Page 31 of Torn from the Alien Commander

My vision swims, carried away in a current of crashing agony. But I grit my teeth in stubborn resolve. “FORGE. AN. ALLIANCE!” I shout the words through jolting spasms.

“Come Decimux.” The Prefect sighs before standing. “Let this one contemplate the error of his ways.”

The scientist waddles after him as they both exit the room. I almost call out to him, to beg him to turn off the collar, but my pride stops me. Dread mingles with the agonizing current pulsating through me, threatening to rob me of my sanity.

Tremors send me squirming against my bonds, driven by the frantic need to escape this torment. My mind spins in a panic,clutching for any way out of this pain, fearing what it might reduce me to if left unchecked. I roar and shout, desperate for any release, but the agony blazes hotter, as if feeding off my suffering.

My tongue rests beneath my fangs, knowing I could end my agony. It’d be easy, a simple act to end the torment that surges within. A quick bite, puncturing the flesh and I’ll bleed to death in mere moments. Before I press down, I’m jolted by thoughts of Tyrxie, which come unbidden like bolts of lightning.

I can feel her somewhere in Nebia. The thought brings fleeting happiness, immediately swallowed by agonizing flames.Gods, I hope she cannot feel this through the bond.Wishing with all my heart to spare her from such suffering. I’m thankful the bond is content, meaning my Tyrxie must be safe, having escaped such a terrible fate.

Isn’t it enough to know she’s safe, so I can rest easy with the ancestors?Then, I remember the joy on her sweet face when I promised to show her Earth. The memory causes me to relinquish my plan, although it may cost me everything. If a flicker of hope remains, I will hold on, no matter the cost.

Suffering cascades through my body, tensing my muscles and tendons to the brink of bursting. My tormentors have only been gone mere moments, yet each second feels like an eternity. I struggle to take a deep breath, as every fiber of my being is heightened with frantic desperation. But I persist, closing my eyes and grasping for a calming center.

The emptiness I seek is fleeting. Each jolting wave of scorching agony pulls me away, but with deep breaths and focused determination, I continue my pursuit. Cursing myself for not spending more time cultivating Mura-Tok before it was so sorely needed. The meditation ritual which is taught to all Klendathian warriors allows a state of supreme calm as the mind vacates the body.

Finally, the Gods are merciful as I lock in my focus, finding the center I desperately need. My mind feels empty, drifting off into a void of blissful nothingness. I have only the vaguest sense of my body shaking somewhere below, somewhere distant, while a dull flicker of pain bangs against my fortress of solitude.

Time passes in a blink of an eye, as I float through the emptiness, taking deep breaths and not daring to break the trance.How many hours have passed?The shocking realization hits me that my tormentors intend to break me beyond the point of insanity before their return, assuming my body doesn’t rupture.

Many more hours pass before the observation door swooshes open. I almost don’t notice, with my eyes closed and my senses distant. Only the absence of the dull pain clawing to pull me back to reality prompts me to open my eyes to see the collar is now orange. The two tormenting Nebians stand atop the observation room, watching with critical eyes.

“Decimux, his vitals?” The Prefect demands with a hint of heat in his voice.

“Hmm,” the doughy scientist begins, looking towards his blue glowing terminal, “The beast’s vitals remain strong, Prefectus,” he answers in a soft voice.

“Curious,” the Prefect drawls, almost disappointed. “So, Klendathian, tell me. What were your orders? Who were your targets?” He asks, turning toward me and seating himself.

A conditioned anxiety surges through me at the hateful questions and the pain the answer brings. But I force it down, locking such petty concerns into a cage of unbreakable resolve. “An alliance,” I rasp through singed lungs and battered body.

“I see.” The Prefect sighs, tapping his foot, yet a treacherous joy wells within me that he didn’t activate the dishonorable collar. “Perhaps the error lies with the questions,” he postulateswith a stubby hand beneath his chin. “How do the Fallen make contact with your people?”

The Fallen? Does he mean the Scythians?“They only spoke through War Chieftain Gorexius,” I answer, thinking this was already common knowledge.

“Spoke?” The Prefect asks, leaning forward in his chair. “Not speak?”

I almost laugh at his ignorance. “The War Chieftain is dead, killed by High Chieftain Krogoth in the rite of Krak-Tok.” Even here, my heart swells with pride at the telling, remembering my old friend’s glorious victory.

The Prefect shares a look with the scientist, a silent question passing between them. “The beast speaks the truth, Prefectus.”

“Gorexius is dead...” The Prefect whispers, mulling the thought over with an expression that could be considered relief. “The barbarians do to themselves what we could not.” He shakes his head before continuing. “So, this... Krogoth, does he now contact the Fallen?”

“No,” I shoot back. The very idea is an anathema to Krogoth. “The High Chieftain seeks to break our alliance with the Scythians in favor of your people.”

“Don’t waste what little grace you’ve earned savage.” The Prefect frowns before continuing. “This new leader, this Krogoth, takes orders from the Fallen. They sent you here to attack us, didn’t they? Confess!”

Anger flares within me at his blind refusal to heed my words. “My only confession is my stupidity is trusting in the honor of Nebians!” I roar back, already feeling the scorching blaze of the red-lit collar pulsing through me.

“You speak of honor... You who attack our homes, our females and children like a backstabbing assassin!” The Prefect yells back, leaping from his chair, his scarred face twisted in fury.

Agony tears through me, forcing my fangs out, seeking with desperation for the soothing mediation that saved me before. “Prefectus, if I may?” the scientist interjects with a raised hand.

The Prefect takes a deep breath, nodding towards the plump Nebian. My collar blinks to a merciful orange, allowing me to gasp for air as sweat drips from my face. “You recognize this beast?” he asks, clutching my warvisor in his hands. “How does it work?” My fury burns at his question as if he has the right to know and not be slaughtered for such sacrilege.

“You put it on,” I say with an acidic tone, knowing full well it’ll never heed the faithless or the weak.

I watch in amusement as the scientist attempts to place the warvisor on. It engulfs his entire face, swallowing his head and upper chest. “Nothing’s happening,” he declares, standing upright, only for the device to slip off and clatter to the floor.

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