Chapter 10 #2
My stomach churns.
I manage to nod.
He fixes me with that smile again. "We appreciate your loyalty."
He leaves without waiting for thanks.
I close the door and lean against it, trembling. My hands curl into fists.
Those notices hang in the balance. So does Clarissa’s livelihood. And so does... everything.
I drift to the window again. The blue glow pulses. The bass hums. I watch Richard’s silhouette shift.
What do I do?
Do I keep evicting people so I can pay my bills?
Or do I cross the street and ask for his help?
My breath shallow, I look at the scanner board on Sammy’s wall. The red stars. Seventy-two hypotheses still ticking.
Sometimes, the strangest mysteries are the safest bet.
And at least this one feels like living.
The next day comes and I nearly retreat when I step outside and see him—Richard, mid-spar.
A garden hoe clenched like a lance, and next to it…
a sword. He’s pivoting, thrusting, parrying against a scraggly old tree like it’s his enemy, wearing goggles that look plucked from an old sci-fi movie.
His feet shift in the grass, boots sinking slightly in dew-spangled tufts.
The scene is ridiculous enough to belong in a dream.
On the porch, Sammy is crouched, phone in hand, filming with all the focus of a wildlife documentarian. “Day 42,” she whispers into the mic, commentary breathy. “Subject continues to demonstrate highly questionable Earth adaptation strategies.”
It should unsettle me—the botched improv gardening, the weaponry, the clandestine filming—it should make me turn away. But I don’t. I find my lips twitching into a grin before I even realize it.
He’s good in that way that terrifies opponents—a casual grace. The sword arcs through the air, catching sunlight in a lethal shimmer. He inhales deeply, cheeks hollowing, and the hoe comes down in a fake strike that leaves the tree unharmed. Then he flourishes the blade and salutes the branches.
Everything shifts. The absurdity becomes something else—a ritual. Grace. Protection.
I step forward, breath catching in my throat like I’ve walked into symphony of chaos and found harmony in it.
He pauses mid-motion. The sword hovers above the red oak root. He lowers it slowly, then stands straight—an almost militaristic stance. He doesn’t sheath it. He just turns.
“Good morning, Nessa,” he says, voice calm but stiff, gaze intense enough to unspool thoughts before they've formed. His eyes linger on me, like he's measuring the gravity of an unspoken question.
“Uh… morning,” I say, voice cracking slightly. The air is thick with grass dust and pine behind us. My feet shift, and I smell the faint tang of iron from morning dew on the blade.
“The grass combat was successful,” he states.
I blink. My brain scrambles.
“You mean you were gardening?”
He pauses like I just asked him to launch a rocket into the moon.
“Yes. That.”
He sounds… certain. At home in the illogical.
I don’t laugh immediately. Instead, I find myself laughing with him—light, surprised, unguarded. It bubbles out, dissolving weeks of tension, worry, pretension. Laughter shared like a bridge.
His face softens fractionally. The goggles slip up and land askew on his forehead. The sword clatters lightly as he grips it, but doesn’t let go.
“What... were you doing?” I manage after catching my breath.
He glances down at the hoe and sword, then back at the tree. “Testing… tension thresholds of Earth-grown flora. Defensive posture exercise.”
I shake my head, laughter returning. “That’s not normal.”
“Normal is subjective,” he replies, voice gentler now.
It’s a Sunday morning. The air hums with birdsong and distant dogs barking. Warmth wraps around us, and none of it feels like surveillance, or threat. It’s… calm. Safe.
Sammy creeps down the porch stairs, phone pointed at us, eyes wide. “I caught it all,” she whispers solemnly, then sniggers.
I glare at her, but she’s too adorable to scold.
Richard glances back at the tree, sword at rest. “Your daughter’s data collection is impressive.”
I flush. “She’s detailed.”
He nods. “She… reminds me of a cadet.”
That stings, or warms, or something I haven’t yet named. I swallow the instinct to ask why.
Instead, I reach out and rest a hand on the handle of the sword. The metal is cool, vibrating faintly under my touch.
He looks down at my hand.
I say, “That’s quite a weapon.”
He shrugs—a human gesture this time. “Multi-purpose. Clearing vegetation. Basic defense.”
I nod and stand taller. “Well… thanks for not clearing me with it.”
His faint smile returns. “You… are not vegetation.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks.
Sammy trails behind me as I turn to go back inside. I flash Richard a goodbye wave—uncertain, hopeful.
He salutes with the sword and a quick dip of his head that feels more intimate than any formal gesture.
Inside, I lean against the door, pulling in slow breaths. Sammy is still filming.
“You know,” she whispers, “that just made him like, ten times more alien.”
I pinch her shoulder. She giggles.
Moving toward the kitchen, I pause and glance back out the window. Richard returns to the tree, sword sheathed—almost casually, as though it’s as common as pruning shears.
All morning, I feel the echo of that moment—a sword, a tree, a neighbor’s silent ritual. It unsettles me. Frightens me. Entices me.
And above everything else?
It just felt good.
Because it was real.
And sometimes, that’s harder to grasp than all the alien confections in the universe.