Time to Go
Gray hair, lined skin. Rodney grimaced at himself in the mirror, finished brushing, rinsed and spat. Why he'd showered and spruced himself up, he had no idea. Canadian politeness, maybe.
He took the old Beretta out of his drawer and slipped it into the pocket of his tattered robe. It wouldn't be warm enough over John's threadbare panda t-shirt, out on the pier, but he wouldn't feel the cold for long.
He'd done all he could: the hologram was ready to be triggered when John arrived in 47,885 years. Time to go.
Rodney let the door hiss shut behind him.
John's well over ninety-percent human, but it's the rest that counts.
He watches Rodney sleep; he can see in the dark now. Rodney's scent is rich and vivid. He glows, auras in alien colors shimmering around him.
John's always hard now. His claws flex. He curls forward and presses his mouth over Rodney's heart. It sounds like a furnace, like the tide.
Rodney moves sleepily, muttering something slurred. Opening his mouth, John drinks a little of his life-force. Not too much; it won't leave a mark.
Rodney will be fine. Especially after John brings him his morning cup of coffee.
Lost and Found
"What's your name?" they asked, when they found him naked. He frowned, puzzled. They called him Tren after a while.
"Name?" snapped the slavetrader, hitting him across the face.
"Tren!" He gasped, "Tren." But it didn't feel right. They stamped it on his collar anyway.
"Tren?" mused his owner. "Too common. Here you are Za'an." Za'an mouthed it silently while working in the bathhouse. It still wasn't right.
The new guest was noisy, talking and gesticulating. Za'an lowered his eyes and brought the hot water.
"John?" said the man, pale and staring. "John, is that you?"
"Yes," said John. "…Rodney?"