MARCO
The air is thick with smoke and the sharp, acidic smell of burning metal, like someone took a blowtorch to an entire car factory. Red emergency lights strobe overhead, slicing through the darkness, and alarms blare loud enough to rattle my teeth.
I'm sprinting full tilt down a cavernous corridor, the Yeerk facility shaking like it's moments away from collapsing. Dracon beams sizzle past my head, leaving scorch marks on the walls. Behind me, a pair of Hork-Bajir crash through a metal barricade like an alien wrecking crew, their bladed arms slicing the air with terrifying precision.
"Not today," I mutter and leap.
Mid-air, my body starts to morph. Bones crack and shift, muscles bulge, and a coat of dark, thick fur spreads across my skin. My hands swell into sledgehammer-sized fists just before I land as a full-blown gorilla. A six-hundred-pound wrecking ball with an attitude problem.
The first Hork-Bajir charges me, slashing wildly. I duck, grab its leg, and swing it like I'm going for a world record in hammer throw. It smashes into a wall and crumples like a bad sculpture. The second one lunges, but I catch its wrist in my oversized hand and twist, the sound of snapping bone lost in the cacophony of alarms.
That's when Rachel bursts through the smoke, because of course she does. She's mid-morph, her human features stretching and reshaping as she transforms into a grizzly bear. Her fur ripples, golden and thick, catching the flickering emergency lights.
She lets out a roar that shakes the walls—part battle cry, part "Get out of my way!"—and charges a group of guards like a wrecking ball in fur.
[Nice timing!] I yell over the chaos, dodging another Dracon blast that scorches the floor inches from my feet.
Rachel doesn't reply—she's busy swiping a Hork-Bajir clean off its feet with a single clawed paw. Her bear eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second before she barrels ahead, clearing a path.
And then I see her.
My mom.
She's huddled in the corner of the next room, bound to a chair. Her face is pale, her eyes sharp and defiant, even as sweat drips down her temple. A pair of Hork-Bajir flank her like nightmare bodyguards, but they don't stand a chance.
Rachel tears into one, her claws raking through its chest, sending it flying into the wall. I deal with the other, one thunderous punch sending it sprawling across the floor.
I demorph as fast as I can, sprinting to my mom's side. Her wrists are tied with some high-tech alien restraints, but I claw at them with my bare hands.
"Marco?" Her voice is small, trembling, but her eyes light up with something that might be hope.
"It's me, Mom," I choke out, my throat thick. "We're getting you out of here."
Her arms go around me, and for one precious second, the world goes quiet. No alarms. No explosions. Just her.
Then Rachel bellows from the corridor: [Move it, Marco! We don't have time for a Hallmark moment!]
The walls shudder with another explosion. I pull my mom to her feet, and we run. Down corridors. Through clouds of smoke. Past sparking wires and collapsing ceilings.
Outside, the night sky is alive with Bug fighter searchlights and the ominous hum of Yeerk engines. We dive for the extraction point—a hidden escape pod nestled in the wreckage of a crashed Blade ship.
I help my mom inside, my heart pounding. Relief floods through me as I turn to follow her. And then—
Rachel's there.
Only, she's not a bear anymore. She's Rachel.
Her wild blonde hair catches the moonlight, her clothes replaced by—wait, is that the Princess Leia gold bikini?
"You did it," she says, her voice soft, almost reverent.
"Uh…"
Before I can process the whole space-bikini situation, she steps closer, her hands resting on my chest.
Marco," she whispers, her blue eyes locking on mine. "You're the bravest, strongest, sexiest man I've ever known."
I blink.
She leans closer, her voice dropping to a breathless whisper. "I've been madly in love with you for years now."
Her lips brush against mine—
BRRRRRIIIIINNNGG!
The blaring sound of my alarm yanks me out of the best part of the dream, which, let's be real, is just cruel. I fumble blindly for the clock, slapping at it like a cat until the noise finally dies. Peace. Silence. Blessed—
Wait. What time is it?
I squint at the glowing numbers: 6:02 a.m.
On a Saturday.
This is fine. Totally fine. Everyone loves waking up early on the weekend to sit through a "super important, top-secret meeting" that Jake swears couldn't happen at a reasonable hour. I mean, it's not like we're trying to save the world or anything. Clearly, that couldn't wait until brunch.
I groan, flop onto my back, and let out a long, exaggerated sigh that no one's around to hear. Figures.
And then it hits me—why I was so annoyed to wake up in the first place.
The dream.
It's already slipping away in pieces, but the highlights are burned into my brain. Rachel mid-morph, tearing through Hork-Bajir like a one-woman wrecking crew. That part's standard fare. Rachel's always been the action hero while the rest of us play backup dancers.
But then… bikini.
Not just any bikini, though. No, it had to be the gold Princess Leia one, because apparently my subconscious is not only a creep but also a giant nerd. And then there were the compliments—words Rachel would never, ever say in real life. Stuff about how brave and sexy I am. Which, honestly, might be the biggest clue that it was a dream.
I let out another groan and throw an arm over my eyes. Why does my brain do this to me?
The Rachel in my head is nothing like the real Rachel. Real Rachel is… complicated. Amazing and reckless and strong in ways that make the rest of us look like wet paper bags. She's also been through hell recently. Actual, traumatic, makes-you-want-to-punch-the-world-in-the-face kind of hell.
Which, naturally, makes dreaming about her in that way feel a million kinds of wrong.
I shouldn't even be thinking about her like this, let alone… ugh. I can't. I won't. She's my friend. My teammate. She's practically family.
Which makes me the creepy cousin in this scenario. Awesome.
Before I can wallow too much, my alarm blares again, reminding me that snooze buttons are the devil's invention.
"Okay, okay, I'm up!" I snap, smacking the clock hard enough to knock it onto the floor. It doesn't deserve better.
Shivering against the January air, I grab the hoodie draped over my chair and tug it on as I shuffle toward the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror confirms my suspicions: hair sticking up in every direction, eyes red and puffy, face screaming I'm not a morning person.
"Looking good, Marco," I mutter, flashing myself finger guns. "Definitely not someone who dreamed about his best friend last night. Nope. Totally normal. Nothing to see here."
I splash cold water on my face, hoping it'll shock some sense into me. All it does is wake me up enough to think about the one thing I've been trying not to.
It's been months since David. Months since everything went sideways.
And Rachel? She's been… fine. Too fine, if you ask me. She laughs at my jokes, nails her tests, throws herself into missions like nothing ever happened. No breakdowns, no venting, no late-night heart-to-hearts. If it weren't for the occasional moments—her zoning out mid-conversation, the bags under her eyes, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against her leg—you'd think she was totally over it.
But she's not. I know she's not.
At first, I made it my job to check on her. Just little things—making sure she was eating, sleeping, holding it together. But somewhere along the line, it became more than that. It became… routine. Most nights, we hang out—watching awful movies, half-assing our homework, staying up too late talking about nothing.
Sometimes, it almost feels normal.
And that's what she needs. Someone to be normal around. A friend.
Which is exactly why I shouldn't be thinking about her like that. Not now. Not ever.
But apparently, my brain didn't get the memo.
The sound of my dad's shower running down the hall pulls me out of my spiral. Great. Another reminder I've got, like, ten minutes to get ready or I'll be forced to hear one of Jake's lectures about the importance of timeliness or whatever.
I shuffle back into my room, still half-asleep, and freeze.
Because there she is.
Sitting cross-legged on my bed, flipping through one of my old comic books like she owns the place. Her morphing clothes—leggings and a tight black long-sleeved top—fit her in a way that makes it very hard to think about anything else. Her hair's pulled back in a loose braid, but a few strands have escaped, curling around her face like they're mocking my self-control. She's barefoot, her toes tucked under her as if this were her room and not mine.
"Morning, sunshine," Rachel says, not even glancing up from the page.
"Rach." I blink at her, trying to process the scene. "You know, normal people use doors. With, like, permission."
She finally looks up, one perfect eyebrow arching in that way that makes me feel like I'm the punchline to some joke only she knows. "Your window was cracked open. What was I supposed to do, knock?"
"Yes," I deadpan, crossing my arms and leaning against my desk. "That is literally what people do when they want to enter someone's house."
Rachel shrugs, snapping the comic shut and tossing it onto my nightstand like she's doing me a favor. "It's freezing out there, and I didn't feel like waiting for you. Be grateful I am here to save you from being late."
"Boundaries," I mutter, throwing my hands in the air. "Ever heard of them? Super trendy. You should look into it."
Her lips curve into a slow, teasing smile, and she leans back on her hands like she's settling in for a show. "I generously came over to remind you about the meeting and make sure you didn't sleep in. Again. You're welcome."
"Oh, I'm overwhelmed with gratitude," I say, sweeping my arm toward the window in mock reverence. "Truly. Please, make yourself at home. Would you like coffee? A waffle? A back massage?"
Rachel smirks, tilting her head as if she's actually considering it. "I'll pass. But keep the offers coming—it's nice to know you're finally embracing your role as my personal butler."
I groan, raking a hand through my hair. "You're impossible."
"And yet, here I am," she says with a casual stretch, her shirt riding up just enough to distract me again. "Lucky you."
I stare at her for a beat too long before I force myself to look away. "Oh yeah. So lucky."
She doesn't miss a thing, though. Her grin widens, a spark of mischief in her eyes. "You're blushing, Marco."
"No, I'm not," I shoot back automatically, but I can feel the heat creeping up my neck. Fantastic.
She swings her legs off the bed, standing with that effortless grace that drives me crazy, and crosses the room toward the window. "You ready, or do you need a minute to compose yourself?"
"Are you always this charming in the morning?" I counter, folding my arms to give myself something to do other than gawk at her.
Rachel flashes me one last grin over her shoulder. "Only for you, Marco."
I roll my eyes, trying and failing to suppress a small smile. "Lucky me," I mutter, shaking my head as I focus on the morph.
I let myself sink into the osprey DNA, feeling my arms stretch into wings and my face push forward into a sharp beak. Feathers ripple over my skin, talons sprout from my toes, and soon I'm ready to fly. Next to me, Rachel's already mid-morph, her features twisting into the fierce, regal form of a bald eagle.
When she finishes, she flaps her massive wings and hops onto the ledge. Her eagle gaze fixes on me, sharp and calculating. [You wanna race?] she asks, her thought-speak voice carrying that familiar edge of challenge.
[I'm sorry, do you mean "beat you"? Because I can do that in my sleep, Rach.]
She lets out a sharp eagle cry, a sound that might be laughter if she were human. [Big words. Let's see if you can back them up.] Without another word, she leaps from the ledge, her wings snapping open as she catches the wind.
I don't hesitate, diving after her into the cool morning air.
The wind tears at me as I stretch my wings, catching an updraft that sends me surging higher. Rachel's already a sleek blur ahead of me, her eagle form cutting through the sky with ridiculous ease.
[You know this isn't fair, right?] I call out, pumping my wings harder. [You're built for this. I'm built for fishing.]
[Excuses, excuses] she fires back, banking hard to the left. [Come on, Marco. Keep up.]
I tilt my wings and follow her into a tight spiral, trying to gain on her. She dips lower, skimming just above the treetops, and I dive after her. For a moment, I think I'm closing the gap—until she suddenly snaps her wings tight and plunges into a vertical dive.
[Oh, come on!] I squawk, folding my wings and dropping like a stone to match her.
She pulls out of the dive just above the trees, her wings snapping open as she glides effortlessly forward. I have to fight to slow my descent, leveling off clumsily and barely avoiding a branch.
[You're making this way too easy] Rachel taunts, her voice ringing with amusement.
[Oh, you think so?] I shoot back. [Try this!]
I pump my wings, climbing higher and higher until I'm directly above her. She glances up just as I fold my wings again, diving straight toward her.
[What are you—?]
Before she can react, I extend my talons and brush the tips of her feathers.
[Tag!] I crow triumphantly.
Rachel lets out a startled squawk, but she's laughing. [You're such a dork.]
[And yet I'm winning] I reply, banking hard to the right and climbing away from her.
[Not for long!] she says, her voice full of that dangerous, determined edge.
She surges upward, her powerful wings cutting through the air as she closes the gap between us. I zigzag, trying to lose her, but she matches me move for move, always just a few feet behind.
[Better start saying your goodbyes, Marco] she teases as she inches closer.
[To who? You?] I reply, twisting into a barrel roll to avoid her.
[To first place!] she snaps back, and before I can react, she dives beneath me, then shoots up like a missile, cutting me off.
[Hey, no fair!] I protest, struggling to regain my position.
[All's fair in love and war] she says with a laugh, already pulling ahead.
This girl, I swear.
I push myself harder, feeling my wings strain against the wind. We're both moving fast now, darting and weaving through the sky like we're the only two creatures in the world. For a few glorious moments, I forget about the meeting, the war, everything. It's just us, racing the wind, teasing and taunting and daring each other to go faster.
She dives again, this time heading straight for the river that snakes through the woods below. I follow without hesitation, and for a second, I think she's going to skim the water. But at the last second, she pulls up sharply, wings slicing the air like knives, and I have to pull back hard to avoid colliding with her.
[Too slow, fish boy] she says, her voice dripping with smugness.
[I'm warming up] I reply, though I know she's got the edge.
By the time we near the meeting spot, my wings are aching, and Rachel's still going strong. She swoops low toward the clearing where Jake and the others are waiting, throwing one last comment over her shoulder as she lands.
[Don't feel bad, Marco. Second place is respectable. For you.]
I let out an indignant squawk but can't help laughing as I touch down beside her. Rachel shoots me a smug look, her feathers ruffling in the wind, and I realize—for all the chaos, the teasing, the lack of boundaries—mornings like this almost make the war feel normal.
Almost.