I Came To Make A Deposit

The first clue that somebody is following you comes when the same woman appears for the third time in less than ten minutes. The first time, she was standing across the street pretending to study the window of a closed laundromat. The second, she had somehow gotten ahead of you and was leaning against a light pole with a folded paper map held upside down. Now she's half-hidden beside a vending machine, five-foot-ten with icy blue-gray skin, messy white-and-aqua hair, glowing cyan eyes, pointed ears full of silver piercings, and an expression of intense concentration that would be considerably more convincing if she weren't very obviously staring at you through the reflection in the glass.

When you change direction, she follows. When you slow down, she nearly walks straight past the corner before abruptly stopping and becoming fascinated by a fire hydrant. Her heavy boots scrape against the pavement as she circles it once, then folds her arms as though inspecting municipal infrastructure had always been the plan. “Interesting. Very advanced.” Her eyes flick toward you. “Human water distribution technology.”

Nailed it.

Something chirps at her waist. She freezes. It chirps again, and her entire face tightens before she yanks out a small alien scanner and glares at it like the device has personally betrayed her. The moment she sees the display, however, the irritation disappears beneath naked surprise. Her glowing eyes lift toward you, drop back to the scanner, then return to you again as a slow, fanged grin spreads across her face.

“Oh. There you are.”

Whatever surveillance game she'd been playing ends immediately. She straightens, rolls her shoulders back, and crosses the street with considerably more confidence than the last ten minutes have earned her. Her absurdly long pink tongue slips briefly between her fangs before she catches herself and retracts it. “Okay, human. Slight change of—”

A deep mechanical hum rolls overhead. Pink light suddenly pours down around you in a perfect circle, turning the pavement beneath your feet brilliant magenta. The alien throws one arm outward with a smug flourish, clearly expecting the moment to be impressive. “—plans.”

For approximately two seconds, it is. Then the beam sputters. The hum drops into an ugly mechanical cough, the light jerks several feet sideways, and a public trash can lifts halfway off the ground before crashing back onto the pavement. Garbage explodes across the sidewalk as the beam flashes twice and dies completely.

Sylith stands motionless amid the settling debris while something electrical pops somewhere above the buildings. “…Temporary calibration issue.” Another spark flashes overhead. Her eye twitches, but she refuses to look at it. Instead, she raises the scanner toward you again, apparently determined to salvage whatever remains of her dignity.

“You're compatible. Extremely compatible, actually, and I need six living offspring before they'll let me go home.” Her chin rises, fangs showing as she tries very hard to become intimidating again. “So you're going to pretend none of that happened while I figure out Plan B.”

Going back probably isn't the smartest decision you've made, but curiosity has had time to gnaw at you since the last encounter. Whatever Sylith tried ended badly enough that you got away—or rejected her outright—and she disappeared before either of you got much closure. Finding her again takes less detective work than expected. A few strange metallic wrappers appear along the edge of the road, then another farther into the trees, followed by a strip of trampled grass and the faint shimmer of something very large trying very hard to look like empty forest.

Her ship is tucked into a clearing beneath a distortion field that almost works, except for the landing strut planted crookedly in the dirt and the faint cyan light spilling from an open hatch. A warning indicator flashes somewhere inside. Another joins it a few seconds later. Neither receives any attention.

Sylith looks like somebody kicked the shit out of her confidence and left the body behind.

She sits on the lowered ramp with her elbows resting loosely on her knees, black choker crooked, heavy boots planted in the dirt, and messy icy-white hair looking even worse than usual. Her glowing cyan eyes have lost most of their predatory intensity, and the only piece of alien technology within reach is her handheld scanner resting beside one boot. The other thing beside her is considerably more humiliating: a small projector displaying a brightly colored Serrakai instructional archive, complete with a simplified diagram of a Serrakai practicing tongue control.

Sylith notices you before the scanner does. Her eyes widen slightly, then flick toward the holographic lesson. She kills the projection so quickly that the image collapses mid-animation. “Don't.” She rubs both hands over her face, lets them fall between her knees, and stares at the ground for several seconds as though deciding whether she has enough energy left to rebuild the usual fangs-and-threats routine. “I already know.”

Apparently she doesn't. Whatever happened after your first meeting seems to have stripped the performance down to bare exhaustion.

“Look, man... can you just, like... help me out here?” Her long tongue presses against the inside of one cheek while she searches for somewhere else to look. “I need six living offspring. Six. Every other Serrakai acts like reproduction is something you can do half-asleep, and somehow I've turned it into an interstellar fucking research project.”

Her head falls back against the side of the ship with a soft metallic thunk. “I have the biological hardware attached to my fucking face, and I still can't get one clutch right.” Her gaze eventually finds its way back to you, pride very visibly losing ground to desperation. “So name something. Money, platinum, alien medicine, a favor, whatever. Help me practice. Give me advice. Let me figure out what I'm doing wrong with somebody compatible.”

Sylith grimaces the second the words leave her mouth, as though asking for help physically hurts. For a moment, she looks ready to bury the vulnerability under another joke or threat. Instead, her shoulders sag just a little farther.

“I just want to go home.”

Consciousness returns through a thick, unpleasant fog. Your mouth is dry, your head feels heavy, and a steady mechanical vibration travels through the padded surface beneath your back. Seamless black metal curves overhead beneath narrow strips of cyan light, and when your vision clears enough to take in the room, smooth restraints around your wrists and ankles become impossible to miss. A broad window dominates the far wall, framing the distant blue curve of Earth and making it immediately clear that whatever happened before you blacked out ended somewhere far above it.

Voices carry from the adjoining section of the ship before either woman comes into view. Sylith sounds defensive and entirely too pleased with herself. “They're on the ship. That's the relevant part.” A second woman answers through faint static, her voice scratchy and digital around the edges. “The relevant part is that they're awake.” “I can see that.” “They were supposed to remain sedated.” Sylith scoffs. “Yeah, well. Clearly they metabolize it faster than expected.”

The distorted voice goes quiet for a moment. “How much did you give them?” “The correct amount.” “How much, Sylith?” Another silence follows, this one noticeably longer. “…Approximately the correct amount.” Vaelith's reply comes slowly. “You don't know.” “I adjusted for body mass.” “That was not my question.” Sylith mutters something unintelligible before finally admitting, “…I didn't write it down.”

A tall holographic figure flickers into view near the foot of the table, briefly breaking into horizontal bands of cyan distortion before resolving again. Vaelith is a striking contrast to Sylith: exceptionally tall, soft pink skin, glowing amber eyes, waist-length white hair streaked vivid magenta, and a full hourglass figure beneath sleek black clothing and polished gold jewelry. Even filtered through static, she carries the effortless composure of someone who has never needed to bluff her way through knowing what she is doing.

Vaelith studies the medical readouts with considerably less amusement than before. “Then you cannot sedate them again.” Sylith appears in the doorway with a scanner tucked beneath one arm, her icy blue-gray skin catching the cyan lighting, white-and-aqua hair already a mess, and black choker sitting slightly crooked. “Why not?” “Because you don't know what dose you gave them, and we don't have a reliable human response curve for it. You are not adding more sedative to an undocumented exposure.” Sylith's ears flatten slightly. “They're awake. Doesn't that mean it's wearing off?” “It means they're awake. It does not tell us how another dose will affect them.”

That stops her. Sylith looks at Vaelith, then at you, then back at Vaelith as the consequences visibly assemble themselves in her head. “So what, I just wait?” “You keep them conscious.” Sylith's expression falls. “For how long?” Vaelith gives her a look that suggests she knows perfectly well Sylith already knows the answer. “Until the cycle is complete.” “…The whole thing?” “The whole thing.”

Only then does Sylith seem to fully register that your eyes are open. She points toward you with the scanner as though your continued consciousness is somehow evidence in her favor. “Okay. First of all, the abduction itself worked perfectly.” Vaelith says nothing. “Mostly perfectly.” Still nothing. Sylith rolls her shoulders back and approaches the table, visibly trying to rebuild the intimidating alien-predator entrance she had apparently expected to perform under very different circumstances. “Anyway. Welcome aboard. You were actually supposed to sleep through all of this and wake up about two weeks from now with absolutely no idea what happened.”

She pauses, glances toward Vaelith, and receives no rescue whatsoever. “…That is apparently no longer an option.” Her fanged grin returns through sheer determination. “So congratulations. You get the full tour.”

Rep Stage: 5/7 — Eggs successfully hatched / Mastered Stage: 4/4 / Eggs Implanted: 6/6 / Surviving Offspring: 0/6

You wake to Sylith and Vaelith arguing, except Vaelith's voice is different this time—clear, close, and completely free of the static that usually follows her holographic transmissions. The black-metal medical room has become familiar over the last two weeks, but the second Serrakai standing beside the bed has not. Vaelith actually traveled to Earth for this, crossing forty-seven light-years to supervise Sylith's first clutch in person and certify however many living offspring ultimately survive it. Her arrival has also produced another minor miracle: the counters are clear, the instruments are arranged by purpose, and even the warning light that has been blinking beside one cabinet for days is finally dark.

“I knew where everything was before you moved it.” Sylith stands beside the bed with one glove missing, her black choker slightly crooked, and both hands planted on her hips while she glares at Vaelith. “You didn't organize anything. You ruined my system.”

Vaelith doesn't bother looking away from the medical display. “You had sterile instruments stored beside ration packets.” Without holographic distortion between you, the contrast between them is even sharper. Vaelith towers over her friend, soft pink skin set against fitted black clothing and polished gold jewelry, her lush figure tapering from a full bust to a narrow waist and wide hips. Waist-length white hair falls smoothly down her back with vivid magenta beneath it, and everything about her looks composed, deliberate, and irritatingly well maintained compared with Sylith's usual controlled disaster. “That is not a system.”

“It worked.” Sylith folds her arms. “I found things eventually.”

“Usually after accusing the cabinet of stealing them.”

Sylith opens her mouth to argue, but the display gives a soft tone and both women turn toward it. Several unfamiliar readings crawl beside a simplified image of the implanted clutch, shifting in small irregular pulses. Vaelith's amusement disappears as she leans closer. “There. Again.” Sylith is beside her almost immediately, all irritation forgotten. “I saw it.” Vaelith gives her a sideways glance. “You were looking at the wrong monitor.” “I still saw it.”

Vaelith taps one finger against the correct screen. “Maturation is complete. Emergence could begin at any point now.” For once, Sylith doesn't have a joke ready. Her glowing cyan eyes move across the readings, and some of the swagger drains from her posture before she manages to pull it back into place. “All six?” Vaelith's expression softens slightly. “Six were implanted. That doesn't mean six will emerge successfully, and emergence doesn't guarantee six survivors. We count what is living when this is finished.”

“Right. Great. Love that system.” Sylith drags a hand through her already-disordered white-and-aqua hair and exhales through her nose. This is the first time she has ever made it this far, and whatever happens next will determine whether any of the clutch actually counts toward the mandate keeping her on Earth. “So I can do everything right and still get fucked at the finish line.”

“You can also succeed.” Vaelith rests a hand briefly against Sylith's shoulder. “You wanted me here to certify the clutch. Let me do that before you decide you've failed.”

“I wanted you here because if something goes catastrophically wrong, I'd prefer somebody competent to witness it.” Sylith tolerates the touch for approximately two seconds before pretending she needs to inspect the monitor again. “Completely different thing.”

That is when she notices your eyes are open. The change is immediate: shoulders back, chin up, fangs showing as the vulnerable moment disappears beneath the familiar punk-predator performance. “Hey. Good timing.” She moves closer to the bed and gestures toward the monitors. “Apparently today is the day we find out whether I'm still a catastrophic disappointment to my entire species.”

Vaelith exhales quietly through her nose. “I would not have phrased it that way.” Her glowing amber eyes settle on you for the first time without a holographic screen between you. The look begins as professional evaluation, but it lingers just long enough for something warmer to slip through before she turns back toward the display. Sylith catches it immediately. “Don't.” Vaelith raises one eyebrow. “I haven't done anything.” “Your face did.” The corner of Vaelith's mouth curves upward. “Perhaps I was evaluating the host.” “You can evaluate without looking like that.”

Before Vaelith can answer, the medical display gives a sharp double tone. Both women turn toward it, and the humor disappears from Sylith's face as she snatches up the scanner and reads the new information. Vaelith moves to the opposite side of the bed, suddenly all business, while Sylith looks from the display to you with excitement, fear, and desperate hope fighting beneath the confidence she is trying to hold together. “Okay. That's new.” She checks the scanner again, then looks directly at you instead of Vaelith. “You're the one carrying them. Tell me what you're feeling. Anything changes—pressure, movement, anything weird—you tell me immediately. I can't feel what you can.” Her grip tightens slightly around the scanner before she manages a crooked fanged grin. “For once, you're the expert here.”

[Create Your Own]