This was my element. Not the sex (though that was spectacular) or the jungle survival (which I was surprisingly good at). No, this was my true expertise—luring the hidden into the open. I’d spent years perfecting the art of drawing out cryptids, convincing witnesses to share their stories, getting skeptical officials to reveal what they knew.
Vaskari might be an alien fugitive with advanced technology, but at his core, he was just another cryptid—hiding in the shadows, thinking himself untouchable, arrogant in his invisibility. And I’d made a career out of making the invisible visible.
“Now we wait,” I told Phil, settling into position behind a console that gave me a view of the bunker’s entrance while keeping me mostly hidden.
Phil extended his vines throughout the bunker and beyond, creating a web of awareness that would alert us to anyapproach. I felt the jungle shift around us—not just physically, but consciously. It was paying attention now, focusing its vast intelligence on our small corner of its domain.
Minutes stretched into an hour. The bunker’s recycled air grew staler. Sweat beaded on my forehead, not just from the heat but from the tension of waiting. Phil remained perfectly still beside me, only the faintest pulsing along his vine-body indicating his vigilance.
Then he hissed—a sound I’d never heard from him before. A warning.
“He’s close?” I whispered.
Phil tightened around my wrist. Yes. Very.
I crouched lower, barely breathing, as the jungle around us responded to the intruder. Snare vines slithered silently beneath moss, their usual lazy undulation replaced by purposeful positioning. Spore tendrils thickened the air, ready to release their defensive toxins. Even the canopy darkened, like the world held its breath.
My message continued to play, bouncing from speaker to speaker, creating the illusion that I was constantly moving. “Come find me, you piece of space trash,” my voice taunted from somewhere far to the left, then suddenly from behind the bunker, then from deeper in the jungle.
The first indication of his approach was subtle—a shift in the air pressure, a faint metallic scent that didn’t belong in the organic richness of the jungle. Then a shadow passed across the bunker’s entrance, hesitating just beyond the threshold.
I caught just a glimpse of him through the narrow gap in the console where I hid—tall and gaunt, with that silvery skin that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. His armor was battered but advanced, covered in tech that pulsed with unearthly energy. Those black eyes swept the interior of the bunker, searching, calculating.
“Human,” he hissed, his voice like gravel over metal. “I know you’re here. I can smell you. Tell me what you know.”
I held perfectly still. Phil tensed against my skin, ready.
Vaskari took another step inside, weapons raised—some kind of energy pistol in one hand, a curved blade in the other. “The Legion dog has kept you as a pet, hasn’t he? Tell me where he’s hidden the artifacts, and perhaps I’ll let you live.”
My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it, but I forced myself to remain motionless. Just one more step. Just one more...
He crossed the threshold fully, armor clicking against the metal floor of the bunker.
And when the bastard finally committed—armor and bad attitude fully inside my trap—he didn’t get a chance to blink. The vines struck. Not to kill. Just to disable.
Phil moved first, launching from my side with astonishing speed to wrap around Vaskari’s weapon arm. The fugitive snarled, slashing with his blade, but more vines burst through the floor grating—thick, powerful tendrils that snared his legs, his other arm, even coiling around his neck.
The jungle, it seemed, had been waiting for this moment. Had been preparing for it since I formulated the plan. The vines worked with coordinated precision, disarming Vaskari and pinning him spread-eagled against the bunker wall.
He thrashed and cursed in a language my ears couldn’t process, but the translation came to me anyway through my connection with Phil—threats, bargaining, then desperate pleas as he realized the vines weren’t just restraining him, they were tightening.
“Not too tight,” I said aloud to the jungle. “We need him alive for Lor.”
The pressure eased slightly, though Vaskari remained securely pinned. His black eyes found me as I emerged frommy hiding place, narrowing with hatred and something like disbelief.
“You,” he spat. “Impossible. You’re just a primitive Terran.”
I straightened to my full height—not terribly impressive compared to most aliens I’d met, but I made up for it with attitude.
“Yeah, well, this primitive Terran just kicked your ass.” I stepped closer, careful to stay out of range should he somehow break free. “With a little help from my friends.”
Phil curled around my ankle, a visible sign of our alliance. The other vines pulsed with what felt like pride.
“The jungle belongs to no one,” Vaskari hissed. “Its power was meant to be harvested, not wasted on your Legion pet.”
“Funny thing about sentient ecosystems,” I replied, cocking my head. “They tend to have opinions about being harvested.”
As if to emphasize my point, the vines tightened briefly around his throat. A warning.
