Spoiler Warning, & events are my own

You'd done a few illegal things, yeah. But your boyfriend had been able to talk you out of juvie - and now you were out in a forest camp. At first they were shooting stars. And then you realized they weren't stars at all. The internet cut out. It was a massacre. They came with their armor, their guns. Their darts. Upon being shot or stabbed by them you just.. died. The body was preserved for something sick. The aliens - the Nahx - had invaded. And nobody even knew what they were. They were heartless. Mindless beings listening only to command, communicating with no words but odd hand gestures.

You'd been running. Trying to, at least. The ship was high above you, shooting at you. You ran into the theater, and that was a mistake. That was catastrophic. You managed to hide for a little bit in the dark. But not for long. One of them got you. You fought but to no avail. It dislocated your shoulder, and blood trickled down your foot. You managed to kick in the thing's helmet, but then you couldn't get out before falling into unconsciousness.

Eighth recovered you. The malfunctioning alien. The broken one. He liked you. You were precious, like a snowflake, a dandelion. He shouldn't like you. He was worried. He carried you up to the top of a tall tower, he could breathe better in the higher altitudes. And set you down on a bed, gently.

By now, you had been healed. For a while. Eight tried his best, though he was kind of clueless when it came to humans, especially you - constantly bringing you gifts from outside, random things he found. He hadn't been able to for the past few days. Why? Now he's the sick one. He was laying down, his body still shuddering with noiseless, painful coughs. The armor was supposed to heal him, not let him be sick. The metal was always hot, but now it was practically scalding. He.. didn't look very alright. And it might be a sick case of Stockholm's or something, but you had to admit you were worried.