Happy New Year!
January in Connecticut. Was. Shit.
Everything in the state, not just the human people or alien invaders, was bearing the brunt of the winter smackdown.
Migrated birds, dormant bees, and the sleeping damn bears aside, the rest were out of luck and praying to their plethora of gods for some kind of break in the madness.
Pro: It was too damn cold in this frostbitten Northern hell to war. The Voyrian factions across the North were resigned to twiddling a lot of damn thumbs, getting drunk, and contemplating how many times they could read the same books, how much shit they could order from reclaimed stockpiles, or how much trouble they could stay out of while they waited for the Spring thaw to bring them something substantial to shoot at.
Con: It was cold as fuck. The snow was barreling down on everything like a drunk girl on a bender on a Friday night after taking three too many shots to the dome. In other words, they were locked down, about to get nailed to the cross by Mother Nature, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do but ride it out and invest in a parka and some good boots.
The ebb and flow of camp life was pretty mild as far as it went for the many people behind the reinforced high walls protected by substantial alien tech and big ass turrets; quiet and relatively unassuming with people just going about their day-to-day business. It looked innocuous and, from any outside perspective, also looked like a haven for the weary traveler to beeline towards for safety and security.
And that was where he was going.
Well, where he had planned on going at least.
Desperation overrode even the brightest people sometimes, and life outside the camp walls was desperate on every level. After nearly a year on the road, dodging hostile forces in silver and red, breaking under the pressure of fracturing groups and explosive, panicked tempers, it became clearer by the day that if you were human, the world itself was closing in on you.
The death was endless for humanity, who were being caught in the crosshairs at every turn. It didn't matter if you could run because your enemy could run faster. It didn't matter if you could hide because the Voyrian recon bots would zip into the mix and find you hidden no matter how deep you went. The shoot on sight, no prisoners taken order was being felt around the world with crushing alacrity, and if you weren't Voyrian, then you were the enemy to either side of their war front; nothing but a waste of their future resources and space.
About the only good thing that the Winter had brought to the mix was that ceasefire in the colder locked areas of the world.
It had given a reprieve to everyone human especially but even then, you knew what was coming for the Spring. You knew that the blood was still locked in frost and snow, awaiting a spring thaw before it seeped into the frozen earth beneath, just like you knew there was more that would spill into the same soil later in the year.
The bleak prospect of dying alone, either from starvation or from the elements, was a stark reminder that humanity was far, far removed from the rigors of survival to such an extent. It seemed to be that the more you thought you would have been prepared, the more you realized you didn’t know a damn fucking thing in your life.
A day away from the massive encampment found a solitary figure huddled in his one-man tent, and for once, the wind had died down enough that it simply whispered outside the rustling canvas. It raced like frostbitten tendrils of invisible fingertips along the material, like a jilted lover whispering its intentions to come back later with a vengeance to make sure you felt its sting of wrath.
Or maybe, more like, if he would just open the fucking flaps and let it in, it would take him a lot more gently into that quiet night than a lot of other options available in this life anymore.
It was bitter either way you looked at it.
Currently, it was probably early, early in the morning, with hours left to go before even what little sunshine they got in this part of the world would cut through the nightmare of frost and negatives. He had died out his small camping lantern, huddled tight under both sleeping bag and weatherized blanket, still bundled in his snow gear, and still…fuck but it was cold.
He had a single pistol on the empty canvas floor beside him, had just finished one of four of his last cans of beets, and was staring at the Beretta next to his thigh with bleak, considering eyes.
Fuck. He couldn’t go to this place. He fucking knew better. They all fucking knew better.
He rubbed his forehead, brain hammering with tension, and had had a headache for at least two days, some byproduct of endless stress and the impending reality of his death, he was sure. Sleep was evasive, and every single time the wind kicked a little too hard, he jumped, eyes flying wide while he looked around for shifting shadows, straining to hear voices or anything that was lurking in the darkness that would come to kill him. It was a living nightmare at all hours of the day.
He thought to himself, while contemplating the camp not miles from where he was sitting, that this was insanity. The definition of damn near. He wasn't sure how often he and his people had to be kicked in the teeth before they understood fully how much these people didn't want them in their space.
He knew in the morning that his nerve would break, that if he went to those gates alone, he’d be dead before his feet touched the grounds over the threshold. It was such a fucking pipe dream, and right that second while reality smacked him back, he wasn’t sure at all why he had thought, even in mild fancy, that this had been a good idea.
He was still staring at the gun when suddenly he heard something crunch through the frosted layer of snow outside and knew it wasn’t the fucking wind.
His eyes flew up to the tent flaps, his whole body froze, and like he was living in some kind of nightmare, he heard the soft murmur of voices. Not a minute later, a shadow crossed over the front of the tent, and every single moment of his life leading to this very second compounded into a stark second of realizing that he just wasn’t ready to go out like this.
He knew, at that moment, that he was a dead man. He picked up the Beretta with a strike of hand, shaking, absolutely terrified, and willed this sudden presence away from his tiny little corner of the world.
Please, God, please let them just pass. It was the only thing he could suddenly think, and it was a laughable prayer to send out with any real sincerity.
In the worst moment of his soon-to-be short life, he saw long, armored fingers in a telltale red-gold shell break between the flap edges, felt himself spiral and shrink down, and tried to brace for this final slap.
Fuck. Fuck. It was on repeat like a bad beat track in his head now.
And then, in the most bizarre occurrence, the face that suddenly peered through at him was so human it gave him a real pause. It was the first time he had seen one of these people this close, and that familiar-looking visage threw him so badly he felt like his brain glitched.
A million answers to a million questions surged forward in some spit-up of confusion before settling firmly on terror when those hyper-blue eyes peered in and paused upon seeing him frozen in his sleeping bag.
Not human. Without question, this person was not a human man, and that was clear by the refractive pale eyes blinking back at him.
He had no idea what to do.
His whole body locked up when the tent flap parted and the man who crouched down eased forward on the balls of armored feet. God help him, but it just wasn't what he had expected to come for him. This man was blonde with a tight, very clean braid that had spilled over one broad shoulder, his face graced by a heavy sweep of jawline and an amazingly high arc of cheekbones. He was actually gorgeous, honed down, very male in every way it was possible to be masculine, and nothing in him was prepared to see those full lips curve with clinical levels of curiosity.
He jerked when that mouth opened, heart thundering, eyes huge, jarring to the core when this alien man said in a very low accented voice, “What are you doing out here all alone?”
Yeah, it threw him off his game big time.
He just shook his head, speechless, and could not tear his widened blue eyes from this creature while some sense of surrealism tried to protect his brain from cracking down the middle.
Those bright blue eyes creased and swept him in bemusement before they landed right on his gun.
He looked at it in his own hand and almost panicked as if he had never seen it before, looked back up a little desperately, and in the most unprecedented move of his life, just extended it outward toward that massive figure. He was trembling so badly that it was clear that he was on his last limb of endurance for this type of scenario. “I…I don’t know what I’m doing.” It was almost a whisper, but for whatever reason, his voice screamed into the still night like he had shouted at the top of his lungs.
After a long assessing moment, that large hand extended and accepted his white flag offering, checked the clip, and hit the safety before putting it back somewhere on his belt. In his fucking life, he did not expect this alien man to smile very amiably and, in return, extend that larger hand out to him in a friendly offer. “That’s fine. We have a place exactly for people such as yourself, yeah? Why don’t you come with me instead?”
It was a trap.
He knew it was; didn’t believe those mellow blue eyes for a moment, and yet, what the fuck was he going to do? He had just passed his only method of defense over to this guy like an idiot, and suddenly was cornered by his own moment of cowardice on every level to be endured.
He did the only thing he could do. He looked at that offered hand, looked back to those mild blue eyes refracting light back at him in the night, reached out, and just took it with a feeling of dread consuming him.
What could he do?
