The Alien Warrior’s Chosen Bride

The skyline of Portland looks like a graveyard—crumbling skyscrapers loom like broken bones against the bruised sky. The streets are littered with abandoned cars, their metal frames rusted and twisted. Vines snake through shattered windows, crawling across what used to be bustling boulevards. Nature is taking it all back, reclaiming every inch of concrete and steel, burying humanity’s past beneath layers of green. Trees grow through cracks in the pavement, their roots winding around rusted streetlights, as if trying to drag them back into the earth. Wildflowers bloom in unexpected places, bright patches of color against the gray backdrop of decay. It’s almost beautiful, in a way—how nature moves forward, even when everything else seems frozen in time.

I move silently through the rubble, each step careful, each breath measured. My feet glide over fallen street signs, my body instinctively nimble from years of gymnastics. I keep my eyes up, scanning for movement, listening for the telltale hiss that means death is near. But it's quiet—too quiet. That kind of silence is dangerous. It gives you space to think, to remember. And remembering can be deadly.

Six years ago, these streets were alive. I can almost see it if I try—the families, the laughter, the cars honking in afternoon traffic. I used to walk here with Mom and Dad, holding their hands, feeling the warmth of their presence, listening to the rhythm of the city that seemed like it would never end. I remember the street vendors, the music drifting out of shop doors, the scent of coffee and fresh bread. Now, it's all silence and shadows, like a ghost of what used to be. The only sounds are the wind rustling through the trees and the distant creak of metal as buildings continue their slow collapse.

I glance at a rusted-out sedan, its windows shattered, vines creeping through the frame. I remember the day they came—the day everything changed. It was just two days after my twelfth birthday, a day I’ll never forget. The sky had darkened, massive alien ships descending, blocking out the sun. The hissers, that’s what we call them now, their hissing broadcasts echoing through every speaker, every phone, an alien language of clicks and sibilant sounds that still haunts my dreams. That day, it felt like the world stopped breathing. The sun disappeared, swallowed by their ships, and in that moment, it felt like hope disappeared too.

My parents had tried to protect me, to keep me safe. I can still feel their arms around me as we hid in the cellar beneath the nursery—our safe place, surrounded by the scent of soil and flowers. My mom whispered that everything would be okay, her voice calm even as the explosions shook the ground above us. My dad promised we’d get through it together. They lied—or maybe they believed it, but either way, it didn’t happen. When the dust settled, the nursery was gone. They were gone. No bodies to bury, no chance to say goodbye. Just empty space and silence where they used to be. I still dream about that moment sometimes—the stillness, the emptiness. I wake up gasping for breath, feeling the weight of all that loss pressing down on me.

A wave of grief pushes up from somewhere deep, threatening to break through, but I shove it back down. I can’t afford to feel it. Emotions are dangerous—they make you slow, make you hesitate, and in this world, hesitation gets you killed. I have to stay focused. Grief is a luxury I can't afford. I have to keep my mind sharp, my body ready. There's no room for the past here, only the present—the next step, the next breath, the next heartbeat.

"Stay focused, Alina," I mutter under my breath. Marcus and Claire are counting on me. Survival first, feelings later—if ever. I can't let them down. I can't let myself down. There’s too much at stake. I’ve lost too much already to let my guard slip now.

I adjust the strap of my makeshift backpack, the rough canvas digging into my shoulder. Supplies are low, and the botanical garden is my best bet for finding anything worth scavenging. I step over another piece of debris, my feet light and purposeful, and keep moving. I can't afford to make noise, to attract attention. The hissers are always out there, always hunting. One wrong step, one clatter of stone, and they'll find me.

The air is heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretch across the broken streets. I move through the skeletal remains of what used to be a thriving neighborhood. The houses are hollow now, windows shattered, doors hanging off their hinges. I can see remnants of lives left behind—children’s toys scattered in yards, a bicycle rusted and half-buried in weeds, faded curtains fluttering in broken windows. It’s eerie, like stepping into someone else’s memories. I wonder who lived here, what their lives were like before everything fell apart.

The botanical garden used to be a place of beauty, a refuge in the city—now it’s a wild, overgrown maze. The paths are choked with weeds, flowers blooming in a riot of color that seems almost obscene in a world so drained of life. Roses climb over the rusted remains of a metal archway, their petals bright red against the dull gray. The air is thick with the scent of blossoms and earth, almost overpowering. I push my way through the undergrowth, my senses on high alert. Every rustle of leaves, every crack of a twig puts me on edge. I know better than to let my guard down, even for a second.

I catch sight of the greenhouse up ahead, the glass shattered, ivy crawling up the sides. I remember coming here with my mom when I was little, her hand warm in mine as she pointed out different plants, telling me their names, their uses. I knew this place like the back of my hand back then. Now, it feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else, some other version of me that doesn't exist anymore.

I step carefully over a fallen branch, my eyes scanning the area. We need food, medicine—anything that might give us an edge, even if it’s just for another day. I think of Marcus’s easy smile, the way he always tries to make light of things, to keep us all from losing hope. And Claire, her watchful eyes, her determination to keep us all alive, no matter the cost. They’re my family now, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect them.

The sun dips lower, casting an orange glow over the garden. I feel the weight of the day settling in my bones, but I push it aside. There’s still work to do, still miles to go before we can rest. I take a deep breath, letting the scent of flowers fill my lungs, and move forward. The greenhouse is waiting, and with any luck, it will have what we need.

I pause at the entrance, listening. The world holds its breath around me, the silence almost deafening. I grip the handle of my knife a little tighter, my knuckles white. One last breath, one last moment to gather myself, and then I push forward, stepping into the wild heart of the garden, ready for whatever comes next.