Chapter 13
RYCHNE
Courtship protocols: I have downloaded volumes of them—scones for suitors, first-date etiquette, Russian dating apps, romantic poetry anthologies—but nothing aligns with the pulse throbbing at my throat when I think of Nessa.
The Jalshagar bond vibrates at the edges of my senses, bright and unstable, longing for tether that is both fragile and irrevocable.
On Vakut, I’d fight side by side with a mate, vanquish sabertooth predators, present the bones of enemies as solemn proof of devotion.
That is straightforward. That is war. But Earth—Earth is a minefield of legal codes, social nuance, and restraining orders.
A shark might mate with maelstroms, but humans? They file paperwork.
So I need help.
And the logical conduit to that help is ten years old, freckled, and merciless: Samantha Malone.
I knock on her back door—standard polite protocol—and she swings it open before I can attach a greeting. She’s perched on the stoop, hoodie on but sleeves pushed up, hair a wild halo cut with determination.
“Sir,” she says. Not “Richard” or “neighbor.” Just “Sir.”
“Sammy,” I reply, voice soft as gravity.
“I will help,” she nods. “We begin Phase Two: acquisition of rizz.”
“Rizz?” The word worms through my mind like an alien symbol I haven’t yet learned. But I nod, determined.
She scoots aside. I step onto the porch quietly; the wooden boards creak. Lily-scented breeze drifts. I feel... cautious. Because this matters.
She hops off the porch, grabbing me by the elbow. “Follow me,” she orders. I comply.
We walk down the street, passing neighbors who greet her in passing—she waves expertly. I mimic her, smiling faintly, feeling the tension untie in my chest.
Our destination: Collinsville Community Center. Room 12B—a dance class in session. A cluster of teenage girls practice partner steps, lights bright, the scent of polished floors and distant markers of anticipation. Sammy leads me in.
She clears her throat. “Step one: posture. Chest up, shoulders back. Charm starts with stance.”
My spine tightens—Arch? Extend? I adjust. Feel... alien doing so. But Sammy nods approvingly.
“Now, eye contact.” She taps my chest. “Find someone’s eyes. Hold for three heartbeats, then let go.”
I lift my gaze. A teenage girl meets my eye. Three beats pass—time stretches. My chest hammers. I release. “Congratulations! You’ve made eye contact.” She claps.
I blink. “Is that... all?”
She grins. “For now.”
Next: verbal interaction. Sammy steps forward. “I’m gonna show you. Watch.”
She approaches a volunteer—“Hey! Nice shirt—blue looks good on you.” She smiles wide. The girl beams. “See? People like compliments.”
She turns to me. “Your turn.”
I pause. Inside my mind are battlegrounds, diplomatic alliances, starship warp core detonations. None speaks compliments about shirts.
But I nod. The lady across the room has a green top. Emerald.
I force fluid tones. “Your shirt... is the color of new leaves.”
She stops, mid-step. “Thank you.”
I release. The girl’s eyes flash warmth.
Sammy grins again. “Semantic. Excellent.”
We continue. Step by step: small talk practice, situational responses, self-deprecation (“I’m learning Earth customs!”). I stutter my way through charm acquisition. It’s painful. It’s exhilarating. It’s… hopeful.
And then Sammy gives me her final lesson for the day: sincerity.
She taps my chest. “Rizz isn’t tricks. It’s authenticity that doesn’t scare people. Use that.”
I absorb the moment—her words, her gravitas, her belief.
In the humid gym air, I feel something begin to coalesce—not strategy, but self. Something I can bring tomorrow across that fence.
When we leave, the sun is low. Shadows bleed across the parking lot. I offer Sammy a nod she returns with a soldier's salute.
“Mission complete?” I ask quietly.
She shrugs, then smiles. “Phase Two complete.”
I let myself nod back, and for the first time in centuries, I let hope feel tangible—like the coiled discharge of a reward capacitor, like the calm before the bond ignites.
Because tomorrow, I’ll try not to scare her.
Sammy has declared war on my ineptitude. And as her commanding officer in this theater of romance, she is ruthless.
“You need to flirt like a person, not a biometric threat,” she declares, plopping onto my living room rug with a pink clipboard and a pile of glossy magazines. “We’ll start with compliments.”
I nod solemnly. “Compliments. Affirmations of perceived physical appeal. Understood.”
She sighs like a tiny general facing insubordination. “Okay, imagine Mom walks in wearing a nice dress. What do you say?”
I analyze. Nessa, in a dress. Optimum silhouette. Enhanced color saturation around the cheekbones. Elevated heart rate response—mine, not hers.
I offer, “Nessa, your symmetry is superior and your scent denotes ideal mate health.”
Sammy chokes on her juice pouch and flops backward with a wail of laughter. “Oh my god. You sound like a bloodhound trying to seduce an Excel spreadsheet.”
I frown. “That was factual. Complimentary.”
She sits up, wiping her eyes. “Try this: ‘Hey, beautiful. This seat taken?’”
I repeat it slowly. “Hey… beautiful seat. Is this taken by you?”
Another groan. “You’re gonna get arrested.”
But she doesn’t give up. Instead, she reassigns the mission: vocabulary reeducation, posture training, and what she calls “approach angles.” Apparently, lurking in doorways is “creepy,” not “commanding.”
At one point, she hands me a chart titled “Hot vs. Homicidal,” and proceeds to list examples under each column.
“Leaning,” she says, demonstrating against my kitchen doorway, “is good. But lean like you’re chill, not like you’re about to interrogate someone about alien insurgents.”
I attempt it.
She squints. “Nope. You look like you’re waiting for a tactical breach.”
I adjust my stance, arms crossed loosely.
“Better. Now—facial expressions.”
This part is… complicated. Vakutan warriors are trained to neutralize emotion in combat zones. Smiles are rare, reserved for victories or shared survival. Here, Earth expects warmth. Charm. Wrinkles near the eyes to denote sincerity. Curvature of the lips without excessive tooth exposure.
“Try a soft smile,” Sammy instructs.
I bare my teeth gently.
She yelps. “Less ‘wolverine mid-snack,’ more ‘Hugh Jackman on a beach.’”
I relax my features, suppressing the predatory tilt.
She nods, slowly. “Okay. That’s… actually not bad.”
Encouraged, I maintain it. My face begins to ache.
Later, she insists on facial grooming. I sit obediently on the porch while she brandishes a battery-powered trimmer like a sacred artifact.
“We’re going for rugged scruff, not ‘I built a bomb shelter with my face.’”
Her small fingers work deftly, cleaning the edge of my jaw, trimming down the growth to an Earth-standard approximation of “handsome distress.” The blades hum, warm against my skin. It’s not unpleasant.
I glance at her. “This is a strange bonding ritual.”
“It’s called a makeover,” she mutters, squinting. “And don’t talk while I’m trimming near your jugular.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Afterwards, she steps back and surveys me like a sculptor evaluating their half-chiseled statue.
“Okay. You’re… getting there.”
The mirror reflects something different. Not a warrior. Not an assassin. But someone in between. My jaw is cleaner, my posture less rigid, my eyes—still gold, still off—but softer somehow. Less threat. More… attempt.
I look like someone trying to belong. And that truth claws at my chest like a fragile, dangerous hope.
The next day, we conduct simulations.
“Pretend you’re seeing her at the grocery store,” Sammy says, handing me a banana. “Say something casual, charming. Go.”
I hold the banana like a baton. “Greetings. I also consume potassium-based fruit matter.”
She smacks her forehead.
I try again. “Hi. You have lovely epidermal warmth today.”
“No! Try, ‘You always brighten the produce aisle.’”
“But she is not a source of luminescence.”
Sammy stares. “We’ve got work to do.”
And yet, beneath her endless corrections, something shifts. My language softens. My voice calibrates. I learn to control pitch, not just volume. I practice standing in relaxed stances. I study rom-coms with the ferocity of a Vakutan tactician reviewing enemy battle data.
I memorize Earth metaphors—“catching feelings,” “butterflies in the stomach,” “spark.” I understand none of them. And yet I want all of them. With her.
Because when I think of Nessa—her smile, her fire, the way she watches the stars when she thinks no one sees—I feel something ancient inside me loosen. Something that doesn’t belong to training manuals or bloodlines.
It belongs to her.
Sammy finds me later on the porch, staring at a bouquet of precisely clipped daisies.
“Don’t overthink it,” she says. “Just be nice. Be yourself.”
“But myself is a ten-thousand-hour-trained operative from a war-faring species genetically optimized for killing.”
She shrugs. “Then be the part that learned to like pie.”
I stare at her.
She shrugs again. “It’s working. She looks at you different now.”
I blink.
“She doesn’t flinch,” Sammy adds, quiet this time. “She watches. She waits. But she’s not afraid anymore.”
Something shudders inside me. Like the quiet groan of a starship hull under stress. Or the beginning of a new course.
And this is where I stop—because the next step belongs to her.
Later that week, I step back onto the porch after evening calibrations—hands still humming with nanotech residue—and there they are: wildflowers, gathered with visible care, tied together with a thin twist of copper wire. No vase, no fanfare, just the bouquet resting on the threshold.
Gently, I lift the metal-wrapped blossoms. Purple coneflower, golden yarrow, white Queen Anne’s lace… Earth flora unfettered, raw and familiar in scent and texture. I breathe deeply. Their aroma is damp soil and sunshine, whiskey warmth and pale sweetness.
Attached: a note.
“I collected these because their colors resemble your eyes when they’re reflecting solar rays.”
I blink, staring at the looping Earth characters—my attempt at silver handwriting. The words echo strangely in my chest. Absurd. Alien. Meaningful. My chest tightens.
I hover by the door. After a moment, I step back, because I heard the door open—light, tentative—and there she is. Nessa. She’s reading the note, the flowers pressed to her chest, lips curved into a smile I’ve seen only two times: once when Sammy called me “Alien MacGyver,” and now.
Time slows. My heartbeat races—not with tactical readiness, but with a softer pulse I barely recognize. The bond thrums. It’s close. Tethered. Real.
She glances my way, shoulders relaxing as she returns inside. I remain still, rooted to the porch boards, letting my chest fill with this quiet, holy victory.
That night, I meet Sammy under star-pocked sky. Porch light glows. Air is sweet with summer warmth.
“Did it work?” I ask softly, tone uncharacteristically vulnerable.
She looks up at me. Eyes solemn. Mouth quirking upward.
“You’re still a weirdo,” she says. Then she smiles widely. “But you’re a weird romantic. She likes that.”
Relief blossoms in my chest—blooming slow like the flowers I picked. This surge isn’t born of combat—no explosions, no strategic kills—but from something gentler: bringing a smile to her when she didn’t expect it.
I let that feeling settle. It hums, unthreatening.
“Thank you, Commander,” I say softly.
She nudges me. “Call me Sammy.”
My armor feels lighter tonight. The wind moves through the jasmine. In the distance, Collinsville sleeps.
I close my eyes. The warmth inside hasn’t faded—it persists like an ember.
I wonder… this is how peace feels.