Blake's eyes snapped open, the primal part of his brain sounding an alarm before his conscious mind could catch up. His breath was a silent fog in the chill air, muscles taut like coiled springs. He lay still, ears straining against the silence that blanketed the shelter. The instinctive certainty that he wasn't alone refused to fade.
The silence stretched, each heartbeat marking time like a metronome while he cataloged every whisper of sound. Blake drew air through his nose, measured and deliberate, trying to slow the thundering pulse in his ears. That's when the noise registered - delicate and precise, too purposeful to be debris shifting in the night wind or the ancient hull contracting in the cold.
His body responded before his mind fully processed the threat, muscles contracting as he ghosted toward the ship's breach. Each step was calculated, his boots barely brushing the deck plating as he moved. The bulkhead felt reassuringly solid against his shoulder blades when he flattened beside the jagged opening. He took one more steadying breath, then eased his head around the torn metal's edge.
His blood froze.
Blake's mind struggled to process the impossible sight before him. The alien perched on a salvaged crate with the casual ease of someone waiting for a bus, its massive frame dwarfing the makeshift seat. The creature's whale-like head swiveled slightly, luminescent tendrils swaying behind its skull like bioluminescent seaweed.
Its body was a study in controlled power - arms thick as telephone poles ending in three-fingered hands that could probably crush a bowling ball. The legs beneath its bizarre attire terminated in cloven feet that seemed better suited to mountain climbing than spacecraft. A heavy tail swept back and forth with lazy menace. Armored plates dotted its hide-like skin in strategic locations, as if evolution itself had decided to give it natural body armor.
Blake struggled to reconcile what his eyes were telling him. The alien's choice of attire defied logic - a breezy, unbuttoned shirt that wouldn't have looked out of place at a beach bar on Earth, paired with cargo shorts that terminated awkwardly at its powerful knees. His mind rebelled at the absurdity. Here was an alien straight out of science fiction, dressed like a tourist in Miami. The combination didn't compute. Didn't make sense. Like seeing a tank rolling down Main Street with a surfboard strapped to its turret.
The alien had a tablet. They tapped at it with casual indifference, like checking email at an airport gate. Blake watched, his combat instincts screaming danger while logic whispered confusion. Three possibilities. Trap. Test. Unknown. The last one bothered him most. Twenty years of tactical operations had taught him to plan for every contingency. But this? This was way off the playbook.
Instinct said run. Logic said stay. Blake had spent a lifetime making those kinds of choices. Running might mean safety. Might. Staying meant answers one way or another. Of course, that safety was relative when dealing with something that could probably vaporize him through the shelter's thin walls. The "door" was a joke. Sheet metal and hope. It wouldn't stop a determined teenager, let alone an extraterrestrial.
He would move. Simple as that. He rose to his feet, braced his boot against the makeshift barrier, and slowly pushed it away from the exit. The alien looked up, but didn't make any move to stand. That was reassuring.
One more fluid motion that took Blake from shadow to sunlight. His SIG held casually at his side - a statement, not a threat. His muscles stayed loose, ready. The ready that comes from years of knowing the difference between looking relaxed and being relaxed. He kept his eyes on the alien. Not staring. Not challenging. Just aware. The way a professional stays aware of everything that might kill him.
The being's gaze traveled up Blake's frame before locking onto his eyes. The alien's hand lowered the tablet to the ground with deliberate care, each movement precise, calculated. Its body unfolded upward, stretching taller and taller until it towered over him. The sounds that issued from the alien's mouth weren't quite speech, but they were directed at Blake. Something approximating a smile played at the corners of its lipless mouth - an expression that would have meant friendliness on a human but here carried no such guarantee. Blake deliberately kept his posture slack, drawing slow, measured breaths.
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"Well," Blake said, keeping his voice deliberately casual, like he was meeting someone at a bar back home, "nice to meet you too, I think. Afraid I don't speak that particular language, though."
The alien twitched, head canting to one side. Blake could read its expression with absolute certainty for the first time since they'd met - confusion, as plain as anything. Its brow ridges drew together, and it lowered itself toward the tablet with the same careful slowness Blake was using, as if they were both trying not to spook each other.
The creature picked up its device, met Blake's eyes again, and made a gesture so human it was jarring - one thick digit raised in the universal sign for wait a minute. Then it started tapping at the tablet's interface.
The alien's brows pinched together, ridges bunching around its eyes in the same way Blake's mother's face scrunched when discovering a mistake in her crossword puzzle. Its shoulders drooped, and its head tilted back as if searching the ceiling for answers. Blake himself had probably looked the same way a time or two over the years. It was always frustrating to encounter an unexpected language barrier with the locals.
Blake watched the alien turn its tablet around, revealing a series of simple pictograms on the screen. The images were simple and familiar; they could have been lifted from any Earth restroom door. Two figures stood side-by-side in the crude drawings - one unmistakably human, the other matching the alien's distinctive profile. Both had their hands raised in what Blake recognized as the universal gesture for "we come in peace."
Blake studied the being before him. Smart. Controlled. The casual clothes and tablet weren't accidents. Every detail calculated to say "friendly." Even its slow, precise movements spoke of restraint, despite muscles that could tear him apart.
The contrast hit him hard. Last night: teeth and claws and blood. Now: civilization. Higher thought. A mind behind those alien eyes.
His instincts for danger, honed through years of wetwork, should have been howling a warning. Predators playing nice usually set off every alarm he had. But not this time. His gut said this was real. If he wanted off this rock, if he needed truth, this creature held the key.
He carefully holstered his weapon, fingers brushing the familiar grip of his pistol before securing it firmly. Blake met the alien's gaze and gave a slow, deliberate nod. He could only hope the gesture translated across species.
The alien's posture relaxed slightly, its shoulders losing some tension. Its fingers tapped across the tablet with renewed purpose. Blake watched as new images materialized on the screen—stick figures walking side by side, their path marked by dotted lines. The crude drawings showed the figures entering what looked like a building or shelter.
The being pointed at itself, then at Blake, then traced the path with one thick finger. Its other hand made a sweeping gesture toward the distance, where the endless sea of scrap metal obscured the horizon.
Blake studied the drawings. They were simple, direct, and universal: a kind of communication that transcended language. The alien wanted them to travel together. The shelter in the image suggested safety, or at least somewhere better than this wreck.
Blake nodded slowly, deliberately, confindent now that gesture translated. He pointed to himself, then to the alien, and finally to the horizon, mirroring the being's earlier motions. A wince flickered across his face as the movement pulled at his injured arm. He gestured to the makeshift bandage, then mimed drinking from a cupped hand.
The alien nodded in response and added another image to the sequence. This one showed the two figures sharing what appeared to be food and water—basic needs—things Blake knew he'd need soon.
He was hesitant but considered what he thought the alien was proposing. After deliberation, he took a step forward, his hands held wide in front of him in what he hoped was a non-hostile gesture. He gave a single, deliberate nod.
The creature stood, its massive frame casting a long shadow across the scrap-strewn ground. It took three steps away from Blake, then turned back, waiting. The invitation was clear as day.
As they began to walk, Blake couldn't help but marvel at the surreal nature of the situation. Here he was, on an alien world, following a creature he couldn't even begin to understand, with no idea what lay ahead.
The junkyard stretched out before them, a vast expanse of twisted metal and strange debris. The alien navigated the terrain with ease, its powerful legs carrying it over the uneven ground. Blake struggled to keep up, his muscles still aching from his earlier exertions.
As they walked, Blake's mind raced with questions. Where was the alien taking him? What did it want from him? And perhaps most importantly, how the hell was this going to help him get back home?
He glanced at the alien, taking in its imposing form and strange features. Despite its intimidating appearance, there was something almost sheepish about the way it kept turning his head to make sure Blake was still following. It's body language screamed "this is awkward" and not "we're almost to the ambush site".
Blake just hoped he could trust his intuitions on that front.