprint past the mess hall, veer behind the genetics shack, and duck through the partially collapsed storage shed. My heart pounds, more from excitement than effort.

There it is. The old medkit. Not the small one—no, I grab the oversized triage pack, complete with bloodtype-matching injectors and plasma bandages. If someone’s injured, this is what I’ll need.

I snag a solar flask, check my pistol, and shove a few protein tabs in my pocket. My hands are shaking, but it’s the good kind of adrenaline.

The trees at the colony’s edge beckon like old friends, dark and swaying.

I pause just long enough to hear Tara shouting somewhere, then I slip between the branches and vanish into the jungle.

The leaves close behind me, and Sweetwater is gone.

The jungle doesn’t welcome me—it devours me.

Humidity punches me in the face the second I step off the game trail.

The air is thick with the smell of wet earth and something sweeter, rotting and sticky like old fruit left out in the sun.

My boots squelch through the leaf litter, and vines try to tangle around my ankles like jealous lovers.

Every breath feels like I’m sucking down hot soup.

“God, I forgot how bad it stinks out here,” I mutter, flicking on the scanner strapped to my forearm. The screen flares to life, lines and blips dancing across the display.

No life signs. At least, nothing that’s showing human DNA. Plenty of motion, though—this place is always moving. Always watching.

I push forward, brushing low-hanging branches aside.

A trio of glowmoths scatter in a shimmer of blue-green wings.

I don’t have time to be gentle. The fire streak we saw was close —less than five clicks, easy.

If there’s wreckage, if there’s anyone out there bleeding or crushed or burning alive—I’ve got minutes, maybe.

The jungle howls to itself around me. Somewhere high above, a grolth buzzard cries out like a baby being skinned. Charming. Welcome to Pwarra.

“I swear, I should sell tours,” I mutter. “Come for the scenic toxic ferns, stay for the screaming sky-beasts.”

I move fast but careful. This isn’t my first walkabout. I grew up in these trees, tripping over death every third step. There’s a reason the survey team called Pwarra a “Class Seven Hazard World.” Half the flora here secretes paralytics, and the other half tries to digest you alive.

The scanner chirps low, indicating a movement spike to the northeast—just static-laced distortion, no ID. Could be nothing. Could be something bleeding out behind a log. I veer toward it.

And that’s when I see the mold.

“Oh, hell no,” I hiss, skidding to a stop.

A smear of crimson and yellow stretches across the trunk of a felled groat tree. The wood pulses underneath it. There’s a low, almost imperceptible hiss, like it’s waiting to breathe .

Screaming mold.

One wrong step, and it releases a cloud of spores so fine, you won’t even feel them enter your lungs. But once they’re in? Oh, they scream . Loud enough to rupture your eardrums. It’s like having a banshee fight club inside your skull.

I carefully retrace two steps, crouch, and chuck a rock over the mold. The second it hits— SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE —the jungle explodes with sound. I slap my palms over my ears, wincing, teeth clenched.

When it finally dies off, everything’s gone still. The birds. The bugs. The jungle’s heartbeat .

Too still.

Then the ground vibrates beneath me.

One slow, thudding beat.

Then another and a crack-snap! —a tree explodes twenty meters to my left.

The Hooknose bursts into view like something out of a nightmare.

Twelve feet tall, black-and-rust feathers, beak shaped like a serrated scythe. Its feet slam the earth like living jackhammers. Its eyes lock onto me—beady, dark, hungry . That beak clicks once, twice. It’s deciding which part of me it’ll rip off first.

“Oh, shiiiiiit ,” I breathe.

It screeches . The sound is so high-pitched my bones vibrate. It lunges.

I dive to the side, roll, and come up running. Plasma pistol smacking against my hip. Jungle branches whip my face. I hear it thrashing behind me, trees cracking like toothpicks.

The terrain dips. Roots slick with slime. I nearly wipe out and catch myself on a fangleaf that drools clear acid. Burn sizzles across my palm. I hiss and keep moving.

Think, Esme. Think.

Can’t fight it. Plasma might as well be spitballs against that armor-thick hide. Can’t outrun it. Not for long. It’s built for this jungle—long legs, steam-powered muscles, nostrils that can pick up a sweat trail from miles away.

What do I have that it doesn’t?

I almost trip over the answer.

Mud. Water. Slime.

The swamp.

My breath rasps in my throat. The swamp to the west is riddled with Protean slug nests—nasty little bastards that suck blood and nerves and heat. Everyone avoids them. They’re worse than leeches. But they’re hungry , and they’ll latch onto anything that thrashes in the water long enough.

I veer hard left, heart pounding, lungs heaving. Behind me, the Hooknose bellows again.

I don’t look back.

The stench hits first—like hot pennies boiled in vomit.

The swamp rears up before me in a festering wall of steam and insect buzz. The trees thin into stilt-like shadows, their roots curling down into dark, churning muck. Sulfur rolls off the water in greasy ribbons. It's disgusting. It's perfect.

I charge forward without slowing, leaping across a ridge of gnarled tree roots and splash into the water up to my thighs. Cold, slimy, alive. Something slithers past my ankle, and I grit my teeth.

Behind me, the Hooknose barrels into the clearing.

It stops.

It knows . It remembers. They always do.

I spin to face it, chest heaving. “Come on, you overgrown Thanksgiving reject. Follow me.”

It screeches, pacing the shoreline, claws scraping bark. It doesn't want to. But it’s already tasted my fear—smelled the panic sweat dripping from my pores—and now its need to kill is bigger than its fear.

It leaps.

The water erupts as its weight crashes in. Mud flies. Froth churns. I dive sideways, submerging to the waist and splashing backward.

The Hooknose wades deeper, eyes wild. Then… stillness.

A second.

Then ten and the water boils.

“Gotcha,” I whisper.

Dozens of dark, writhing shapes uncoil from the muck. Like thick black noodles, but with mouths. Round, pink, fanged mouths. Protean slugs. The little bastards smell blood in the water—and that bird’s practically a buffet.

The Hooknose squawks, high and panicked, slashing at the surface. But the slugs are already in its feathers, crawling into crevices, latching on. It thrashes violently, wings beating the air like thunderclaps. One of the slugs latches onto its eye. It screams.

I dive beneath the surface.

The cold wraps around me like chains. My medkit drags at my back. I paddle hard, pushing through tangling weeds and greasy muck. I hear the Hooknose dying above—its screeches turning guttural, strangled.

I surface twenty meters away, chest burning, gasping. I drag myself onto a muddy rise, hands clawing at vines. My left arm burns. Not from exertion—no, something is wrong.

I roll onto my back, blinking water from my eyes.

That’s when I see it.

“Shit—shit—shit—no no no no?—”

A Protean slug clings to my forearm, fat and pulsing, black and wet. Its fanged mouth is latched just below my elbow, feeding. Not just drinking— burrowing . I scream and dig my fingers into its slick flesh, trying to pry it loose.

It writhes but doesn’t let go.

I yank open the medkit and grab my laser scalpel. Thumb the trigger. A thin beam of white-hot light hums to life. I press the edge to the slug.

The pain hits instantly .

Not just in my arm. Not just the bite.

Every nerve in my body lights up. My teeth clench so hard I hear something crack. My legs seize. My vision white-outs with agony.

I drop the scalpel, screaming.

But the scream echoes wrong.

It’s not mine.

It's in me.

“Stop.”

The voice is not sound. It’s a vibration inside my skull, like someone playing a cello string across the inside of my brain.

“Do not hurt me. I am not your enemy.”

My body freezes.

Eyes wide, heart hammering, I stare at the slug. Still attached. Still feeding. But now… watching?

The pain eases. Slowly. I can breathe again. I blink hard, grabbing the scalpel again but not lighting it.

“What the hell are you?” I whisper.

The voice—calm, cool, male—replies:

“I am called Sagax. I am alive. I am aware. And I mean you no harm.”