JUAN
âClint!â Juan yelled. He dug his fingers into the Zibonâs shoulders, but it did nothing to wake him.
What was wrong with him? Juan quickly checked him over but saw no wounds. No blood. It eased the pressure in his chest brieflyâonly briefly.
But why couldnât Juan ~feel~ him like he was supposed to? Where was his mind? Where was his heart?
~Clint!~ He tried to reach out with his emotions in an attempt to wake him. He tried to reach out through the bond. But there was seemingly nothing to reach for.
All he felt was emptiness. A shocking darkness that made something inside his chest shrivel. It was a horrible feeling. A ~dead~ feeling.
But he wasnât deadâhe could tell. There was some kind of gross goo covering his chest, throat, and face. Juan tried to claw it loose, but it pulled away from his fingers, closing back over Clintâs face like it was a living thing.
Clintâs eyes were shut. He didnât notice. He even looked peaceful. Juan grabbed his shoulders again.
âWake up! Wake up! Wake up!â
He could hardly hear what was going on around him. He looked up desperately in the hopes of finding some help. There were Zibons everywhere.
Dozens of them, decked out in armor and gripping enormous guns which they balanced on their big shoulders. They were shouting, and yet their voices seemed muffled in Juanâs ears, as though he was listening from a distance, his heart pounding too loudly, the shock of Clintâs predicament turning him numb.
He suddenly realized he was in the middle of a battle. A ~real~ fight. In his need to get to Clint, he hadnât even noticed.
They were shooting. Juan watched. The guns didnât seem to shoot anythingâno bullets, no fire, no laser beams. They didnât even make a noise.
He felt them, though. He felt them like a vibration through his bones. They were shooting at the jelly-like things flinging themselves from wall to wall. He turned back to Clint.
The goo. That was the alien enemy? He tried to claw at it again, but again it shifted away from his fingers. It was like trying to grab water.
He turned at a scream. A Zibon was staggering backward, clawing at himself as a jelly thing latched onto his face. He dropped his gun with a clatter, then fell to the floor, rolling over and over as he triedâin vain, it seemedâto pry the thing loose.
Was that what had happened to Clint? Juan turned back to look at him, and something deep inside his pelvis tightened. The thought made him sick. It made him angry. Furious.
What the hell was he doing just sitting here? Clint had fought to protect himâand Juan would do the same. With a yell, he leapt to his feet and rushed over to the fallen weapon.
He staggered, surprised by its weight as he heaved it into his arms. It was similar to a gun. He could see how the Zibons were using it. It looked simple enough: point and shoot.
Keeping it well away from any Zibon he might accidentally hurt, he pointed it toward the ceiling where several of the things had congregated. Biting his lip, he squeezed the trigger.
There was a heavy thud, a crushing pain in his shoulder, and he suddenly found himself on his back. In a daze, he stared up at the ceiling. The Wrilings heâd shot at were gone.
He tried to sit up, only to flop back down again with a yell. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating. There was another savage pain in the back of his head.
He reached back and felt itâit was wet and his fingers came away red. He realized that the sheer force of his shot had punched him back into the floor. These Zibons were ~fucking~ strong.
He went to pick up his fallen weapon and again cried out, clutching at his arm. It was useless. ~He~ was useless. The floor vibrated at the force of the Zibon weaponry.
His teeth were chattering. His bones felt sore. A Zibon leapt over him as he lay sprawled on the ground. Their eyes met and Juan recognized the brown-haired Zibon paired with Chloe.
His yellow gaze widened. He spun around and shot at a leaping Wriling. It blasted backward in a shower of glass.
âWhat are you doing here?!â came the Zibonâs shocked voice above the din.
Juan didnât bother answering. The Zibon stood in front of him, shooting, defending him. It was then that Juan realized what a stupid thing heâd done.
He was no match for this. He was just getting in the way. The Zibons knew what they were doing. He should have stayed in the shuttle!
But what about Clint? Gritting his teeth, clutching his shoulder, he clawed to his feet and staggered back over to his stricken figure.
He dropped to his knees beside him. He would stay here. Live or die, he would stay here until the end. He sat and pulled Clintâs head into his lap, trying his best to mop away the goo with his hands, with his shirtâbut nothing worked.
Briefly, Juan thought about hauling him toward the hospital or at least out of harmâs way, but Clint was just too big. And with Juanâs shoulderâ¦
Juan tried to reassure himself with the fact that other than being unconscious, Clint looked well. It wasnât the end. There was likely something the Zibons could do to fix him.
He was breathing. Juan slid his hand into his and gripped it tightly. Clint didnât grip him back. He didnât know how long he sat there with the battle raging around him, leaning over Clintâs body to protect him from any further attack, hoping for signs of life.
It was before he noticed the noise and activity dying down. Enough so that he could hear conversation. The floor no longer vibrated.
He lifted his face at the sound of a cheer. It was only small, but then several other Zibons joined in. Then dozens of them. It turned to a roar.
They were punching their fists into the air, raising their weapons. Juan looked around him, shocked and numb. There were the shattered glassy remains of the Wrilings everywhere.
And then there were the Zibon bodiesâat least a dozen from what he could see, maybe more. It was hard to count. It was hard to think.
All Juan knew was that they were all looking very much like Clint, their bodies shining with the same thin film of goo, eyes closed, deceptively peaceful.
As quickly as it had arisen, the cheering died down. An ominous quiet filled the room as they turned their attention to the fallen.
And then things were happening quickly. Zibons gathered around him, tall and striking, their yellow eyes piercing him like daggers from all directions.
âYou can fix him, right?â Juan said, utterly without fear. What was there to be scared about when Clint was sick? Nothing the Zibons could do to him could be worse than that.
Chloeâs Zibon grabbed his arm.
Juan ripped away, clutching Clint more tightly. âNo, Iâm staying with him.â
The Zibon said something, but Juan could hardly hear. His ears filled with ringing. Then he was being grabbed again. He was being pulled to his feet. Clintâs head slipped from his lap, thudding to the floor.
âNo!â Juan screamed. âWeâre bonded! I canât leave him!â
He wrestled and thrashed, kicked and bit, even as his shoulder roared with pain, but it only took one of them to haul him away. Juan glanced back one last time at Clint. Then he turned at the sound of a scream.
His eyes widened. âMyeong?â
They were pulling her away tooâZibons in white coatsâfrom a second figure sprawled on the ground. Juan swallowed, feeling her pain as he struggled not to burst into tears. But they came anyway, dripping down his face.
The strength seemed to drain right out of him, and he found himself sagging instead of fighting in the Zibonâs arms. Juan stumbled over his feet as he was dragged out of the room, Myeongâs screams ringing in his ears. He glanced behind him to see the Zibons still gathered around Clint. One in a white coat was crouched beside him.
~Help him!~ he wanted to cry, but his voice caught, and he choked. He couldnât be dead. He couldnât be. ~I would know. I would know!~
~But why canât I feel him?~
Even after only a couple of days of bonding, Juan could feel his absence like a deep, aching throb in his chestâone which was only getting worse the further the Zibon was pulling him away. How had he ever been alone? How had he ever been just Juan?
Where the Zibon was taking him, he didnât know and couldnât care. All he knew was that he was taking him away from Clint, and anywhere away from Clint was a terrible place.
âLet ~go~!â
Somehow, he managed to slip out of the Zibonâs grasp. He was running then, back down the way from which heâd come. He only skidded to a halt when he came upon the first of the capsules.
âCapsules.â They seemed diseased, as if âClintâ was diseased. He could feel the Zibonsâ eyes all over him as they carried the stricken between them. Their bodies were on stretchers and locked in metal domes.
Juan tried to peer into the window of the nearest one, but someone had turned on the shipâs lights againâwhen had that happened?âand he couldnât see anything but his own reflection. He didnât need to see, though. He knew which one was Clintâs. He knew it like a muscle twisting in his pelvis.
The very sight of it made him burn behind the eyes. It made his heart gallop. A Zibon grabbed him as he approached, but Juan wrenched his arm away with a snarl. Resting his hand upon it, he walked alongside it as they made their way toward the shipâs hospital.