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“Please uh...put your arms out.”
Private Dylan Gottfield tried to keep his voice steady as he approached the alien with the standard issue binders.
Around them, soldiers power-walked in different directions as General Swanwick’s orders were ferried across the camp.
Even with an entire squad holding the alien at gunpoint, the idea of cuffing the alien -- an actual alien -- was enough to make Dylan’s legs tremble.
Why him? Why was some random private from Iowa accepting the alien’s surrender, instead of a general? General Swanwick had been right there.
Behind him, he heard several soldiers shifting on their feet, desert-issue boots creaking from disuse. The tell-tale sound of gloves scraping across metal -- trigger fingers sliding against the guards on their rifles -- made his heart beat even faster.
The alien held his arms out immediately, looking politely over Dylan’s shoulder.
“Like this?” he asked, quiet and polite. His accent was perfect -- stereotypically midwestern, without a hint of anything other that Dylan could hear.
“Um. Yes, sir.” Dylan reached forward, wondering if it was worth trying to get him to turn around so he could properly cuff him in the rear position, like they’d learned. “Just -- oh shit.”
The world narrowed around him as the binders slipped from his trembling fingers, toppling toward the dusty ground.
A pale hand -- suddenly there, even though Dylan hadn’t seen the alien even think about moving -- caught them by the chain, saving them from the dust.
“Here you go,” the alien said, meeting Dylan’s eyes with a soft, knowing smile. “Don’t want to lose those.”
Oh God. Oh God.
Forcing down his amazement, Dylan nodded, accepting the binders back. He clipped them securely around the alien’s wrists, securing his palms against each other.
The alien’s skin was warm, just like a human’s. Dylan was sure, if he checked, there’d be a pulse thudding under his wrist, same as anyone else.
“You’re, um, now detained in the custody of the United States as an--an enemy combatant,” Dylan stammered out, as kind blue eyes caught his, “Sir.”
The alien smiled again -- a brief flash of his teeth, like Dylan had said something funny.
“You don’t need to call me sir,” he said, as Dylan waved on the accompaniment, “I’m pretty sure that’s not regulation.”
It wasn’t. Oh, Dylan was so fucked. Especially since Gregor was in the accompaniment, and had definitely overheard his blunder.
“Sir.” He blurted out, backing away as the two front guards took their places at the alien’s left and right elbows.
The alien only raised a single eyebrow as his arms were forced down by the wrists and held firmly against his hips.
From the relative safety of a few feet away, Dylan watched as the alien was marched toward the main wing, cape trailing in the dust behind him.
The accompanying squad followed behind him, guns drawn and poised to shoot at a moment’s notice. Every single one looked three seconds away from shitting their uniforms.
If anyone was leading the escort, it was the alien. He was a half foot taller than every single solider, shoulders broad and relaxed, even though the way Ramirez and Colton were holding his arms should’ve hurt.
Dylan shook his head as they disappeared into the main wing, trying to push the alien’s smile -- perfect teeth, kind lines, eerie blue eyes -- out of his mind entirely.
Aliens. Who’d have thunk.