Page 31 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
Because italmost is.
I step up to the bar.
A Fratvoyan bartender — three arms, green mottled skin, segmented eyes like obsidian beads — starts wiping a glass with a rag so filthy it probably predates the Combine’s earliest records.
He looks up.
His pupils adjust when he sees me.
His rag stops mid-wipe.
Then he clears his throat.
“You looking for trouble, Grau?” he asks, three voices speaking in staggered synchronicity, as if each arm has its own opinion.
I smile — slow, low, one of those smiles that doesn’t quite reach my eyes but sets the room on edge anyway.
“No,” I say.
He blinks — once, twice.
“You sure? You don’t look like youjustcame here to drink.”
I lean on the bar — one massive hand settling over the wood like a statement.
“I’m celebrating.”
He chokes on his breath. Literal choking — one of his mouths hiccups.
“Celebrate?” he croaks, incredulous. “Since when do Reapers celebrate anything that doesn’t involve flames and screaming?”
“Tonight,” I say, “I’m celebrating the fact that I found my mate.”
The word hits the room like a shockwave.
“Your… mate?” the bartender stammers, three sets of eyes now fixed on me. “As in… as in your reco?—”
I cut him off with a laugh — low and amused, like ripping a tooth free without anesthesia.
“Yes,” I say. “Mymate.”
Silence.
Not the kind that trembles with expectation.
Not the kind that calls for weapons.
Just…still.
He leans back against the bar slowly, tentacles twitching like he’s not sure if he should applaud or pass out.
“Grau,” he says, voice still unsteady, “you’re the last living Reaper anyone expected toenjoysomething that doesn’t end in a riot.”
I sip my drink — strong, smoky, built to punch straight through bone and intuition — and savor the burn.
“It’s not ideal,” I tell him, “but it’s absolutely real.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing.
