Page 10 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
Rekkgar.
A roar that doesn’t sound like any species I know. It’s not even a word. It’sforcegiven shape. A tidal wave built from rage.
He hits the Grolgath like a meteor, a blur of shadow and red-striped fury. One second the thug is standing, the next he’s airborne—hurled bodily into the opposite wall with a sound like a tree trunk hitting concrete. There’s a hideous crunch, followed by the wet, meaty slap of mass meeting masonry. Bone splinters. Tusks shear against stone. The Grolgath gurgles, twitching, then slumps in a broken pile.
The human barely has time to draw his shockblade.
Rekkgar doesn’t slow.
He closes the distance in a single stride, rips the weapon from the man’s hand with a snarl, and slams a knee into his chest hard enough todent the man’s ribcage inward.The human folds over with a strangled wheeze, eyes wide, mouth flapping in silent agony. Rekkgar seizes him by the throat—one massive hand curling around like a vice—and hoists him clean off the ground.
I hear vertebraepop.
Then he drives the man straight down, back-first, onto the pavement with such force that a spiderweb of cracks splits the cobblestones. The man convulses, limbs flailing. Not dead. Not yet. But not getting up again either.
The Baragon?
He’s still standing. Still thinking this is winnable.
He flicks his wrist, and a shimmering vibro-blade snaps to life. Slick little thing, probably lifted off a corpse. He whips it toward Rekkgar with a snarl, the arc fast and practiced.
Rekkgar doesn’t flinch.
The blade kisses his forearm—just a graze—and draws blood. Black, thick, viscous. He looks down at it like he’s insulted by the mereideathat this insect could hurt him.
Then he smiles.
Not the quiet, bemused smile he gives me at the counter. This is something ancient and unholy. Teeth bared. Scar stretched. That glowing red cybernetic eye pulsing like a targeting beacon.
The Baragon hesitates.
Fatal mistake.
Rekkgar lunges, grabs the thug’s weapon arm mid-swing, andtwists.There's a snap like a tree branch breaking in a storm, followed by a howl that spikes the back of my neck.
Then—heripsthe vibro-blade from the Baragon’s hand and buries it to the hilt in the bastard’s shoulder.
The alien screams, flailing, but Rekkgar’s not done.
Not even close.
He jerks the blade free andslamsit through the Baragon’s knee, dropping him instantly.
Then he kneels beside the whimpering mess, grabs his face with one hand, and growls, “You like soft ones? Let’s see how softyouare.”
I can’t look away.
Rekkgar pulls.
There’s awet, shearing noise,and then the Baragon’s jaw isoff.Just—gone. Torn free like paper from a gift box. The alien twitches once, then collapses face-first in a pool of his own blood.
Rekkgar stands slowly, breath heavy, chest heaving, every muscle in his frame still taut with battle tension. His scales are slick with sweat and blood—some of it his, most of it not. The red stripes across his chest seem brighter now, vivid against the sheen of violence.
He turns to me.
And freezes.
His expression—rage, vengeance, all-consuming wrath—shatters.
