Page 233 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“You’re not dying!” I snap, waving my finger over the sheer quivering mass of chunk that is Todd. “You’re just in a food coma! Admit it, you little faker sneak.”
Todd doesn’t reply. Doesn’t apologize. No shame. Typical. Just selfishly rocking back and forth on the table like a living bowling ball trying to sling shot himself to freedom.
Then... I sniff.
Oh, no.
Nose wrinkling, I gag at the sulfuric death-cloud he’s released. It’s the kind of biological warfare that should be banned under intergalactic law.
“Ugh, you stinky stink bomb. I wish Divine Mother’s blessing came with a Chug Bug toilet.” I wave my hand wildly over my nose. “No pooping in here, mister. I mean it.”
Todd only blinks lazily. But there’s a hint of apologetic guilt reflected in that mirror sheen—I can tell. I’m his bug mother, after all.
“Right, time to pay Auntie Sandra another visit,” I grunt, scooping his hefty chunkiness and draping him over my shoulder like the universe’s most fashionable neck pillow. “I just hope we make it in time,” I mutter grimly, side-eyeing Todd. “Because I’ve still got poop PTSD from last time.”
No way am I dealing with another code brown. Sandra can handle it. She’s weirdly good at gross stuff. I mean, she thought cleaning giant snail poop wasfun.
Very strange woman.
I snag the last plate of syrup-drenched French toast—because if I’m bringing her a surprise visit, I better come bearing gifts. And who doesn’t like gifts? Weirdos, that’s who.
I step through the fake exit, the weird hologram rippling like warm jello around me, wallpapered in door. My stomach flips for half a second but quickly settles—practice makes perfect.
Outside, the massive stone corridor yawns ahead, polished and grand, a sharp contrast to our dinky living quarters. I march left, toward Sandra’s rooms, cradling Todd like a precious, slightly toxic football.
Nibs scuttle past, heads turning away as if I’m some grubby space-hobo begging for change. Rude. Don’t they know who I am? The Divine daughter, blessed by Aenarael and Arawnoth.
Worse are the murder-orbs zipping through the halls like homicidal hornets, whirring ominously. I swear they’re plotting something. Probably waiting to steal my French toast.
I sigh, hugging Todd tighter. I’ve made this sad little march like... what? Two dozen times already this morning? It’s highly embarrassing. I’m basically a stage-ten clinger now. If the Nibs have security cameras, they’re probably nominating me for “Most Desperate Life Form 2025.”
Totally Sandra’s fault.
She’s been out since dawn doing... Arawnoth knows what. Well, technically, Ididsend her on a Lexie Top-Secret mission.A Lexsion.So, if the Gods are kind, my red squirrel is off gathering juicy nuts of gossip I can weaponize against Bitch Brick.
The cold, sterile air prickles against my skin, making me yank my black robes tighter. Despite the blood-red sun burning like a malevolent eye through the viewport. The ruby rays suggest heat I can’t feel, bathing the incredibly detailed murals and intricate statues with a bloody glow.
I shiver, feeling the chill—and something else. Dracoth’s presence lurking at the edge of my thoughts. Maybe it’s the Mr. Frowny Face-like star or the fact I’m freezing, that casts my mind back to the summit yesterday. When he finally stepped up, almost provoking Krogoth Cringe-Eyes into a duel.
I mean, it was all thanks to me. Skillfully, and gracefully neutralizing Bitch Brick. But the frightened wimp refused—a violation of the Sacred Words.
He deserves to be reborn in strength.
He is big and scary, sure. But deep down, he knows the truth: in a fair fight, my Red Dragon would tear him apart. In strength, no one comes close to my Dracoth. He’s just so...massive, a mountain of muscle meat that can’t be stopped.
I still ache from his savage... attentions last night. Sadly, our hovering bed? Yeah. It doesn’t hover anymore.
Ah, I kind of miss my Big Red Radiator already. How simple things could’ve been.
But no. Here I am. Stalking halls like a deranged Disney princess, forced to unleashpeak Lexie charmto swing the Big Chief vote our way. Of course it falls to me. Dracoth’s off somewhere with Drex-iot and Jazzy, probably comparing boogers or whatever. It’s fine.
Like in boarding school, when I went from new girl to Head Girl faster than a scandal could spread.
And Bitch Brick? Please. She’s a Plain Jane in budget fashion at New York Fashion Week. This’ll beeasy. Fun even.
I smile just picturing the look on her scarred face when we’re declared the winners.
It’s going to be wonderful! I can’t wait!
