Page 4 of You're Not My King!

Or something like that.

“What’s your name?” I called out before the alien guy could leave. He halted, peering over his shoulder at me, eyebrows scrunched, and honestly, I was just as confused.

“Why?”

I shrugged. “Why not? It’s not as if we’ll see each other again, right? Humor me.”

He hesitated, suspicion evident, but the opportunity to be the topic of conversation seemed to win out. “Fiddich.”

Okay, yeah, I felt lighter already. How weird? “Well, Fiddich…” I smiled. “You’re an asshole, and, um, bye, I guess?”

Had I finally gone mad, or was a smirk tugging at his lip? He tore his gaze away and marched out the doors before I could study it too closely. One of the armed dino-guards was lingering outside, and Fiddich threw her a cursory nod before strolling out of sight. The guard saluted, and wasted no time in stepping forward, grunting at me to follow. I guessed the token toilet break before surrendering to a lifetime of shitting in the ground was off the cards? But hey, with that ray gun in her hands—even pointing in the opposite direction—I’d shit anywhere she asked before daring to disobey an order.

I spared one more glance around my little bunk, knowing I probably wouldn’t have the same simple comforts waiting for me on the other side. Those pillows and sheets may have acted as a sweetener, a way to keep us docile, but realizing I had slept on my last real bed was depressing as fuck. Not that I was an expert on what lizard people used instead, but if they were old-fashioned, it could be anything from piles of hay to nests of animal skins. Furs would be preferable. A bit strange to begin with, but I’d adapt.

I had no choice.

The dino-gal made another impatient noise, so I wrapped up my pity party, held on tightly to my e-tablet, and followed her out. She escorted me through the pristine white corridors, past several sealed rooms with orange-jumpsuit-clad guards stationed in front of them. They looked smaller than the cabins we were kept in, not that I’d suddenly developed x-ray vision, but each room was only one door wide instead of two. I feigned breathlessness, slowing my steps so I could try to catch a glimpse of who or what was inside without raising the alarm. The guard huffed, my weak human stamina clearly ruining her afternoon, but she accommodated me all the same.

We kept walking at that leisurely pace, and it wasn’t until we were nearing the pod-room—the one I’d seen other humans be taken to—that a door up ahead finally unlatched, sliding open ever so slowly. A steward alien marched through without lifting his gaze from the tablet glued to his hand, and it gave me just enough time to peek inside. My eyes widened, and I almost stumbled over my feet.

It was a shrine.

Or that was the vibe I got, staring with my brows at my hairline and my chin on the floor at the neat little rows of picture frames hanging on the far wall. The photos inside were of humans—their mug shots or the ‘first takes’ from picture day at school, I couldn’t tell. It kinda reminded me of the ‘employee of the month’ board at the burger joint I used to work at; like a museum of those old war posters that lulled people into a false sense of security. It was creepy as fuck, and I wanted to know what its purpose was.

Maybe it was an old system they used in an attempt to ease the humans’ nerves after abduction?

I could just imagine it… “Here, take a gander at our trophy wall and a selection of our bestest victims.” Oh, yeah, that would have gone down like a fart in a spacesuit, and no doubt they’d scrapped the idea immediately afterward, going with plan B and investing in some plush bedding instead.

It would explain why the whole thing was locked up.

Speaking of, the gap in the door was now barely two inches wide, so close to concealing the serial-killer’s wet dream once again. But for some reason, my eyes chose that split second to zero in on the portrait slap-bang in the middle of the wall. The glimpse was enough for me to catch the golden plaque underneath, which read…

Hugo.

The boy displayed was a baby-faced angel with soft, freckled cheeks, brown puppy-dog eyes, and the most beautiful locks of ginger hair. His was the only face attached to a name, I noted. Was he the Human of the Year? The poster boy for A&R? Fuck knew, but he’d obviously made an impression, and considering this lot prized genius over everything else, he was probably some human mastermind who was now living his best life on the planet Eyne’stynes’ballz or whatever.

Yippee for him.

Focusing back on the path ahead, it dawned on me that I wasn’t being escorted to the pods as I’d expected. Instead, we trailed through an archway and rode a hovering platform down to a room that housed two full-blown rocket-y aircrafts that kinda looked like dicks. Jesus fucking Christ, how big was the facility? This was insane! I pouted at not having the chance to gawk; every time my feet paused for even a nanosecond, my guard nudged me into hurrying along. She forced me to join the back of a line of six or so other humans, all stony faced and resigned, and each paired with their own armored dino.

I knew none of them.

At the front of the queue was an alien similar in appearance to Fiddich. His job was to snatch up our e-tablets, tap a button on the screens, then file them on a rack at his side. Very mundane, and funnily enough, he wasn’t the center of my attention for long—not when there was another dude stepping up to each human, placing what looked like a mall piercing gun against their necks and pulling the trigger.

That was infinitely more interesting.

The first half of the line barely even flinched, as if they’d all been given a heads-up beforehand, but the two guys in front of me tried to duck and dodge out of the way in a panic. It was no use, their guards just restrained them, but they still wriggled and protested until one of the girls upfront turned, an apologetic smile on her sweet face. “It’s okay, it’s just a tracker. It doesn’t hurt,” she said, as if it being painless somehow softened the blow of being fucking microchipped.

It was a touch better than a cattle tag on our ears, but just as demeaning.

And invasive.

It was my turn next, so I gritted my teeth and balled my hands into fists, glaring daggers at the alien as he shoved the gun into the tender skin and, with zero hesitation, injected me.

“Ow,” I deadpanned. The girl had been right, it didn’t hurt too much—a sharp pinch and some throbbing—but I still rubbed the spot instinctively, a soothing gesture. Of course, the alien dude acted as if I didn’t exist, grunting something to my guard in their language and signaling dismissively to the ship on the left.

Everything seemed to happen in a blink after that.

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