After a 15-minute walk, the pair rounded a particularly large pile of refuse, and Blake spotted an alien craft. It looked… utilitarian. Lacking any particularly sci-fi features, the craft was plain and functional, and Blake couldn't help but be a little underwhelmed. Unfortunately, it was also heavily damaged. The ship had not landed cleanly, though it did look mostly in one piece. But based on the number of rents in the hull, the craft was not ready to leave the atmosphere.
The alien took a few steps towards the craft before turning around and spreading his arms in an unmistakable "this is it" gesture. Once more, its smile was deeply awkward. Blake could understand that. He certainly wouldn't want to bring a new acquaintance back to his place if half of it collapsed.
Blake nodded understandingly and motioned that they should continue moving, and they continued on to the craft.
Blake ducked through the jagged entrance, careful to avoid catching his clothes on the torn metal. His boots clanked against what should have been the wall - except it wasn't. The deck plates ran perpendicular to what his brain insisted was the floor.
He paused, hand pressed against a support beam as his eyes tracked across the ship's interior. Corridors branched off at right angles, doors set into surfaces that defied conventional orientation. Light strips cut across bulkheads in neat parallel lines, creating a geometric pattern that emphasized the vessel's unusual layout.
The alien moved with practiced ease through the tilted space, its cloven feet finding purchase on surfaces Blake's mind refused to categorize as walkable. Storage compartments hung open, their contents scattered across multiple surfaces in a way that made his head hurt.
Blake's fingers traced the cool metal of a handrail that ran along what would have been the ceiling. The pieces clicked together in his mind - thrust vectors, acceleration, basic physics he'd learned years ago. The ship wasn't designed to sit on a planet's surface. In space, with the engines burning, thrust would push everything "down" relative to the ship's orientation. What looked like walls now would become floors, ceilings would transform into bulkheads, and the entire layout would shift ninety degrees into perfect sense.
He tested his theory, tilting his head to view the corridor from a new angle. The design resolved itself - efficient, practical, built around the basic principle that "down" was wherever the engines pushed you. The scattered debris told its own story - the ship hadn't just landed hard, it had come down sideways relative to its intended orientation.
The alien turned back to face Blake, its expression once again seeming apologetic. One arm lifted, gesturing for Blake to follow as it moved deeper into the ship's twisted interior.
Blake's boots rang against the metal stairs as they climbed. The treads felt wrong under his feet, the angle forcing him to plant each step carefully. The alien moved with practiced grace, compensating for the tilt without apparent thought.
They emerged into what must have been a common area, though the ship's awkward position made the space feel more like a funhouse than a living quarters. Everything sat at an odd angle - what should have been level surfaces now sloped precariously. The plain walls and minimal decoration spoke to function over form.
In one corner, a kitchenette had been jury-rigged to remain somewhat functional despite the ship's tilt. Strange devices that might have been appliances dotted the counters, their shapes and purposes alien to Blake's eyes. Some had been secured with what looked like improvised straps and braces to keep them from sliding.
The table and chairs in the center of the room showed signs of similar modification. Metal brackets had been added to hold the furniture in place against the tilted deck. The surfaces bore the marks of long use - scuffs, scratches, and worn spots that spoke of meals shared and time passed. One chair listed at an awkward angle, its legs shimmed with pieces of metal to keep it somewhat level despite the floor's slope.
The alien shuffled to the kitchenette, its feet scraping against the tilted floor. The cabinet door creaked as it swung open, and the alien's long fingers wrapped around a red plastic cup. The material looked worn, its surface rough and dulled like old Tupperware containers Blake remembered from his childhood.
A twist of the tap produced a series of coughs and sputters before water burst forth in a steady stream, filling the cup with a hollow sound. The alien's face lit up as it extended the cup toward Blake, head tilted in anticipation.
Blake's fingers twitched at his side. The rational part of his brain screamed about accepting drinks from strangers - especially alien ones. His throat felt like sandpaper, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. If that was the plan, the alien could have taken him out a dozen times already.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
He reached out and took the cup, the textured surface cool and rough against his palm. He raised it to his nose, inhaling. No chemical smell, no strange odors. Just water.
The first sip touched his lips. The water was lukewarm and had that slightly stale taste of water that had sat in pipes too long, but it was plain, simple water. It soothed his parched throat as he swallowed.
Blake lifted the cup in a small salute of thanks, nodding to the alien. The gesture felt inadequate, given his circumstances, but it was all he had to offer.
Blake caught the alien's eyes fixed on him. The intensity of its stare made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He lowered the cup, his throat clearing with a rough cough.
"So, what now?" The words came out gravelly from disuse.
The alien's eyes widened, and it blinked several times in rapid succession. Its gaze darted around the room before settling on the table.
The alien pulled out one of the chairs with an almost theatrical flourish. The gesture looked so human that Blake had to suppress a smile. The alien folded its massive frame into the seat, which creaked under its weight. It extended a hand toward the chair opposite, beckoning Blake to join.
Blake's fingers drummed against the cup. Every instinct told him to keep his distance, but curiosity won out. The metal chair felt cold through his clothes as he sat down.
The alien reached into a pocket in their shorts and withdrew the tablet he'd seen earlier. It placed the device on the table between them with deliberate care. Long fingers tapped the screen, bringing up a series of complex pictograms that scrolled across the display.
Blake leaned forward, squinting at the symbols. The shapes held no meaning, their patterns refusing to resolve into anything understandable. He shook his head. "I don't understand."
A small noise escaped the alien - something between a click and a sigh. It tapped the screen again. New images appeared: a planet floating in space, followed by a sleek spacecraft, and then a sequence showing swirling vortexes or wormholes.
The pieces clicked together in Blake's mind. The void over the Saginaw River, the alien environment, his strange companion — it all connected. He pointed to himself, then mimed the motion of the wormhole with his finger before gesturing to their surroundings.
The alien bobbed its head, repeating Blake's gestures. Then, it raised both hands, mimicking a ship's descent before tilting them sharply downward with a whistling sound effect. The pantomime was so unexpected, so absurdly human, that Blake couldn't help but laugh. The alien's awkward smile returned, and the tension in the room dissipated like morning fog.
The alien raised a finger in a universal "one-minute" gesture, pushing back from the table. The chair scraped against the tilted deck as it stood. Blake watched it disappear through a doorway, its footsteps fading down the corridor.
The tablet sat on the table between them, its screen still displaying the animated sequence. Blake's fingers hovered over the surface. He tapped the screen, but nothing happened. Another tap yielded the same result. The device remained stubbornly unresponsive to his touch. He filed that detail away for later consideration.
Footsteps announced the alien's return. It held something in its hand - a small device about the size of a dry erase marker. The alien settled back into its chair and picked up the tablet, its fingers dancing across the surface.
New pictograms flashed across the screen. Blake leaned forward, studying the sequence with growing unease. The images showed a simplified figure - presumably meant to represent him - and what looked like an injection. The figure changed color, followed by symbols that might have been speech bubbles or thought patterns.
Blake's jaw tightened as the meaning became clear. The alien wanted him to inject himself with whatever was in that device. More images appeared, showing two figures engaged in what seemed to be a conversation.
The alien extended its arm across the table, holding out the auto-injector. Its expression shifted into what Blake could only interpret as encouragement, though the attempt at a reassuring smile still looked painfully awkward on its features.
Blake stared at the device, turning it over in his hands. The metal felt cool against his skin, its weight substantial for its size. His years of training screamed at him not to trust an unknown substance from an alien - it violated every protocol he'd ever learned. The device could contain anything from a deadly toxin to a mind-control drug.
And yet. The alien had multiple opportunities to harm him. The water hadn't been poisoned. The ship, despite its condition, showed signs of habitation and normalcy. His gaze shifted to his companion's patient expression, those strange eyes watching him without pressure or malice.
His fingers traced the smooth contours of the injector. After the void, the junkyard, and the creature he'd fought - was this really where he drew the line? A device that might help him communicate seemed almost mundane in comparison.
"If this is a murder attempt, it has to be the most convoluted one I've ever heard of." The words echoed in the tilted room, breaking the silence. Blake rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension building between his shoulder blades.
He gripped the injector and pointed to his bicep, then his thigh, raising his eyebrows in question. His free hand made a vague gesture between the two spots. The alien's head tilted, reminding Blake of a curious bird. After a moment, it tapped its own thigh deliberately.
He gave a curt nod. No room for error. The injector made contact with his thigh, thin fabric the only barrier between steel and flesh. One quick jab. The needle drove home. Cold liquid rushed into the muscle beneath.