Page 32 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
“You never talk about that,” he mutters, half to himself.
“Most people never find their mate,” I say. “Even fewer get torecognizethem when they do.”
He blinks at me — that strange, non-human blink that looks like gears shifting in the back of his head.
“So,” he says slowly, “you’re… happy?”
I lift my glass. The liquid inside reflects the wavering tavern lights like molten carbon stars.
“Happier than I’ve been in decades.”
He just stares at me — stunned in a way that’s almost human.
Then he laughs.
Not mockingly.
Genuinely.
“Congratulations, Reaper,” he says, raising his own glass. “I thought the gods hated us. Seems they have a wicked sense of humor.”
“I wouldn’t call it humor,” I reply. “More… irony.”
He studies me again, slower this time. Thoughtfully. As if the sentiment he’d anticipated — a grunt of approval, a growl of anticipation, a smear of philosophical nihilism — has been replaced by something utterly foreign:contentment.
In a Reaper.
Here.
Of all places.
“Tell me,” he says, leaning in, “about this mate of yours.”
I don’t hesitate.
The words tumble out like something I’ve been saving up for centuries, like arid land finally finding rain.
“She’s human,” I say. “Blonde. Blue-eyed. Fragile in appearance, but sharp — like a blade made of light and instinct. She owns a company in Helios Combine. CY8.”
The bartender whistles — a sound too breathy and amused for someone who usually sees only mischief and blood.
“Corporate? That’s… unexpected.”
“She’s in trouble,” I continue, ignoring his tone. “Not mortal danger yet — nothing that screams bounty or ambush. But corporate politics in Helios… more lethal than any battlefield I’ve fought.”
He frowns. “How so?”
I lean back. My gaze drifts to the room — brimming with smugglers, ex-soldiers, grifters, and a pair of enhanced Mercs playing cards in the corner — and I feel a curious comfort in the chaos. Almost like it’s speaking to me.
“People die for profits,” I say. “People kill for advantage. Backstabbing here makes the Badlands look like a tea party.”
His three eyes go wide.
“My uncle Betskar was a banker,” he mutters. “He’d have nightmares about that.”
“Her world is different.” I let out a rueful grunt. “More refined. More subtle. But just as ruthless.”
The bartender sets down his rag, then his glass, then places a mug in front of me without asking.
