Page 5 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

“Henry Lothar?” My voice echoes through the house, cold and sharp. “We need to talk.”

The stench hits me before I even cross the threshold—burnt chemicals and sweat, the unmistakable reek of human weakness. Lothar’s slumped in a rickety chair, a glass pipe still clenched between his fingers. His pupils are blown wide, his greasy hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. He doesn’t even register me standing there.

I let the image inducer flicker off.

The human disguise melts away, revealing the seven-foot nightmare beneath. Lothar blinks up at me, slow at first—then all at once, his body jerks like I’ve jabbed him with a cattle prod. His mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Just a wet, strangled gasp.

"Henry Lothar,"I rumble. My voice doesn’t echo. It juststays, heavy in the air between us.

He scrambles back, knocking the chair over with a clatter. His foot catches on the rug, and he goes down hard, the pipe skittering across the floor.

I take a slow step forward. "You shot a bear. With poisoned arrows." Another step. His back hits the wall. "Left it to suffer."

"Wha—I—" His fingers scrabble at the floorboards, desperate. "Didn’t mean—it was just?—"

I reach down and haul him up by the shirtfront. His feet dangle half a foot off the ground. The fabric strains in my grip.

"You ever tortured something to death before, Henry?" His breath stinks of meth fumes and stale beer. "Let me tell you how it feels." I turn, slamming him into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed NASCAR poster behind him. His head snaps.

"—Fuh—fuck?—"

"You’re going to call the state police." I release him just enough to let his toes brush the ground. His eyes dart toward the door. "Not Coldwater PD.State." My free hand closes around his wrist, squeezing until the bones creak. "You hear me?"

"Y-yeah, Gary, I?—"

"Gary isn’t here."

He shuts up. Smart.

I drop him. He crumples like a sack of flour, groaning. My compad hums in my belt. I thumb it on, holding it out to him.

"Call."

He does.

He mumbles, stutters, but manages to confess to enough illegal hunting violations that they won’t ignore him. The dispatcher sounds bored until he mentions poisoned arrows. Then she getsveryinterested.

I leave before the sirens start.

By the time I reach the cabin, the hologram’s locked back in place, and the town’s hatred is spray-painted on my fence in jagged letters.IRONS GO HOME.FUCK U GARY.Someone’s even managed to slop a crude anarchy symbol in what smells like motor oil.

I rub at the tightness between my eyes. The mine had to go. The spores in that silver vein would’ve turned the whole town into fever-ridden zombies within a decade. But Coldwater doesn’t know that. They know empty pockets, skipped meals, prescriptions they can’t afford. And they know Gary Irons took their silver away.

"Fine,"I mutter, stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind me."Hate me."

Mission first. Missionalways.Even if it tastes like ash on my tongue.

The door to the cabin creaks open, and I don’t even need to turn around to know who’s standing there. The faint scent of ozone and the low hum of a compad in standby mode give him away. Pyke. Always with the dramatic entrances.

“Make yourself at home, Captain,” I say, not bothering to mask the sarcasm in my voice. I’m standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a sea of clutter—empty takeout containers, discarded clothes, and a stack of unopened mail that’s been gathering dust for weeks. The place looks like a tornado hit it, and I don’t care.

“If you would make regular reports, Guvan, I wouldn’t have to take drastic measures like house calls,” Pyke replies, stepping inside. His red scales catch the light from the chandelier, and his eyes sweep over the mess with a mix of amusement and mild disgust. “You have plenty of money to hire someone to clean this place up, you know.”

“I’m not home much,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest. The image inducer on my wrist flickers, and I adjust it with a quick tap. “What can I do for you, Pyke?”

He steps further into the room, his boots crunching on a stray potato chip that’s been ground into the rug. “Veritas intel has picked up reports of a planned protest against the Coldwater Dam Project.”

I blink, my tail flicking in irritation. “A protest? Why? The dam’s going to create jobs and cheaper electricity for everyone. What’s there to protest?”

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