Page 102 of Scorching the Alien Empire
It’s obviously not, because I don’t have a clue what he’s rambling about.
“These are earlier models. Prototypes, perhaps, of the current Scythian battle droids.” He sweeps a hand over the armored plating covering the murder-bots’ arrangement of spindly legslike he’s unveiling an art piece at an exhibition. “You can see in later models they improved the lower portion. These ones have weaker, more complex—”
“Destroy them,” Dracoth commands.
His voice slices through Razgor’s tirade like a blade. The sharpest, hottest knife carving away my growing anxiety.
“No... no... these are—” Razgor pleads, glancing desperately between the masked faces surrounding him, searching for understanding. He finds none.
“With pleasure, War Chief,” Drexios purrs, dark amusement lacing his words.
In a single fluid motion, he unslings his long energy blades in an impressive flourish, twin arcs of searing blue that blur through the air. With a savage sneer, he lunges forward, cutting through the nearest droid.
His weapons hum through the air, warping the heat around them. Each strike leaves a ghostly blue afterimage—like the droid’s death is burned into reality itself. The machines armor offers little resistance—his blades carve through it like molten knives through wax, leaving only slag pooling at his feet.
Jazreal joins the fray, his spear twirling in a cyclone of glowing azure destruction storming through the mass of murder-bots. More space-knights follow suit, their weapons igniting, the corridor erupting into a symphony ofzapsandclangs—a symphony of destruction that makes my heart soar.
Every crumpled machine, every decapitated frisbee-head, is a breath of relief. A tension lifted.
Razgor, however, looks like he might pass out. One hand braced against the wall, shaking his head in silent horror.
I couldn’t care less. Actually, I’m glad. The murder-botsmustbe stopped. Dracoth feels the same. He watches, unmoving, completely silent. Yet through our bond, Ifeelhis satisfaction mirroring my own.
The acrid stench and haze of molten metal fill the corridor as the last machine is rendered to sizzling pieces.
Dracoth steps forward, his armored boots crunching through the smoldering wreckage. We press onward, deeper into the monolith, the chemical scent thickening with each echoing footstep.
Occasional battle droids emerge in the distance. They don’t last long. The space-knights tear through them, almost tripping over themselves to land the killing blow. They seek to impress Dracoth. To prove themselves worthy.
It’s cute, really.
Even their ridiculous jock-like banter is starting to grow on me. Anything is better than the eerie silence. There’s something comforting about it—something familiar andhumanin a place that has never known laughter, only suffering.
I don’t knowhowI know this. I justdo. Through my bones, like an icy finger trailing my spine. Is it the heavy grimy air, or the faint scent of something metallic that someone or something has tried to wash away?
“Wait. War Chieftain.” Jazreal suddenly raises a halting hand, his masked face locked onto the vaulted ceiling above. “Plasma turrets. Though it might be disabled.”
“Wonderful,” I deadpan, squinting into the darkness, seeing nothing, which only emboldens the dive-bombing butterflies in my stomach.
Dracoth moves without hesitation. His wrist cocks downward, armor pulsing an ominous searing blue. Then—
Zap.
A crackling energy blast rips through the air, bathing the corridor in dazzling azure light before slamming into the ceiling.
“Muscles can shoot!” Drexios announces, clapping his chest.
Above, molten slag droops like stringy mozzarella, simultaneously making my stomach growl with hunger andtighten with fear. The sizzling remnants finally slough off, thudding to the floor with a thick,wetplop.
“I used to be a good shot too,” Drexios continues as ifanyoneasked. “But some big ugly bastard keeps taking my eye.”
He slides off his mask, sneering over his shoulder beforewhistlinglike some kind of deranged cuckoo bird. While, forsome godforsaken reason, he jabs a finger into his eyepatch.
Ugh! So gross.
“Nothing wrong with your mouth, sadly,” I mutter, my face scrunching with the force of a thousand lemons.
“Hah!” He barks out a laugh. “Bet your Elerium on that,Pinkie! Bring that fire-on-head next time. I’ll have the pretty femalescreamingagreement.”
