The aircraft tore from one location to the next, pausing just long enough to offer Sloane a glimpse of the wreckage below. Earth had become a full-blown warzone. City after city lay in ruins, fire and smoke scattered across the horizon—no one was spared. The brutal truth set in: there was no safe haven left to run to. These ships were all that remained between survival and extinction.
Looking down, Sloane made out other chrome and black aircraft streaking past, some locked in combat —beams of light slinging across the clouds. They were on some kind of mission, whether it was to save lives or destroy them.
Her eyes scanned the horizon for the ominous black shape, but the enemy’s mothership was nowhere in sight. The last time she’d seen it was back in Washington. It had been impossible to miss— etched into memory by its impossible size and membranous skin still weeping in its wake. Completely disoriented now, Sloane struggled to get her bearings. For all she knew, she could be in an entirely different country.
The aircraft banked left, and Sloane’s stomach dropped as an enormous white mass emerged. It loomed in the distance, too perfect, too still. For a split second, its presence almost felt holy—like some promised land rising from the sea. A promise of peace and safety. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, but Sloane was hopeful. At least she was trying to be.
It was pure white, impossibly massive, with smaller UFOs slipping in and out of its hull like veins feeding a heart. Bringing survivors in. Racing back out for more. Compared to the scale of that thing, their aircraft was no more than a speck of dust. It had to be the mothership. How it stayed suspended in the air was beyond her. And for once, Sloane didn’t try to make sense of it. Whatever that thing was, it did not belong to their world, that was for damn certain.
Sloane pressed herself to the window, as if doing so would give her a clearer view of the object hovering over the vast ocean. The other humans aboard quickly followed her lead, crowding around her. Their mouths half-open with gasps echoing all around—some of awe, some of fear, and probably a mix of both.
“They’re going to eat us!” a rotund man exclaimed. Sloane rolled her eyes. Well, he’s got plenty to spare, she muttered under her breath.
Everyone had a theory about what their future would look like, but Sloane was tired of listening. She pushed her way through the crowd, careful not to put too much weight on her injured leg.
Not a single familiar face caught her attention. Her heart sank, and she sent up a silent prayer that she’d find someone she knew once the dust settled.
The aircraft eased into a steady speed for its final stretch toward what looked like a hangar— impossibly small against the vastness of the mothership. Inside, about ten other shiny death burritos shuffled around each other in organized chaos. It was just one hangar among countless others—a single pinprick in an ocean of white metal and chrome.
Uncertainty hung thick in the air, but Sloane was anxious to disembark. She needed to take in her surroundings, to start forming a new game plan. The humans ahead of her formed a slow-moving line down the ramp onto solid ground—there was no pushing or shoving, just a lot of hesitancy.
The first thing she noticed was the ocean—endless waves crashing in the distance, no land in sight. The hum of the aircrafts surrounded her, and the salty air hit her skin, grimy and bruised from days of fighting for her dear life. She needed a shower. Hell, everyone did. Maybe even a full day submerged in water to wash off the past nine, almost ten days of grime.
The sun was beginning to set, and it looked like the aliens were calling it a day as well. The hangar she walked through was now packed—aircraft in their assigned spots, more humans being escorted to their next location. There were so many of them. Sloane couldn’t help but wonder how many she’d find inside.
Soon, the line of humans wound through hallways, passing aliens still clad head to toe in grey uniforms, helmets firmly in place. Did they keep them on for the humans’ sake? Sloane guessed they probably looked repulsive and didn’t want to scare anyone right off the bat. What other reason could there be to hide their identities?
People began to bump into her as if she could help that her leg was about to fall off. Irritation bubbled to the surface, but she reminded herself that she was safe—for now. With a deep exhale, she let go of the anger and fell to the back of the line, making her one of the last to enter what looked like an arena—a stadium, but quadruple the size. Circular in shape, the entire space, including the seating, was a dark grey material that absorbed the light around it.
The arena buzzed with chatter, everyone trying to talk louder than the next person. To Sloane, it all sounded like white noise. Everyone was guided to rows of seats and asked to remain seated so the injured could be tended to. About time.
She planted herself in a seat among strangers she had zero interest in befriending—lesson learned. At least she wasn’t on the floor, though the solid metal chair didn’t exactly scream comfort. Really, the whole place was metal. Perfect. Because who doesn’t want to get their ass numbed while bleeding out?
Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for anyone—or anything—approaching. That’s when she noticed them: beings in stark white, moving among the rows of seated humans. At first, it was the contrast to the darkness that drew her attention. Then their faces. Human, but not. Skin flawless, hair perfectly in place, features symmetrical—the very definition of beauty or was she in some kind of a psycho thriller. And their eyes. They came in every color, like humans, but glowed faintly as if light radiated from within. Sloane blinked. Well, that’s unsettling. And somehow gorgeous. Great. Can I get my leg checked now before I die of envy or terror?
Sloane took note of the sheer number of people in the arena—thousand easily. She slumped back in her seat and shut her eyes. Yeah, there was no way these angels in white were getting to her anytime soon. She’d be lucky if they made it to her in the next few business days.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
And then, as if someone could read her mind, a gentle hand landed on her shoulder. Sloane’s eyes flew open. A female in white stood in front of her. Stunning. Absolutely stunning. Every person in the surrounding rows was gawking—and who could blame them?
The being was slender, her skin pale and flawless. Straight, sandy-blond hair fell just above her waist, not a strand out of place despite what had to have been a brutal day of triage. Her cheeks were flushed, like she’d been running nonstop from one injured human to the next. But it was her eyes that stole Sloane’s attention. Desert rose, Sloane thought. A burnt brown threaded with soft pink, shimmering like living embers. It was the most beautiful color she had ever seen. The female looked like she was glowing from the inside out.
She smiled gently at Sloane. “May I take a look at your leg?”
Sloane stared at her like the female had sprouted three heads. She was still processing—what the hell am I looking at? Where am I? And why the hell do they all speak English? Are these humans? Or something the government’s been keeping under wraps? Maybe she should’ve listened to more of those conspiracy theorists. Bet most of them knew things she didn’t.
Her brain basically flatlined. She couldn’t get a single word out. She was trying—man, she was trying—but the words just wouldn’t come.
The female probably noticed her mental gears grinding because she slowly bent down, unhurried, to inspect the damage done to Sloane’s leg. Permission granted, whether Sloane liked it or not. But if she were being honest, they both knew she was practically begging for help.
With her pant leg rolled up, the medic started untying the laces of her boot. “This may hurt.”
Sloane gave a sheepish nod, bracing herself for whatever was coming. Finally, the shoe was removed—and the pain hit like a freight train. Every tendon screamed, her bones shifted painfully, and her skin stretched against the movement. Sloane clenched her jaw and held back a scream with every ounce of strength she had. Blood had soaked her socks, and she was pretty sure there was a puddle sloshing inside the boot.
Her worst mistake? Looking down. Her foot was entirely purple. Skin hung limply around her ankle and draped down her calf. How the hell had she managed to run—let alone fight—with an injury like this? Her vision blurred. Her lips went numb. Nausea clawed its way up her chest. Lord help her—she was either about to faint or puke. Maybe both.
The medic pulled down the bag slung over her shoulder and dropped it on the floor. In the midst of rummaging through it, she paused and looked up at Sloane. “Melora. Melora Thane.”
As if that was supposed to mean anything to her.
Melora must have noticed the confusion on Sloane’s face because she smiled gently. “What is your name?”
Sloane hesitated. Then, with a hint of defiance, asked, “Does it matter?”
“Of course it does,” Melora replied softly.
Sloane paused again. Maybe this was just small talk. “Sloane.” Short, clipped, and that was all she was willing to give. Trust wasn’t something she handed out easily—though she didn’t have a reason not to trust Melora. She could feel it: her energy mirrored Sloane’s own, empathetic and careful. Melora genuinely seemed to care—for her, for everyone aboard, for the tragedy they’d all endured. Everyone’s pain was her pain.
From what Sloane could gather, this whole invasion wasn’t planned—at least not on the aliens’ part. There was a sense of organized chaos about them. Prepared, yes, but never for this. They were helping, and it left Sloane more confused than ever. She didn’t know what to think.
“Beautiful name,” Melora said, tilting her head slightly, “means warrior, doesn’t it?”
Sloane looked at her quizzically. How the hell would she know that? News to her. So—wait. They knew English and the meanings of names? Great. Aliens with Google. Super comforting.
Melora continued rummaging through her bag and pulled out a cloth soaked in what was very clearly antiseptic. The moment it touched her skin, the burn was immediate and vicious. Sloane latched onto the edges of her seat, knuckles bleaching white as her face turned a shade of red. She swallowed hard, fighting the scream clawing its way up her throat.
Once most of the blood was cleared away, Sloane got a full look at the damage. Raw skin hung by a thread. White bone glimmered through shredded muscle.
Sloane stared. Blinked. “…Huh,” she muttered faintly. “So that’s probably not supposed to look like that.”
Yep. She was absolutely going to faint.
Melora moved quickly, pulling out what looked like coarse sand mixed with dried herbs—an oddly welcome distraction. She ground the mixture with a mortar and pestle, then placed her hand over the top and closed her eyes, as if whispering a blessing into it. Soft pink smoke seeped from beneath her palm and curled into the air.
Was this magic?
She blended the mixture into a smooth paste and began carefully spreading it over Sloane’s ruined leg. The edges of Sloane’s vision dimmed again—whether from the grotesque sight or the fire ripping through her nerve endings, she wasn’t sure. Probably both.
Melora noticed Sloanes discomfort and tried to soothe her in the best way she knew how. “I’m so sorry I wish I could give you something for the pain but we have to use that sparingly. We have some people who have lost limbs —people we’re trying to put back together.”
Lost limbs. Put back together. Sloane blinked at her. Once. Twice.
Oh. Cool. Casual alien reassembly. No big deal.
She fought to keep her expression neutral, something that loosely resembled gratitude instead of pure existential terror. At least Melora was taking her time with her. Very delicately reassembling her. Like some kind of intergalactic Humpty Dumpty project. She didn’t care as long as she could walk again.
Melora fashioned a makeshift splint and wrapped Sloane’s foot tight, securing it so it couldn’t bend or shift. “This should mend within a day or two. I’ll want to check it again once we make land. Can I get your full name so I can find you?”
“De la Croix.” It made sense to start some kind of medical record. If she was being honest, she’d be insanely grateful for a full checkup. Hopefully wherever they were headed had some version of rehab—because an injury like this was going to be a real nightmare to heal from. She wasn’t quite sure about the whole being mended in two days.
“Warrior of the cross,” Melora said softly. “Fitting.” She smiled.
Fitting how? Sloane shrugged it off. At this point, it didn’t seem that far-fetched that this being had a solid grasp on other languages too. Her last name was French, after all—and anyone with even a surface-level knowledge of languages could’ve guessed that one. Considering the circumstances, it barely cracked the top ten of her current concerns.
She had a thousand questions lining up in her head, all fighting for first place, but she didn’t have the energy to wrestle with a single one of them. Her brain felt like overheated soup. The chaos of the arena, the pain ebbing and surging through her body—it was all too much. She was completely overstimulated and running on fumes.
Melora slung her bag over her shoulder and turned to move on.
“Why?” The word slipped out of Sloane’s mouth before she could stop it. Of all the questions she could’ve asked, that was the one that made it through the fog.
Melora stood there facing Sloane, her expression shifting into sadness. Sloane didn’t know what she had been expecting as an answer—if she’d even expected one at all.
But, to her surprise, Melora knelt back down until they were eye level. She rested a gentle hand on Sloane’s knee.
“The bigger picture will be hard to explain,” she said softly. “But know that you are safe. And that this—none of this—was ever our intention. We will do everything we can to make it better.”
It didn’t sound rehearsed. Everything about her felt genuine. And somehow, that made the words hit even harder. Because what she’d just said sounded like someone was responsible for all of it. The invasion. The death. The chaos. But who?
