Page 62 of Hooded

KLYNN

“This is not my home,” I grind through fangs which seem to have gotten much larger in my mouth.

Below me, something slithers, as several silver bots, the like of which I’ve not seen before, appear from flaps in the floor. None of them look friendly.

As to the slithering thing, all it does is excite my predatory interest. I drop, spin, and beat hard to keep it in my sight. The goo covering its dark body glistens in the light and leaves a trail which is easy to follow.

“It is now,” the voice says. “A Gryn with your talents will always have a home here.”

“Vrex off.” I flip over in the air, and a new volley of pulsars fires over my head, cutting off my exit. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

“On the contrary, Gryn. I made you, so you belong to me.”

A sightless head rears up from between one large crystal, followed by another, and another.

Something deep in my soul calls out to me.

“Proto,” I snarl.

“The same, or perhaps not quite the same,” it says, words dropping into my head rather than making their way via myears. “Your compatriot might have thought he killed me, but it’ll take more than removing a head to dispose of a Protoex.”

“Really? How do you get killed?” I respond. “Professional curiosity, of course.”

The thing chuckles in my head. “The gladiator…craft honed to perfection, my absolute weapon.”

“No.” If I can keep it talking, I can use this place to my advantage.

With several short beats, I fire myself around the edge of the depression, spotting what I need and swooping down to collect it.

The Proto isn’t much larger than a ziggurag, and while it has more heads, it seems to have less in the way of teeth. It’s hardly going to be much of a challenge.

And everything dies in the end.

The bots rise up, their arms extending with psi-whips and nets. I let them get closer, turning tighter and tighter circles until they attack. Bots have never been any match for a gladiator in a dome. There’s a reason the procurator rarely used them, because the clientele hated such one-sided matches.

I slam the crystal into the side of one, wrenching the tough material through the metal innards with ease. The second one goes the same way but the third manages a hit with a psi-whip before I can dump the second to the ground.

The pain has my wings curling around me, and I drop to the floor below, panting hard as I hit the metal. As I do, three more bots emerge from hidden entrances, each one the same as the last, and each one sporting a whip and a net.

“I can handle as many bots as you send,” I growl, “so keep sending them, and I’ll keep destroying them.”

“I’d prefer to keep you in one piece, Gryn,” the Proto says. “But I’m sure you can function just as well without your wings.”

A laser slices through the air, and I roll off to the left as it sears through the place where I was crouching. The stench of burning turns my stomach, but my wings are, thankfully, intact.

“You can’t be so sure of your bots that you would risk such a move,” I respond.

“You’re cleverer than the others,” Proto responds. “Perhaps I’ll leave you to consider your position.”

Instantly the bots disappear back inside whatever this place is, and despite its size, the Proto is gone too.

I’m alone, holding the crystal sword and contemplating what the vrex I have got myself into.

All I want is my Fern. To hold her in my arms, to shove my head into her hair and inhale every single drop of her scent.

And I vrexed it all up when I went looking for a violence I thought I wanted.

When what I needed was to be with her.

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