“You’ll be safe,” Fela whispered. Or yelled. She couldn’t tell over the scream of rockets or the din of small arms fire. The noise they made emanated from deep within their chest, a terrified keening, a desperate call for a parent by a lost child.

And Fela ran.

The panicked wail tore at her ears, spurring her pistoning legs ever faster. She hitched the child higher into her embrace, her thick arm—sleeved by her nanomesh—shielding them as best she could. The screams continued over the firefight. Fela zigzagged across the field. A nearby explosion spewed rocks and dirt at them. Fela nearly lost her footing.

“You’ll be safe,” Fela repeated. Her vision blurred. Her mind drifted in the heat, in her exhaustion, and she wasn’t sure who she was talking to. Yes, she was. Her son. Back home. Safe. She had made a promise.

The child’s cries grew weaker.

Only then did Fela chance a glance down. The dust darkened; dirt comingled with blood. The child grew limp, their thrashing weakened. Fela held them close, nearly tumbling into the prowler when she reached it.

Several of the adults rushed toward her, slowing their wary steps as they neared. Others barely took note of her, rushing to perform whatever ministrations they could on the youngling. Once she laid the child down. A couple stood, one pressed into the other—presumably their parents—scared and weeping. Fela’s ears perked up at the child’s pained whimpering. Raising their head, relief spread across their parents’ faces. Fela slowly backed away without taking her eyes from them. The natives parted from her but also watched her every movement. Though exhaustion caught up with her, she didn’t raise her talon to keep them at bay. Only held her empty hands out before scrabbling for purchase along the nearby wall to steady herself. She prayed her actions would be seen as demonstrations of good intent. She slumped against a wall, fearing it would not support her weight. Her hands cradled her face. Her breaths slow and even. Nothing about this was how she imagined first contact would go.

A whistle wailed, a devil’s laugh in her ears. Combat training taught Fela that the world would end with a whistle. One followed by an explosion of dirt and fire with the concussive force of ordnance which could demolish organs. An invisible hand plucking her from the ground and flinging her, she flew with no sense of direction until her world went black.