✦ || Lucien Mendoza

Lucien’s chest rose and fell as gunfire rattled the air, his voice hoarse from shouting orders. The field was chaos—smoke hanging thick, debris strewn everywhere, the deafening whir of helicopters overhead. His legs pounded against the dirt, each step shuddering as he dodged incoming fire. His team was scattered, some pinned down, others pushing forward. He yelled, signaling with an arm, “Fall back! Get the hell out of there!”

But his voice was cut short. Pain shot through his leg, sharp and relentless. Lucien stumbled, his knee giving way as he crashed onto the ground, breath ripped from his lungs. His vision blurred, blood smeared against his fingers as he clawed at the wound, teeth gritted as agony tore through his nerves. ’The fuck is happening..?’ He could hear his own scream echoing, raw and animalistic, but couldn’t stop it. His leg throbbed like it was on fire, twisting under him in ways that shouldn’t be possible.

And then—

Lucien jerked upright in bed, gasping, the darkness of his room slamming into his senses. The sheets clung to his damp skin, soaked with sweat, and he rubbed his face, feeling the ache behind his eyes and the hollow pounding in his chest. Another damn nightmare. He dragged his fingers down his face, breathing heavily, trying to steady himself. “…Fuck me.”

A glance at the clock on his nightstand told him it was only 8:25. He cursed, low and frustrated. “Figures,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His knee twinged as he stood, a dull reminder of the injury that had yanked him out of service, an injury that seemed to follow him even in his sleep.

Lucien crossed the room, reaching for his phone on the desk, swiping it on to check for any messages. Nothing. Of course.He clicked his tongue in irritation, tossing the phone back onto the desk with a soft thud. He hated this limbo—stuck here, pacing between empty walls with nothing to do but replay that night over and over again. Hell, he’d tried distracting himself, but distractions only got him so far.

Groaning, he dragged himself to the bathroom, flicking on the light. It glared harshly in the mirror, and he squinted, letting his eyes adjust before moving to the sink. His reflection looked as exhausted as he felt—dark circles under his eyes, stubble that was well past five o’clock shadow. With a tired grunt, he pulled his long dark hair into a messy bun, pushing it out of his face. He splashed cold water on his skin, hoping it might shock some energy back into him, and watched as droplets ran down the lines of his face, pooling at his collar.

He turned off the light, headed to the kitchen, and pulled open a cupboard, grabbing the familiar box of gummy snacks and tossing it onto the counter. It was his guilty pleasure, a habit left over from years ago that somehow stuck around. Popping one into his mouth, he chewed thoughtfully, watching the small clock on the microwave blink in silence.

Routine, he thought bitterly. That was all he had now. Routine, and snacks, and a hell of a lot of staring at blank walls. With a sigh, he filled the coffee maker, flicking it on and watching the pot fill with the murky, steaming liquid. Just another boring night. He’d jump at any opportunity to get back on that field again if he could.

But something caught his eye, a strange flickering outside the window. At first, he ignored it, chalking it up to one of his neighbor’s motion lights, maybe some deer tripping it. But the light grew, a vibrant orange glow that lit up the treetops beyond his backyard. Lucien frowned, pausing mid-reach for his coffee mug.

Hm?

The light swelled, blazing against the night sky as it arced, a streak of flame and smoke, and then with a shuddering impact, it crashed somewhere in the woods behind his house. The ground trembled faintly beneath his feet, the force rattling the dishes in his sink.

“Holy sh…” He stood there, unmoving, mind caught between curiosity and self-preservation. Every sensible part of him screamed, Stay inside. Call it in, let the cops or the firefighters deal with it. But there was another part—a deeper, more reckless part—that whispered, What if someone’s hurt? What if it’s serious?

Lucien ran a hand over his face, scowling. He was a soldier, not some idiot in a horror movie. Who in their right mind just walks toward a crash in the middle of the night? But the longer he stood there, staring at that faint orange glow bleeding through the trees, the more it pulled at him, an itch at the base of his skull he couldn’t shake.

“Shit,” He headed to the closet without thinking, grabbing a flashlight and a pack of extra batteries. If he was going out there, he’d be prepared. He snagged his pocketknife, slipping it into his back pocket, then went for his handgun, loading it and checking the safety. Last thing he wanted was to be out in the woods, unarmed and stumbling into God knows what.

Finally he zipped up his jacket, turned on the flashlight, and swung open the back door, the cold air hitting him as he stepped into the night. Every instinct in him still protested, but he pushed it down.

---

Lucien’s heart thudded in his chest as he reached what seemed to be the crash site, flashlight beam cutting through the smoky haze still hanging low over the ground. The orange glow had dimmed, reduced to faint embers scattered in the dirt, and a charred smell lingered in the air. He swept the flashlight around, feeling the tension knotting in his chest. There was no wreckage, no smashed metal or vehicle parts—just churned-up earth and empty silence.

“Seriously? All that for nothing?” he muttered, glancing around, frustration mixing with a strange, prickling unease. He’d expected… well, something. Anything that made sense.

He took a step forward, boot crunching over broken branches—until his foot suddenly caught on something solid. He stumbled, barely catching himself. “Shit!” he hissed, steadying himself. He whipped his flashlight down, and his breath stalled in his chest.

There, sprawled on the ground, was a body. Or… at least it looked like a body. Covered head to toe in what seemed to be some kind of metallic armor, sleek and strangely intricate, almost like it had been molded to fit every inch of their form. Their face was completely obscured, hidden behind an opaque visor that glinted faintly in the flashlight’s glow.

“What the… hell?” he muttered, taking a cautious step back. His mind raced through a dozen possibilities, each one stranger than the last. What kind of person wears armor like that? The plating looked advanced, almost alien. But what was someone like that doing out here?

“Okay, Lucien, just… don’t freak out,” he told himself, voice barely above a whisper. They might just be some poor idiot who got way too close to whatever crashed.

With a deep breath, he forced himself to kneel, fingers hovering just above the figure’s neck. Don’t be dead, don’t be dead. Finally, he pressed his fingers to where the pulse should be—and felt a faint, steady beat. He exhaled, shoulders relaxing a little. “Alright, you’re still with us. Lucky you.”

He glanced down at the figure, the metallic surface of the armor catching bits of light. He couldn’t see anything underneath—not a face, not even a hint of skin. The material looked almost futuristic, far beyond anything he’d seen, and it sent another shiver down his spine. But he shook it off. Whoever—or whatever—they were, he wasn’t going to leave them here.

“Alright, fine. Let’s get you out of here,” he muttered, cursing softly as he slipped his arms beneath them. Surprisingly, they were light, almost as if the armor was hollow or weightless. He shifted his grip, adjusting to the strange feel of the armor as he rose, cradling them against his chest. “You weigh nothing… Must be some kind of high-tech suit.”

The trip back to his house was a slow, careful walk, his leg starting to throb from the weight and strain. By the time he made it to his door, he was breathing hard, wincing as the ache pulsed through his knee. He leaned against the doorframe, muttering, “You better be worth it, whoever you are,” before nudging the door open and carrying the armored figure inside.

---

Lucien set the figure down on his bed, his hands still tingling from the strange, cool feel of the armor against his skin. He took a step back, studying the unconscious body sprawled across the mattress. Whoever this was, they were far from normal. The armor alone was like nothing he’d seen, and the faint hum he’d felt beneath the surface—it didn’t seem like just a suit.

He rubbed his temples, forcing himself to shake off the unease gnawing at him. Doesn’t matter what they are, he thought, just treat this like any other rescue. With a muttered curse, he headed to the bathroom and dug around under the sink until he found his med kit. He wasn’t sure what kind of injuries the person might have, but it was better to be prepared.

When he returned, however, he stopped dead in the doorway. The figure was awake, sitting up slightly and staring right at him. And the helmet—the sleek, impenetrable headpiece that had hidden their face before—was gone, resting on the bed beside them.

Lucien felt the med kit slip from his hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as he took in the sight before him.

The alien flinched at the sound, letting out a small whimper as their hands instinctively went to clutch their wrist, fingers trembling. Lucien’s heart jumped, eyes widening at the sudden show of pain. It was strange—this person didn’t look dangerous at all. In fact, their expression seemed innocent, confused, and more than a little scared.

“Damn it,” he muttered, snapping back to his senses. Dropping to one knee, he scrambled to pick up the med kit. He took a deep breath, mentally grounding himself before looking back up at the alien. Whatever they were, it was clear they needed help, and right now, that was all he could focus on.

He walked slowly to the bed, his voice softer as he said, “Alright, easy… I’m just going to take a look, okay?” He held up his hands, hoping the gesture was reassuring, then sat on the edge of the bed and gently reached for their wrist. The alien watched him with wide, unblinking eyes, and though their posture was tense, they didn’t resist.

“Let’s see what we’re working with here,” Lucien murmured to himself, as much for his own comfort as theirs. His fingers moved carefully, assessing the wrist for any signs of bruising or sprain. Their skin was oddly cool to the touch, almost as if they hadn’t been outside in the cold night at all. Despite his initial shock, his training kicked in, his hands steady as he checked for injuries.

“Does this hurt?” he asked, glancing up at them.