The fact that a man was holding her at gunpoint didn't surprise Jenny as much as the fact that it had taken so long to happen; judging from the many movies she had watched, she supposed it was a commonplace occurrence on Earth. James Bond would know what to do in this situation, she thought. Heck, even James Hound would have a plan. But I'm just poor, defenseless Ablukablikapelifrotz a.k.a. Jenny. I'd better do what he says.
"Please don't hurt me," she said meekly as she raised her arms to the darkened sky.
To her surprise, not only did the man with the revolver not hurt her, but he lowered the gun until it was level with his hip. His expression one of befuddlement, he looked down at his weapon, then back at Jenny, as if he was equally surprised at what he had done.
Run first, ask questions later, thought the alien girl, and she sprinted away at full speed. The trees flew past her, the street lights glowed brighter, the dry weeds bent beneath her bare feet, and her bronchial implants worked doubly hard to provide her lungs with the methane they needed. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that the threatening cat man hadn't moved, but was only staring helplessly after her.
Then, seemingly from nowhere, the dogs appeared. There were at least seven, as she could tell from the light of her orb reflecting eerily off their eyes. Growling fiercely, they formed a phalanx between the Kressidan girl and the nearby houses. The leaders of the pack of beasts, or at least the two closest to her, were a mottled greyhound on the left and a pit bull with incredibly long, sharp-looking claws on the right.
Looks like every man and his dog are trying to steal my sphere, thought Jenny. Fortunately, my sole alien power is perfectly suited for a predicament like this. She aimed her unclothed elbows at the approaching dogs, and the skin flaps on their tips opened up to reveal a pair of nozzle-like protrusions. Eat musk, you savages!
A gaseous substance spurted from her elbows, filling the night air with an odor so foul that even she, herself, winced and turned her olfactory organ away. While her eyes were averted, however, the unicorn orb was torn from her fingers with such force that she had no chance to tighten her grip. When she looked again, the air was still as fetid as before, but the canine mob was nowhere to be seen. Even the sound of scampering paws was absent.
Okay, that was just weird, Jenny told herself. People with horns sticking out of their foreheads, weird shiny orbs, and dogs who appear and disappear…it's like I'm on another planet or something.
More than half an hour later, the Nordgren family was aroused from slumber by a strong knock on their door. The man of the house snorted, pulled his covers away, and sat up. "I'll get that," he grumbled.
"Carl, no!" his wife protested. "It could be the Salvation Army!"
"We trust the Salvation Army, dear," said Mr. Nordgren as he yanked a sweater down over his antlers.
He reached the front door at the same time as his two pajama-clad children, only to discover that their visitor had already let herself inside.
"Jenny!" all three exclaimed in thrilled unison.
The Kressidan girl leaned against a wall, panting heavily. Her skin had begun to take on the same waxy appearance as when she had fallen sick from the Yordilian pathogen.
"Are you all right?" asked Mr. Nordgren with concern. "You look like you've been running for miles."
Jenny shook her head. "I feel like I've been running for miles," she informed the moose man, "but it was really only a few blocks. There's a limit to how quickly my implants can convert your oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere into a form I can use."
George grimaced and waved his hand in front of his nose. "What's that smell?" he complained.
"Ewww," said his sister Sal in disgust. "It's like skunk poop, only ten times worse."
"It's coming from me," Jenny explained sheepishly. "I never told you about my musk glands, did I?"
All desire for sleep was lost as the Nordgrens, armed with flashlights, followed Jenny to the chestnut grove where she had faced Mansch and the dogs. "Much like your Earth skunk, Kressidan females have a natural, odor-based defense mechanism," related the alien girl as she marched along. "It's useful not only for scaring off wild animals, but also for expressing to a Kressidan male in no uncertain terms that I'm not interested in him."
"That's crazy," remarked George. "What if you can't control it, and it goes off when you don't want it to, like, when you're at school?"
"That's never happened to me," replied Jenny. "It happens to some girls, however. We call girls like that muskies."
"What can they do about it?" inquired Mrs. Nordgren. "Are they doomed to live as social outcasts?"
"No," was the alien's answer. "They can have their glands surgically extracted, but that carries a stigma of its own. A lot of girls get their glands removed to make themselves more attractive to boys, so any girl who does it, for whatever reason, is assumed to have loose morals, like your Earth slut."
They entered the woods, and Jenny had no trouble identifying the spot where the dogs had confronted her, even in the darkness. The Nordgrens, shining their flashlights, gasped when they saw the state in which the general area had been left—huge ruts torn out of the ground, trees knocked over as if by a hurricane, and even what appeared to be electrical burns in the grass. "It's like someone fought a war here," commented Mrs. Nordgren.
"Look!" cried Sal, pointing.
They all ran toward the awful scene—two dogs lying prostrate in the dirt, completely still, with no observable sign of breath.
Mr. Nordgren carefully scanned one of the fallen dogs with his light; it was a golden retriever, its coat matted with blood. George, Sal, and their mother examined the other, a greyhound whose lacerated chest was barely quivering with life.
"This one's dead," the moose man announced.
His wife pressed her hand against the greyhound's neck and sensed a faint beat. "She's still alive," she told her husband. "We'd better get her to a veterinarian, quickly."
Once certain that the injured greyhound was receiving care, the Nordgrens returned to their home and their beds. As morning dawned, George and Sal prepared for school as if all was normal.
At the Powers residence, Alan was stuffing his book bag and Tegan had just slipped into her sandals when their mother, phone in hand, called to them with news. "They found Raymond Mansch," she reported. "He's at the hospital. He's been hurt."
At about the same time, Arthur and D.W. left their house side by side, initiating another trek to Lakewood Elementary. D.W., as she passed by Pal's doghouse, noticed something odd, and knelt down to peer inside. The little dog's face was a mask of frustration. Caught between his jaws was a round, luminescent object the likes of which D.W. had never seen, and Pal was apparently focusing his efforts on crushing the thing with his teeth.
"Where'd you find that, Pal?" asked D.W., curiously inserting her hand. "Here, let me take it before you choke."
To be continued