Page 18 of Stripped By the Alien

"Fantastic," I whisper to myself. "That's exactly what I wanted to discover today."

The Space Locust glances up from my equipment. For a moment his attention settles on me, and I find myself suddenly aware of how large he is. Then he returns to his work.

I lift both hands. "Don't mind me. Just admiring the décor."

Naturally, he has no idea what I'm saying. For a brief moment the absurdity of the situation almost makes me smile. Then I notice what's hanging on the walls.

A skull larger than my torso hangs above one archway. Long fangs curve downward from a jaw the size of a snow shovel. Beside it rests a weapon that looks specifically designed to remove limbs from very large animals, caked in what could well be alien blood. Further along hangs a section of armored hide covered in deep scars.

My gaze continues moving around the chamber, and each discovery makes me less comfortable than the last. Another skull. Another weapon. A massive clawed talon. Something that might be part of a spine. Something else I sincerely hope isn't what it looks like.

The collection circles much of the room. They're trophies, proof that the owner of this chamber has hunted dangerous things and survived the experience often enough to build a collection.

Slowly, my gaze returns to the locust. The stories had prepared me for a monster. The reality is more unsettling. The mandibles should make him easier to think of as a giant insect. The antennae should help. The huge, dark emerald eyes should certainly help. Yet every time I look at him, my attention keeps catching on the details that feel disturbingly familiar.

The posture. The expressions. The way he pauses to consider something before acting. The way he studies an object before making a decision.

There's too much person in him, too much male.

I watch him lift a damaged section of my suit. He turns it over in his hands, examines it from several angles, and sets it down before reaching for another piece. Every movement appears deliberate. Unhurried. Confident.

Around him, the room seems to belong to him in a way I don't fully understand. The ship responds to him. The crew obeys him. Even the creepy lobster defers to him.

Nobody questions him. Nobody hesitates. Whatever position he occupies among the Space Locusts, it clearly isn't a minor one.

"Great," I murmur. "Of all the aliens in the galaxy, I crash into somebody important."

His antennae twitch. For one ridiculous second I wonder whether he'd somehow understood me. Then he returns his attention to my equipment, and the moment passes.

I exhale slowly and look away. Beyond the transparent section of the wall, stars drift silently through the darkness. Inside, the living ship breathes around me while a giant alien hunter sits beneath a wall of trophies and calmly takes apart everything I own.

The day keeps finding new ways to get worse.

My gaze drifts away from him and settles on the pile of debris scattered across the floor.

Most of it is familiar. Small chunks of scorched hull plating. Pieces of my flight suit and the attached equipment and tools from the Intrepid 21. Seeing it all dumped together produces a strange ache in my chest. Those fragments are all that's left of my ship.

But there’s a small black shape among the wreckage, one that I saw the locust handle and put back down. I was worried Lucius would say something sarcastic and give himself away, but he stayed quiet.

He lies exactly where the Space Locust dropped him earlier. One side of his casing is blackened from heat damage, and part of his outer plating appears warped. His status lights remain dark, and at first glance he looks like just another ruined piece of equipment.

I hope he’s not. My eyes flick toward the locust before returning to the debris pile. The alien is still examining pieces of my equipment with intense concentration.

Carefully, I return my attention to Lucius.

Don't stare. If he's hiding, there's probably a reason.

The thought makes my stomach tighten. Lucius talks constantly. He explains things nobody asked about, comments on situations that don't require commentary, and occasionally delivers entire lectures when a single sentence would do. If he's staying silent now, then something has convinced him silence is the safer option.

I adjust the alien clingfilm around my shoulders and clear my throat.

"Lu-cough-cius." The sound is barely louder than breathing.

For several seconds nothing happens. I begin wondering whether I'm imagining things. Perhaps the crash damaged him more severely than I realized. Perhaps I'm staring at an expensive piece of dead hardware because I desperately need something familiar to survive this nightmare.

Then a tiny light flashes from deep within the debris pile. It’s red and gone immediately.

My pulse jumps. I force myself not to look directly at him again. Years of working with Lucius make the meaning obvious. Green means normal. Blue means miffed. Yellow means uncertainty.