Page 8 of Alien Prince

My mother was not known for her kindness towards those who chose to leave her service, but my father is as fond of the dragonkin as I am, and so he lives.

“Your Majesty, how thoughtless of me,” he utters, snapping his clawed fingers at one of the waitresses, signaling for two drinks to be delivered to our table. “This is my favorite look of yours,” he says with a wink, his gaze fixed directly on the exposed cleavage the low-cut black dress displays.

“If only you loved me as much as the flesh,” I tease. Matson remains one of my first lovers with whom I tested this skin's particular modifications. We had a small fling, and despite the short-lived nature of our relationship, I found Matson to be kinder and gentler than I had ever imagined. When he met his mate, we ended our relationship but remained friends.

Despite the passage of time and the changes that have come to our world, Matson and I still share a deep affection and respect for each other.

“You wound me, Your Majesty,” he replies, glancing down lustfully at my cleavage and tossing back the remainder of his drink.

“How’s the misses?” I ask, shifting our conversation towards his mate. She is a stunning green dragonkin, with spines the color of amethyst that shine brilliantly in the dual suns' light.

Matson chuckles, his clawed fingers tracing his bottom lip as our drinks are delivered to our table.

“Expecting. Three eggs were laid this morning,” he replies, his words sending me into a fit of choking. I was aware that he and his mate were trying to conceive, but the reality of his impending fatherhood still comes as a shock.

“Congratulations, Matson,” I offer, raising my glass in a toast to the health of his future offspring. We speak of the weather and other mundane topics before Matson reveals the true reason for his visit to my table.

“The rebellion is planning something grand,” Matson says in a low voice. He leans in close and casts furtive glances around the room with his reptilian eyes. His clawed fingers trace patterns on the table, creating a nervous tension in the air between us.

“Whispers from the underground have never been so loud,” Matson whispers over his pint. “Informants are everywhere. And they suspect you of being a sympathizer.”

As I take a long drink, I maintain unwavering eye contact with my friend, for the rumors, while not entirely accurate, are not entirely false either.

“The centurion?” I ask, gesturing to where the man with purple eyes is no longer sitting.

Matson replies, “I’m not entirely sure, but I couldn't take any chances.” As I lock eyes with him, I discern a glimmer of the past in his piercing yellow gaze. It's a reminder that, even if his heart belongs to another, he still upholds his duty to me. He's willing to risk his life and his family's safety to share this news with me.

“Thank you, Matson,” I say with a gracious nod as the dragonkin finishes his drink and leans over to gently kiss my cheek before making his way out of the club and back to his mate and their nest. As a member of the royal family, it is my solemn duty to ensure the future of those little dragonkin are filled with boundless opportunities, free from the chains of lies and servitude. The irony of it all is not lost on me. Here I am, contemplating the essence of a free world, while draped in the skin of another.

The rumors Matson speaks of are indeed true. I sympathize with the rebellion forces, though I do not communicate withthem, nor do I aid in their missions. I merely wish them well and hope, even at the expense of my own life, that they succeed. For the future that the people deserve is beyond my grasp. But I’ve never breathed a word of my feelings to anyone, so the public must be far too bored to have dredged up such gossip, unknowing how close they actually are to the truth.

“Eight bloody hours!” Boomer bellows, his six arms flailing dramatically as he rises to greet me. “Ye coulda warned me it'd be a night longer than a Centaurian's tail, but no! Ye left yer poor, decrepit servant to rot on this bench harder than a Martian rock!”

His body language is as tense as a coiled spring, all six arms now crossed tightly over his chest. I can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

“Aww, is someone feeling a tad grumpy?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. But Boomer's scowl only deepens, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's fighting back a string of colorful curses. We both know he wasn't actually sitting there all night - I heard the ruckus when the footman woke him up as I arrived.

“Grumpy? Me? Perish the thought, yer royal pain in the arse,” Boomer retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Two of his hands light up a rolled tobacco with practiced ease, while the other four hang lazily by his sides. “I'm as chipper as a Jovian jellyfish in a meteor shower.”

Despite his grumbling, Boomer looks as human as ever - from his two legs to the smooth skin covering his body. Well, exceptfor his vibrant blue complexion and the six arms sprouting from his torso.

Each arm moves with an unsettling independence and precision, as if they're all competing for the “Most Useful Limb” award. The rough, calloused skin of his palms tells the story of a lifetime of hard work, each line a chapter in the saga of his service. I suppose having six hands does come in handy when you're trying to juggle multiple tasks, spoiled royal brats - or actual juggling, for that matter.

Boomer's people, the Hexafables, are a rare and precious commodity in our world. Once known as space pirates and bards, their captivating tales are nothing short of extraordinary. I would give anything to witness a group of them sharing stories and bantering on the bow of an ancient space vessel, captivating all within earshot with their epic sagas. The tales the man has spun and the memories he has shared are equally incredible and obnoxious.

Boomer accompanies me to my closet doors, and with a few clicks of the keypad, they swing open, revealing the bleak walls and rows of cots. I have done what I can for my skins, giving them dividers and shelves for their meager belongings. Boomer and I treat them with the utmost dignity, and we ensure that the housekeepers are kind and polite when they visit and assist. Some have responded well to being treated with respect, while others have requested solitude. If they are not regularly worn, they are granted a space in the back and left alone until their time of servitude has passed.

I cannot help but feel guilty for the regulars, though.

Their dead eyes and minds are broken from being invaded repeatedly. They are the ones up front, staring blankly into nothingness. The only time they appear unaffected is when they are sleeping, as they are now.

Quietly, Boomer and I make our way through the closet to the cot of the skin I am currently wearing. She is tired, and I feel the slight sag of her against the controls. The moment I step out, she collapses into Boomer's arms, and he places her gently into bed.

Drifting away, my solemn gaze wanders around the room, taking in every intricate detail of my surroundings. The lifeless faces and empty eyes stare off into nothingness, a testament to the tragedy that has befallen them and the part I play in it all.

My eyes find the cot where the new skin lays. She captured my attention from the moment I laid eyes on her, but my dear mother demanded that she be left alone, heightening my curiosity even more. What makes this skin so special that she has forbidden her use?

As I observe the petite form resting in the shallow cot amongst the others, I cannot help but feel somehow that she seems out of place, almost like she does not belong, though I can’t put my finger on why. She doesn’t look out of the ordinary, save for the fact her coloring is brighter as a testament to her sleek, shiny newness.

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