Page 278 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Pain explodes in my sternum. A sickening crunch as his fist finds me first.
My own strike lands. His jaw shatters.
We collapse.
The earth trembles under our fall. Blood floods the blackened stone.
I try to rise. But something’s broken. Every breath an icy dagger in my lungs.
Still, I claw forward. Inch by inch. An eternity of pain for a moment of movement.
I see a blurry Krogoth—on hands and knees, slowly rising.
No. I must rise. I must finish this. I must win.
But the harder I strain, the thicker the fog becomes. My vision narrows. Only light remains.
Shimmering, all around. Warm. Familiar.
A Goddess calls to me—a flow of liquid mercury.
Forgive me, Princesa. The ancestors call. And I must answer.
Chapter 51
Alexandra
Embrace Weakness
PeacockBig-Chiefgentlysetsme down on the craggy black rock—a decent enough Gray Taxi, though clearly his heating needs fixing.
Separating me from Mr. Frowny Face and Cringe-Eyes is a ring of bubbling lava. It hisses and spits—almost warm enough to replace my personal furnace of man meat.
I clutch Big-Chief’s vibrant feathered cloak tighter, but the cold still creeps across my skin. Not real cold, but the weird kind—like when a ghost brushes your neck in the dark, or when you realize your ex just likedallof your new photos.
Goosebumps erupt like a tiny army of Whack-A-Moles.
It must be the excitement—that finally, after everything, Dracoth will tear Krogoth apart like a wet bill, and that smuglook on Bitch Brick’s face will melt away like bubblegum ice cream in a desert.
Ah... soon she’ll regret ever being a cheating-loser-turd.
The air is thick with tension, electric as the red lightning flaring across the billowing black clouds. It’s posted on the bone-through-the-noses masked faces. Millions, maybe a million billion, span the horizon. Eyes superglued to the combatants, too afraid to blink should they miss the slaughter.
“Quick, you’ve no respirator,” Peacock Big-Chief grumbles with concern, massive hand holding out a translucent breathing mask. He’s not very observant—must be his age. I’ve not worn one since well... ever.
I give him my sweetest smile and lift a hand. “Oh, no thanks. I like the ash.” I stick out my tongue. Salty flakes land like corrupted snow. “They taste yummy, like spicy salt chips.” I inhale deeply, enjoying the fleeting warmth filling my lungs.
“Salt... chips?” he echoes; pale gold eyes widening.
“Shame there’s no popcorn,” I sigh, casting a wistful glance toward the sky. Feels like I’m front-row at Madison Square Garden, about to watch a brutish, heavyweight slugfest—only more blood, fewer gloves.
Maybe I should’ve worn something flashier?
I mean, those sleek Nebian ships are hovering overhead like giant Smurf promotional balloons. They’ve probably got super-advanced blueberry head cameras beaming this event to every corner of the cosmos.
Oh, how exciting!I could be on screen right now.Sexy-Lexie. Wife of the mighty Mr. Frowny Face. Look how poised and graceful she is under such immense pressure!
Wait? Maybe I should look more concerned? Add a little worried frown for flavor? Or go full Jackie Kennedy—minus the exploding head, obviously.
