Page 87 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
Inside, Rekkgar locks eyes with me as the first battered door buckles. He grips the handle, rears up wide as granite, and steps back. Six elites crash through in a wave of gold and coercion.
“Get them,” he growls, voice low as a quake.
He launches forward, steel blade carving arcs of rebellion. I step toward the back wall, thread a hose pipe through a dispenser. I hook up a canister of plasma glaze—sweet, boiling fury. I steady the nozzle.
A grenade bounces at his feet, and he deflects it in one hand, blade flashing in the alarmed glow. Guards open fire—ricochet clatters. He spins, his movement poetry—warrior instinct.
I splay my fingers across the activation lever. “GLAZE!” I shout into the howl.
A pressurized spray of molten sugar rockets across the front window. The glaze cracks on contact, molten explosion of sticky sheen. Blinding flash. Two guards collapse, grenade frizzles like a butchered pastry. The light blinds the rest.
The bakery glows like a beacon of defiance. My heart pounds as I shout: “Hold the line!”
Rekkgar stakes forward,boots pounding sugar-slick floor. He jams the butt of his blade into an attacker’s ribs, spins, slashes. I see sweat rivulets down his neck, stained with blood and sugar. He’s brutal, effective—like a dance partner born in war but now fighting for love.
Lyrie darts by with piping bag, flicking stitches of electrical current into an enemy’s collar—chimera sling of frosting lightning. The man screams and collapses into dough trays.
Vonn fires a repurposed espresso-torch pistol—cookie batter coating shields. She laughs a gravelly roar. “Not messing up my bakery!”
My voice falters. “We—are—coming—for—you-all,” I yell, brandishing a cluster of electric whisks. They hum with blue arcs of static.
Outside,the tide shifts. Citizens pour into the fray, brandishing ours and borrowed pan lids. The bakery isn’t just a fortress—it’s an idea. Our people become our shield. I see a teenager fling a burnt baguette at a trooper, provoke him. Then another swings a rolling pin until sparks fly. A makeshift revolution of pastry.
Inside,I stay busy. I check shields. I grab a laser scoop and flick acidic strawberry glaze at cracks in the door. It melts plating instantly. The thrum of dying metal echoes like victory.
I feel a sudden drag at my dress. I whirl. A sleek Vortaxian scout bursts through—cutting line of defense deep. He’s agile, lethal—made to kill. He lunges for me.
My heart vaults.
But I see a flash of blade across my corner of vision. Rekkgar intercepts. I hear the crack—like bones crushed under artillery. He cries the kind of cry I’ve never heard, half warrior roar, half shattered blister of love.
I lurch forward. Time fractures.
He collapsesbackward into my arms. Pain fans from a slash across his torso—deep, crimson nectar painting his armor. He slumps into me, chest heaving. The scout staggers before me, sees fear in my stance, and flees back into the fray. I feel the heat of the glaze on my cheek, but I only see red.
I yank at Rekkgar’s armor, applying pressure. Blood seeps between my fingers. My breath hammers. Every instinct screams to heal, to fight—but he looks at me, lifeblood fading.
I cradle his head. “Rekkgar,” I whisper, voice thin rag of terror. “Don’t—You don’t get to leave. You’re mine now. Forever.”
He grips my hand. Weak, but fierce. His cybernetic eye flickers—red dimmed, then bright. That spark tells me he hears me.
The final invader collapses to the ground, illuminated by purple fire bursts. The Vortaxian command collapses. Resistance pushes forward. Citizens rush in, disarming the rest.
The night crackles to silence.
Medics bolt in—fastand efficient. They apply stasis bandages, anti-shock serum, scrub wounds. Rekkgar glances at me—pale, bleeding, temples damp with sweat. I refuse to budge.
My palm drips blood and sugar. I press it flat against his chest. Doctors saw my grip and don’t interrupt. He breathes shallow—pain and survival swirling.
He whispers, once: “You…”
I press closer. “I love you,” I rasp.
Paramedics lift him.They signal soft compliance. I let them carry him, remain kneeling by the door. I taste the glaze dust in my mouth and I don’t care. This night has been pitch-black fire. But within me, my heart pounds victory. Even as everything trembles, one thing stands clear.
He is mine.
They run a final systems check. The bakery floor is glazed in sugar, blood, and love. Amid the ruin, the heart of Earth?Bites still beats.
