Page 42 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

And he really does have that upper tier vibe.

He might be green and have a tail, but he’s got that same polish to him.

It’s not the clothes - his boots look like they’re made of fabric, his trousers and shirt earthy and practical.

His hair is far too long to be considered proper for an upper tier guy.

I study him for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what it is about him.

His confidence, I realise. He doesn’t look browbeaten and hungry like every person on the bottom tier I ever met - myself included.

He looks like he thinks the world is going to hand him everything he could ever need, and only the upper tiers move through life looking and thinking like that.

“Look at you like what, linasha?” he repeats, all false innocence in the way he tips his head to the side. I try to imagine his face twisted into a sneer of contempt - the real upper tier reaction to a lower tier woman - but I can’t quite make it stick.

“Like you’re imagining taking my clothes off. It’s not going to happen.”

“Two different species,” he says, giving an exaggerated flick of his tail.

“Don’t make me summon my spear on you again.”

An upper tier guy would probably have got angry at a reminder of defiance against him. I’m expecting the alien to scowl, reveal his true colours. Instead, he laughs, and not like a dismissive ‘haha, you’re so funny’ kind of laugh. A full bellied sound of deep amusement. I nearly laugh with him.

“My fierce Ellie,” he says, grinning. “But I was not imagining taking your clothes off. I was imagining hunting with you by my side.”

“Hunting?”

“That is what I am, my Ellie, a hunter for my tribe. I help to keep everyone well fed.”

Of course he does. The perfect fairytale guy - complete with the skill I so desperately need to keep myself and the other girls alive.

It makes my heart ache with a sudden intensity, and even though he’s not real, just a projection of my own wants and needs, I turn my face away from him so he can’t see my anguish.

I stare up at the top of the tent, the hole through which the smoke escapes.

Above it, I can see a canopy of leaves, rather than the starry sky of the beach.

I wish I had one of these tents in the real world.

Much better than the thin, sweaty material of the parachute that catches on the slightest sea breeze and whips sand in our faces.

I focus on the other sensations of the dream.

The soft furs beneath me, the wood smoke scent in the air, the balmy heat of the fire - so different to the sweaty heat of the sun.

My whole body feels amazing, like I’ve never had to lift a finger to do anything in my life.

I feel healthy and strong, but not different.

Like a better version of myself. I could get used to it.

But I’m never going to feel like this. I’m going to slowly weaken and starve.

The thought takes the pleasure out of the dream, and I don’t want to be in it anymore with a sudden sharpness.

What’s the point in tormenting myself with it?

I’d rather be awake and fighting for my real life, not sinking into the comfort of this false one.

I try to will myself awake, closing my eyes, biting my tongue and trying to picture the beach. But when I open my eyes, I’m still staring up at the fabric of the tent.

“How are these tents made?” I ask, thinking about the edges of the illusion. It’s all come from my brain, so there must be limits to it. If I find those limits, perhaps I can break out of it.

“Ensouka pelts. It takes two or three, even if we bring down full size ones. I do the hunting, not the making. I am unsure of the exact ways of making, but the pelts are shaped and sewn together, the central pole carved, lines woven from tough vines, pegs carved from branches.”

It’s a vague answer, the sort of thing I could have guessed for myself.

I just need to find the right question, the right pressure point, and all of this will unravel, I’m sure.

And what better pressure point than the food situation.

He’s supposed to be my fairytale, come to save my life.

To do that, he needs to be able to feed me.

It shouldn’t take much to prove that he can’t.

I sit up, turning to him.

“You live here, right?” I say. “Hot, humid planet, lots of tall, scary trees? Big creatures with sharp teeth and lashes round their heads?”

His expression turns dark, worried. “You saw a merka beast?”

“That’s what we’re calling it, is it? Okay. Yes. It’s fine. We chased it off. But you do live here?”

“Yes, linasha. I am of a Deep Forest tribe. We live…”

“Deep in the forest, yes. But I’m not deep in the forest. I’m on the beach. I don’t want to go in the forest. My people are hungry. We’re going to run out of food. If you live here and hunt here, you can help me. Tell me where to look for food for them. Tell me what’s edible.”

“I have never been to the great salt waters before.”

Of course not, I think, trying to concentrate hard on his words, his expressions. Trying to send a message to my subconscious.

Look! He can only know what I know. Because you’ve invented him, subconscious mind. It’s just a dream, and if it’s just a dream, we can wake up.

“One of the wandering tribes that trades with mine sometimes comes out this way,” he says.

“Ferzan is their chief. They bring back salts made from the waters, and sometimes salted meats to trade. There are large creatures with shelled backs, six long legs. Those make for good eating, but they are creatures of the deeper water. They rarely come out to the sands.”

“Crawlers,” I say. “Yup, I know about them.”

And so does he.

“There are birds in the cliffs, but they are large. Vicious,” he says, looking at me with concern. “I would not wish for you to go after those alone, linasha. They can swarm you quickly and their beaks and talons are sharp.”

“Figured that one out, too.”

He has nothing new. Nothing I don’t already know. He’s limited by my own knowledge. A construct of my own brain, just like this whole dream. So I can just wake up.

Any moment now.

“The birds will not attack unless you bother them, though,” he says, thoughtful.

“And in the rock pools at the base of the cliffs where they nest, there will be creatures easy to catch. Shelled creatures that cling to the rocks. You will need a blade to lever them off, they are sucked on too tight to lift with fingers. The ones that look like balls of spikes are edible, too. They are easy to pick up. If you turn them over, there is a small centre, protected by the spikes. That is the fleshy part. Not much to feed a person, but better than an empty belly.”

Unease pinches at my stomach. I never checked the rocks. I never thought to.

No. The thought must have been there in the back of my mind, waiting for a moment to surface. If the creatures he describes sound very… specific, it’s just because I have heard about them before. From the fishermen I used to walk past.

Or Sam. She’s in food prep and has dealt with lots of different things. She’s also the kind of person who likes to talk to fill emptiness, and there’s a whole lot of emptiness to fill when you’re travelling through space.

Yeah, I’m remembering something Sam told me. Definitely.

“How many do you need to feed?” the alien asks.

“Twelve. Not sure a few creatures from those rocks are going to cut it.”

“If you are lucky, you will find smaller versions of the ‘crawler’, as you called it. Shelled creatures about the size of my hand.”

He holds his hand out to demonstrate. And it’s a big hand.

All of him is big. Perhaps two feet taller than me, his shoulders broad and muscular.

I have questions about why my brain has conjured him up looking like this.

And why the sight of his hand spread out before me has shivers traveling down my spine.

Why I want to know what it would feel like to have his hands on my body.

I thought I was done with men, but apparently near-death experiences have a way of waking a dormant libido, and it’s not bothering me even a little bit that he’s not human.

I suppose he’s everything I find attractive given a bit of alien flavour to match the scenery. It makes sense that if my mind is going to go through the trouble of inventing him, it would invent him to perfectly tick all my boxes. I just never realised what my boxes actually were.

“The food does not have to last you long,” he says. “A few more sunsets and my tribe brothers and I will reach you. We have supplies and we can hunt if your hunters are unable.”

“Right,” I say, because if I’m comfortable with an alien getting me hot and bothered, I’m very not comfortable that my subconscious is still trying to sell me the idea that someone is going to save us.

No one is going to save us. I have to figure out how to keep the girls alive myself. And maybe this little saviour fantasy is because deep down, I know I’m not smart or strong enough to do it.

He leans closer to me, his hands resting on his knees, but I see the fingers twitch. Know he wants to touch me.

“We will find you, linasha. We run far and fast every day to reach you. You are mine, my Ellie. Mine to protect, mine to care for, mine to cherish. I will run until exhaustion takes me each day if it means to be at your side a moment sooner. And when I find you, I will see your people are well fed. We have a healer to tend to your sick and injured. Warriors to defend you. I see your fear for your tribe, but when we reach you, you will have no need to fear anymore.”

He’s so earnest. Heated, too, looking at me with eyes that burn with desire. And it really is tempting to lean in to what he’s saying. Let his pretty words envelop me. Believe them for a little while.

But you can’t get anything out of something imaginary. Just the temporary comfort of the lie.

It isn’t worth it.