PEARL
It was the next day. At least, that's what I thought it was—I was not sure. There was no way of keeping track of time. No clock. Nobody in my room to withstand the ferocity of my frantic need to ask.
Lucky me.
The fever broke long ago. I could not sleep. I sat in the center of the bed, staring up at the white ceiling. I had already tried to open the door to venture out of the room, but it was locked. Maybe they didn't want me roaming around the vessel and finding things that scared the human shit out of me.
Smart aliens.
My nose burned from the smell of antiseptic. The sheets were even worse; they smelled like bleach. On the bedside table to my right was a lamp illuminating the room with a muted, silver light.
I had turned it on a few hours ago when the darkness was too oppressive. In the far top corner of the room, a small glowing orb sat, twinkling, attached to nothing. A camera of some sort? How did it just float like that?
"Can... can the guy with the white hair come back?" I asked the glowing orb. "I never went to sleep, so..."
Probably a dumb move on my part to ask. The guy was too tense around me, and it was clear he liked me little. Any further interaction with him would probably push it, but he was... interesting.
Was the fact that I found him interesting bad?
Even though he could probably kill me with a twitch of a finger if he wanted, I was the person who charged at danger with a wicked smile.
He had said he would return when I was awake, but I was getting lonely and he was taking too long. Spending too long in the dark with my mind doing nothing was killing me. What was Lare going to be like? How expansive were their collections of texts? Would they at least feed me regularly there, or what?
And most of all, would I be... alone?
My stomach twisted at the thought, but it wasn't from nausea.
I wanted to learn more about this frustrating, cold, brick wall of alien. There had to be more to him than just curtness and sinfully good looks.
Just when I was about to groan out of frustration, the door opened. I picked at the dry skin on my knuckles as he came inside, a rush of embarrassment heating my cheeks at the memory of that dumb fever dream.
Damn, that stupid dream.
"Hey look, it's my chaperone," I said, and looked up when he didn't respond right away.
"Are you hungry?" was the question I got, which surprised me. He was wearing white today, looking fresh and crisp, with the fabric of his undershirt fitting like a second skin. He was wearing the same jacket as yesterday, it seemed.
His attire was just as monotonous as his temperament. The only thing that stood out was the color of his eyes; vibrant, intense, and quietly observing as always.
I clenched my jaw. My stomach was empty, but I had no appetite. After so long being sick, it wasn't surprising that I couldn't stand the thought of food. "No."
"Are you thirsty?"
"Yes," I blurted.
He left, some kind of door shutting from the top down behind him. It made no noise. Weird. When he returned, he offered what appeared to be a glass of water. Condensation beaded on the outside of the glass and my parched throat practically spasmed.
I eyed it, distrusting. The last thing they gave me was not fun. It would suck if they hid another inoculation somewhere.
He must have seen my hesitation. "If you do not drink this, we will resort to manually hydrating you."
Blinking rapidly, I spluttered, "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means to drink, or else we will resort to manually hydrating you."
My jaw fell open. His face, as always, was stone cold. No movement. Was he mad? Was I irritating him already?
Well, that didn't take long.
I pursed my lips. "Is there anything other than water in that? If I don't drink it, will you possess me like William and force me?"
"No."
Well, that's a relief.
I ran a hand through my hair, combing through the snarls and strands. I took the glass—careful not to touch his hand—and sniffed it. It smelled like nothing. I took a sip and immediately spit it out onto the floor. "Liar!"
The "water" was sweet. I was sure the betrayal was raw on my face. I wasn't sure if it looked mortified or pissed.
"It is water," he said. "It might be different in flavor to yours. There are other harmless minerals in it that are natural for us. It is harmless to you. Finish it all."
I watched him warily, noting that was one of the longest sentences he ever gave me as of late. Why was he always so stern?
Sighing, I put the glass to my lips and then chugged. It was slightly sweet but tasted like the comforting nothingness of water, too. A nice, welcome change to the bitterness of old bile in my mouth.
"Minerals," I muttered, then concealed a belch. "Not even going to ask what kind. I don't want to know."
For the first time, I didn't want to know. I just wanted to enjoy the drink without ruining it. Something that sounded like a laugh came from him. But when I checked to see, it was like nothing had happened.
Strange. Intriguing. Could he laugh? If he could, what would he possibly find funny?
"So, Mr.not-human," I began, setting the glass on the drawer beside my bed. "What's up with you?"
Eerie silence again. His eyes were lighter than usual. Was it the lighting? I basically had to crane my neck to look up at him. The ceilings here were rather tall, probably accounting for their height.
His face was clean of any emotion. As always. "I failed to understand your question."
I let out a breath all at once, putting up my feet to sit crisscrossed. I worried my bottom lip. I was not prepared for the gush of his words that came next.
"There are communication barriers," he stated. Then he went on quickly, speaking so fast I could hardly keep up. "I understand this must be frustrating for you. I know this is all new and confusing. The trauma which you possibly endured getting here is only adding to your stress. Your feelings are valid—"
"This sounds like a script."
That was very unlike how he usually talks to me, and I knew scripts when I heard one. There was even emotion in it. It didn't sit right with me, being as how he is always monotone.
He cocked his head to the side again. I really wish he would stop doing that, it freaked me out. "You do not trust me."
He didn't even deny that it was a script. I shrugged, dropping my eyes to the floor. "Why would I? You are capable of murder, aren't you?"
"Are you not capable as well? I am trying to make you more comfortable," he went on. "And help you through this process. Let you not forget that you chose this."
"I didn't forget. And things are too strange, and you are too different, to feel comfortable around here."
"We are very similar."
That caught me way off guard. I looked up at him again and my breath got caught in my throat. Yes, he was different, but familiarity painted some of his strange edges. He was beautiful, huge, and male. He had five fingers. Two hands. One head. But how?
"Explain?"
Standing up, I focused on straightening the covers on the bed and dusted them off. He watched me quietly. I didn't turn to glance at him—his gaze was always intense, like he was studying me.
Blood rushed to my cheeks to paint them. I focused harder on the bed in front of me. I had torn everything up writhing on the sheets.
"We are similar in biology and composition," he went on.
"How are we similar in that aspect?" I fluffed a limp pillow that needed to be thrown into the garbage. "Don't be afraid of complex explanations. I can keep up. It's part of my career, you know."
I was sure my eyes were wide. Damn, I really want a pen to write this down. A nice, fresh notebook with my name on it.
Yeah, but for what podcast? Everybody is dead.
I beat back my dark thoughts.
I appraised his large hands—his fingers were long, as were his nails. But not pointed. They looked manicured and elegant, yet his fingers were rough on my skin before. His hands were also pretty veiny. Didn't chicks dig that?
I cared little for it. Veins always freaked me out. Whenever I had a blood draw or was given medicine intravenously, nurses would comment that my face looked oddly green.
Then I usually passed out.
"Your species was genetically influenced by ours a very long time ago. We created your species using our own DNA. Therefore, we share many similarities; why we are both carbon-based, why we are both warm-blooded, and why we look very similar, although different. Your kind is the product of accelerated evolution."
The blood drained from my face, a chill settling in my chest.
That was not the answer I was expecting. My pulse quickened, astonishment making it hard to think—or do much of anything besides gape like a fish.
Yet... I believed him.
How could I not?
That inspired way too many questions in my mind. My head swam with them. I was going to drown.
I cleared my throat, trying to form coherent sentences, sitting on the corner of the bed. "So... you are saying... like... the fringe, stupid alien creation theories might have been... correct?"
He blinked. He actually blinked!
There was a pause before he answered. "Yes. Those ones."
"And—and the pyramids? Nazca Lines? Stonehenge—"
"Not those ones. We played no part in the construction of your ancient relics. It would be unjust to attribute those acts of ingenuity to anything other than humanity. Your kind was extremely resourceful and intelligent."
My mouth popped open in shock. I twisted my fingers together in my lap, nervousness suddenly making it hard to sit still. "Very true. I know you said there are texts and knowledge that I can dig into, but I really want to hear it all from you." I hummed in thought. "As one of mankind's creators. Or, a descendant of one, rather."
And I don't want to be alone.
"That is not a good idea."
"Why not?" I asked, folding my arms, trying to snuff out the fear swimming in my stomach. I really, really didn't want to be alone. "I'm an auditory learner, anyway."
His eyes tightened a bit. "It would be best if we were to remain separated once we get you to Lare."
Even though I had tried to play it off as no big deal, I deflated. There went my opportunity to learn more about him; to learn if he was capable of laughing, of smiling, of doing anything remotely human.
"Why?"
For the first time, he looked uncomfortable. The corners of his mouth twitched. His eyes glanced away from my face to stare at the wall beside him.
"Am I really that awful?" I asked, gesturing around wildly. My emotional response surprised even me, but there was no stopping my bottled-up emotions now. "Even aliens don't want to be around me! Should have figured that."
"You are offended?"
"Yes, because—" I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath to settle myself. "Nevermind. Forget I said anything."
An awkward bit of silence passed between us before he spoke. "It would be helpful to me if you explained yourself."
Great. I glared up at him and was met with a calm expression in return. I was fire, he was ice. When most of my emotions passed, I sighed, shoulders hunched.
"Nobody ever wants to be around me. Before all of this nonsense happened, I couldn't even keep a friend because, of, well, my mouth. I don't know when to shut it. I just say what comes to my mind. It was really helpful in my career, but then people thought I was nuts when I started digging into the supernatural..."
I stopped, feeling like an unstable toddler. My eyes embarrassingly burned. I wiped tears away, horrified that I was crying, unloading all of my emotional baggage onto an otherworldly being who just stood there like a statue, probably not giving an ounce of a fuck.
He inclined his head, his eyes blazing with something I could not quite place. "If it means so much to you and causes you so much distress, I will answer some of your questions personally, journalist, purely because I respect your inquisitiveness. But you will not get a lot of time with me."
But you will not get a lot of time with me.
That sentence sounded like it had a double meaning, but couldn't be sure.
I blushed at my ridiculousness, but was proud of that minor victory, regardless if he delivered it coldly and with a time limit. I didn't want to be alone on the planet of Lare, or whatever it was. Whatever I said, or however it was delivered, somehow changed his mind, meaning...
He could feel emotions, or cared to a degree about mine.
There must be more to him.