Wild Beast: A Rough Sci-Fi Romance

She sips a little of hers too.

“Mmm,” she lets out a little moan. “It’s so good.”

Something in that sound of human pleasure strikes me low in the belly. Suddenly everything coalesces into one surprising, unlikely truth.

I came here to kill her. Now I want to mate her.

She is looking at me with those inappropriately trusting eyes. I could destroy her in seconds. I should do just that. It would be a noble sacrifice to end her, even if the wild ones ended me directly after. But my heart is no longer in it. I have been distracted quite entirely by her easy human charm and sweet beauty, not to mention the intensity of the wild ones’ response to her.

“Would you like more? I have some dried meat,” she says. “It’s good for snacks.”

“You should not be showing me hospitality, human.”

“You’re beat up, hungry, and alone. I know what at least two of those things are like, and I doubt I would much enjoy the third.”

I have always known humans were brash expansionists. I had no idea they were capable of so much empathy. I have declared my desire to end her, and her response is to feed me because she feels sorry for me. This is either spectacular weakness, or a fascinating personality.

* * *

Penelope

The way to any creature’s heart is through its stomach. As wild as this alien beast appears to be, he is obviously famished. He reminds me of Steve and Kurt. They were always posturing, pretending they were stronger than they were, smarter than they were, living in absolute terror of any outward expression of weakness that might advertise their vulnerability. I never had to pretend to be anything, which I now realize was quite the advantage.

Volt is still clinging to the idea that he is dangerous to me, but I know that the only thing that keeps anybody alive ever is Fate. She has a capital F, and she decides who lives and who dies. There’s no point worrying. That’s what I learned from Steve and Kurt’s death, which seemed so unlikely, and my survival, which is even less likely and yet continues.

“So,” I say. “Mind explaining why I seem to piss you off so much?”

“You have been given an honor the Vulpari must fight for,” he growls. “You came here and you took what was not yours to take, and now the ancestors are aware of how to open foil packaging.”

“So you wanted them to stay primitive.”

“We wanted them to stay pure.”

“Sure. Which also involves dying of sniffles or a broken leg. I helped splint Mr. Grumps’ leg not long ago. He would never have been able to hunt without that. And I used some of the antibiotic stores to ensure that it didn’t get infected.”

He looks horrified. The very acts I am most proud of are the same ones he considers to be some kind of blasphemy.

“The wild ones are supposed to live and die according to the whim of the wild. Not your interference!”

“I am the whim of the wild. I’m their whim. They saved me, and it turned out I could help them. You know, it’s actually quite offensive what you’re doing.”

“Offensive!” He laughs. “What a human word that is. Offensive! What does that even mean?”

“In this case, it means you’d rather they suffered slow and painful deaths so you can fetishize them as ancestors, when it is painfully obvious that anything alive today is no ancestor of yours.”

“They’re a living embodiment of our forebears.”

“So they don’t get medicine?”

“No. And they don’t get cooked food either.”

Does he realize what an asshole he sounds like?

“They’re not props in your ancestor fetish. They’re living beings who deserve a good meal and an antibiotic when they need it.”

He growls at me, but only for a split second. Every eye in the den swivels toward him quickly. He is forced to lower his head and make a whimpering sound I know must gall him to his arrogant core.

I do not know why the wild ones brought him back. Usually they kill anything that remotely resembles a threat. They are tolerating more posturing and danger from him than I have ever seen them tolerate before. Perhaps they do see him as a lost member of their tribe, a prodigal son returned.

I decide to leave him to his own devices before one of his involuntary growls or snarls gets his throat ripped out, but he and I keep a close eye on one another throughout the rest of the evening. Neither one of us is comfortable letting the other one out of their sight. He has the advantage of being able to keep track of my scent, so I imagine. I have to know where he is.

I have so often wished that the wild things could talk to me. They are very effective communicators of simple things, but they can’t form full sentences.