Zaivel Tharis
There are 8.4 billion humans on Earth, and I keep choosing the ones who panic at the first scale.
"I think you misunderstood. I'm from another planet."
The guy freezes, his mouth drops open, and his eyes are so wide I half expect them to fall out.
I've seen this exact expression twice already this week. Third time's supposed to be lucky, according to the human internet. So much for that theory.
I roll my eyes with disdain, a gesture I've perfected through extensive observation of Jasmine from 5B. The moment I do, my control shatters.
The tan, freckled skin I'd maintained with such effort begins to give way. My entire body ripples with blue; the freckles humans find so cute transform into their true form—tiny iridescent scales that shimmer across my skin like scattered glitter, turning to gold and spreading in royal swirls and geometric fractals across my arms, chest, and up my neck. My naturally silver hair, which I'd disguised as ordinary blonde, now reveals its true metallic luster. My eyes fade from the fake earthy green to their natural silver, clear and reflective.
Only nobles have these distinctive gold scale patterns, a sign of pure bloodlines stretching back thousands of years. It's not something I can fully disguise, even in human form. The freckles are the best approximation my biology allows.
I thought my hookup might actually appreciate this. All those anime shows humans obsess over are full of characters with unusual skin colors and silver hair. Their internet forums overflow with discussions about fictional alien species and how hot they find them. I've misunderstood something fundamental about human attraction. Again.
"I thought you were trans. I'm… not into body painting," he chokes out, clutching at the sheets. His sandy-colored hair stands up in the back where my fingers had been running through it minutes ago.
He gulps, his throat bobbing. I blink at him, parsing the assumption.
"Wait, I think that's different," I say slowly, frowning. "Trans means someone's gender doesn't match what they were assigned at birth, right? And drag queens are performers." I pause, trying to remember how Jasmine explained it. "I watched hours of RuPaul's Drag Race when I first got here. So many sequins… But I'm not trans or a performer. I'm an omega. It's a biological caste thing. I'm literally from another planet."
His eyes darted, wide and searching, around my bedroom. He scans the walls, the ceiling, the corners. Looking for cameras? Humans always think they're being recorded when they don't understand what's happening.
"Is this a prank? No, this must be the initiation, right?" His last word cracked. He mutters something about rookie initiations now that they've won the season opener. "Rhett warned us about this. I knew he sounded too nice to be true. He set me up."
The muscles in his bare chest tense. He was so proud of those muscles earlier, flexing when he removed his shirt. Humans are peculiar about their bodies, simultaneously proud and embarrassed.
He's tall and lean, and his dedication to physical fitness is evident, judging by how he described his bench max within the first five minutes of conversation. I swear, males are the same regardless of galaxy. The alphas back home strut around the royal courts flexing and preening like frat boys at keg parties.
Same ego, different planet.
I sink onto the corner of the mattress. The tiny gold scales across my hands reflect what little light there is in the room, creating a constellation effect against my blue skin.
"It's not a prank," I say. "I wrote a whole essay on human gender expression for my communications class in the first week. Got a B-minus." Lost in thought, my fingers traced the patterns on my arm. "Professor said my section on extraterrestrial perspectives on human binary constructs was creative but unnecessarily speculative."
He scrambles from the bed. His foot tangles in the sheet. He stumbles, almost falls, then lunges for his jeans on the floor.
"You know," I say, watching him hop in a panicked jig on one leg as he struggles with his pants, "I read online that people always have bad experiences with guys named Tyler. Statistically fascinating that you're proving that hypothesis correct."
"My name is not Tyler!" He's breathless with panic now. "My name is Josh," he mutters, scanning the floor. "Where's my other sock?"
"Under the bed…" I point, my silver eyes tracking his movements. "Josh? Tyler? Same category."
He freezes mid-sock-retrieval to stare at me. His face flushes red as he takes in my completely transformed appearance.
"You're crazy," he said, yanking his shirt over his head inside out. "Completely batshit crazy!"
The words sting more than they should. My shoulders sag.
"Bats are actually quite intelligent," I murmur. "Their echolocation abilities share remarkable similarities with Tharari sonar mapping."
"Whatever!" He grabs his phone and keys from my nightstand, backing toward the door. "Stay away from me!"
He storms out. Seconds later, the slam of my apartment door was so forceful it made the entire unit rattle.
I fall back onto my bed. My silver hair spreads across the pillow. The ceiling swims as tears pool in my silver eyes. How undignified. Royal Tharari omegas don't cry over failed hookups.
"Digital console, play Sad Earth Songs playlist," I croak.
The haunting notes of Adele's 'Someone Like You' fill my room. Jasmine insists this is appropriate music for disappointment. Given how my chest aches, she might be right.
I find myself humming along, trying to echo her powerful voice. The first true note begins to form, something deep and familiar stirring in my throat. With it comes a vivid pang of memory: Papa, his voice a vibrant, loving caress of sound he wove only for Mama. A melody silenced forever the day we lost her.
I cut the note off abruptly. We aren't meant to sing casually, not like this. Our songs must always carry clear intent and be wielded with absolute control, especially when there is no true mate to receive them.
Even a single, unshielded note could affect more than I intend and could call in ways I shouldn't.
I press my lips together, letting Adele's human sorrow mourn for me instead.
Three rejections in one week. I scroll through my previous research notes on my tablet: "Earth males find confidence attractive." "Eye contact indicates interest." "Physical compliments should be specific."
I followed all the protocols. Where did I fail?
My communication device vibrates. A small holographic display appears above my wrist. Tyberius checking in. The small Tharari script indicates elevated stress hormone levels. Great. Now I'll face another lecture about maintaining emotional equilibrium on Earth.
I swipe away the notification. I may be a royal omega, rare, valuable, destined for a political marriage, but right now, I feel like a failure. If I can't even manage a simple human hookup, how will I ever impress Prince Alpha Kaizeren Vex, who made a public declaration that he'll only consider mates who can surprise him in bed?
I remember what Big Brother told me before I escaped our planet. "No alpha should ever reject us, Zaivel. They then aren't worthy of our songs. What Prince Kaizeren is doing with this mating challenge is another way to humiliate House Tharis, like when they took the throne from Papa by falsely accusing him of refusing to accommodate the changes in the Universal Coalition." His face had been so serious, so unlike his usual teasing expression.
Yet here I am, being rejected by Earth males who aren't even alphas.
Humans are the equivalent of betas on our planet, though they still could potentially bond with alphas and omegas if the connection were strong enough. That's what made them perfect practice partners—similar enough for practice, but incompatible enough to risk a true mating bond.
Back on Tharari, no beta would dare touch me, not because I'm an omega but because I'm the son of the Grand Scion. Even Tyberius, who comes from a high-lineage beta family, maintains proper distance despite being like my second Big Brother.
The whole reason I fled to this backwater planet was to learn about sex without risking a true mating bond. I couldn't practice on Tharari alphas. Noble omegas must remain pure and unmated for political alliances. But humans, with their remarkably similar biology to us, offered the perfect solution.
This was supposed to be easy: no bonding, no scandal, only practice. But all I've managed to learn is about the bitter sting of rejection, even when it doesn't count.
I close my eyes, letting the ceiling blur overhead.
My grand plan is a spectacular wreck. I'm no closer to impressing the prince than when I left home.