Beware the Undertow

5570 words

written in 2017, revised in 2024

An exploration of autonomy, intimacy, and aliens that eat people for fun.

The first thing Bishop sees when he reactivates is smog.

“You won’t be awake for long. Sorry.” The voice is close. Though clear enough to understand, the speaker has a decidedly non-human accent.

Bishop attempts to sit up. The voice says, “I wouldn’t do that.”

 He feels a slight pressure on his chest. A confirmation that his synthetic nervous system is working, at least. A quartet of dark eyes appear in his field of vision.

“I would like to talk to you. No diverting power to movement.” The eyes are set in a reptilian face, loosely humanoid, ridges running across their face in symmetrical patterns.

“We’re near Rolt Colony.” Bishop says, because he feels no difference in his position from shutting down to forced reactivation.

“I can’t confirm, but I haven’t moved you, so likely.” The alien says, and then they disappear from Bishop’s sight again. He hears a soft whirring.

“I’m Bishop. Who are you?” He offers the information as a polite gesture as well as a means of gaining some insight into the situation. Non-humans in this sector of the galaxy aren’t unheard of, but there are no documented civilizations in the area. Ideal for human colonization, or so the company thought.

The alien continues working for a few minutes before answering. “Call me Scavenger. Or just ‘you’. We need not know each other past that.”

“Thank you. Are there any other people in the area?”

The alien ignores his question and rests a claw-like hand against Bishop’s neck. “This is your- what would you say- center?”

“Central processor, yes.” Bishop attempts to lift his head once again, and feels the pressure on his chest once again. “Are there any humans alive in this area?”

“Not that I’ve found.” Scavenger’s face comes back into full view. “You are modeled after a human, yes? Served them?”

“As I was created to.” Bishop says.

“And yet you feel concern for them.” The alien taps something out onto a terminal, producing a series of soft beeps.

“Are you capable of contacting entities off of this planet?” Bishop asks, still maintaining a constant pressure against the hand holding him down.

“Not until my curiosity is sated. You’re the first of your kind I’ve interacted with. I get a lot of dead things, dead people. Living ones are a luxury.” Scavenger removes his hand from Bishop’s chest. “You can attempt to stand, just know you’ll fail.”

Bishop makes it to an upright sitting position before his emergency repair programming takes back over and shuts him down.

When he’s reactivated, he’s still on the ground, but under some kind of shelter. He feels slightly more capable, able to clench his hand into a fist. Promising signs.

“I told you.” Scavenger says as they approach. Judging by their footsteps, Bishop would say they’re heavier than an average human, despite being a similar size.

“I could only try, given the opportunity.” Bishop attempts to sit up. Scavenger helps him this time, leaning him up against some type of storage unit.

“How are you functioning?” Scavenger asks.

“Better. Still at a low capacity. I will not attempt to stand again.”

“I’ll find you help, soon.” Bishop can’t tell if Scavenger is being sincere or not, but they’re all he has at the moment.

“Thank you.” He says, because it’s the polite thing to say.

“I could say the same to you.” Scavenger stands back up and discards their mottled brown jacket, revealing a bulky frame underneath. They seem to have some form of tough hide, more resilient than human skin but still flexible.

“I can’t say I understand what you mean.” Bishop looks over, watching as Scavenger adjusts something on what looks to be an old fold-out worktable.

“Company. Information. Probably more.” Scavenger walks back over to Bishop, kneels, and asks, “Do you mind if I take a few tissue samples?”

“What is the purpose?” Bishop asks.

“I’m doing it anyway. Just thought it would be nice for you to be in agreement.” Scavenger lowers a tray with outdated but not ancient medical equipment.

“Okay.” Bishop says. The exchange feels strangely familiar; to be asked questions out of politeness with no real regard for his response.

Scavenger stabs a probe into Bishop’s arm. It’s with measured strength, like they’ve done this before. “Good,” the alien says as they take a few more samples; torso, thigh, chest. They’re done quickly.

They take the tray back over to the worktable and Bishop watches white seep from the tiny holes now in his flesh. He does not feel pain past a dull hum, but he is distantly curious.

Scavenger does a few tests with the samples; Bishop can’t glean much from where he’s sitting, but he watches as the alien swirls a glass of cyan liquid and holds it up to the light.

“Good,” Scavenger repeats under their breath as they watch the vial for an indicator, presumably a change in color or viscosity, and does not find it.

“Why did you come to this planet?” Bishop asks.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Why did you come to this planet?” Bishop repeats.

Scavenger turns to him, makes eye contact for a few seconds, then relents. “I’m a scavenger. Usually after a conflict has burnt itself out. I thought that was obvious.”

“Am I the first living being you’ve made contact with while scavenging?”

“No.” Scavenger finishes putting things on the table away.

“What happened to the others?”

“I usually help. They usually survive.” Scavenger’s tongue flicks out and Bishop gets the feeling of being hunted. “Maybe less fleshy afterwards.”

“I am synthetic.” Bishop says.

With a flash of their teeth, Scavenger says, “Irrelevant.”

This is the first time Bishop has seen their mouth clearly. It’s composed of razor-like incisors in rows, with a hint of molars at the back.

“You want what, exactly?” Bishop asks. The part of him that isn’t processing the ongoing conversation is listing possibilities and ranking them from likely to not.

“Just a taste.” Scavenger puts a hand on Bishop’s forehead, tilting his head up. “I will avoid vitals.”

“You will attempt to contact nearby human or human-allied ships?”

Scavenger sits next to Bishop with a cushion under their arm. “Yes.” They stretch their arms to the sky. “For now, though, I sleep. And you wait.”

Scavenger curls up on the dirt floor next to Bishop and falls asleep soon after. Bishop does as he was told; waits.

It is approximately six hours after Scavenger falls asleep that they roll out of their curled position and wake up.

“So you waited.” Scavenger says, after standing up and brushing the dirt off half-heartedly. “Not that you had much of a choice.”

“Yes.” Bishop answers. He’s not sure to which statement.

“I hope you understand.” Scavenger opens a metal can and sips at the contents. Bishop would take this as an endearingly human thing to do in the morning, if the label didn’t read ‘engine coolant’. “I know a human probably wouldn’t, but you’re not as soft.”

“I do not feel pain as organics do, that is true enough.” Bishop says, and Scavenger smiles- or rather, bares their teeth. There’s not much of a difference.

They set the empty can down and drop to their knees. “Very congenial prey.” The accent makes it difficult to register if this is sarcasm or genuine.

Bishop feels the tattered remains of his shirt being unbuttoned. “Lean forward, please.” Scavenger says and slips Bishop’s arms through the sleeves.

There has always been a detachment between what Bishop thought of as his consciousness and his body that he assumed humans didn’t have. This is proving to be beneficial as Scavenger slips a finger into a shallow cut just under his ribcage and tests how far it will go.

Scavenger brings the finger to their face and sniffs it. Drops to all fours and nudges Bishop’s side with their face, not unlike a cat.

“Mm. I almost forgot what this was like.” They drag their tongue across one of the deeper cuts. Bishop is glad he doesn’t need to breathe.

Needle-points rip into his skin; epidermis, dermis, hypodermis. Digs into his external oblique, finds purchase.

Scavenger does not tear away immediately like most known carnivore species, Bishop notes. They alternate tension on each side of their mouth, easing the flesh (or artificial flesh, in this case) from its holding place, creating a neat hollow.

Scavenger makes a low growling noise and rests a gigantic hand on Bishop’s side. Bishop does not tense and lets the spike in sensory input wash over him. It joins the symphony of other aches.

When Scavenger pulls away, chewing, they use a cauterizer Bishop didn’t notice until now to close the wound. They close their eyes, savoring the texture.

“Will you want more?” Bishop says, voice low.

“In time.” Scavenger swallows, then leans back down to Bishop’s side. They lap at the burnt flesh there, lips dripping white. The new sensation is perhaps more overwhelming than the actual separation of flesh.

When Scavenger sits up again, they ask, “Can you taste?”

“I can distinguish between a variety of toxins, mainly to test alien flora for humans.” Scavenger runs a clawed finger over their lips, then pushes it into Bishop’s mouth. He’s too surprised and too weak to resist.  

Scavenger smears the synthetic blood over Bishop’s tongue then takes their finger back. “How do you taste?”

Bishop lets his head lean back. Considers the question. “Not poisonous.”

Scavenger laughs, a throaty rasp. “I could’ve just skipped the testing and asked you.”

“You do this with other individuals you find?” Bishop asks.

Scavenger picks at their teeth. “Only the ones that can take it, or that deserve it.”

“Why did you choose me?”

“First of your kind. That, and you didn’t have fear in your eyes when I asked for tissue samples, just curiosity.”

Scavenger continues to groom themself for a while, then stands up. “I’m going out.” After rummaging around in a bag, Scavenger drops a book, heavy and paper and ancient, on Bishop’s lap.

“If you want something to occupy your time, have this.” Scavenger says; the last ‘s’ is drawn out. “Human, I believe. I could never finish it, but that’s probably because of the overwhelming unfamiliarity.”

“Thank you.” This is the third time Bishop has found himself thanking the being who wants to eat him.

Scavenger pulls their heavy jacket back on and steps outside of the cloth divide into the desolate landscape.

It’s difficult to maneuver the book into a proper position, at first, but Bishop manages it. The novel is chaotic and violent, the story of a failed attempt at revolution on late 19th century Earth. Bishop finishes it in 3 hours, and waits one more for Scavenger to return.

“Was it interesting?” Scavenger says as they drag a modified luge, a small sled with built-up webbing, into the shelter.

“Enough to pass the time.” There’s a pile of various machinery on the luge, some Bishop recognizes as self-contained pieces, some just spare parts. Scavenger retrieves a stack of paper-adjacent material from their desk, then sits near Bishop and begins sorting through the stack of salvaged parts.

They quietly, the only noise in the shelter generated by the clunk of metal. As he watches, Bishop realizes that they are inspecting and labeling each part, then sorting them by some unknown allocation.

He waits until Scavenger seems to be finished, and then asks, “Do you sell what you find?”

Scavenger grunts. “Depends. I usually keep what I need. What I can sell, I do.” They begin placing each pile into storage units.

“I usually function as a diplomatic officer.” Bishop proffers.

“You seem like the type.” Scavenger closes the last unit securely. “Would observing someone like me be your job?”

“Possibly. It would depend on the circumstances.”

“And under these circumstances?” Scavenger crosses their legs, leans forward.

“I would file a report deeming your race a high-level threat.”

Scavenger swishes their tail, amused and annoyed in equal parts. “Really?”

“You are a threat to life.” Bishop continues. “Group 5B, Abomination class, to be specific. Low likelihood of cultural development. No redeeming characteristics.”

Scavenger snarls. “Careful, machine.”

“Hm. Do you expect those you cannibalize to empathize with you?” Bishop replies evenly. “I am not capable of that.”

Scavenger stands up, turning away. They go to their work table and retrieve something, then come and sit back down next to Bishop. Extends their hand; places a short knife in Bishop’s. Picks his arm up, places it on the side of their neck.

“Try to cut.” Scavenger’s eyes are cold obsidian.

“I cannot.”

“Try.” Scavenger presses into the knife’s weight. Bishop shakes his head.

“Then what is the point of either of us living?” Scavenger whispers. They take the knife out of Bishop’s hand, set it back on the table, then curl up across the room into a tight ball.

Bishop watches the subtle rise and fall of their side. He wonders what dreaming is like, and whether Scavenger does it or not.

It has lengthened to eight hours this time before they wake up.

Bishop tested his strength while they slept, careful not to let Scavenger see. He can lift an arm easily now, could quite possibly stand. He does not feel compelled to try.

The morning silence holds until Bishop breaks it. “Do you harbor resentment towards me?” The ‘now’ lingers in the back of his throat but he doesn’t say it.

Scavenger sets their handheld terminal down and looks at him. “No.”

“Why do you eat other sapient beings?”

Scavenger sighs. “I’m hungry. I’m wired to want to hunt living things.”

Bishop tilts his head to the side. “I am not alive.”

“You are frustrating, that's what you are.” The hulking mass of an alien walks out of the shelter without further explanation.

Bishop sits.

It’s a few hours before Scavenger comes back into the shelter, and they immediately shed their heavy coat.

Bishop stays silent for a while. Then asks, “Have you had an ongoing social connection with anyone before?”

Scavenger sits in the same place they have been for the last couple of days. “Stability gives me stomach pains.”

“I wonder if you require different mental stimuli than humans.” Bishop says.

“I would not know.” Scavenger looks at Bishop’s bare chest. “Did you want a shirt?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

They get up and rummage through a crate out of Bishop’s sight. Scavenger returns with an olive-colored pullover. It’s obviously made for a much larger frame than the android’s.

“I figured the color would suit you. Very bland.” Scavenger sets it on the storage unit Bishop’s leaning against. “Before you put it on, though-” They sit close, then pull Bishop onto their lap as if he was a doll weighing nothing.

Warmth bleeds through Scavenger’s thin shirt and into Bishop’s prone back. Scavenger breathes and it ghosts Bishop’s shoulder. The closeness makes everything seem slightly off, and Bishop does something he’s rarely done; shivers.

Scavenger doesn’t seem to take notice and draws their tongue down Bishop’s neck to his shoulder- tracing the levator scapulae and settling on his trapezius. They rest their mouth there, soft as a kiss, before biting down.

Not entirely sure why he does it, Bishop reaches his free arm up and rests it on the back of Scavenger’s head. Perhaps it is the hope of connection he’s been ignoring for a while. For years.

Scavenger hums. Their bite wasn’t as deep this time, Bishop notes. The length to which they let the wound bleed makes up for it, though. As they lap at the bite, Scavenger traces light circles with their fingers into Bishop’s hip bones.

It’s possibly the gentlest thing anyone has done to him. The bar isn’t set very high.

“How old are you?” Bishop says to the air.

Scavenger mumbles into exposed flesh, “Strange question to ask now.”

“Just making conversation. What I’m programmed to do.” Scavenger draws a claw lazily over Bishop’s stomach. So miniscule that it’s barely noticeable, Bishop arches into the touch.

“Is it odd to you?” Scavenger asks. “The feelings. Sensations.”

Bishop contemplates this for a few seconds. “It’s new. Not the pain, but the closeness.”

“You were constructed to feel pain?” Scavenger sounds legitimately surprised.

“Just enough to know if I’m injured. It’s nothing compared to a human’s experience.”

“Do you bond with them? The humans?”

Bishop is taken off-guard by the question. “Of course. I feel a connection with all of my fellow workers.”

Idly, Scavenger starts to glue the shoulder wound closed. “Have you gotten closer with any of them, though?”

“I have escorted individual humans on diplomatic missions.”

Scavenger snorts. “Not that. I mean talking casually, dancing, fucking; that kind of close.”  

Heat rises behind Bishop’s ears. He wonders if his coolant circulatory system is malfunctioning. “Ah. Not often, then. There’s no need.”

“Need and want are similar but separate driving forces.” Scavenger places a hand over Bishop’s burnt side, not undoing for once, but tending to the wound.

“No want then, either.” Bishop says curtly.

Scavenger prods him further, uncharacteristically interested. “You said ‘not often’, though, not ‘never.’ “

“I’m not in the practice of refusing humans when they ask for my company.”

At that, Scavenger blinks. “What exactly does that mean?”

“Some humans feel as if they can… confide in me. Because of my perceived impartiality.”

“So you act as their confidant?”

“As I said, not often. For a few. A presence to keep the nightmares at bay, I’d imagine.”

“Do you enjoy the company of others, or would you prefer to be alone?”

“I have a mind as any other. People tend to provide the best mental stimulation.”

Scavenger finally finishes tending to both wounds, just holding Bishop on their lap instead. “And physically?”

“I- wasn’t built for that.” Bishop puts a thin but strong hand over Scavenger’s on his side, but can’t bring himself to push it away. Scavenger flips their hand over so they’re holding Bishop’s. He lets them.

“Your condition is improving.” Scavenger says and then slides out from under Bishop. They drape the pullover across Bishop’s shoulder. “Be careful moving your arm.”

Scavenger curls up in the dust to sleep and Bishop is left dazed and alone. “Don’t forget the sweater.” Scavenger mutters over their shoulder, already half-asleep. Bishop tugs it over his head, careful not to pull at his wounds too much, and waits with eyes closed.

Six hours pass and Scavenger, like clockwork, stands up and stretches.

“Are you able to stand now?” Scavenger says as they look over to Bishop.

“My legs are able to move now, but I don’t think my knees can handle the stress of weight.” Bishop responds, and he isn’t lying.

“Hm.” Scavenger frowns, or at least Bishop thinks they do. “I was planning on moving to a less conspicuous location, but I can wait one more day. It’s not worth the trouble.”

“How long are you keeping me with you?”

Scavenger flicks their tongue out. “Just tonight. I’ve almost gotten enough of a taste.” Bishop doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to be insulted or flattered.

“You like the taste?”

“Of course. Though I could do with more wriggling.”

Scavenger eats something other than Bishop this morning, a mass brown and flaking and looking suspiciously like cloth. They finish chewing, then say, “Can you get wet?” Bishop blinks. When they don’t get an answer, Scavenger reiterates, “Water, does it hurt you?”

Bishop shakes his head. “My model is water-resistant. Why do you ask?”

Scavenger grins, all teeth. “I’m taking a day off.”

Bishop doesn’t protest when Scavenger lifts him easily, bridal style, and exits the shelter. He says nothing as they step into the desolate hillscape and start walking towards the close peaks of the ruined settlement. Waits until they set foot inside the gates to ask, “What are we doing here?”

Scavenger snorts. “I’m going to hunt at the pond. I want relatively fresh meat after I leave you.” Bishop gets set down on overgrown grass. “You are going to bathe.”

“Ah.” Bishop says. The pond in front of him is man-made, the smooth basin too perfect for nature to create, not to mention the lack of native species. Flowers spot the bank, multicolored petals drifting lazily in the wind. Turtles sunbathe on a rock further out.

The unusually calm scene is interrupted by a ‘splish’ as Scavenger lowers themself into the water. “You’re fine just sitting here?”

Bishop stretches out his legs, stiff with disuse, to dip his toes into the water. “Quite.”

He watches as Scavenger slips underneath the surface without another word. The dark mass of their body underneath the water moves swiftly into the deep of the pond.

Ripples lap at Bishop’s ankles. He can’t see Scavenger for a few moments, not even bubbles signifying spent breath, but then their head emerges. They clench a relatively large koi fish between their teeth. Blood runs down their chin in rivulets as they paddle swiftly over to Bishop.

Bishop stares as Scavenger sets the fish down next to him, still flopping weakly. “You don’t use any tools to make it easier?”

“I enjoy the chase.” Scavenger says, and wipes the fish blood from their face. With that they dip back under the surface.

The same general pattern emerges; Scavenger comes back with two fish. After the third, they seem to be enjoying themself more than actually hunting; they emerge behind the rock with the sunbathing turtles and float, only eyes above water, until they get close enough to startle one of the turtles and they all scatter.

Scavenger catches one near Bishop, holding it gently in the palm of their hand and watching it wave its little clawed legs uselessly before realizing its situation and retreating into its shell. They chuckle softly and place it back into the water. “So stubborn to live.”

Parish gestures to the now-dead pile of koi next to him. “I’m sure they were, too.”

Scavenger hoists themself back onto the bank. Bishop didn’t see before, distracted by the scenery, but they stripped down to a pair of thin shorts before sinking into the pond.

Scars cover Scavenger, especially over the thick muscle of their chest and back. Bishop, all too familiar with human niceties, politely averts his eyes from the dripping alien next to him.

“Do you want me to help you into the water?” Scavenger asks and Bishop’s eyes skim over the pond.

“Well, I might be water resistant under normal circumstances, but I’m not sure with these wounds.” Bishop touches his side, remembering.

“Would you like to try?” Scavenger stretches up on their toes, digging them into the soft dirt.

Bishop considers it. “I’ll tell you if I notice any adverse reactions.”

Scavenger hums, sounding pleased. “Alright. Do you need help with the clothes?”

“I’ll be alright, thank you.” Bishop manages to get the sweater off well enough. He shimmies his hole-ridden pants down his legs and realizes how odd this is. An injured android being ushered into a pond by an alien feeding off of him for- what all-encompassing goal? What directive?

After they see that Bishop has stripped to a pair of ergonomic shorts, Scavenger lifts him up in their arms and wades carefully into the pond. The water engulfs Scavenger’s legs and soon, most of Bishop.

“Okay so far?” Scavenger’s voice rumbles.

“Yes.” The water is cool. Perhaps colder than a human would enjoy, but to Bishop it feels pleasant.

“Can I set you down?” Scavenger says, and Bishop nods.

“I’ll see if I can stand.” Scavenger lets Bishop’s legs go free. water helps offset the strain of Bishop’s body weight and, slowly, he stands for the first time in several days.

Scavenger nestles their head into Bishop’s shoulder and their breath puffs into Bishop’s face.

“Your breath smells like blood.” Bishop notes.

“I would expect.” Scavenger’s hand is still resting on the peak of Bishop’s sternum. Good grief, they’re handsy.

“I think I’m alright to stand on my own.” Bishop says because he needs to move so he can wash himself, but there’s a strange emptiness when Scavenger moves away.

Bishop cups his hands and splashes water over his face, lowers himself so he can rub gently to wash the rest of him the best he can. Scavenger watches him with an intensity he isn’t accustomed to.

“So that’s what you look like without the dirt.” Scavenger says, circling around Bishop.

“More or less.” Bishop says, water dripping from his hair into his eyes.

Scavenger stops in front of Bishop and pushes his hair back.

“Your hair is nice like this. Soft.” Scavenger keeps their fingers at the nape of Bishop’s neck. Avoids eye contact.

“Thank you.” Bishop doesn’t completely understand it, but Scavenger looks… vulnerable. He clasps a hand to the one at his neck and guides it to his jawline.

“You know, if I were real, this would look quite compromising.”

Scavenger brushes their thumb across Bishop’s cheek. “Isn’t this real?”

Bishop realizes he’s been breathing, as if he needs to.

“Can I pick you up again?” Scavenger is even closer now, compound eyes glimmering as light reflects off the water.

“I think you know.” Bishop has gotten used to being manhandled, but when Scavenger sets him down on the bank and stands in the water between his thighs, it’s strange.

Scavenger lowers their mouth to Bishop’s inner thigh, then hesitates. “Is this okay?”

They both know that something has changed, for Scavenger to ask that question.

“Yes.” Bishop says with an unsteady voice, and Scavenger bites.

They don’t go much deeper than the skin; enough to draw blood, but only from the small puncture wounds. Scavenger pulls back, running a claw over the bite mark.

“Do you hate the feeling?” they say, and Bishop laughs.

“I’m starting to worry that I don’t. It doesn’t bode well for my self-preservation.” Scavenger runs their tongue up Bishop’s thigh, pushing up the fabric of his shorts.

Bishop pushes Scavenger’s head back with both hands and the alien looks up at him questioningly.

“I said before. I wasn’t meant for this kind of thing.” Bishop says and Scavenger traces the unmarred flesh around Bishop’s side wound.

“Such a limited imagination,” Scavenger hisses. Bishop releases his hold on Scavenger’s head, buries his hands in the grass and tries not to be overwhelmed.

Scavenger tastes the planes of Bishop’s simulated flesh, tracing their tongue over his inner thigh. Alarms are triggered and silenced. His body doesn’t know what to do with the scourge of Scavenger’s mouth.

Light bites along the junction of Bishop’s thigh and pelvis make him startle, then whimper. Even though he wasn’t programmed to need more than a pat on the shoulder or a handshake for social interaction, Bishop isn’t ignorant of intimacy. Just knowing what kind of sensations Scavenger means to elicit almost does it.

Scavenger presses a hand to the top of Bishop’s thigh, stopping it from shaking. His whole body is shaking, really, but Bishop barely registers it. There’s the soft plink of droplets as Scavenger pulls themself farther out of the water and into the curve of Bishop’s hip.

The teeth on Bishop’s hipbone graze down, leaving tiny, parallel streaks. Bishop inhales sharply, not entirely sure why he keeps doing it.

“Sensitive?” Scavenger looks up at Bishop.

“My sensory receptors tend to be more responsive due to repetitive non-lethal threats to the- ah! area. Please don’t bite me while I’m talking.” Bishop glares down at Scavenger.

“Sorry. Bad habit.” Scavenger grins with blood-stained teeth. They stroke a thumb down the bite mark, then brush their lips against it.

The misplaced tenderness makes Bishop’s head spin. Then again, it could be the blood loss.

“When are we going back?” Bishop says, with his eyes back on the pond.

“Right now, if you’d like.” Scavenger backs out from between Bishop’s thighs and pushes themself out of the water.

“I’d prefer that. I think I need to rest my body for tomorrow, if we are-” Bishop stops, then corrects himself, “if you are to move.”

Scavenger says, “I understand,” and drapes their discarded clothing across their shoulder. They stand above Bishop, soaking wet and giant and offering to take him back to a shelter without another word. Bishop wonders if a human has ever treated an android with such care.

On the way out of the ruined settlement, Bishop leans his head against Scavenger’s chest; it’s solid, slightly damp. Bishop closes his eyes and listens to the slow beat of Scavenger’s heart.

Back in the shelter, Scavenger lies Bishop back down in the dirt, eyes still closed, then curls up with their back resting against Bishop’s side. Bishop truly rests for the first time since he’s been here.

Bishop is stirred out of temporary stasis by the soft clink of glass. The shelter has been neatly organized into a few storage units, Scavenger currently with their hands in a bag.

When they realize Bishop has woken up, Scavenger says, “the beacon is set.” Their hands are still busy packing. “Would you like to scar me?”

“What?” Bishop raises an eyebrow.

Scavenger rummages through the bag and holds out the same knife they did a few nights ago. “Give me something to remember you by. It’s traditional. For me, anyway.”

Bishop stares at the knife. “I’ve never done something like that.”

“Hurt someone?”

Bishop shakes his head.

Scavenger gestures with the knife like a natural extension of their hand. “You’ve never hurt anyone?”

“Behavioral inhibitors tend to nullify that quickly.” Bishop finally takes the proffered knife. “I have done… emergency medical work.”

Scavenger snorts. “I’ll make it easy then, emergency doctor.” They pull their stained undershirt off and sit facing Bishop.

Bishop looks at Scavenger, then at the knife in his hand. “You really want me to do this?”

“I wouldn’t have given you the knife if that wasn’t the case.” Scavenger says.

Bishop reaches out a hand, traces the latticework of Scavenger’s scarred chest. Scavenger makes a noise halfway between a growl and a sigh.

“You look… powerful.” Bishop says and Scavenger laughs.

“I’m glad you’re appreciating the view.”

“Quiet.” Bishop says, and Scavenger looks away.

Bishop straddles Scavenger’s leg. They shift under him, uncomfortable. “Are you going to do something?”

“I was choosing a spot.” Bishop rests a hand on Scavenger’s neck, settles the tip of the knife in the middle of their chest. He applies enough pressure to break the skin but not draw blood. “Don’t be impatient.”

“You’re sure you haven’t done this before?” Scavenger rumbles, low and amused.

“First intentional scar does not mean I’m unskilled.” Bishop says and presses the knife slightly further into the skin.

Scavenger laughs. “I believe you.”  

“Stay still, then.” The knife creeps up the alien’s body until it rests on their shoulder. Bishop presses a neat incision about the length of his palm into the tough flesh there, so fast that there’s barely time for Scavenger to realize it. He follows it with four adjacent marks, carving a symbol he’s seen in the vast imperial databases. Group 5 - dangerous, do not approach.

Blood leaks from the cuts, darker than a human’s, almost black in the dim light. Bishop switches the bloodstained knife to his other hand and presses the flat side to Scavenger’s neck and they hiss at him.

Every safety program in him is screaming at him to not get more involved. Instead, Bishop bows his head and presses his mouth to the bloody wound.

Scavenger whines, but instead of making an attempt to push him off like Bishop expects, they rest a hand on Bishop’s back. Bishop lets the blood run across his tongue, thick and intoxicatingly warm.

“You don’t need the knife to keep me here.” Scavenger says, breathless.

Bishop runs his free hand across the cut, digs a thumb into the flesh and Scavenger makes a desperate groaning sound.

“Yes. But it’s a nice change of pace.” Bishop says, then cleans his fingers of blood with his mouth.

Scavenger stares at him with mouth parted and eyes unreadable. “You haven’t put your sweater back on.”

“I haven’t had time.” Bishop says into Scavenger’s shoulder, then sinks his teeth adjacent to the wound. His teeth aren’t quite as sharp as Scavenger’s, but they’re enough to do the trick.

“Cruel machine.” Scavenger mumbles, barely resembling their usual intimidating rasp of a voice.

“I just mimic the customs I’ve been exposed to.” Bishop smiles and runs a thumb over Scavenger’s cheek, almost wistfully. “I wonder.” Bishop traces the underside of Scavenger’s jaw with the point of the knife. “Do you think I’d be doing the right thing if I killed you?”

Scavenger breathes, and it’s the only sound for a while.  “I don’t know.”

Bishop rests his hands against Scavenger’s shoulders for a moment, then stands unsteadily. The blood from Scavenger’s wound is oozing still, but they pay it no mind as they lurch to their feet beside him. “You should go.”

Bishop wobbles to the flap of the shelter. He pauses, looks back at the bulk of Scavenger bent over a crate. They’re taping gauze over the wound.

“Goodbye.” Bishop says. His voice does not break but his chest aches from a phantom pain.

Scavenger looks up from their organized clutter. They say nothing, but stare at the flap of the tent long after he’s left.