Chapter 9 #3
The tall, rangy man with a patchy beard carried a makeshift weapon, a metal pipe with a jagged broken end.
The second man, shorter and stockier with a shaved head that showed scars from old wounds, gripped a hunting knife in his fist, the blade at least six inches long.
The third was younger than the others, barely more than a youngling, but his eyes held the same desperate wildness.
"They look like they're on drugs," Harper whispered from behind me, her voice barely audible, her hand landing on my bicep with a grip that betrayed her fear despite her steady tone.
I nodded once, sharp and certain. I had caught the stench of unwashed bodies, yes, but underneath that was something chemical that overlaid their natural scent, acrid and wrong.
The unmistakable bitter alkaloid smell of stimulants, the sour-sweet odor of metabolized toxins seeping through their pores.
The sharp ammonia scent of bodies pushed beyond their limits.
A toxic cocktail, making them unpredictable, dangerous, stripping away inhibitions, and flooding their systems with false courage and aggression.
My hand instinctively moved toward my hip, where my plasma pistol should have been holstered, and my fingers closed on empty air. I'd left it on the shuttle on the orders of my captain. No matter. Three desperate humans high on chemicals were hardly a threat.
I rose deliberately slow and controlled, and held my hands out at my sides, palms forward in what I knew humans recognized as a gesture of non-aggression.
But my stance was anything but submissive.
Feet planted shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, ready to move in any direction at a heartbeat's notice.
In the chaos of wind and rain still howling through the broken door, it took them a long moment to register they weren't alone. Their drug-addled brains were slow to process their surroundings.
"Holy shit," the tall one finally blurted, his bloodshot eyes finding me across the dim expanse of the store.
He wore a tattered leather jacket that hung from his bony shoulders.
The material was so soaked it dripped steadily onto the floor, creating a growing puddle around his feet.
His gaze swept the room in jerky, erratic movements, taking in the supplies we'd gathered, the makeshift beds, the evidence of occupation, before locking onto me.
I watched his brain struggle to process what he was seeing.
"We don't want trouble," I said clearly, keeping my voice low and controlled, pitched to carry authority without aggression.
My body remained perfectly still, except for the subtle shift of weight that kept me balanced and ready.
"There's an entire city out there. Plenty of other places to shelter. "
The man with the pipe stepped forward, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.
He brandished the pipe with a shaky hand, the metal wavering in the air as his arm trembled.
Up close, I noticed his pupils were so dilated that his eyes looked black, and I watched his jaw clench and unclench rhythmically, grinding his teeth.
"Fuck off, dude," he snarled, spittle flying from his cracked lips.
"Yeah!" The stocky one lurched forward, waving the hunting knife in wild arcs that showed no technique, no training, just desperate aggression. "This is our space now. Get the fuck out."
I glanced back at Harper, finding her peering around the edge of the shelving unit, her face pale but determined. Our eyes met, and she gave a small, resigned sigh, her expression telling me she knew as instinctively as I did—this wouldn't end peacefully.
"You need to leave," I said, my voice dropping to a tone that carried the promise of violence. "Now."
The tall one laughed, a manic sound that echoed off the walls. "You threatening us, big man?" He took a step closer, his movements loose and swaggering despite the tremor in his hands. "There are three of us and one of you."
"Two," Harper said from behind me. She stepped out from behind the shelving, and I cursed internally. She should have stayed hidden, should have let me handle this.
The youngest one's eyes lit up when he saw her, his gaze raking over her body in a way that made me want to tear him apart with my bare hands.
His tongue darted out to wet his cracked lips.
"Well, well," he said, his voice taking on a quality that made my blood boil with rage.
"Looks like we found ourselves a bonus."
"You will not touch her," I growled, my fists clenching as I took a step forward.
That was enough.
The one with the pipe swung first, a wild arc aimed at my head.
The movement was telegraphed and clumsy, so I had more than enough time to react.
I sidestepped easily and caught his wrist mid-swing.
My fingers closed around the joint, finding the nerve cluster I needed, and twisted sharply.
The pipe clattered to the floor with a metallic ring as he screamed, a high-pitched sound of pure agony, and his knees buckled.
I released him with a shove that sent him sprawling backward into a shelving unit, his body hitting with enough force to send souvenirs tumbling down around him in a cascade of cheap plastic.
The knife-wielder lunged next, blade slashing toward my midsection in a vicious upward arc meant to gut me.
I pivoted on my back foot, my hips rotating to dodge the attack.
My right hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his forearm just below the wrist, and I used his own momentum against him, redirecting his energy and adding my own strength.
I swept his legs out from under him, a simple takedown move that sent him crashing to the floor hard enough that the air rushed from his lungs in an explosive whoosh.
His head cracked against the tile with a sound that made Harper wince.
The young one hesitated, his bravado evaporating like mist as he watched his companions writhing on the floor.
The chemical courage drained from his face, replaced by the cold reality of what he was facing.
He took a stumbling step backward, his hands coming up in a warding gesture, palms out.
"We're leaving," he stammered, his voice cracking. "We're leaving, man. Jesus Christ."
I bent down and picked up the pipe, tossing it toward the back of the store, where it clattered harmlessly into the darkness. "Take your friends," I said, my voice flat and final. "Don't come back."
They scrambled to their feet, the youngest helping the tall one, while the third male cradled his injured wrist against his chest, face twisted in pain.
They stumbled toward the broken door, casting fearful glances over their shoulders, eyes wide and white-rimmed.
Within seconds, they were gone, swallowed by the storm.
"Holy shit," Harper breathed, her voice carrying a note of amused relief, the tension draining from her shoulders. But then her eyes swept over me, stopped, and widened dramatically when her gaze hit my left shoulder.
"Xabat," her voice sounded so raw with concern that I immediately followed her gaze downward. The handle of the hunting knife protruded from my shoulder, buried to the hilt in the muscle between my collarbone and shoulder joint. I hadn't even felt it.
"You're hurt," Harper hissed, already springing into action. She raced toward the shelves at the back of the store and returned moments later, her arms loaded with first aid supplies—boxes of gauze, bottles of antiseptic, medical tape, scissors, anything she could grab.
"Sit down," she ordered, and I obeyed without question, lowering myself onto the floor.
I watched Harper's hands tremble slightly while she tore open packages of gauze. She bit at her lower lip, worrying at the soft flesh, as a deep crease formed between her eyebrows. She was trying to be calm, trying to be efficient, but I recognized the worry in the tightness around her eyes.
"This is going to hurt," she warned, her fingers hovering near the knife handle, hesitating. "I need to pull it out first, then we can...."
She didn't give me time to respond. Her fingers wrapped around the grip, her knuckles going white with the force of her hold, and she yanked in one quick, decisive motion.
The blade slid free with a wet, sucking sound that made her face go pale.
The grunt that escaped my lips was more surprise than pain.
A sharp, burning sensation radiated outward from the wound, but it was manageable, nothing compared to injuries I'd sustained in actual combat.
Harper pressed a thick wad of gauze against the wound, applying firm pressure with both hands. "Okay, okay. Just hold still," she said, her voice tight with concentration. "I need to see how deep...."
She pulled the gauze away to assess the damage, and I watched her face change.
Her eyes widened, the blue irises expanding as her pupils contracted in shock.
Her mouth fell open slightly, her lips parting on an unspoken question.
The blood-soaked gauze in her hand wasn't the bright crimson of human blood that she'd been expecting.
It was green.
Out of the range of the cuddwisg disguise, a deep, vibrant green that looked almost luminescent in the dim light. The gauze was saturated with it, stark and undeniable against the white fabric.
"What the..." Harper's voice trailed off into silence.
She stared at the gauze, her hand frozen in midair, fingers trembling slightly, then slowly her gaze traveled to my shoulder, where more blood seeped from the wound in thick, viscous rivulets, although against my body and still disguised by the cuddwisg, it appeared a deep, ordinary crimson.
She looked up at me, those bright blue eyes searching my face with a mixture of confusion, fear, and something else I couldn't quite name—betrayal, perhaps, or the desperate hope that there was some rational explanation that would make this make sense.
She dabbed again at the blood on my shoulder, the gauze pressing against torn flesh, and for a moment, it appeared red on the white fabric, until she pulled it away from the cuddwisg field and the blood transformed before her eyes, shifting from red to that impossible, alien green against the white fabric.
"Xabat," she whispered, my name barely audible. "Your blood is... it's turning green. Why is your blood turning green?"
I said nothing, my jaw clenched tight enough that I could feel my teeth grinding together. This wasn't how I'd wanted her to find out. Not like this. Not with violence still echoing in the air, not with my blood staining her hands, not when she had nowhere to run if fear overtook her.
Her breathing quickened, her chest rising and falling rapidly with growing panic. "Xabat?"
I reached out and captured her hands in mine, feeling the sticky wetness of my own blood between our palms.
My voice came out gentle, careful. "Harper, please don't be afraid. Nothing has changed. I'm still the same male I was before those men came in. I will still protect you."
Her wide blue eyes met mine, searching for something—truth, perhaps, or reassurance that the world hadn't just tilted sideways beneath her feet. She nodded, the movement jerky and uncertain, but I watched the panic in her gaze fade to something more manageable.
With a deep breath, I reached down and turned off the cuddwisg device.