Sage assessed the situation with the cold efficiency. The Greason stood fifteen meters away, his green skin catching the streetlight in a way that made it seem almost luminescent. The markings on his face pulsed with a rhythm that matched no human heartbeat, geometric patterns that seemed to exist in more dimensions than the eye could properly track.
Behind the alien, the armed group maintained their positions, weapons lowered but ready. They wouldn't interfere, Sage realized. This was a hunt, and hunters had their pride, their codes. The Greason would want to take him alone, to prove the worthiness of the genetic material he sought to claim.
