Open Season

by Sonni de Soto

  He nods but holds up a warning finger. "But only if you show me your I Voted sticker."

  She nods and waves him away. Laughing, he leaves. Life is so interesting. Kyle never thought, when he was growing up, that he would have this kind of relationship. A partner. It's such a perfect word.

  They all think so. Dona is his girlfriend's girlfriend. But that's not a term any of them feel comfortable with. Sure, Dona is his girlfriend's romantic partner, but by extension, that also makes her his partner in romance too. It fits. All of it, from the term to the arrangement to the woman herself, just feels right.

  Even though Kyle doesn't feel particularly romantic toward Dona, he loves her. How could he not, when she loves and is loved by his girlfriend?

  He catches a disapproving look from one of his coworkers, the older woman from accounting's scowl harsh as she clutches the silver crucifix around her neck, making him blush. Kyle isn't out at work. Not officially, anyway. Some people know—found out some way or another—but most don't.

  It's hard enough for people to handle his interspecific relationship with his girlfriend. Adding a third party—and another Pixiso partner to boot—it rarely garners good attention.

  At best, people jealously elbow him, imagining his life like some sci-fi Penthouse fantasy. He can see outrageous orgies play like unfiltered film in their eyes. And no matter how hard he tries to tell them that his life doesn't look like that—filled with more quiet nights at home than raging sex parties—they don't want to hear it, their heads too full of lustful fiction to listen.

  At worst, people look at him with betrayal and disgust. They glare at him, sure that something unsavory must be happening. Some certain that he must be some kind of predator, a user, a collector of exotic women. They're positive that he can't see past skin and eyes and ears and scent, but with how unwilling they are to look at his actual relationship—the real-life people and passion involved—Kyle always wonders if they're the ones who can't.

  He knows that Juli's parents aren't happy with their relationship. They're sure that, raised outside their culture, Kyle can never understand their daughter. Can never be what she needs. He can see worry and distrust in their eyes, see the certainty that he's only here for one thing: The sex. The conquest. And he can't even blame them. After decades of being in a world that has been less than welcoming to them, how could they not be wary? How could they not wish their daughter would stay safe in the community they've built and not venture too far out into the world?

  And then there are people like the crucifix-clutching woman from accounting who look at a relationship like his and only see something unnatural. The worst kind of treason. Who focus on genetics and body parts and what—never who—his future children might be. Oddly enough, these people often imagine the same outrageous orgies others see, but through a horror lens, seeing nightmares in others' fantasies. They see his girlfriend and partner as seductresses—jezebels—who've trapped his weak-willed soul in their sirens' spell.

  He shakes his head at the whole mess. He doesn't know what he wants people to think. Mostly, he'd rather people didn't. If it were up to Kyle, the world would just stop thinking about him at all, would just let them live their lives. He honestly doesn't understand why people care so much. He isn't terribly interested in anyone else's business. If it doesn't involve him, he doesn't want to know. And he wishes everyone would do him the same favor.

  But he knows well enough, Pixiso or not, poly or not, the world is always, will always be, watching.

  He makes it to the polls just after the lunch-hour rush, but just before the after-school parent stampede. It's an off-year, non-presidential race. Hell, even the governorship and mayoralty isn't on the ballot. Under normal circumstances, the polling places should be deserted with only the most civic-minded showing up.

  But the contentious battle for HB224 has brought out the vote in the way only fear-baiting and virtue-signaling can.

  He just has to get through it. Get in line. Make his voice heard. Then he can get the hell out.

  The whole process takes less than ten minutes before he's out and ready to head to the grocery store. He grabs a cart and strolls the aisles. He picks up a box of pasta, remembering that it's Juli's favorite. Growing up Pixiso, her family never really ate much pasta, her people tending to find the food too processed and gummy. But she loves it, says it reminds her of the TV shows and movies she watched as a kid. She told him since she rarely had it growing up, pasta always feels like a special treat. So he gets sauce ingredients to go with it before wandering to the bakery and picking up garlic bread sticks. Since he's here, he gets a pie, something fruity and fresh.

  He can practically taste the sumptuous feast he'll serve. Can imagine his girlfriend's and partner's faces. He pictures their pleasure as flavors fill their senses.

  Kyle's mother was a big believer in the power of food. To her dying day, she was sure that, even when you had nothing, a full belly could change your life. She would speak almost evangelically about the power of meals shared with family and friends.

  He heads to the produce section. Admiring all the brilliant colors and ripe shapes, he picks up peppers—one of Dona's favorites—and smells their crispness.

  But underneath it, beyond it, a hint of something else tickles his nose.

  The bright red bell pepper tumbles from his hand, falling onto the pyramid of others before rolling onto the floor. His eyes widen and the breath leaves his lungs. He knows that scent.

  Pixiso. Female and cycle-strong.

  Nervous, Kyle looks around, searching, hoping, for his girlfriend.

  Instead, he sees a small Pixiso woman in a store smock stocking peaches. He hates that she looks like a younger version of Juli. Intellectually, he knows that not every Pixiso looks the same. Morally, he knows that it's offensive and culturally insensitive to even think so, encouraging the stereotype that they're this alien monolith, some horde or hive of collective clones, instead of a group of unique individuals held together by a rich history and culture. But even after years of dating one and being partnered with another, his unaccustomed eye still can't catch all the subtle distinctions, from the patterns of color in their skin to the tilt and angle of their ears. When the differences are significant, like a different face shape or body size, the way it is with Dona and Juli, he can tell. When the differences are more nuanced, Kyle always ends up feeling guilty with his inability to notice.

  He knows that this girl isn't Juli. Not only is she too young, but she doesn't feel right. Doesn't hold herself with the same cautious confidence. Doesn't move with the same graceful awareness. She isn't placing and positioning each peach with the same precision and eye for perfection he's come to associate with his girlfriend.

  But she feels familiar. The draw of her. The lure.

  That scent.

  It wafts to him. Mixing with the citrus of the fruits and the earthy remains left on leafy greens, it smells rich, like a maddening mix of home and the unknown. It tempts him with that kinship, feeling so similar to something that's already his, a memory already within him.

  That is the worst lie that scent makes him believe. He remembers all the stories he read when he was young, romanticizing the genetic bond of it. The idea of like recognizing like a galaxy away. Of having the hand of destiny reach across the stars so two people of two different places, from two different species yet still made for each other, can meet.

  But that's not what this is.

  This isn't the scent of soulmates. Nature rarely works so neatly. This has nothing to do with him as a person, with a full history and a complex context, or her as one too. The scent doesn't care about the compatibility of their interests or life goals. It doesn't care if their personalities match or even if they like each other. Hell, it doesn't even matter that he has a girlfriend who's waiting for him at home.

  All that it cares is that their genes fit well with each other. That he has something—some immunity or trait—that she lacks, and what she has
, his DNA doesn't. That scent simply wants to take those tiny bits of data about them and mix them up. To sort them in the petri dish of their coupling and create something new.

  It will do what it must to make it happen. Like making his mind see only the similarities with his girlfriend, reminding him of the first time he saw her, when the relationship—the possibility and thrilling potential of it all—felt new and exciting. It makes him wonder if touching this girl—tasting her—will be the same as it was then, like some endless discovery neither of them could get enough of. In his head, he can already hear sounds of desire, hers and his own, like some sexual symphony pounding inside him. His mouth waters and his vision blurs, lost in the expectation of what could be. What, by nature, should be.

  He's shocked when he realizes that, without meaning to, he's moved closer. His hands are touching the tomatoes towering in boxes a breath behind her. The firm curves of the fruit press against his palms. Reflexively, he caresses, feeling its flesh's sweet give.

  Stop. He screams the word inside. He wants—wills—his body to stop. But it doesn't. God help him, it feels like he can't. Even though intellectually he knows that she's not doing anything, he wants to scream at her to stop. To stop being there, to leave. To stop tempting him, filling his mind with thoughts he can't control. Still staring at the stock girl, his grip tightens, imagining her weight, her softness, there. With gritted teeth, mentally begging her to stop him, he squeezes.

  The wet drip of soggy seeds seeping through his fingers snaps him out of it. Looking down at his hands, they're a mess as shameful slime sticks and slips down them.

  He hears her gasp.

  With guilt burning through him, Kyle meets her gaze. Panicked, he moves to wipe the incriminating evidence against his pants, only to feel the forceful press of his cock against his fly. Seeing her eyes widen in disgust and fear, he holds out his hand. He means her no harm and doesn't want to frighten her.

  But, wanting to hit himself, he realizes what that must look like, when she recoils. In his lust-fogged brain, her movement looks feigned, coy and come-hither. Her body is curled away from his, showing off every curve.

  No. Stop. Shaking his head, he logically recognizes the truth. Sees her fear for what it is and not what he wants it to be. That scent is lying to him. He knows that. Or, rather, his perception of it is. He can't trust his mind's, his body's, reaction to it.

  He wrenches back his hand. He needs to calm down. Looking around, he tamps down his desire and thinks. Remember your tools.

  With relief, he reaches out his hand and grabs a fistful of fresh basil. Holding the strong-smelling herb to his face, Kyle knows he looks ridiculous, but he takes a deep breath anyway. Then another.

  Sometimes, he wishes that they—Juli, Dona, this girl, all of them—would just stay home. It'd make everything so much simpler. Then he wouldn't be worrying all day about his girlfriend and wouldn't be tempted by this stranger.

  He remembers the slew of lawmakers—mayors, governors, congressmen—constantly proposing laws to do just that. Some who want to give them the right to stay home, others who swear letting them out of quarantine in the first place had been a mistake.

  Kyle recalls the worried anxiety on Juli's face whenever those stories are on the news. In his head, he can hear the helpless anger rise in Dona's voice at any mention of it. He imagines them being expected to act and be and live as less just to make others feel more comfortable. He hates that he can absolutely see them being forced to hide or be held hostage because something they cannot control requires people who ultimately can control themselves, but don't want to, to exhibit a bit more self-reflection and restraint.

  He remembers being young and watching men hit on and harass his mother because she was pretty and often alone, a lone woman of color in a city full of people who didn't know or care about her. As he grew older, his friends—and he—would go out and chase girls, collecting drinks and dances and dates like a scorecard. He'd hear women—yes, Juli and Dona, but Kelsey and Miranda and so many others too, human and Pixiso alike—complain about aggressive or careless men. Men who care more about themselves, their fun and their pleasure, than the women they want pleasure from.

  Would safety laws really help? Would they do anything except make Pixiso women feel like prisoners in the name of protection? And what about human women? All his life, he's heard all manner of bad behavior dismissed, downplayed, or disbelieved under the banner of boys will be boys. The idea that men can't be held accountable for their actions, their reactions toward women. That it's women's responsibility to comport themselves in certain ways to keep men's uncontrollable reactions controlled. Is this just the humans will be humans equivalent?

  Kyle inhales deeply, letting the earthy scent ground him. Yes, he is human. And yes, he is male. But he doesn't want to be aggressive or careless. Not to the women he cares about. Not to the ones he doesn't. Not to anyone. He would never want to hurt or scare anyone. Not Juli. Not Dona. Not Kelsey or Miranda. Not this girl. He is more than his desire, more than his lust and an erection. He isn't a monster who can't control himself. His pleasure isn't worth more than their fear.

  So, for God's sake, he thinks, breathe deep and control yourself.

  When he feels steadier, he looks up at the stock clerk apologetically, not even sure what to say, and turns around. Walks away. Removes himself from the situation because he'll be damned if he'll be that guy. That guy who makes her feel like the reaction he's having is her fault.

  It's no one's fault. It just is. But this is his problem; it shouldn't be hers. She's just trying to live her life, and she can neither control nor be held responsible for his response to that.

  But he can. It may not be easy or enjoyable. But what other choice does he have? What other choice would he want?

  He won't be the monster they both fear is inside him.

  *~*~*

  "Did you see the news clip I linked you?" Over the phone, Betsy's voice sounds so excited. "I was interviewed by the local news!"

  Dona leans back in her chair and smiles. "I saw; you looked great." Passion flushing Betsy's cheeks as she held up her "Rights are not just for humans!" sign while talking about how happy she was that over seven hundred people showed up to rally against HB224. At her desk, Dona scrolls through Betsy's social media pictures, showing the crowd marching defiantly across traffic with homemade banners and signs.

  "The newswoman said that there were similar marches in fifteen other cities across the country with similar measures up for vote. The New York rally had over three-thousand people!" Dona can hear the crowd still chanting over the phone's speaker. "It's just so amazing to see so many people who believe what we do. To realize that there are more of us than we think."

  Dona wonders if there are enough though. To sway public opinion. To swing the vote and make a difference. "That's great, baby. How late are you going to be there?" Maybe she should just head over to Betsy's after work. Not that doing so would be an escape from the pressure and stress of the whole vote thing. But Dona's pretty sure she can find some enjoyable ways to show Betsy how much she appreciates her political spirit.

  "We're at the capitol right now." Dona can barely hear her now over the chants of "Pixisos are home." "We plan to stay for the whole vote in solidarity. Some people are talking about staying until they announce the results."

  Dona frowns. Well, at least it sounds like Betsy's enjoying herself. "Okay. Stay safe, then. I heard reports about counter protesters getting violent in Dallas." She also saw newscasters interviewing these people, letting them spew their hate over the airwaves, talking about how the government doesn't even take care of their human citizens, so why should it take care of aliens who don't belong here? As if it was an all-or-nothing game, as if by denying Pixisos decent homes and basic rights that would somehow fix all human problems. Dona's lips thin at the memory of the self-righteous fury in those protesters' eyes.

  "We've had a few of those, some cars honking at us angrily, but we out
number them. I'll be okay. Those jerks back down quick in the face of a united crowd."

  Dona wonders if that would still be true, if she'd shown up at the protest, or if her presence would have been all the accelerant needed to escalate the situation. Probably for the best that she stayed away. "Well, call me when you get home. Whatever the time."

  Betsy agrees before hanging up and letting Dona go back to work. But, just as she's getting in the rhythm of her workday, Dona looks up at someone sitting on the corner of her desk. Dan, some busybody from some department she doesn't remember, stares down at her. "So, Kyle left already? Don't you two usually ride in together?"

  "He had to go vote." Dona begins to type a little more forcefully, trying to give the man a hint.

  He just leans in more, making sure his sticker is prominently presented. "Didn't want to go with him?" His face scrunches up for a moment. "Can you all even vote?"

  Dona sighs and faces him; it's clear that Dan's feeling chatty. "My parents and I, like a lot of Pixisos here, went through the process of becoming US citizens a long time ago."

  "So?"

  "Yes." She crosses her arms over her chest. "We can vote, if we want to."

  "But you didn't want to?"

  Dona purses her lips. What's there to say to that? She's not a voter. She may be a citizen of this country, but she's not in charge of it. She can't change it. She doesn't even know if she belongs in it. It doesn't feel like it's hers to change, so who the hell is she to vote? One voice in a sea of millions that no one wants to hear.

  She doesn't know what she'll say to Kyle tonight. Or Juli, for that matter. But it all just feels like a wasted effort.

  "No, I get it." Dan nods sagely. "I voted for you guys, but if I'm honest, I don't really see what the big deal is. If you all really want to live in the city, you could just move out of those communities, right? Like Kyle's girlfriend."

  Dona winces. Yes and no. It's a more complicated issue than that. Yes, if people want to move out of the communities, they're free to do so. No one is keeping Pixisos in places like Little Pixis.